Wyatt
Friday night, I headed out of my condo and climbed into the back of a nondescript sedan, trying to pretend the driver wasn’t one of Sundance’s men.
This was a compromise, wholly on my side.
Meaning, I was giving Sundance everything he wanted and getting nothing in return. Except a designated driver, I suppose.
Sundance wanted his men on me, I didn’t want attention drawn to me in the form of the loud pipes of bikes, and I’d hoped he’d drop it.
Nope. He decided to send one of his bikers in a car with a fake sticker indicating a car service. Point: Sundance.
I wasn’t happy, but I’d be taking a car anyway (his astute deduction, another point to Sundance), so this killed two birds with one stone.
“Hey, Wyatt.”
“Aero, right?”
I recognized him from my one and only visit to the Howl
