Chapter 9: Who Is This Guy

"Because mine isn't trackable."

"All phones are trackable."

"Not if you know the ones to buy," Deke said. His thumbs raced over the keys, and she was impressed. She was just past the age of having gotten good at texting. She did it, but she wasn't as fast as he was.

The waitress came over with a coffee pot, and Whitney could have hugged her—or the pot. The black liquid couldn't fill her cup fast enough—or her empty stomach. Running from bad guys worked up an appetite.

Who was she kidding? She was always hungry.

The woman stood over them in a lime polyester uniform underneath a stained apron. She didn't pull out a pad to write down their order. "What'll it be?"

Deke motioned for her to go first. A gentleman.

She hadn't looked at a menu, but Whitney knew what she wanted. "A short stack, bacon, two fried eggs over easy, and rye toast."

"I'll have what she's having," Deke said, his eyes still on his phone.

The waitress left, and Whitney lifted her coffee mug with two hands, taking in as much warmth as possible. Her body was fine, but her soul was cold. What was going on? Less than a day ago, she was on the trail of a pop-up nightclub. Now, she was possibly running for her life. "What's going on, Deke?"

His gaze flicked up to her, his dark eyes growing even darker. "I'm not sure, Whitney."

That might have been the first honest thing he'd ever said to her, and it was more telling than anything else he'd shared.

A chill went through her, so she sipped more coffee. It could warm her insides, but not her core—nor her soul. "Why would someone break into your house to get at me? How could anyone even know I was there?"

"How did they know? Your phone must have been tracked."

"It's a company phone."

"All the more reason for it to be trackable. The man wants to keep tabs on you," Deke said.

"The man is my father, and I doubt he cares where I am," she said, her gaze going out the window. It was getting lighter outside, which made the place look less creepy, and she saw Deke's truck wasn't decrepit. It was old but well-maintained. Was that a metaphor for him? She'd estimated his age at somewhere in his 40s. Right now, he looked older than that.

He put his phone face-down on the table. "The man who was killed was from the governor's office."

She leaned her elbows on the table. "Wait. This really is a story."

"Whitney, stop. I'm trying to keep you safe," Deke said. He stared at her through half-lidded eyes.

Why? Why was he so concerned about her?

"Why is that?" she asked.

Deke shrugged. He sipped his coffee. His large hand dwarfed the mug. They were scarred, and his fingers were not completely straight. Seemed like he'd had a hard life. Despite that, Deke didn't seem bitter—just serious and not willing to take anyone's shit.

What had he seen in his lifetime?

"So, this guy who died," she prompted.

"Save it, Whitney. There are ears everywhere."

She looked around. A sleepy old man shoved food into his face at the counter. A bored waitress wrapped silverware in paper napkins. None of them looked dangerous. "Where?" she asked.

"Can you give it a rest for a moment?"

"No. I'm a little scared here." She hadn't meant to say it, but the statement wasn't a lie. Now that the adrenaline was gone, it had been replaced by cold dread. Not even the warmth of the coffee had punctured it. She sat in an ancient diner in some backwoods town with a man she barely knew, who seemed like he could kill her just by looking at her.

He reached across and squeezed her hand. It was warm and rough. "I've got this, Whitney. You'll be fine."

***

Whitney looked across the table at him with trusting eyes. He cursed himself. This couldn't get personal. She was a reporter—and frankly, the last person he needed in his life. He would figure this out with the help of Trent and the others. Then, she'd be gone.

But he was drawn to her.

Thankfully, he had the discipline to keep his hands to himself—well, other than reaching across the table to reassure her. Her eyes widened, her pupils dilated. She felt the same hum of attraction he had. He wouldn't touch her again unless he absolutely had to.

They finished breakfast, talking about mundane things like the weather, while dancing around the topics of dead bodies and early-morning invaders.

When they got back on the road, she had fallen asleep quickly, and Deke thanked the stars for that. He didn't want to have the inevitable conversation. He would keep things from her as much as possible. She was on a need-to-know basis. What did she need to know? That she was in danger, and this was bigger than a story about a pop-up nightclub. What didn't she need to know? That she was the first woman who had registered on his radar since Brenda.

He hadn't strung those words together in his mind until that very moment. The situation robbed him of his breath. Those feelings were something he hadn't expected. Ever. He'd hoped one day, he would settle down, but a reporter was not his ideal candidate.

He glanced her way. Her head was leaned against the window. He was about to turn onto the dirt road that led to his cabin. The sun was behind some clouds, but it was midmorning. They'd been driving for five hours. He was ready to be off the road. He needed lunch—but that could wait until he got a small fire going in the fireplace. The wood stove would be stocked but not running. Never knowing when he would need it, he'd chosen not to have someone come by and check out the place. Not knowing his neighbors was part of what made the place such good cover. Of course, they were miles away, anyway.

He turned onto the road, rutted from the rains that fell in this part of Pennsylvania this time of year. He didn't relish spending time outside in what looked to be another drizzly day, but there were chores to be done. The perimeter needed to be checked, in case an animal had broken the thin fencing around the place.

At the first rut, Whitney jolted awake. She blinked, then rubbed her eyes. "Are we there yet?"

Deke glanced her way. "Another mile."

She shifted, yawned, and then stretched. "This is a road?"

"Driveway."

"You have a mile-long driveway?"

"It's a hunting cabin," he said. Or, his bug-out place if there was ever an apocalypse—which was looking more and more likely. If the situation with the goblins worsened, he would live out there. He had a greenhouse to grow food, and animals to hunt. If his satellite phone worked, he could keep a tenuous connection to the outside world—that was assuming he would even want one if the goblins took over.

Was that their ultimate plan? He'd been pondering it for miles. His father had given him a book containing the full history of goblins, gargoyles, and fairies. He hadn't memorized it, thinking it was all ancient history. Little had he known what exactly his father had given him. He would have been reading it tonight, if he hadn't left it at his townhouse.

"Hunting?" she asked.