Chapter Seven
LIAM
ONE MONTH LATER
“You motherfucker,” I mutter to myself, grinding my teeth by how reckless he’s driving down a busy road.
For six hours today, I sat in my truck watching him from the motel parking lot, and now I’m tailgating this asshole who’s driving like he’s f*****g drunk. I should’ve grabbed him when he stumbled out of his room, but the bastard jumped into his piece of s**t before I could.
Hank Fletcher, thirty-five, Caucasian. Unemployed. Has a thick file full of DUIs and d**g possession, assault and battery, and domestic a***e reports. Oh, Hank, you don’t know how to follow the f*****g laws, do you?
“Goddammit.” I shake my head, trying to keep up with him. The asshole nearly runs another car off the road, and I’m tempted to call the cops and let them deal with
