Free An Eye for Danger by Christine M. Fairchild

over my fist. "You gotta relax, Jules. You're making me tense."
    "The problem is," I said, my arms dropping to my sides, "I have to go where they send me. If I don't—"
    "You lose your job. Hey, I get it. Just need a few days to heal. Then I'm gone."
    My jaw slackened. Days? As in he wasn't leaving tonight? My mind hadn't anticipated past dinner. I wasn't exactly counting on an overnight houseguest, especially a fugitive, but even I could see he'd never survive the streets in this shape. Worse, if police found him, he seemed arrogant enough to shoot his way out of an arrest. I couldn't have that on my conscience.
    Sam wasn't watching so much as studying me now. Just like I'd studied him—his eye dilation over the ringing phone, his nervous laugh when I said I wasn't a call girl, his teary sigh when he first breathed without the vest. The deep smile lines at his eyes when Max came to his side. Here I was, trying to understand the human behind the fugitive, the why of his awful choices, the why of him, yet I couldn't sit still under the same microscope.
    "Why don't you tell me about this job you hate," he said.
    "I don't hate my job." I crossed my arms. "You going to tell me how you got that burn?"
    "Nope." He smiled, tilted his head. "Maybe you just hate your boss."
    "And maybe you ought to tell me why your buddy was burying a body in the park."
    "Fair enough." He quit talking, started unzipping. An invitation for me to leave.
    I turned to the door, then paused. "You called McCarthy 'detective.' But you couldn't have known who he was. He never announced himself."
    "Move on, Jules."
    "I saw the body. One of you killed that man."
    "Nope."
    "Tony, right?"
    "Nope."
    "Shot him. With a silencer."
    "Nope." Sam raised a brow, daring another question, or laughing that I expected answers.
    I leaned into his face. "You're hurt, you need medical attention, and the entire police force is hunting you down. So you'd better come up with a better story than 'nope' if you want me to help you."
    "Nope. No hospital. This," he said, and nodded to his stomach. "Sure, we can talk about this. You saw what happened. Meathead punches my lights out, I go down. Then he kicks my sides in, leaves me for dead. I catch up, we argue, throw a few punches, yadda yadda. Then crazy dog barks, cute girl comes running. We wrestle for the gun. He shoots me instead of her. End of story." He chuckled between stunted breaths. "Guess he'd rather I be dead than pissed at him."
    I leaned back on the sink basin, synthesizing what I'd seen with what I'd suspected: that Sam had risked his life for me, a complete stranger.
    "Gunshot blew my lungs out," he added, licking his bloody lip. "Must've passed out. Came to, bugs crawling up my nose. So I dragged myself behind a tree to hide. Then crazy dog attacks. Cute girl shows up again. Prick yells at her. She buys my way past cops. We run. Run some more. Hide to avoid Meathead. You know the rest. Typical boy meets girl, boy kidnaps girl, girl stabs boy with scissors story." He winked. "Reporter like you oughta enjoy a piece like that."
    "I'm not a reporter."
    He squinted. "Journalism degree's the only thing on your walls. Berkeley, right? Cal girl not call girl." He laughed, gingerly, rubbing his side. "Like I said, I took a look around."
    "I'm a photographer. A photojournalist." I sighed.
    He swatted my leg. "Could've said so in the first place."
    "You could've asked me straight, without all the damned guessing games."
    His smirk faded. "Occupational hazard. Mentor taught me 'always test your subject.' Ninety-nine percent of folks lie to me, so I get used to gaming them." Sam nodded to his feet. "Can't reach. You mind?" He waited, smiling.
    With a huff, I untied his boots and pulled off his socks, holding my breath. My mother raised a sucker. When I turned to wash my hands, he gave the heave-ho off the seat. And dove head-first toward the cabinet.
    I leapt between him and his target, unable to grab hold of anything but his