He wanted to consider this a one-time strategic retreat, but the truth was he’d been on the run since New Orleans. Two months of always looking over his shoulder, feeling like a fool, being angry and hurt and missing Misha despite it all, because he was just that stupid. Had been just that much in love. It was enough to make him want to punch somebody,

preferably the fucker responsible. This was exactly why he didn’t do relationships.

In addition to feeling sorry for himself and like a chickenshit idiot to boot, Riley was getting beyond tired. It was past midnight, and exhaustion was sneaking in on velvet paws. He’d worked a double shift tending bar at the Southern Screw and hadn’t had time to rest before his unplanned and very hasty exit, so now he was trying to hold back the fuzziness with all his might. The radio was blaring, Nancy Sinatra singing about how “these boots were made for walking.” The windows were rolled down to let in the warm night air and with it the smell of the road, the day’s heat still radiating from the sun-bleached pavement of the I-10. The cracked cup holder cradled an enormous paper cup of cooling coffee, black as the night outside and bitter as could be. It wasn’t really how Riley preferred it, but he hadn’t had the time or patience to dig through mountains of artificial sweetener on the off chance he’d find some actual, real sugar somewhere. Without it, the gas station coffee tasted almost as bad as Misha’s fancy concoctions. The man wouldn’t have known a good cup a’ joe if it had jumped up and kicked him in the face. Not that Riley gave a damn anymore. Or thought about it a lot. Uh-uh.

The broken white lines were starting to blur and blend with the gray asphalt, so Riley reached for the cup again, grimacing in advance. It was probably time to stop for the night, but the itch to keep moving was stronger still. There was nothing around but wide-open hill country and the occasional rest area anyway. Might as well keep driving for a while longer.

Much as he hated that he’d bolted like this, his gut told him to keep hauling ass and Riley had learned to listen to his instincts. The only time they’d failed him had been with Misha, though he suspected that might’ve been due to thinking with his dick.

As he took a sip of coffee, nose wrinkling in disgust, he glimpsed something over the rim of the cup, something like a puddle, but the truck was there and rolling over it before he could really process the image. It made him frown a little because the weather was dry, had been dry for a while, and the puddle hadn’t looked like an oil spill. He was too tired to do anything but glance in the rearview mirror out of curiosity. There was nothing on the road behind him, so he figured it must’ve been a trick of the