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Grant's Fast Five:
The hottest teacher at Oak Collins High was Mrs. Treptow and she taught Biology. Yeah, I studied a lot of human anatomy that year. Just not the kind in the textbooks. Officer Brown of the school district police was pretty smokin’, too. I’d skip class just to have her escort me to the principal’s office. It was worth D-hall.
Growing up, I wanted to be in the air force, like my grandfather. I succeeded, it was where I learned my, um, skills. But I’d rather not talk about it.
When I graduated high school I was voted most likely to become a stuntman. Guess I’ve always been a bit of an adrenaline junkie.
On Friday nights you’d have found me on the football field. I was a running back for the team, though I was far from a football star. After the season ended, you’d have found me under “the bridge” drinking with the boys and dancing with a girl or two to the car stereo. Or drag racing my Camaro on the Goodnight Trail.
The craziest thing I did in high school was rewiring the PA system. Instead of Principal Parks’ morning announcements, Ozzy Osbourne’s “Crazy Train” blared through every classroom. Off campus, I base jumped from the 400 ft tall microwave tower. Broke my ankle from a hard landing. Good times...
Grant was no fool. She tried to distract him with her body. Twice it had worked. But he refused to take the bait again. And he would not let the momentary fear flitting through her eyes sway him. It was time to get his revenge.
Shit. Who was he kidding? After all this time festering over her treacherous back-stabbing, he should have already made good on the promise he made to himself two years ago.
But he hadn’t, and now he wasn’t sure he could. He still loved Reilly deeply, wholly. The realization had him stunned. Resolute plans deteriorated the longer they toyed around. And to top it off, he began to doubt his anger.
Damn it. Now what? He needed time to think. Grant wanted her to pay. But he couldn’t kill her. He should just leave her to Kalfas. Let him deal with her. If he got to Reilly, her death wouldn’t be on his hands. Would it?
“Tell me the truth, Grant,” she whispered. “What happened in Paris? Why did you turn on me?”
He laughed outright. “Me? Turn on you? Don’t try to twist this around. Don’t act like you don’t know what you did to me.”
She slapped him across his cheek. “How fucking dare you, you selfish bastard.”
The sting fueled his fury. “Go ahead,” he sneered. “Do that again.” He shoved the gun harder into the soft flesh under her jaw.
She accepted the invitation, slapping him again. This time, it hurt.
“Careful, babe. I have an itchy trigger finger.”
“So do your friends.” She grabbed the hem of her collar and yanked to the side, revealing her delicate shoulder, and a nasty scar.
“You were shot.”
He bit back a curse. The bullet wound had likely been excruciating, especially if she hadn’t sought medical attention. He succumbed to the overwhelming urge to touch the puckered remnants.
“From Paris, with love,” she sneered.
“You blame me?”
“Why did you do it? When did you decide to turn on me?”
She was fucking delusional. “I didn’t turn on you. It was your own distorted ego that did you in. You became too good, too full of your ability.” He slammed his fist into the wall, and she didn’t so much as flinch. “It was you,” he spat. “You were the one who hammered the wedge between us.”
Problem was, Reilly didn’t need him. She was that good. She could pull off the most dangerous of heists single-handedly. And that burned Grant with consuming jealousy.