Free Fire Me Up by Kimberly Kincaid

cast as he pushed up from his rumpled bed. His stomach let loose a toothy growl, one that told him he needed to either fill it or face some barbarous consequences. He padded over the worn hardwood to the kitchen, hitting the light switch with his good hand.
    Illumination didn’t do much for the state of his pantry, other than to highlight the fact that the space inside was about as naked as the day he’d moved in. But he was never here long enough to use anything other than the bed or the shower, so keeping a stocked pantry seemed kind of stupid, even though his profession suggested otherwise. Not that it helped with the nausea currently making a playground out of his belly.
    The sling grated uncomfortably across the back of Adrian’s neck as he rummaged one-handed through the few items on the white plastic shelves. He pulled out some crackers he knew were past their prime, but since it was that or a jar of molasses, they’d have to do until he could hit the grocery store.
    He shifted awkwardly against the sling, grappling with the plastic sleeve sealed around the crackers to no avail. How ironic that he’d managed to survive nine months in one of the nastiest penitentiaries in New York City, yet he was about to be bested by a package of fucking saltines. Frustration welled in his chest, hot and unrepentant, and Adrian twisted his arm up, sling and all, to rip open the package with both hands.
    Big mistake.
    Pain shot from his shoulder to his fingertips and back again on a continuous circuit of holy shit, barging out of his lungs on a groan. Okay, so maybe he needed the sling for a couple of days. He dropped his arm back into place and focused on breathing for a few minutes before graduating to eating, which thankfully replaced some of his waning strength.
    Before he’d crashed into bed, he’d made arrangements to have his Harley towed from the impound to Grady’s Garage. Bellamy’s husband, Shane, ran the place, and he’d promised to take a look at it even though bikes weren’t his thing. Regardless of where it was, though, the thing was as undrivable as Adrian was unable to drive it. He’d have to hit up Plan B if he wanted to get past the four walls that were crushing him like strawberries for jam.
    Adrian froze in the dimly lit kitchen, the memory of Teagan’s mouth over his making a permanent imprint on his libido. How on earth a woman could manage to broadcast dare me and don’t touch at the same time, he had no clue, but Christ. Daring her had felt recklessly good, and kissing her had felt even better.
    â€œPlan B,” he muttered, shaking off the thought of her. He needed food, and anyway, his track record with being impulsive sucked. Better to just forget Teagan O’Malley, no matter how mouthwatering she smelled. Or tasted.
    He needed to get out of here.
    Adrian shoved the partially eaten sleeve of crackers aside, jamming his feet into the black work boots he’d kicked off before face-planting on his bed. He got his leather jacket halfway on before realizing it wasn’t going any further, and he bit back a frown as he grabbed the keys hanging on a hook by the front door.
    As much as he preferred the Harley to any other mode of transportation, having no fallback plan for Pine Mountain’s notoriously snowy winters was just plain idiotic. The nothing-special pickup truck he’d bought last year ensured he’d get to work in snow, sleet, hail, or whatever else Mother Nature wanted to curveball his way, and he yanked the door to his apartment shut before making a beeline for the thing. It took a little doing to get situated behind the wheel—definitely weird to one-hand the seat belt into place over the pain-in-the-ass sling—but he managed.
    Joe’s Grocery was only three miles up the road, and by the time Adrian got to the sign marking the turnoff, he’d gotten the hang of one-handed driving. His nausea had subsided, but his