"too fast for freedom, sometimes it all falls down" @arcane-fox - Tumblr Blog

Safety Off

Clint Flood x F!Reader

Summary: There’s a lotta ways a Friday night can go sideways. For a debt collector, most of them ain’t pretty. But getting robbed by a fine-ass thief? That’s new. Her gun? Safety off. His temper? Already ON.

WC: 18.5k (oops)

Rating: Explicit +18 MDNI

Tags and Warnings: smut, graphic violence, explicit sexual content, injury, dubious morality, mentions of abuse, mention of drugs, gun violence, mention of death, spoilers from the movie, smoking, alcohol use, swearing, 80s vibes, sexual tension, explicit language, hair pulling, spanking, choking, nipple play, rough kissing, multiple orgasms, creampie, dirty talk, rough sex, angry sex, fingering, p i v sex, doggy style, size kink (Clint is a big boy), gun play kink, sexual tension, power dynamics, possessive behavior, angst, dom/sub undertones, enemies to lovers, slow burn-ish, mutual pining (subtle), morally grey characters, crime au, protective clint, dangerous reader, smart reader, badass female reader, minimal reader description, non-specific age gap, reader has a neck scar, younger and shorter than Clint, canon-divergent (clint’s wife and daughter did not survive), set one year later

A/N: this fic was written for the sweetest @time-for-my-weekly-spanking 's #2026kinkychallenge — thank you so much for giving me the chance to take part in it, my darling. ❤️ sorry it took me a while… I really wanted to do it justice (and you know i can never keep things short). This is my first Clint fic, so be kind, hope you all like it! Enjoy the ride!

and special thanks to my lovely @arcane-fox — for beta-ing and always being there for me. you’re truly an angel 💋

angel's masterlist

May 12, 1989

CLINT The engine had been off long enough for the ticking to fade.

Clint didn’t check the time. He didn’t need to. The sky had already done the counting—sunset bleeding into a bruised purple, the last strip of orange swallowed behind the motel roofline. The neon sign flickered once, twice, then steadied.

SUNDOWN MOTEL.

The S buzzed like it was thinking about giving up.

He kept both hands on the steering wheel. Not tight. Not loose. Just there.

Second floor. Third door from the stairs. He’d watched it long enough to be certain.

The light was on. You were inside. Waiting.

He knew it.

The gun sat in the glove compartment. Cleaned that morning. Loaded. Safety on.

The job was simple.

Go in. Take the money. Bring her in. Leave.

Except it wasn’t.

A truck roared past on the highway, headlights slicing across the motel windows before disappearing into the dark. The office television cast a dull blue glow through dusty blinds. No one watching. No one caring.

Clint shifted in his seat.

The two-weeks old wound tugged when he moved his arm too far. Not deep. Not fatal. But it had stayed with him. His fingers brushed the scar beneath his shirt before he caught himself and let his hand fall.

It left a mark in the muscle. It left something else deeper.

And that made tonight harder than it should’ve been.

He lit a cigarette. The flare of the lighter burned too bright inside the car. He didn’t take his eyes off the room. Smoke gathered between him and the windshield, thin and restless.

Weeks of chasing ghosts.

A rental clerk who remembered the scar. Kids who wouldn’t say your name twice. Dead ends dressed up as leads.

And now you were ten yards away.

Two minutes to the stairs. Thirty seconds to the door. One pull of a trigger.

If he pulled it.

He’d been angry before. Wanted people dead before.

That part was easy.

This wasn’t.

You’d shot him. Stolen from him. Made him look weak.

That should’ve been enough.

It wasn’t.

Ever since the day he lost everything, he’d made rules for himself. Lines he didn’t cross. Things he didn’t allow. Attachments. Weakness. Hope.

You complicated everything.

And something else.

Like Russian roulette—no middle ground.

Either he hated you.

Or—

He crushed the thought before it finished forming.

The neon buzzed again.

He didn’t move.

The curtain shifted. Or maybe it was just the air conditioner kicking on. Hard to tell from this distance. Clint reached for the glove compartment this time. Opened it. Took the gun. The metal felt steady. Familiar. Reliable in a way nothing else was.

He stepped out of the car.

The night air was cooler than he expected. Early May still carried the edge of spring after dark.

He dropped the cigarette, ground it beneath his heel. Slid the gun into the back of his waistband.

He looked up at the window one last time.

His pulse kicked— not fear. Something worse.

Reckless.

Like he was about to make a mistake instead of a decision.

He shook it off.

Didn’t help.

Then he started toward the stairs.

Slow. Measured.

One hand hovering near the gun at his back.

The memory came anyway.

The first time he saw you.

The start of the whole damn mess.

May 6, 1989

One Week Earlier

On a Friday night in Oakland, normal people did normal things.

They lined up outside neon-lit bars. They packed into loud houses where music bled into the street. Someone fell in love. Someone got into a fight.

That’s how Fridays worked.

Clint didn’t do Fridays.

Fridays were collection nights.

They hadn’t always been.

A year and a half ago, Fridays used to mean something else.

Dinner reservations. Takeout cartons on the coffee table. Her feet in his lap while some late movie played in the background.

Then a job followed him home.

After that, the calendar stopped meaning anything.

He didn’t laugh much anymore. Didn’t joke. Didn’t smile unless it was strictly functional.

The men he collected from used to call him cold. Now they called him efficient. He preferred that.

Now you might be wondering — Why was he still doing this? Why keep walking into rooms full of men who would shoot him if they thought they could get away with it?

Fair question.

Because The Guy had made him an offer.

One last stretch. A few high-value collections.

After that, his file disappears.

No warrants. No flagged reports. No ghosts on paper. A clean slate. New city. New name.

And before you ask —Did he trust The Guy?

No. Hell no.

But that wasn’t really the point. Trust was for people with options. This was leverage. A transaction.

The Guy needed Clint to finish strong. Clint needed The Guy to erase him.

Simple. On paper. Trust wasn’t part of the agreement. Leverage was. And Clint didn’t have much left to trade. When a man loses everything, the last thing he holds onto isn’t hope.

It’s control.

He’d spent the last year and a half punishing himself with the worst jobs.

The dirtiest ones.

The kind you don’t tell stories about.

He told himself it was penance.

That if he stayed in the dark long enough, it might balance something out.

Normal life felt like mercy.

And mercy was something he didn’t believe he deserved.

But he was tired.

Tired of Oakland. Tired of walking into rooms where everyone already knew what he was. Tired of being the man who ruined evenings.

If he stayed, he would always be that Clint.

Time hadn’t softened the loss.

It hadn’t dulled the shot that still echoed in his head.

But maybe distance would.

Maybe if he left, the air would feel different.

Maybe somewhere else he could breathe without remembering.

This Friday was supposed to be the last one.

Deliver the money. Collect the file. Disappear.

He wouldn’t retire. He would vanish. So much for a quiet exit. Clint, of course, had no idea.

In less than fifteen minutes, he would meet the woman who was about to derail the last plan he had left.

The pool hall on 14th was thick with cigarette smoke and cheap cologne.

Neon beer signs hummed against wood-paneled walls.

The crack of billiard balls echoed sharp and clean over low rock playing from a jukebox that hadn’t been updated since ’79.

Men laughed too loud. Money changed hands too fast.

Clint stood near the back office door, quiet as a shadow in a leather jacket that had seen more nights than most of the men in the room.

The owner handed over an envelope without argument.

Smart.

Inside: cash. Folded tight. Warm from someone else’s pocket.

“Tell him we’re square this week,” the owner muttered.

Clint didn’t promise anything.

He tucked the envelope inside his jacket and walked out without finishing his beer.

Outside, Oakland air hit cooler than it had any right to be.

The parking lot was a mix of shadow and broken streetlight glow.

His car sat where he’d left it. Quiet. Unremarkable. He unlocked it. Slid into the driver’s seat. Door shut. Key turned. Click—

Cold steel pressed into the back of his neck.

A barrel. Not shaking. Not accidental.

“Don’t.”

A woman’s voice. Calm. Close.

Clint didn’t flinch.

His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror.

The weight told him plenty — small frame, steady grip. Not amateur.

His fingers eased off the steering wheel slightly.

Buying himself a second.

From the back seat, you leaned forward into the rearview reflection.

Eyes sharp.

Amused.

The gun steady in your hand.

“Put the money on the dash, handsome,” you said, gesturing lightly with the barrel.

Clint’s eyes flicked to the mirror again. Assessing. Not panicked. Just irritated. “You’re making a mistake,” he said.

“Money, Clint. Dash. Now.”

His eyes narrowed. You knew his name. That changed things.

For half a second it looked like he might refuse. Then he moved.

One hand slipped inside his leather jacket.

You adjusted the barrel slightly against his temple. “Easy,” you said softly. His fingers found the envelope against his ribs. He pulled it free slowly. “Good,” you murmured. “Nice and slow.”

His jaw flexed. The envelope came out fully. He could try for the gun. He’d done worse under pressure. But he wasn’t interested in getting his head blown off tonight. He placed the envelope on the dashboard.

Then you moved. Fluid. Controlled.

One leg sliding over the console, folding forward between the seats with quiet precision.

Your hair brushed the shoulder of his leather jacket. Not perfume. Something lighter. Clean.

Wrong place for a scent like that.

The muzzle never drifted. Too smooth to be luck.

His shoulder tensed.

“Uh-uh,” you murmured. “Don’t move. I’m not in the mood to clean brains off the leather… and I like your face the way it is.” There was amusement in your voice. You took the money. Never breaking eye contact. Clint finally turned his head enough to see you fully.

Up close.

For a second, it didn’t register.

Then it did.

And his mind went straight to work—

distance, angle, timing.

How to take you down—

without getting his brains blown out first.

The choker caught his attention, then the scar beneath it.

Right side of your neck. Not recent.

“Who the hell are you?” he asked.

You gave him a small, knowing smile. “Someone who checks the back seat. You should try it sometime.”

His eyes darkened. Stealing his money and cracking jokes.

Jesus.

You leaned closer, the gun still steady.

“That all?” you asked quietly. “Or you hiding something else in that jacket?”

Your hand brushed lower than necessary along his thigh before correcting upward.

He went rigid. A small flinch he couldn’t stop.

“Oops,” you said, not sounding sorry at all. “My bad.”

His voice dropped. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

“Relax,” you replied softly. “I did my homework.” That made him still.

“You’re predictable.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You’ll figure it out.” Your fingers slipped inside his inner jacket pocket. You found the cigarette pack. Paused. Smiled. “Well,” you said lightly, pulling your hand back out, “looks like you’re telling the truth.”

His jaw tightened. “Done?”

“Almost.”

Still watching him, you slipped the envelope inside your own jacket.

“You touch that,” he said quietly, “you better be ready for what comes after.”

“Hm,” you said. “Tempting.”

“Put it back.”

You tilted your head like you were considering it. “Hm. I’m thinking no.”

He exhaled slowly.

“Nothing personal, Clint.”

His eyes darkened. “You shove a gun in my face, dig through my jacket, steal my money, and you’re tellin’ me it ain’t personal? You bet your ass it’s personal.”

“Oh,” you said lightly. “Are you flirting with me?”

“Lady, you’re about three bad decisions away from getting yourself shot.”

You smiled faintly. “Then I guess you’d better make the first one count.” Still aiming at him, you opened the passenger door slowly. One foot touched pavement. Then the other. “Well,” you said lightly, “this has been a lovely conversation.”

You moved like you’d rehearsed it. “Try checking the back seat next time.”

Then you were gone.

Clint counted to one.

Then he moved.

He grabbed the revolver from the glove compartment and flipped the cylinder open. Empty. “The fuck?”

Across the lot, an engine roared to life. A red ’86 Camaro. You leaned out the driver’s window. “Looking for these?”

Something small arced through the air. Metal clattered across the asphalt. Bullets rolled across the pavement. You held his gaze through the windshield. You gave him a slow wink. “See you around, handsome.” Then you blew him a kiss. The Camaro peeled out of the lot.

Clint exhaled once. “Fuck.” He jumped back into his car. Key turned. The engine coughed. Once. Twice.

Then died. “You’ve gotta be kidding me…” He tried again. Nothing. “Son of a—” He stepped out and popped the hood. Under the dim streetlight he scanned the engine.

It didn’t take long. Distributor cap — loosened just enough to fail.

He tightened it. Then he saw it.

A small square of paper tucked near the hood latch. A lipstick mark.

Under it, in neat handwriting:

Should’ve listened.

Clint stared at it.

Then reached into his jacket pocket. The first note was still there. Left on his windshield last week. He unfolded it beneath the streetlight.

How many more jobs follow you home?

Then another slip of paper. Two days ago.

Not every job is worth finishing. Come find me.

He held both slips side by side.

Same handwriting. Same pressure. Same deliberate slant.

Yeah.

You’d been watching him.

Looks like she found me first, he thought.

He let out a slow breath. “Who the hell…”

He folded the notes carefully. Thinking.

Nobody had ever tried to rob Clint Flood before.

Most people knew better.

But this woman had.

And you’d done it while looking him straight in the eye.

“Alright,” he muttered, his jaw tightening as he slid the notes back into his jacket.

“My fucking turn.”

The next morning.

Dick's restaurant.

Dawson chewed slowly, watching Clint over the fork.

“The Guy’s not happy, Clint.”

Clint leaned back slightly. “Didn’t realize you’d been promoted to messenger.”

“So how’d you lose it?” Dawson asked, grinning like a rat. “What, she blew you and you tipped her with his money?”

He snorted and shoveled another forkful of eggs into his mouth.

For a moment, Clint pictured it—

fist in Dawson’s hair, slamming his face into the table, hard enough to shake it—plates jumping.

He was good at that.

Especially with people who deserved it.

He let it go.

“Careful, Dawson,” he snarled. “Wouldn’t want that to be your last meal.”

For a second Dawson’s grin faltered.

Then it came back.

“You lost the money,” he said between bites. “That makes it your debt now.”

Of course it did.

That was how these things worked.

Dawson wiped his mouth with a napkin and slid out of the booth.

“Find the girl.”

He adjusted his jacket.

“If I were you…” he said casually, “I’d start with the car.”

He turned and walked toward the door.

Clint grabbed his coffee and took a slow sip.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Guess I will.”

An hour later.

The rental office smelled like old carpet and burnt coffee.

A dusty fan turned slowly above the counter.

Clint rested one hand on the desk.

“Red ’86 Camaro,” he said. “Rented last week.”

The man behind the counter squinted at the computer screen.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Still out.”

Clint’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Still out?”

The clerk leaned back in his chair.

“Girl who rented it never brought it back.”

Clint waited a moment.

“No ID?”

The man shook his head.

“Cash rental. Happens sometimes.”

“You sure she didn’t leave anything?”

“Look, pal—”

“Clint.”

“—Clint. I already told the cops the same thing. No ID. No address. No phone.”

His gaze didn’t move.

“Think again.”

The man rubbed his temple like Clint was giving him a headache.

“I am thinking. And I’m telling you the same damn thing. Lady walked in, paid cash, took the keys.”

Clint leaned slightly on the counter.

“You remember what she looked like.”

The man frowned, trying to recall.

“Couple things, yeah.”

For a moment he described you, piecing the memory together.

Then he lifted a hand and gestured near his own neck.

“Had a scar. Right here.”

Clint felt the faintest pull in his chest.

Yeah.

That was you.

“Leather jacket. Boots. Classy kinda woman.”

He added and glanced over his shoulder at the wall behind him.

A couple old movie posters were pinned there.

“More like… movie-star.”

Clint followed his gaze to the posters.

“Sounds like her.”

He exhaled quietly.

“You got any idea where she was headed? Mention anything?”

The clerk’s patience snapped.

“Listen, homie—”

He jabbed a finger toward Clint.

“I want my car back a hell of a lot more than you do.”

His voice rose.

“Cops already dragged me into this mess because that damn Camaro got mixed up in some crime.”

“I can’t even get the car back from impound right now, alright?”

Clint didn’t react.

The man huffed and pointed toward the back of the shop.

“My kid was there that day too.”

Near the back door, a teenager stiffened.

“Lucid,” the man said. “My son.”

Lucid didn’t look up.

“Uh… yeah. I mean—I-I was there but d-don't know anything about t-that woman.”

Then he grabbed a broom leaning against the wall and started sweeping a perfectly clean floor.

Clint watched him.

Too fast. Too nervous.

Not lying.

Just not saying.

Clint’s eyes narrowed slightly.

Silence stretched for a second.

Then Clint tapped the counter twice with his fingers.

“Alright,” he said.

He stepped back.

Turned toward the door.

He already knew where to look next.

Later that day.

Grease-streaked glass between him and the diner. Clint watched from across the street.

Lucid sat in a booth near the front. Across from him sat a girl Clint didn’t recognize. Lucid slid a small box across the table.

The girl opened it. “Oh, shit—whoa.”

Even through the glass Clint saw metal catch the morning light.

Inside—dark metal. Spiked. Not subtle. “It’s fucking awesome.” She turned it in her hands, admiring it.“I love it. Thank you.”

Lucid shrugged, trying to look casual. “Of course.”

The girl slipped the bracelet onto her wrist and lifted her arm, watching the spikes glint.

Then Lucid froze. His eyes shifted toward the window. Toward Clint. “Wait,” he muttered. “You might wanna put that away.”

Across the street Clint opened the car door and stepped out. He crossed the street without rushing. Didn’t need to.

A moment later he pushed through the diner door. The bell above it jingled.

Lucid went rigid in the booth. The girl lowered her arm quickly, sliding the bracelet beneath the table.

Clint didn’t look at them. Not yet.

He walked past their booth like he hadn’t even noticed they were there and slid into an empty table a few feet away.

A waitress somewhere behind the counter called out a tired “Morning.”

Clint gave the smallest nod. Then his eyes drifted across the diner.

Coffee cups. Chrome napkin holders. A tired trucker at the counter. Then they stopped.

On the girl’s neck.

Black leather. Silver charm.

Clint’s jaw tightened. Yeah. He knew that.

He’d seen it before—against your throat. The detail had lodged somewhere in his mind without him realizing it.

Clint sat there for another second. Then he stood. Turned. And walked back toward their booth. He stopped beside the table. “Can I see it?”

They exchanged a glance. Lucid gave the smallest nod. The girl lifted the choker slightly so Clint could see it.

Clint studied it for a second. “Who’s it for?”

“Nazis.”

“Aim for the neck.”

They looked at each other and grinned.

Clint rested one hand on the back of a chair and leaned slightly toward them. “That necklace,” he said quietly. “Looks familiar.” His eyes shifted to the girl. Meaningfully. “Someone give it to you?” Silence hung over the table. Then Clint spoke again, softer now. “You saw her that night, didn’t you.” His eyes moved between them. “I need to find that woman before the cops do. Maybe you can help me out.”

“It was a crazy night,” the girl said. “Couple skinheads cornered us outside the rink. And this red Camaro pulled up.”

“She stepped out.” Lucid shook his head. “Man… it was like a fucking movie scene.”

Clint narrowed his eyes.

“She beat the hell out of them.” She touched the choker. “One of those idiots grabbed my necklace and ripped it off.” She shrugged. "After she finished with them…She gave me this.”

Clint’s eyes lingered on it. “She take them all down?” he asked. “By herself?”

They nodded.

Still a little amazed.

Lucid grinned. “She moved like Bruce Lee or something. Like she knew what she was doing.”

She laughed. “Yeah. Fuckin’ Nazis got what they deserved. She’s kinda my hero now.”

Clint straightened slowly. The smiles at the table faded. “Why’d she leave the car?” He asked. “And how’d she get out of there?”

She thought for a second. “I don’t know why. But we heard police sirens. She grabbed a bag from the car and just disappeared.”

Something clicked.

Cooper’s money.

For a brief second, something almost like a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Cooper humiliated. Nazis beaten. Not bad work. “Alright,” he said, turning toward the door.“Thanks, kids.”

The girl hesitated. “You’re not gonna hurt her… right?”

Clint didn’t answer.

He just gave them a small nod over his shoulder. “Stay safe.” Then he walked out.

They watched him go.

Neither of them spoke until the door closed.

Clint found the Camaro two days later.

Parked three blocks from where it had been abandoned. The cops had already gone through it. There was nothing useful inside.

No name. No address. No paper trail.

Just the faint smell of your perfume in the upholstery. Still there.

And a cigarette pack in the glove compartment. One cigarette missing.

Another one crushed in the ashtray. A faint smear of lipstick on the filter.

Clint stared at it. Too long. That was all you left behind.

That—and questions. He’d spent enough time thinking about who you were. Now— what you were doing.

Not random. Pool hall. Small money. Protection.

Cooper. Mid-level. Distribution.

Next step wasn’t smaller.

It was bigger.

And it all landed somewhere.

Usually the same place.

Rico?

Clint wrote the name beneath the others.

POOL HALL COOPER RICO

He tapped the pen once against the table. “Red Lagoon,” he murmured. Rico’s nightclub. “Working her way up.” Clint stood and grabbed his jacket from the chair. “She’s going straight for the vault.”

YOU

Red Lagoon.

The bass hit before you even stepped inside.

Low. Heavy. Mechanical.

By the time the door shut behind you, the music had already climbed into your ribs.

Smoke hung under the ceiling lights like fog trapped indoors.

Red neon bled across sweating bodies on the dance floor.

Laughter echoed somewhere in the dark.

A glass shattered near the bar.

The sharp chemical smell of cheap cocaine floated above everything else.

Perfect.

Exactly the kind of place where people stopped paying attention.

You walked toward the bar without rushing.

Slow steps.

Confident.

The dark-red dress hugged your body just enough to turn heads, the slit high along your thigh revealing a flash of skin every time you moved.

Damn.

You looked devastating tonight.

And you knew it.

Heads turned as you passed—

a drink paused mid-air, someone whistled under their breath.

You ignored it.

They weren’t the target.

You reached the bar and slid onto a stool, leaning one elbow lazily on the counter.

“Whiskey… please,” you said softly, letting just a hint of playful sweetness slip into your voice.

The bartender looked up immediately.

Of course he did.

He poured.

Your eyes moved casually around the room while he worked.

Security by the door.

Two of them.

Armed.

Three more stood scattered near the dance floor pretending to enjoy the music.

And above it all—

The office.

Frosted glass overlooked the club floor like a watchtower. That was where the safe would be. You felt the weight of the revolver strapped against your garter. Comforting. Hidden. Exactly where it needed to be.

You took the glass when it slid toward you and brought it slowly to your lips.

The whiskey burned as it went down. Strong. Clean. You let the warmth settle in your chest. A little courage never hurt. Alright. You glanced up again. There.

Rico.

At the top of the stairs like the place belonged to him.

And it did.

Silk shirt open at the chest, gold chain catching the light.

Cigarette between his fingers.

Whiskey in the other hand.

Two men trailed behind him like shadows.

He leaned against the railing, looking down over the crowd—not watching.

Owning.

Your eyes narrowed slightly.

So that was him.

Everyone in Oakland knew the name Red Rico.

Nobody seemed to know his real one.

His attention drifted lazily across the floor, lingering too long on the women below.

One laughed when he whistled.

That told you enough.

You suppressed a small grimace.

Not your type.

But tonight, that didn’t matter.

Rico moved product for The Guy.

Which meant upstairs—cash.

And the list.

Your gaze stayed on him just a second longer.

Get him alone. Find the safe. Take what you came for.

Simple. In theory.

You exhaled quietly.

Men like Rico noticed two kinds of women— the ones begging for attention, and the ones who didn’t need it. The second kind drove them crazy.

You rested your elbow on the bar and slowly circled the rim of your glass with a finger tipped in dark red polish.

Come on. Notice.

You took another slow sip of whiskey.

Let him come to you. Except he didn’t.

He was too busy eyeing the women around the dance floor, his gaze shameless and hungry.

One of them leaned against the bar laughing too loudly, swaying slightly as she talked to someone.

Her makeup was heavy, mascara smudged under her eyes, lipstick bleeding at the edges.

Rico whistled at her.

She threw her head back dramatically.

He watched her for a moment, then took a long drink of whiskey without even trying to hide it.

You studied him quietly.

Ah.

So maybe you had overestimated him. Simple man. Simple tastes.

Your lips twitched slightly.

Sexy and dumb it was.

Just then one of his men stepped closer and leaned in, whispering something in Rico’s ear.

Rico nodded once and started heading down the stairs toward the floor, saying something to his men as they moved toward the hallway.

Damn.

If he walked away—game over.

You didn’t let that happen. You moved. Fast. New plan.

You slid off the stool, taking a quick breath as you adjusted the neckline of your dress—just enough.

Then you moved.

Straight toward him. Head tilted. Eyes soft. Locked. Halfway there, you let your step falter—just enough.

“Careful there, sweetheart— you alright?”

You barely looked at the man.

And then—

You stumbled into Rico. His drink sloshed as his hands caught your arms. For a split second, he froze.

“Hey—”

“’S fine,” Rico said, lifting a hand without looking away from you.

Good.

Your lips parted softly.

“Oh—I’m so sorry,” you murmured, leaning in just enough for him to hear you. “I was trying to find the restroom.” You shifted slightly. Just enough. Then you pulled back.Your fingers smoothed your dress over your hips, slow and deliberate. Your eyes never left his. Five seconds. That was all it took. Then you turned—and walked.

You felt it immediately.

His gaze on you. Heavy. Tracking. Perfect. Just before the restroom door, you glanced back over your shoulder—and gave him a slow, teasing wink.

Then you disappeared inside.

The music dulled behind the door.

You exhaled slowly.

“God… he looked like a hyena in a silk shirt,” you muttered. “Fucking sleazeball.” You reapplied your lipstick in the mirror, steady. The bait was in the water. Now it just had to bite.

A quick check—the revolver still sat snug against your thigh.

You looked at your reflection. “I look like a damn hooker.” A small smile. “Come on, girl… you’ve got this.”

Back on the floor— his eyes found you instantly. Still on you.

Nice.

The bartender leaned in with a lazy grin. “Another whiskey, pretty thing? A face like yours could make a man forget his own name.”

You laughed lightly. “Well, thank you,” you said, lifting the glass. “That’s very kind of you.”

Halfway through your drink— “Hey lady. Boss wants a word.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Does he?”

“Yeah, doll. Looks like it’s your lucky day.”

Slowly, you turned your head.

Rico.

Watching. Waiting.

You smiled sweetly. “Oh… you have no idea.” You slid off the stool.

Perfect.

Exactly how you wanted this to go.

You walked toward the VIP section without rushing, the slit of your dress shifting with each step.

A few heads turned.

You didn’t look.

Rico didn’t move when you reached him.

He leaned back instead, taking his time looking you over—slow. Appraising. Then he grinned. “Well damn,” he said. “Didn’t think you’d actually accept my invitation, sweetheart.”

You slid onto the couch beside him.

Close enough.

“Invitation?” you said lightly. “Your guy made it sound more like a command.”

That made him laugh.

His arm stretched along the back of the couch behind you, settling like it belonged there. “You gave me a hard time earlier,” he said, voice lower now. “Walking away like that.”

You tilted your head.“Did I?”

“Yeah,” he said with a crooked grin. “Most girls around here try a lot harder.”

Your lips curved slightly. “Maybe I’m not most girls.”

He liked that. You saw it. His hand slid down to your thigh. Your stomach turned. You didn’t show it. “You know,” you murmured near his ear, “this place is a little loud for conversation.” Your fingers brushed the rim of his glass—then slipped away. “Why don’t we find somewhere quieter?” A glance. Upstairs.

He followed it.

Then looked back at you— grinning. “Well hell…” he muttered. “Now that’s the best idea I’ve heard all night.” He finished his drink in one swallow. “C’mon, baby.”

Perfect.

Upstairs, his arm draped around your shoulders as he talked— money, the club, himself.

You barely listened.

The office door shut behind you. The bass dulled to a distant pulse.

Cologne. Smoke. Coke.

Your eyes moved once— and landed on it. The safe. There.

Rico didn’t notice. He was too busy watching you. “Drink, angel?” he asked.

“Sure.” You moved deeper into the room, fingers trailing along the back of the couch. The glass slid toward you. You took it. Didn’t break eye contact. That, he liked.

Rico leaned against the desk, studying you. Your mind ran through it—

door closed. noise covered. guards outside. time limited.

“Nice office,” you said.

He spread his arms. “Like it?”

You glanced around once. “Big. So is your ego.”

He grinned. “Oh yeah?” he chuckled. “Baby, my ego ain’t the only thing around here that’s big.”

Of course.

His hand found your waist. Then your hip. Pulling you down— on the couch. On top of you. Your stomach twisted. You held steady.

“I think we’re done with the small talk,” he said. “C’mon, baby…”

His hand slid— testing.

Owning.

You smiled. Sweet. Your hand moved slowly down your thigh. Found the grip. Cold metal. Ready.

Too close now.

His breath—sour. His mouth at your neck—Ugh. Enough.

You moved. Fast.

CRACK.

The butt of the gun slammed into his temple. His eyes rolled back. He collapsed forward into you. You shoved him off. He hit the carpet hard. You stepped back, straightening your dress.

“Sweet dreams,” you murmured.

You grabbed the roll of tape from the desk drawer, quickly wrapping his wrists and ankles before dragging him up into the leather chair and securing him there.

You searched his pockets quickly.

Wallet. Lighter. But no key. Of course it wasn’t that easy.

You glanced back at the safe. Combination. You tried the handle.

Locked.

Which meant you needed him awake. You turned and slapped Rico across the face. Once. Twice. A third time harder.

His eyelids fluttered. He groaned, blinking up at you in confusion before recognition hit. The side of his face was already turning red where you struck him. “What the—”

You pressed the gun hard against his forehead.

“Tell me the code,” you said coldly. “Now. Or I blow your brains all over this nice carpet. Understand?”

Rico stared at you for a second. Then he started laughing. “So it’s you,” he muttered. “That bitch robbed Clint and Cooper?” He snorted. “Ah shit… you have no idea what you had just walked into.”

You rolled your eyes. “Blah blah blah. I didn’t have time for this. The code.”

“Fuck you,” he spat. “You thought you could walk in here, pull this shit and walk out? I’m gonna kill you.”

“The code,” you said, pressed the barrel harder into his skin. “Or you die first.”

Then his eyes narrowed. “You don’t have the balls, lady.”

You studied him for a second. Then you leaned closer.“Yeah,” you said quietly. “You’re right.” A beat. “But you have a pair I could work with.”

Your hand moved down suddenly.

Before he even realized what was happening, your fingers closed around him through the fabric of his pants, cupping his balls —and you squeezed.

Hard.

Rico’s entire body jolted against the chair. “What the—”

Your grip tightened. “The code, lover boy.”

Your fingers tightened again. “Say it.”

Rico gasped. “Jesus—! Stop, stop!” His face turned bright red.

You tilted your head slightly. “Oh.” A small smile curled on your lips. “So that’s why they called you Red Rico.”

“Fucking whore!” he snarled, spit flying. “I’m gonna carve that pretty face of yours up when I got loose, ya hear me?”

You squeezed harder.

“Alright! Alright!” he gasped. “Stop—ahh. Damn it.”

He panted sharply.

“Fifteen left— seventeen right— twenty-one left! Stop it—”

You held the pressure one second longer.

Just to be sure.

Then you released him.

Rico collapsed back into the chair, breathing like he had just run a mile.

You straightened slowly.

“See?” you said calmly. “That wasn’t so hard.”

You turned to the safe.

The lock turned with a heavy metallic click.

The door opened.

Stacks of cash.

Bundles wrapped in rubber bands.

Two handguns.

And a black ledger notebook.

Names. Numbers. Routes. Police payoffs.

Jackpot.

You shoved the ledger into your bag and swept several bundles of cash into the duffel you found near the desk.

Behind you Rico growled through clenched teeth. “You crazy fuckin’ bitch,” he snarled. “You really think you can walk into my club, hit my safe, and just walk the hell out?” The chair scraped across the floor. “That’s The Guy’s money you just touched.” A sharp, ugly grin. “You’re dead the second he hears about this.”

You slung the duffel over your shoulder. “Your boss is about to have much bigger things to worry about.”

“The hell was that supposed to mean?” He leaned forward in the chair, straining against the tape. “You think you’re walking outta here with that?” he snarled. “My boys’ll tear this whole city apart looking for you. They’ll find you. Drag you back here piece by piece.”

You sighed, stepping in and pressing the tape firmly over his mouth. “Ugh… you’re cuter when you’re quiet.”

Rico jerked against the chair immediately. “Mmmph—! Mmff—!”

You gave him a sweet smile. “Much better.”

Then you turned and walked toward the door. His muffled curse followed you.

You tucked the revolver back into the garter beneath the slit of your dress and opened the door.

Time to disappear. You stepped toward the door—

And froze.

From the narrow crack of the door you looked down over the club floor, past the railing and the stairwell below and you saw him.

Clint.

Your pulse jumped.

You went still.

The music from the club throbbed through the walls, bass shaking the floor beneath your feet, bodies moving in red neon below—but underneath it, cutting clean through the noise—

His voice.

Low. Calm. Dangerous.

Rico’s men shifted uneasily near the stairwell.

One of them paused halfway up the steps, frowning when he saw who had just entered the hallway.

“Flood?” he said, surprised. “The hell you doin’ here? It ain’t collection night.”

A couple of the other guards exchanged looks, half-grinning like idiots who had just realized the board had changed and nobody told them.

Clint didn’t smile. He stepped forward slowly. The hallway felt smaller. “Where’s Rico?”

“Boss is… um… busy.”

Clint tilted his head slightly.

“Busy how?”

Another guard snorted. “With a chick.”

Something tightened in Clint’s expression. “Which chick?”

His eyes lifted toward the balcony above just as the office door shifted—barely a movement.

But he caught it.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

You eased the door shut again and shoved a chair beneath the handle—just enough to slow someone down if they tried to push it open.

A few seconds.

That was all you needed.

You grabbed the duffel and slung it under your arm.

Rico jerked violently in the chair behind you, muffled rage bursting through the tape across his mouth as he struggled against the bindings.

You gave him a light pat on the shoulder. “Enjoy the afterglow.”

Then you slipped through the side door behind the desk.

The back passage twisted through the building like a narrow artery—dim lights, damp walls, the smell of spilled beer and old cigarette smoke clinging to everything.

You moved quickly but carefully. No alarms. No mistakes. Behind you the muffled chaos of the club continued—music pounding, voices shouting—until another sound slipped through it.

Bootsteps. Heavy. Fast.

You reached the alley exit just as two guards stepped in front of the door, blocking your path.

Instinct took over.

Your first movement was light, almost graceful.

The nearest guard swung an arm at you— too slow.

You slipped under it. Your elbow drove hard into his ribs. The air blasted out of him in a strangled grunt as he staggered sideways. The second guard lunged. You pivoted on the ball of your foot, sweeping your leg low. Your heel hooked behind his ankle and twisted sharply.

His balance vanished. He crashed into the brick wall beside the door. Behind you the first guard scrambled toward the revolver that had slipped from his hand during the struggle. You stepped down hard. Your heel crushed onto his wrist.

Bone smacked against concrete with a dull crack.

The gun slipped uselessly from his fingers.

You kicked it away and drove your shoulder into his chest, sending him collapsing against the alley wall.

Smooth.

Years of training distilled into a few seconds of movement. Then you were running again. Back through the corridor. Down the stairs.

The club floor exploded into view—lights flashing, music roaring, bodies packed together on the dance floor.

You pushed through the crowd, someone shouted, you turned—then your eyes caught him.

Clint.

His jaw was set, eyes scanning the dance floor from the balcony above with sharp, controlled focus.

Rico’s men were already moving — rushing down the stairs, tense, on edge.

But you didn’t notice them. Your eyes locked on him. Then he saw you.

Everything slowed. Just for a second. Just him.

What the hell?

You knew you should look away. You should run. Instead you held his gaze. And he held yours.

Since when did a man’s eyes do that to you?

That was new. You didn’t like it. Then—

You turned and ran.

His voice cut through the chaos behind you. “Stop.”

Boots thundered down the steps behind you as he dropped into the crowd like a predator moving through water, shoving people aside as he came.

You didn’t look back. But you heard the reaction ripple through the room. Someone swore loudly as Clint barreled past them. Then you were through the door and out into the alley. The night air hit sharp.

Cold.

For a second the street felt almost peaceful. Music from the club thumped faintly through the walls behind you. A couple leaned against the far wall, making out beneath a flickering streetlight, oblivious to everything else.

A gunshot cracked.

The bullet slammed into the metal dumpster beside you. The impact screamed through the alley. The couple yelped and bolted in opposite directions.

You froze.

“Slowly turn around.” Clint’s voice came from behind you. “Now.”

God.

Even when he was threatening you, his voice did something dangerous to your nerves.

For half a second you almost listened. Almost obeyed.

Then instinct beat everything else. Your hand slid down your thigh. The revolver slipped smoothly into your grip. You turned, raising the gun and aiming it straight at Clint.

He stood about five meters away, his own gun trained directly on you.

For a moment, you were both perfectly still.

Two guns. Two triggers. Neither of you blinking.

Under the alley light he looked even more dangerous than before.

Red neon from the club sign streaked across the leather of his jacket while moonlight caught the edge of his jaw.

His finger rested tight against the trigger. Ready.

Your lips curved slightly. “Clint. Long time no see.”

His expression didn’t change. Not even a flicker. “You’re gonna drop the bag.”

You tilted your head slightly. “Sweetheart… no, I ain’t.”

His eyes flicked briefly toward the duffel on your shoulder.

“You really think you’re walkin’ outta here with that?”

You shrugged lightly. “That was the plan.”

“Bad plan.”

“Oh?”

Clint drew in a slow breath, eyes narrowing. “You got any idea what happens to people who steal from The Guy?”

You made a thoughtful face, tapping your lip like you were trying to remember. “Yeah… I think I heard that one before.”

His jaw tightened. “This ain’t a game.”

You shifted the bag slightly on your shoulder. “Maybe not.” A faint smile tugged at your lips. “But it’s been a very profitable evening.”

Clint studied you for a long moment. “So that’s it?” he said. “You’re just a thief who can fight?”

“And you?” you said. “Calling it ‘collecting’ makes it cleaner?”

He exhaled slowly through his nose. “Look… I don’t wanna shoot you.”

“I know,” you said with a small smirk.

“Put the bag down,” he said. “End this right here.”

You tapped your fingers lightly against the strap of the duffel, pretending to think. “Hm… Okay.” For half a second something like relief crossed Clint’s face. Then your smile widened. “I’ll give you the bag… if you pay me more than what’s inside.”

Clint’s eyes darkened.

You shrugged sweetly. “Fair deal.”

For a moment he hesitated. Just long enough. You took one slow step back. “Don’t.” His voice cracked through the alley like a whip. “Not one more step.”

Behind him voices echoed deeper in the alley.

Your pulse jumped. Your grip tightened around the revolver. “Let me go, Clint.”

He shook his head slowly. “No.”

You exhaled. “I will shoot, you know.”

Clint lowered the revolver just a fraction. “Nah. You won’t.” A beat. “I know you won’t.”

Your chest tightened. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“Then tell me,” he said quietly. Something almost pleading in his voice now. “C’mon… before those idiots get here.” His eyes flicked toward the duffel. “Give me the bag.”

Footsteps thundered closer. Too close.

You met his gaze one last time. “Sorry.” You raised the gun— and fired.

The shot cracked through the alley.

The bullet hit his shoulder.

Clean. Muscle, not bone.

Clint spun violently into the brick wall with a grunt.

He caught himself against the wall, one hand clamping down over the wound as he sucked in a sharp breath through clenched teeth.

Your hand tightened on the gun.

“Fuck. I warned you,” you said, your voice cracking just a little as your eyes caught the dark blood spreading through the leather on his shoulder.

“Why’d you have to get in my way, Clint?”

For a second he just stared at you. Then slowly, through the pain, Clint raised the revolver again.

His arm was shaking slightly now. Blood ran between his fingers where he held his shoulder. But the gun still found you. Steady, aimed straight at your chest.

His finger tightened on the trigger—

You swallowed. But he couldn’t.

Footsteps echoed.

“They’re in the alley!” “Go! Go!”

Your head snapped toward the sound. Without another word you turned and ran.

Gunfire exploded behind you as Rico’s men poured into the alley shouting.

A bullet sparked off the pavement beside you—another whining past your ear close enough to make your heart jump into your throat.

You disappeared into the darkness at the end of the street.

Behind you one of the men dropped beside Clint. “Hey homie— you good?”

Clint shoved him off with a rough grunt, pressing his hand harder against the bleeding shoulder.

His eyes lifted toward the mouth of the alley where you had vanished.

He shook his head once, breathing hard.

“…goddamn. Hell of a woman.”

A week later.

The Guy’s office smelled like expensive cigars and old money. Clint sat across from the desk, his fingers drifting back to the wound in his shoulder, still burning.

Across from him, The Guy struck a match. The small flame flared bright in the dim office. He leaned forward, lighting Clint’s cigarette.

“Does it hurt?” he asked casually.

“No.” Clint took a slow drag. “Appreciate it.”

The Guy leaned back in his chair, studying him through the smoke. “That girl… robbed you… shot you.” A small smile crept across his face. “But you didn’t shoot her.”

Clint took another drag from the cigarette, eyes drifting toward the window. “Didn’t line up.”

“Bullshit.” He rested his elbows on the desk. “You had the chance.” His eyes sharpened. “So tell me something, Clint. You got a weakness for her?”

Clint’s jaw tightened slightly. Then he flicked ash into the tray. “She got lucky.”

“Hm, yeah.” The Guy watched him for another moment. Then he reached to the side of the desk and tossed a thin file across the wood. It slid to a stop in front of Clint.

“Her luck’s about to run out. We found her.”

Clint picked up the folder. Notes. Photos. Names. Everything. Clint’s eyes moved slowly across the pages. When he looked up again, The Guy was smiling.

“Contacts,” he said. “Connections. Very useful things to have.”

Clint closed the file.

The Guy reached into his jacket and flicked something else across the desk. A motel card.

“She’s stayin’ there.”

Clint’s eyes settled on the card.

The Guy leaned back in his chair again. “I’ll send Tuck and Cooper,” he said, like he was talking about lunch. “They’ll bring the girl in.” A faint smile. “We’ll have ourselves a nice little conversation.”

Clint’s chest tightened. He knew exactly how Tuck and Cooper handled “conversations.” The scar across his face twitched faintly at the memory.

He crushed his cigarette slowly into the ashtray. “I’ll handle it.”

The Guy’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You sure ‘bout that?”

Clint stood. “Debt’s mine, ain’t it? I got it.”

The Guy studied him for a long moment. Then he hummed softly. “Alright.”

Clint gave a small nod and turned toward the door.

“Flood.” Clint paused. “Bring her in.” The Guy’s voice stayed calm. “I’ll deal with her myself.”

Clint gave another nod without looking back and walked out.

Outside, the hallway felt colder. Clint stopped under the dim light and looked down at the card.

SUNDOWN MOTEL.

Now.

The metal staircase groaned softly under Clint’s weight. He took the steps slow, measured. The neon from the parking lot bled through the railing, painting everything in a sick red glow. Somewhere below, a car radio crackled through blown speakers. Laughter spilled from one of the rooms down the hall.

Clint barely heard any of it. He reached the top of the stairs. Second floor.

The hallway smelled like old carpet, cheap detergent, and cigarette smoke baked into the walls sometime around 1978.

Clint’s eyes moved once down the corridor.

Room numbers. 20, 21…

22

Third door from the stairs. Light spilled faintly from beneath the door.

He stopped. For a moment he just stood there watching it. Thinking. Then his hand moved. The revolver slid free from the back of his waistband with the soft scrape of metal leaving leather.

He held it low. Not raised. Not yet.

Clint stepped closer to the door. Leant slightly toward it. Listened. Too quiet. His jaw tightened. He knocked once. Not loud. Not polite either.

Just enough to say—I know you're in there.

Clint’s hand closed around the handle. He pushed the door open slowly.

Dim light spilled out—cheap yellow, tired. A bed that had seen better decades. He stepped inside, gun lifting instinctively, eyes sweeping.

Motel soap. Faint. And something else—perfume. Familiar now.

And then—click.

Cold steel pressed into his back, right between his shoulder blades. Clint didn’t flinch. He stepped fully inside. Then turned—slow, controlled, eyes already on you. Now he was facing you.

For a second—nothing moved.

Then you tilted your head slightly. “Well… that’s the best looking room service I’ve ever had.”

Clint pushed the door the rest of the way closed with his free hand. His eyes never left yours. “Flattered.” A beat. “Try ‘debt collector.’”

You smiled. “That’s adorable.” The revolver in your hand stayed perfectly steady.

Clint took one slow step toward you. “Put it down.”

“No.”

Another step. “You’re out of options.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’d be surprised.”

Clint moved forward again. You adjusted instinctively, stepping sideways, the two of you circled each other slowly, guns still raised, a quiet half-circle forming between you as the room seemed to shrink around the tension.

Clint’s gaze flicked briefly to your gun, his mouth twitched. Then he moved. Fast.

His hand shot forward, grabbing the barrel and twisting the revolver aside just enough that the shot couldn’t land clean. The gun shifted in your grip. He ripped it free in one sharp motion.

Clint glanced down at it briefly. A quiet huff of amusement escaped him. “Safety’s still on.”

You blinked. For half a second you genuinely hadn’t noticed. Your surprise lasted exactly one heartbeat. Then you exhaled. “Well.” You rolled your shoulders slightly. “Everyone makes mistakes.”

Clint tossed your revolver onto the motel bed behind him without looking.

The second his attention shifted, you lunged. Your hand shot toward his wrist. Clint reacted instantly, stepping into your space and blocking the grab with his forearm.

You pivoted fast. Your leg snapped upward in a sharp kick aimed at his ribs. Clint caught it against his hip and shoved it aside. “Easy,” he muttered.

You spun again, elbow driving toward his jaw. Clint caught that too. His hand closed around your wrist and pulled you forward.

For a second you were chest to chest. Breathing harder now. Too close.

You tried to twist free. Clint tightened his grip and shoved you back against the wall.

His hand slid up, closing around your throat—not hard enough to choke, but enough to remind you he could.

His voice dropped. “You done?”

“For now.”

“I could kill you.”

“Then why wait?” you shot back. “Planning to do it while we’re naked or something?”

“Cut the shit. Listen to me,” he said, voice low, soft even. “This ain’t a game. There’s a price on your head. A real one. Tell me why you took the money. Maybe I can help you.”

“Well,” you sighed lightly, “this is getting old, don’t you think?”

“I don’t have time for this. Where is the damn money?”

“Depends what you’re offering in return, handsome.”

He leaned in closer, leather brushing your lace. His jacket was warm from his body — thick, broken-in, the surface creased where it bent at the shoulders. You could smell it now: worn leather, gun oil, smoke. Solid. Heavy. Like armor.

His grip tightened at your throat. Your pulse jumped beneath his fingers. His gaze dropped. “You want me to check?”

“Come on, Clint. We both know you’re not going to kill me.”

“You’ve given me plenty of damn reasons.”

“Well,” you breathed, eyes steady on his, “that’s a fair argument. But you don’t want to.”

Your other hand slid up, curling into the collar of his jacket. The leather was thick beneath your fingers. You tightened your grip, pulling him half an inch closer.

“You have no idea what I want, sweetheart,” he said, his breath hot against your mouth. His lips hovered there—close enough to steal your air. But his voice wasn’t steady anymore.

“Oh, I think I do,” you whispered.

Something in him snapped. His mouth slammed into yours—hungry, rough, weeks of restraint breaking in a single, reckless second.

Your back hit the wall harder. His hand slid from your throat to your waist without him realizing. As he leaned into you, the zipper of his jacket dragged lightly against the lace at your neckline, catching for the briefest second. A faint metallic sound cut through the air between you—sharp, intimate.

The rough edge of it skimmed your skin as your bodies shifted closer, fabric against fabric, heat against heat.

You felt it. He felt it.

And that was your opening. Even as the kiss deepened, your hand slipped lower—beneath the hem of your skirt.

A small breath escaped you. He broke the kiss first.

“You just don’t quit.” he muttered, irritation rough in his voice.

Too late.

The barrel of his gun dipped, lifting the edge of your skirt just enough.

His other hand caught your wrist again.

There it was.

Strapped high against your thigh.

A slim throwing knife secured in a garter band.

You shrugged slightly. “A girl should always be prepared.”

He exhaled slowly through his nose.

He pulled the blade free, feeling its weight in his palm.

Then he slipped it inside the inner pocket of his leather jacket, the thick material swallowing the metal with a muted slide.

Now you were standing there, stripped of steel.

The barrel of his gun never lowered. It stayed hooked beneath the hem of your skirt, lifting it just enough.

He stepped back half an inch—not to give you space, but to look.

His eyes dragged slowly over the line of your garter straps against your thighs.

You caught it again. That subtle darkening in his eyes. The tension in his jaw. The way his fingers flexed once around the grip of his gun.

He was working very hard not to react.

“See something you like, trigger boy?”

His gaze snapped back to your chest, lingering on the swell of your breasts beneath the fabric, before he gestured with the gun toward your burgundy leather jacket.

“What else are you hiding under there, huh?” he asked quietly. “Take it off.”

“Oh… you want the full tour?” you whispered, your voice dipping lower, slower. “I didn’t realize you were that desperate.”

“Take. It. Off.”

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth curved upward. As you unzipped it inch by inch, you didn’t take your eyes off him. "Alright, but... Careful… try not to cum in your pants, big guy.”

Clint’s jaw tightened as his manhood twitched in his pants at your words.

The room suddenly felt warmer. Too warm. Like the motel’s cheap air conditioner had decided to give up all at once. You noticed it immediately. “Getting hard already?” you teased softly. “I haven’t even finished yet.”

Clint exhaled through his nose. “You don’t have to take everything off.”

You tilted your head, a slow smile forming. “Oh?” you murmured. “Would you rather do it yourself?”

His eyes flashed with irritation. “The hell am I supposed to do with you?” he muttered.

You stepped a little closer, voice lowering. “Well,” you said lightly, “you can’t kill me.” A beat. “And you can’t take me to him.” Your gaze held his. “So that leaves one alternative. You can just say it.”

He swallowed, his gun was still aimed at you. Steady. But not quite as steady as before.

“I know you didn’t come all this way just to drag me back,” you continued. “They could’ve sent someone else. Or maybe they did, but...You wanted to come yourself.”

For a second Clint didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

The memory of the kiss from minutes earlier flickered through his mind whether he wanted it to or not.

Your fingers pressed lightly against his shoulder. You leaned closer, deliberately pressing the muzzle of his gun into the soft space between your breasts.

His eyes flicked down instantly, drawn to where the barrel rested against the lace. Your voice dropped to a whisper.

“You know,” you whispered, “we could stop pretending. You want me just as much as I want you.”

“That’s not what this is,” Clint snapped.

Cute.

It was a lie, and you could hear it in the slight roughness of his voice, see it in the way his brown eyes flickered for just a second before hardening again.

If anything, it only made you want him more.

You’d never really needed a man before. Not like this.

You took what you wanted when you wanted it—and walked away just as easily.

But Clint was different.

There was something about him — the weight he carried in those dark eyes, the quiet anger under his skin, the way he looked at you like he was trying very hard not to want you.

His stupidly handsome face. The stubborn line of his jaw. And that scar.

Your eyes kept drifting back to it—the thin, pale line cutting across his skin, sharp and imperfect against everything else that was unfairly beautiful about him.

You wondered how it felt beneath your lips.

The thought slipped into your mind before you could stop it—slowly tracing it with your mouth, following the length of it, tasting the rough edge of it just to see if he’d let you.

And of course, his eyes.

Those dark brown, wounded eyes watched you like he was already losing the fight.

It made you impossibly horny, made you want him.

Yes—you wanted him to fuck you senseless until you were so ruined and you could barely walk. You could already picture the look on his face—brows drawn tight, jaw set, muttering something under his breath as he pounded you mercilessly.

You almost came just from the thought.

And you were sure he was close too.

Yes… he was almost there. Just a little push.

“You can lie to yourself all you want,” you murmured, “I can smell it on you, Clint,” your lips almost brushing his as you guided his hand under your skirt. “You want to fuck me.”

Clint swore quietly under his breath as his fingers brushed against your damp panties. His throat was too dry, apparently, for anything but a strangled noise to escape.

“Feel how wet I am for you,” you teased. Your fingers slid into his hair, tugging just enough to make him grunt. “You should take this chance to get your frustration out.”

“God damn you, woman,” he growled — his mouth was on yours again, hard and unforgiving. Once again, your back struck the wall hard as his body pressed into yours, solid and immovable, like a storm finally breaking against stone.

A breathless mix of laughter and pain escaped your throat. His hand slid down your side and closed around your waist, firm enough to steal the air from your lungs.

You moved before you could stop yourself. Your hips shifted against him, the contact immediate.

The bulge in his pants was impossible to ignore now. Through the rough denim of his jeans you felt the hard line of him, the heat of his body pressing back against yours.

But even then, he still wasn’t giving you his full weight.

You could feel it in the tension of his body, in the way his muscles held tight—as if some last thread of restraint still kept him from collapsing into you completely.

Like a wild animal caught in a trap, he seemed to be fighting his own instincts, straining against something invisible.

And yet you were determined to tame him.

You lifted your hips, pressing against his groin. A soft breath slipped from your lips as you felt him through the thin fabric of your panties, heat pooling low in your stomach — slow, hungry, like the first spark catching dry wood.

Clint went still.

Only for a heartbeat — the last remnants of his restraint.

Then he pulled back just enough to look at you, all over you.

He saw your nipples were hard, making small tents in the fabric of your dress, nearly driving him out of his mind.

His heart was racing, breathing seemed to stop entirely.

Your fingers had already tangled in the front of his jacket, clutching the worn leather like it was the only thing holding you upright. Your chest rose and fell against his, each breath brushing his mouth.

Your eyes met his.

And whatever he saw there made something dark flicker in his.

The kind that lived somewhere deeper than reason.

His cock throbbed painfully against his jeans, he was tremendously aroused, his balls felt impossibly full and heavy.

He hadn't come in what felt like forever, so long since he had buried himself balls-deep inside a tight, warm, wet pussy that he had almost forgotten what it felt like.

The desire burned through him now, fierce and relentless. All he wanted was to push deep inside you, to feel you take him completely.

“You’re practically shaking,” you murmured, almost begging. “All that anger.” A slow breath. “Go on, baby. Take it out on me.”

Clint’s jaw tightened. “Christ…” he breathed.

You were damn right. Of course you were.

Because he could feel it now — not just his own body betraying him, but yours too.

The subtle tension in the way you held him, the way you leaned closer instead of stepping back, the way your breathing had grown slower, heavier.

Like both of you were standing too close to something dangerous.

Something already burning.

Carnal.

Beneath it something far more primal had begun to rise.

Anger still lived there, yes — sharp and restless.

Raw.

He hadn’t thought about a woman that way in a long time.

Not since everything had gone to hell.

For months he’d convinced himself that part of him was gone, buried somewhere under anger, grief, and the kind of quiet loneliness that followed him everywhere.

A week ago he might have even believed it.

But you had started showing up in his thoughts anyway.

At first it had just been irritation.

The way you talked. The way you looked at him like you could see straight through him.

Damn.

By the end of the week he’d found himself lying awake more than once, trying to get the image of you out of his head. It hadn’t worked.

Nothing about it felt right. Nothing about it felt fair.

Because whatever had woken up inside him again wasn’t the quiet, controlled thing he used to know.

Primal.

A deep, physical hunger he hadn’t felt in a long damn time.

And now here you were. Standing right in front of him. Saying things like that. Looking like that. Pushing him further than anyone had dared in years.

He was furious with you. And somehow that only made it worse.He felt dangerously close to losing his damn mind.

Even Clint Flood was just a man, after all.

Frankly, the fact that he’d lasted this long around you was a miracle.

Someone should probably give him a damn medal.

And just like that, his revolver left his hand, clattering across the motel floor — neither of you caring where it landed.

His nostrils flared as he grabbed the back of your neck and dragged your mouth back to his, crashing his lips against yours again, the back of your head bumping against the wall a little rough — but you didn’t care.

He wasn’t kissing you, he was devouring you.

Your breaths tangled together as his mouth moved against yours with reckless urgency. A quiet sound escaped your throat before you could stop it, swallowed instantly as he pulled you closer, his hand tightened in your hair.

You couldn’t help the stray thought — did he eat like this too when he was starving?

There was nothing restrained about it now.

Whatever had been holding him back finally snapped, sending everything spiraling with no brakes.

You felt it in the way his body pressed into yours — no space left between you, no hesitation in the way his hands gripped you.

The fight was over.

And the realization sent a sharp thrill through you.

Your heart was racing now, pounding hard against your ribs as the weight of what came next settled in.

The wild thing that had resisted you moments ago had finally given in.

He was all yours now.

You had no idea how long he had been kissing you. Clint drank from your mouth like a starving man, like something feral had finally been let loose after being caged far too long.

Teeth, breath, heat—nothing controlled about it anymore. His grip tightened at your waist as he pressed you against the wall, his body crowding into yours like he needed to feel every inch of you pressed against him.

His hand slipped from your shoulder, sliding down your side before disappearing beneath the hem of your skirt. He pushed aside your panties and ran a finger along your folds. A desperate whine escaped your throat, only urging him on. He repeated the motion a few more times before sliding a finger into your tight pussy, making you shiver and moan. His other hand was busy undressing you, yanking the straps of your dress down and letting it pool around your feet.

His mouth kept devouring yours, swallowing your breath and every broken sound that escaped you.

The rough scrape of his stubble grazed your cheeks as his thumb found your clit, circling it roughly until you were panting helplessly into his mouth.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

You had no idea how, but he seemed to know the ins and outs of your body, making you fall apart in his hands.

He was so good at it—better than you expected.

Fucking sexy bastard, you thought, a smile tugging at your lips beneath his.

Butterflies swirled wildly in your stomach, the feeling rising until it tightened into a small knot in your throat. Your nails dug into his shoulders, the leather jacket creaking under your grip.

He pushed a second finger inside you, making you jerk slightly against his palm, your eyes rolling back.

When his lips finally detached from yours, he moved to your neck, leaving small bites along your pulse point and jaw before soothing them with his tongue. It didn’t take long before you felt your orgasm approaching. Then you realized how madly you were grinding against his palm—only for his fingers to suddenly leave you. You let out a pathetic whine as he hoisted you up with one arm, carried you a few steps, and threw you onto the bed.

Hasty and a little rough, he turned you over, hauled your hips up and forced you onto your hands and knees, his strength almost inhuman as he dragged you to the edge of the bed.

“Yeah. Do it,” you said, managing to keep it from sounding like a beg.

The sound of the impatient, almost animal grunt he let out as he grabbed his belt and unzipped his denim sent a rush of hot lust straight to your core.

Impatiently, you looked over your shoulder, giving him a smoldering look—only to see his pants and boxers drop to the floor with a heavy thud.

His cock sprang free, slapping heavily against his stomach.

Your mouth fell open in awe as you realized how big he was, biting your lower lip hard at the sight. Your mind reeling. Almost instinctively, like a cat in heat raising its tail, your ass lifted invitingly into the air, your legs spreading apart and opening the folds of your pussy.

“Fuck,” he growled as he grabbed your ass, his thick fingers hooking, yanking your panties down your legs.

He sank onto his knees behind you, the mattress dipping beneath his weight and pulling your body back toward him. For a moment he simply watched, admiring the curve of your ass before his hand closed around it, squeezing the flesh hard enough to leave a bruise as he stroked himself. Then you felt him pressing right up against your core, the contact pulled a breath from you. You needed this—fuck, how badly you needed it, you had never been this aroused.

You could feel your pussy growing wetter, almost dripping, aching with need—so ready for him, so desperate to be fucked. You pushed your hips back, grinding your ass against his throbbing, rock-hard cock, your body tightening and trembling, your pussy clenching and contracting as the thick shaft pressed insistently against you.

He was painfully hard, veins standing out and straining along his length, the tip slick with precum as it dragged slowly between your thighs — teasing, claiming, making your breath catch in your throat.

Your eyes rolled back, the room seemed to tilt around you.

His knee tucked under yours to spread your folds before he finally thrust into you from behind. He pushed his raging cock forward, the head forcing your wet, swollen lips apart until they felt like they might tear. Your head fell back with a sharp cry as he filled you, stretching you open—almost too much—your walls tightening around him, your slick heat taking him inch by inch, clinging like it refusing to let him go. He grunted, eyes shutting as he threw his head back. You barely caught your breath before he pulled back, his cock almost slipping out of you before he pushed it back inside again. His grip on you tightened before his palm came down in a sharp spank and another. You were damn sure red handprints were already blooming across your ass. But you didn’t even care. If anything, it only made your stomach flutter.

All you could think about was how good it felt—how badly you wanted those chubby fingers on you again. There was an equal mix of anger and desire in the way he fucked you from behind, rocking you forward on your hands and knees. His big palms locked around your hips as he drove into you faster and faster. Then his hand came down again—harder this time—the sharp crack drawing a helpless moan from your lips and pushing you closer to your orgasm. And then it hit suddenly—your walls tightening and trembling as you came hard around him, squeezing him just right. Your nails dug into the sheets, scratching down the fabric with a sharp sound. He grunted but didn’t stop. You were still shivering in the aftershocks when he remained buried deep inside you, leaning close to whisper into your ear. “Easy. Fuck… Thought you could handle it.” Wait… Was he chuckling?

Before you could say a word, he fisted your hair and yanked you back against his chest, your bare back colliding with the hard plane of his still-clothed torso, the rough fabric of his shirt and jacket scraping against your skin. The metal zipper of his jacket grazed against your ass as he thrust into you, the contact sharp enough to drive you crazy. “You asked for it,” he muttered, thrusting into you harder. “C’mon… take it.” His breath was hot against your ear. “Yeah… you can do that again, right, tough girl? Take it— fuck…Just like that."

You weren’t sure if he was angry anymore. If you could see his face, maybe you could tell, but right now he was fucking you like he hated you—yet deep down you felt something else. The way he kissed your neck, his hands finding your breasts over the bra, thumbs brushing your nipples through the fabric, his arms wrapped tight around you—possessive—his teeth grazing your earlobe… all of it told a different story. Well, you didn’t give a fuck. You just wanted to come all over him again, because the first one had been so delicious yet so sudden—and the second one would be even better. His cock just felt amazing inside you. Anger was swallowed up by lust—and something else. You pushed your hips back, taking every inch of him, groaning with pleasure when he grabbed your hips even tighter and fucked you harder.

Your ass smacked hard against his stomach with every thrust— no rhythm, just force. You could feel the deep pulse of his head banging against your cervix. A helpless sound broke from you as he drove into you again—deeper, rougher—your inner muscles tightening around him, pulling him in like it needed more. Clint too, low sounds escaping him at the slick heat of you wrapped tightly around his cock. Your sounds mingled together, pleasure driving him wild. He continued to pound you hard, slamming the full length of that glorious cock right inside you, slapping his heavy balls hard against your cunt every time he went fully deep, savoring the heat of your insides squeezing around him. The headboard slammed against the wall, the room filled with the loud, sinful sounds of your hard fucking—noise loud enough to wake the dead. Soon, Clint felt like he was burning from the inside out as he drove forward with relentless force, heat flooding his body until it was almost unbearable. A rough growl left his throat, his brows drawn tight with focus as sweat dampened his skin. He snarled against your skin as he shrugged off his jacket, dragging it down his shoulders with his mouth still at your neck before tossing it to the floor without slowing down. The sudden movement sent you pitching forward, catching yourself on your forearms against the mattress. The flannel followed seconds later. Then he grabbed you again, sliding his arm around your neck from behind and pulling you tightly back against him, hauling you flush against his body. Your nails dug into his bicep as you clung to him, eyes squeezed shut, feeling the rough brush of hair along his arms and the solid press of his thighs against your bare ones, sending delicious vibrations through your core. He kept moving. Driving into you with hard, relentless thrusts. Your warmth tightened around him, gripping him with every movement. The pressure kept building, higher and tighter with each stroke. Your moans grew louder, breath breaking as the sound of skin slapping against skin kept filling the room. Your head felt hazy, overwhelmed by the heat and the delicious fullness of him moving inside you. You only realized he’d torn off his gray T-shirt too when his bare chest pressed against your back—warm, damp with sweat. Clint groaned low in his throat as you clenched and pulsed around him, the heat rushing straight through him. “Fuck… Clint—oh God,” you gasped as you came for the second time. Fucking hell. You were perfect. The last of his control snapped. He buried himself deeper and came hard, the force of it ripping a rough sound from his chest. You glanced back, wanting to see his face when he cums. He looked wrecked in the best way—brows drawn tight, jaw tense as he groaned against your collarbone. Your head fell back against his shoulder, breathing hard, your eyes fixed on him. On his lashes. On the tight line of his jaw. He didn’t notice. He was so lost in the wave crashing through him, eyes shut as the last of the tension drained from his body. Your walls tightened once more, pulling a final shudder from him as you milked him dry, and he poured every last drop deep inside you. For a moment neither of you moved. You stayed pressed together, the slick warmth between you almost gluing your bodies together, breathing hard as the pounding in your ears slowly faded. His arms were still around you when his eyes finally opened. There was no regret there.

Just heavy-lidded exhaustion and something softer—like he wasn’t sure if the moment had really happened. Then his half-hard cock slipped from you as he fell back onto the mattress. He dragged the back of his hand across his forehead, his perfect torso rising and falling with heavy breaths. You watched him for a moment.

Then you reached for the edge of the sheet and wiped the warm mixture of your combined release that had spilled between your thighs onto the mattress. Your eyes never left the wound on his shoulder. Curious, you crawled toward him across the bed. With one hand you brushed a damp lock of hair away from your forehead and tucked it behind your ear before leaning closer, studying the wound. Clint opened his eyes. For a moment neither of you spoke. You simply looked at each other. You smiled first. “Hey.” His gaze softened. A quiet breath left him and the corner of his mouth twitched. “Hey,” he replied. Your smile widened. You leaned across the other side of the bed toward the nightstand, grabbing a pack of cigarettes. You slid one between your lips, flicked the lighter, and took a slow drag before exhaling. For a moment you simply enjoyed it. Then you leaned back against the pillows.

Clint’s eyes had dropped to your bare ass as you moved across the bed. Slowly his gaze lifted to your face again. He still looked like he wasn’t entirely convinced this was real. You pulled the cigarette from your lips and held it out toward him. “Want one?” He shook his head once. You ignored him. Reaching over the nightstand again, you pulled another cigarette from the pack and placed it between his lips. You cupped the lighter with your hand and lit it for him. Clint inhaled slowly, his eyes lifting to yours through the flame for a brief second before the lighter clicked shut. Smoke drifted lazily from his mouth as he leaned back. God, he looked unfairly good like this. Bare chest, rumpled sheets, cigarette between his meaty lips. He rested his hand over his knee while watching the smoke curl upward. You leaned closer, resting the hand holding your cigarette on his shoulder, your pinky finger tracing gently around the scar. “Does it hurt?” He turned his head toward you. Then he shook it once. “Not anymore,” he said simply, taking another drag. You did the same and moved closer beside him, propping yourself up on your elbow. “You know I should’ve shot you,” you said smugly. “They would’ve gotten suspicious otherwise.” Clint barked out a rough laugh. “Ah,” he said, shaking his head. “So you’re not completely heartless after all. Guess I should be grateful. For shooting me.” You shrugged. “I barely grazed you. And yeah… you should.” You both laughed quietly. God. He looked even more handsome when he laughed. Especially lying there beside you, naked in the aftermath of the best sex you’d had in your life, smoke curling lazily from his cigarette. Then Clint’s expression shifted.

He rubbed his thumb along the edge of the cigarette before taking another drag. He studied your face more carefully now, like he was trying to memorize every detail. His gaze drifted briefly to the scar at your neck. He hesitated. “I don’t get you,” he said finally. “Why risk your life like this?” You took another drag from your cigarette, tapping the ash off with your finger. Then you shrugged. “Got bored.” Clint didn’t buy it. “Be straight with me for once,” he said, giving you a hard look. You took a long pull from the cigarette and exhaled slowly, smoke drifting between you as your eyes stayed locked on his. This time you were sincere. You trusted him enough for that. “Revenge,” you said quietly. “Settling a score. And I need the money.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “That’s a hell of a combination. Now maybe try being a little more specific.” You smirked faintly, took one last drag, and crushed the cigarette into the ashtray. “You know my story.” He said softly. “What’s yours?” You looked away. “For a long time,” you said quietly, “I didn’t get to choose anything.” A beat. “Now I do.” You reached for the cigarette pack again. Clint watched you quietly, the cigarette burning low between his fingers. The ashtray sat on your side of the bed. Without a word, you held it out toward him. Clint leaned closer and crushed his cigarette into it. For a moment he stayed there, close enough that you could still smell the smoke on him. Then his eyes lifted. “So that’s what this is about,” he said quietly. A small pause. “The Guy.” His gaze sharpened slightly. “Is that why you left me the notes?” You shrugged. “Your file didn’t say much. Just dates. Places. Jobs.” He said your name for the first time, you glanced at him. “That stepfather of yours…” he tried again. His eyes flicked briefly to the scar on your neck. “That where this started?” “Yeah,” you said quietly. "Everything started with him.” A slow drag. “My mom married him when I was nine.” A humorless smile touched your lips. “That’s when hell started.” Clint reached out, his fingers gently brushing against your scar. "Did he do that to you?" “That?” you said. “No.” You leaned back slightly and pointed to another faint scar near your stomach. “This one was the first. I was ten.” Another drag of the cigarette. “There are more. Some healed. Some didn’t.” You exhaled slowly. “My mom loved him too much to see it. Or maybe she did. She just never did a damn thing about it.” Clint said nothing. Listening. “The worst part wasn’t the beatings, ” you continued quietly. “Not even when he hit her while she was pregnant… or when he hit me every night. The worst part was the act.” You stared at the cigarette between your fingers. “She played the perfect wife. The perfect mom. When teachers asked about the bruises…” You exhaled smoke slowly. “She told them I was clumsy.” Your voice tightened. “I didn’t understand why she hated me. Not until I was sixteen.” A pause settled between you. Your eyes dropped slightly. “That was the first night he walked into my room.” The words hung in the air. Your hand moved quickly, brushing the corner of your eye before the tear could fall. Clint lowered his head for a moment. None of this had been in the file. Not a word. When he looked back up, his voice was quiet. “He was a cop. And connected to The Guy.”

You leaned back against the headboard, smoke curling slowly toward the ceiling. “Friendly neighborhood cop,” you said. “The kind people trusted. Perfect husband. Perfect father.” A faint, humorless smile touched your lips. “But inside that house… he was a monster.” You leaned back against the headboard and said, “I ran away when I turned eighteen.” Your tone had steadied now as you talked about the years that followed—training and learning to fight. You wanted to ensure that no man would ever touch you like that again or hurt you in the same way. Clint listened without interrupting. Finally he said quietly, recalling the file, “He died two years ago. House fire.” His eyes flickered slightly as he remembered the name in the file — and the same name in a news report he’d seen back then. “I remember seeing that one.” You looked at him, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “I did it.” Clint froze.

You exhaled slowly, flicking ash into the tray. “Mom was already dead by the time I got the call. I went back to Oakland for the funeral. That’s when I found out my sister wasn’t even living there anymore.” Your jaw tightened slightly. “They’d locked her in a care facility.” Clint frowned. “She has cerebral palsy,” you said, your voice steady. “She was just a baby when I left.” You took another drag of your cigarette. “Something in me snapped right there.” Your gaze drifted, distant now.“I stayed the night.” A bitter smile. “He was real happy to see me.” Your mouth twisted in disgust. “Drunk. Same as always. Hands everywhere… Like my mother hadn’t just died.” Your eyes darkened. “Called my sister a burden. Said she barely counted as human. That she didn’t deserve to live in a house.”

Clint closed his eyes and muttered a quiet curse under his breath. You watched the smoke curl upward. “And just like that… I decided it was time.” Your voice stayed calm. “I opened the gas. Walked outside. Then tossed my lighter through the window.” You snapped your fingers softly. “Boom.” A dark smile crossed your face. “The whole damn house lit up. Like fireworks.” Your fingers brushed the scar on your neck. “Only problem was… I didn’t duck fast enough.” Clint exhaled slowly. Something clicked. Now it made sense. The Guy had known exactly who you were. “You were right,” he said quietly. “He sent the others after you.” A pause. “He wants you.” His jaw tightened. “Listen… You don’t move alone anymore.” You tilted your head slightly. “What is this, Clint?” you asked. “You pitying me?” A faint smile tugged at your lips.

“Or are you falling for me?” Clint studied you for a long moment. “Don’t know what it is,” he said quietly. “But I know one thing.” His eyes held yours. “He had this coming.” He leaned in slightly. “So yeah. Let me help you finish it.” You raised an eyebrow. “Why? Because you think I can’t do it alone?” “I didn’t say you can’t.” You sighed, long and tired. “I’m not stupid, Clint,” you said quietly. “Of course I can’t keep doing this alone. But I’m done. Rico was my last stop.” A faint smirk crossed your face. “Finish The Guy, you said? He’s already finished.” Clint frowned. “What are you talking about?” “The list.” You leaned back slightly. “My stepdad kept records.” “Records?” “Old ones. Names. Accounts. Years of it. Rico’s shipments filled in the rest. I gave the whole thing to the FBI.” Clint leaned back slightly, processing. “Jesus…” “The Guy’s empire is about to get audited.” Clint narrowed his eyes. “You left me those notes… If I’d listened, I’d be clear of this.” His gaze sharpened. “…you trying to keep me out of it?” You slipped the cigarette between your lips. “Maybe.” Clint reached forward, taking the cigarette from your lips. His eyes locked onto yours. “Well,” he muttered, a faint smirk pulling at his mouth, “That’ll do it.” “You’re falling for the woman who shot you?” Clint’s gaze flicked to your lips. “Worth the bullet.” Then he leaned in and kissed you. This time it wasn’t rough like before. Not angry. Not desperate. Different. His mouth parted over yours and you answered instantly, letting him in, the kiss deepening as if both of you had been holding your breath for too long.

His hands slid around you, drawing you closer, warm and steady at your back. Your fingers curled into his shoulders as the kiss lingered. There was something slower in the way he touched you now. Careful. Almost curious. “For the record… I’m still a little sorry I shot you,” you murmured, breaking the kiss. Clint’s mouth twitched. “Yeah? Didn’t feel that sorry.” You rolled your eyes, your fingers drifting to the scar on his shoulder. Lightly, you traced the edge of it. “Oh, I felt it,” you said softly. Clint’s gaze darkened. “Hm..” His hand moved along your back, finding the clasp there with an ease that made your breath hitch. When the fabric loosened, his fingers traced slowly over your skin, the contrast between his earlier roughness and this quiet patience sending a strange, electric warmth through your chest. He cupped your breasts, his thumbs brushing across your nipples until they hardened beneath his touch. You bit your lip, trying to steady your breathing. “Feel this too?” he murmured. His mouth followed a second later, warm and slow. You sighed and nodded. He trailed kisses downward, slow and teasing, his tongue flicking over your nipples until they tightened into hard points. His hands slid lower, spreading across your hips before curling beneath your ass, pulling you closer against him. Then he shifted. Rising slightly, He got up and climbed in between your legs. His cock waved in front of him, slapping his right leg and then swinging and getting even bigger. Your breath caught. Almost without thinking, your hand drifted down between your legs. You touched yourself, fingers sliding over your pussy, and felt just how wet you already were—slick and dripping with need for him. Clint lowered his head, pressing a line of soft kisses along your neck, your shoulder, the place where your pulse fluttered beneath his lips. His cock felt heavy and solid against your belly, pressing into you with weight and heat. Then he lifted himself above you, his body hovering over yours as he guided himself down, positioning himself between your thighs. Slowly, he rubbed against you, the head of his cock sliding over your mound before drifting lower, brushing against your slick folds. A shiver ran through you. He pushed forward slightly, the tip easing against your entrance before slipping in just a little. You whimpered, watching his length disappear inside you inch by inch. He was big—so much that even the smallest movement stretched you, filling you with a firm, steady pressure. His mouth closed around your nipple again, tongue warm and wet as he sucked hungrily. You moaned, lifting your hips and pushing forward. That small movement was enough. Clint’s cock slid fully into you. Your walls tightened around him immediately and he let out a low grunt at the sudden heat. “Look at me.” You did. His hand tightened around your waist. “Yeah… feel that?” A smirk tugged at his mouth. “She squeezin’ me tight like she already know she mine now.” You panted softly, teasing, “Yours, huh?” “Damn right you are.” Then he began to move, pulling back slowly before pressing into you again in a steady rhythm. Each thrust sent another wave of heat through your body as the tension built higher and higher. You cried out, your hands clutching at his neck. He lowered himself toward you, and you began kissing him madly, passionately, while that solid length kept plunging into your sloppy-wet pussy. It didn’t take long after that.

The tension that had been building between you finally snapped, and the two of you reached the edge together, breathless and shaking. For a while neither of you moved. Eventually Clint rolled onto his back, pulling you with him. The room was quiet except for the sound of your breathing as you both tried to calm down. A moment later you reached for another cigarette, lighting it before passing it to him. You lay there beside him, the dim glow of the ember flickering in the darkness. Somewhere between quiet laughs, lingering touches, and half-whispered confessions, the walls between you started to fall away. The anger that had sparked everything earlier felt distant now, replaced by something warmer—something real. At some point you ended up kissing again. Slowly at first. Then faster, deeper. Like neither of you had just spent hours fucking. One thing led to another, and you explored every inch of each other’s bodies—every curve, every shiver—until soon you were wrapped up in each other again, the night stretching on around you. Again and again, you came together, sometimes at the same time, sometimes one after the other, talking, laughing, touching—until eventually the darkness outside the window began to fade.

Pale morning light slipped through the thin motel curtains. You woke slowly, warm and tangled in unfamiliar sheets. Clint’s arm was draped loosely around your back, heavy with sleep. Your cheek rested against his chest, rising and falling with each slow breath. His skin was warm. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat hummed beneath your ear. One of his hands still rested on your hip, like even in sleep he hadn’t quite let you go. The room smelled faintly of last night — sex, cigarette smoke, and something new neither of you had quite figured out yet. A sharp knock broke the quiet. Clint woke instantly. Knock. Knock. “Housekeeping!” Clint groaned, voice rough with sleep. “Go away.” You smiled against his chest. “Charming.” He cracked one eye open. “What time is it?” You shifted slightly, still half draped over him.

“Late enough that someone’s trying to clean up our bad decisions.” Clint snorted softly. “Too late for that.” You lifted your head and kissed him. Slow at first. Then not so slow. When you pulled back, you studied his face in the morning light. “Hmm,” you murmured. “You’re even more handsome in daylight.” Clint squinted at you. “Don’t spread that around. Got a reputation to keep.” That made you giggle. Knock. Knock. Knock. This time louder. Clint exhaled sharply. “I said-” He stopped suddenly. And there was no answer this time. You both looked at each other. That was wrong. Your smile disappeared. In one smooth motion you reached for the nightstand, fingers closing around your gun. You slid out of bed and raised it toward the door. Clint was already moving. Boxers, then his jeans — pulled on fast, belt buckled in one sharp motion.

He straightened and lifted a hand toward you. A silent wait. Then he stepped slowly toward the door. Another knock. Closer now. From the other side came a calm voice. “Mr. Flood.” Clint stopped. Your grip tightened on the gun. Then the man outside continued. “Got a call for you. Asked me to pass along a message.” Clint’s jaw tightened. “What message?” Silence for a beat. “Payment’s due.” The room went still. Clint slowly turned his head toward you. You already knew what that meant. Outside, somewhere in the parking lot, a car door slammed. Clint grabbed his shirt from the chair. “Get dressed.” You were already halfway there. You stepped into your underwear and pulled your dress over your head, fingers quickly combing through your hair to tame the worst of it. Clint moved to the window and lifted the curtain just enough to look out. “Fuck.They’re here.” He pulled on his shirt, then reached for his leather jacket, checking the revolver before sliding it into the back of his waistband. You snapped open the cylinder of your own gun and fed fresh rounds into it. Click. Click. Click. Then you closed it and grabbed your jacket from the floor. You stepped beside him and peeked through the curtain. One sedan. And a van pulling into the lot behind it. Doors opened. Men climbing out. Your brows lifted slightly. “Well… that escalated fast.” Clint didn’t smile. “Almost ten.” You watched them spread out across the parking lot. “So,” you said quietly, slipping into that calm, operational tone, “how are we playing this?” Clint shook his head immediately. “We’re not.” He let the curtain fall. You glanced at him. “Excuse me?” He didn't reply, he just sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on his boots.

You slipped into your heels and started toward the door. Clint’s hand shot out, grabbing your arm before you could reach it. “What are you doing?” You looked at him like the answer was obvious. “We take them out.” He shook his head immediately. “Too many. We don’t win that fight.” You scoffed. “Since when do you scare easy, Flood?” “Since the day you robbed me.” He zipped up his jacket and glanced toward your bag. “Take the money. Go.” He nodded toward the back of the room. “Fire escape.” You stared at him. “Clint, don’t be stupid. What do you think you’re doing?” “Buying you time.” “They’ll kill you.” A small, humorless smile crossed his face. “No. They won’t. Not right away.” Your expression hardened. “Damn it Clint. That supposed to make me feel better?” Clint shook his head. “They’re after you. And the money.” You swore under your breath. “Fuck… fuck. I can’t believe this.” You shoved the rest of your things into the bag and slung it over your shoulder. For a second you just looked at him. “You expect me to just walk away?” Clint’s gaze softened for half a second. “I expect you to survive.” You stepped closer and grabbed the collar of his leather jacket, pulling him down into a hard kiss. His arm wrapped around your waist instantly, pulling you closer as the kiss deepened for one brief reckless moment. Then he pulled back first. “Go.” You held his gaze. “Don’t die, Clint Flood. I still need that perfect ass in one piece, got it?” Clint let out a quiet breath that almost sounded like a laugh. “I’ll try.” He opened the window and pushed it toward the metal fire escape. You climbed out onto the narrow landing, the cold metal railing biting into your hands.

Behind you, Clint was already moving toward the door as voices and footsteps spilling across the motel lot below.

The music reached you before anything else. Low. Muffled. Bleeding through walls like a distant pulse. Voices layered over it—indistinct, blurred together. Your head throbbed. For a second, it almost felt like you’d passed out at some crowded party, left somewhere you didn’t belong. Heavy-limbed, warm, disoriented. Then the pain settled in. Sharp. Real. Anchoring. You inhaled slowly, blinking against the dim light as your vision struggled to focus. Memory didn’t come back all at once. It crept in—fragment by fragment. The care center. Fluorescent lights. The smell of antiseptic. Your sister’s hand in yours. The envelope of cash pressed across the desk. The administrator’s careful nod. The rest of the money—hidden. Safe.

Tucked away where no one would think to look. Then the parking lot. Cool air. The quiet hum of the night. A sound behind you. Too many footsteps. You had turned. Instinct. One of them went down fast—your body moving before your mind could catch up, a clean strike that sent him collapsing onto the pavement. But there had been another. A flash of movement. Then— impact. Blunt. Brutal. Right at the base of your skull. Darkness rushed in before you even hit the ground. You remembered hands catching you. Rough. Impersonal. Voices. Laughter. Someone swearing as you kicked blindly. Being dragged. Then nothing. Your eyes opened fully. Your wrists burned. The sensation hit first—tight, unforgiving pressure biting into your skin. Tied to the chair, your hands bound behind your back. You didn’t move immediately. Just breathed. Listened. Measured. Then, slowly, you tested the ropes.

They held. Tight, but not so tight. “Amateurs,” you murmured under your breath, voice dry despite the copper taste still lingering in your mouth. Your gaze drifted toward the window. Dark outside. Not just evening—night. Three hours, at least. Maybe more. Your pulse steadied. Panic would get you killed. You shifted slightly in the chair, subtle, controlled. Your shoulders rolled back just enough to give your wrists space to move. The rope didn’t loosen—but it gave. A fraction. That was enough. Under the sleeve of your leather jacket, tight against your wrist, the small blade was still there — a faint, familiar pressure against your skin. If you could just work your wrist lower— angle your hand— slide it free— “Look who finally decided to wake up.” Your head snapped up. The Guy stood in the doorway, a glass of whiskey in his hand,

the amber liquid catching the low light as he stepped inside. He moved without urgency. Without tension. Like this—all of this—was already under control. Suspenders stretched clean over a crisp shirt. Sleeves rolled just enough. Every detail deliberate. Composed. He set the glass down on his desk with a soft clink. Your eyes tracked the room again. Desk. Door behind him. Voices below—clearer now. Multiple men. Armed.No easy exits. And Clint— Your chest tightened before you could stop it. Where was he? Alive? The thought hit hard enough to sting.You shoved it down immediately. Not now. The Guy said your name. You looked at him. He didn’t move right away—just stood there, watching you like he had all the time in the world. He stepped closer, slow and unhurried, his shoes barely making a sound. “I was wondering how long you’d last.” His gaze dipped—brief, precise—to the restraints at your wrists, then back to your face. Nothing rushed. Nothing wasted. “You’ve had quite the night.” You tilted your head slightly, studying him right back. “Didn’t hear you complaining earlier.” That earned the faintest shift in his mouth. A smile—but not warm. Not kind. Just… amused. “Oh, I’m not complaining.” A beat. “I’m impressed.” He moved then, circling you slowly, measured—like he was inspecting something rare. Something dangerous. “You hit one of my men. Emptied Rico’s safe. And found things you weren’t supposed to find.”He stepped behind you, close enough that you could feel him without seeing him. “Old records. My records. And somehow…” Another beat. “…you managed to turn my best collector into a liability.” His voice dropped. “All that…” A soft chuckle. “…brought down by a woman. That’s almost embarrassing.” You held his gaze. “Sounds like poor management.” His eyes settled on you. “So now I have a problem.” A slight tilt of his head. Almost curious. “And you are either going to solve it for me—” a brief pause, controlled— “or become an example.” He moved, slower now, more deliberate, and sat on the edge of the desk across from you. Close enough that you could see the tension in his jaw. “Here’s what’s going to happen,” he said. No raised voice. No anger. Worse. Control. “You tell me where the money is. You give me the list. And I don’t kill you.” You let out a quiet breath, almost thoughtful.“Mm. No.” His eyes darkened. “Spent it,” you added lightly. “As for the list…” You leaned back as much as the ropes allowed, expression calm. “Let’s just say it’s in very interested hands.” A faint smile.

“Hands that love digging into things like yours.” The shift was instant. His hand came fast. The crack echoed in the room as your head snapped to the side. Pain bloomed sharp and bright. Blood filled your mouth. You spat it onto the floor. “Wow,” you muttered, voice rough. “That’s how you treat a lady?” His fingers fisted into your collar, dragging you forward. “I don’t make distinctions,” he said coldly, inches from your face. “Men. Women. Doesn’t matter. I’m very progressive like that.” Behind your back, your fingers finally closed around the knife. Relief flickered—brief, controlled. You angled the blade against the rope. Started cutting. Slow. Careful. He let you go, stepping back. “You deserve worse.” You looked up at him, blood trailing from your lip. “Funny,” you breathed. “Guess we don’t always get what we deserve.” The fibers began to give. Almost there. He reached for the shotgun leaning beside the desk and brought it up, setting it down with deliberate weight. Metal against wood. Final. “Well,” he said, sliding a shell in with a sharp click. “There’s something you should understand about me.” Another click. “I always win.” The sound made something in your chest tighten— The door opened. One of his men leaned in, eyes flicking over you with a crude kind of amusement. “She’s awake, huh? Cooper’s been waiting,” he added, grin widening. “Figured maybe you let him have a little fun, y’know… do it in front of Flood.” A low chuckle. “Looks like he’s got a thing for this one.” The name hit you like a jolt. Your eyes snapped toward the other side of the room. Toward the door. The way they looked— he was there? The Guy’s eyes flicked toward the man—sharp.

“Tell him to sit the hell down.” A beat. “I’ll deal with her myself.” His gaze shifted to you. The man only smirked. “Alright.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, glancing back toward the corner of the room. “Maybe we let him wake up first, yeah? Might make things more interesting.” A crooked grin. “Fuck, man… you should see him.” He nodded again, this time slower. “Tuck’s crew worked him over pretty good in the van.” A shrug. “He’s not waking up anytime soon.” Your head tilted—just slightly. Not enough to give it away. But enough to follow his gaze. There. A shape in the shadows. Still. Too still. Your chest tightened. Clint. The Guy didn’t smile. Didn’t blink. “Travis,” he said, flat. "Shut your mouth and get out of my office.” The grin faded—just a little. “Yeah, yeah…” Travis turned toward the door— just as it opened.

Another man rushed in, breath short, eyes wide. “Boss— we got a problem. FBI’s here. They’re moving in—taking our men in, front and back.” “Oops,” you murmured lightly. Every eye in the room snapped to you. The Guy didn’t move at first. Then slowly— he looked at the man. “Could you repeat that? 'Cause it sounded to me like you said FBI' in my house and taking my people?" "Yes, sir, that's what I said." Then his gaze turned to you. Sharp. Calculating. You met it. And smiled. “You don’t look like you’re winning right now.” The Guy’s jaw clenched. “Handle it,” he said sharply. “Don’t let them inside.” Boots thundered out of the room. The door slammed. And your rope gave. You didn’t hesitate. You lunged. The chair crashed backward as you drove into him, both of you hitting the ground hard. The shotgun slid off the desk.

You went for his throat— He drove his elbow into your ribs. Air exploded from your lungs. Outside— “FBI! DOWN! DOWN!” Gunfire. Chaos ripping through the building. He kicked you—hard. Chest. Then your jaw. White light burst across your vision. The knife flew from your hand, skidding across the floor. He grabbed the shotgun. Turned it on you. “Fucking bitch—” his voice shook now, raw with rage. “You ruined everything!” His finger tightened. “If I’m going down—” The barrel leveled at your chest. “You’re coming with me.” The shot rang out. You flinched— Waited— Nothing. The Guy’s expression changed. Confusion. Then— absence. A dark hole opened in his forehead. The shotgun slipped from his hands. His body dropped. Dead before it hit the floor. Silence swallowed the room. You looked up. And saw him. Clint. In the doorway. Barely standing.

Blood everywhere.Gun still raised.Smoke curling from the barrel. He swayed. You were moving before you realized it. “Clint—” You caught him as he stumbled, your hands coming up to his face, holding him there. Bruised. Split lip. Cuts across his face, his brow. His eyes found yours. “You okay?” he rasped. His gaze dropped to your mouth. “Your face…” You huffed out a breath, almost a laugh, even as your eyes moved over him—taking in the bruises, the blood, the way he was holding himself. “You’re one to talk.” Clint barely reacted. Just glanced down at the blood on his shirt, then back at you. “I’ve seen worse,” he said. His eyes lingered on your lip again. You pulled him into you, holding him tighter than you meant to. Then— The door burst open. “FBI!” Agents flooded in, weapons raised, voices sharp. One of them stopped when he saw you. Recognition.

You rolled your eyes. “About damn time, Jefferson.” He sighed, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “Oakland traffic.” Clint glanced between you, confused. “Friends of yours?” You shifted his arm more securely around your shoulders, taking his weight. “Long story.” Behind you— “Alright, move!” Jefferson snapped, his tone shifting instantly. “Spread out—secure the room. Bag everything.” Agents moved fast, voices overlapping, metal drawers opening, evidence bags snapping shut. Jefferson stepped further in, eyes sweeping once—then landing on The Guy. He nodded toward the body. “You do that?” he asked, casual. You didn’t even look back.“No,” you said, steady. A small pause. “His own man did.” Jefferson exhaled through his nose, almost amused. “Yeah,” he muttered. “That tracks.” A quick glance at Clint. Then back to you. “Guess we’re even now.” You nodded. Then he turned away. “Lock it down!” You started toward the door. “Come on, big guy.” Agents spread through the room, shouting, securing, cataloging. You and Clint moved through it all— down the hallway. Down the stairs. He leaned into you more now. You adjusted, steady. “Careful,” you muttered. “I’d rather you pin me to a bed than crush me on a staircase.” A breath of a laugh left him. “Noted.” You glanced up at him, eyes flicking over the bruises. “Someone’s gonna pay for that face.” He looked at you, tired but sharp. “Thought I was the one falling for you.”You smirked. “Don’t push it.” Outside— The Guy’s men lined up in cuffs. Chaos settling into order. You walked past it. Together. Toward his car. Red and blue lights washed over the street behind you. Agents moved through the house, voices sharp,

controlled—pulling men out in cuffs, stacking them against the flashing cruisers. The Guy’s world, unraveling piece by piece. You glanced at him. “Guess that makes you officially retired now, Clint.” A beat. “Now what?” Clint didn’t answer right away. Still watching as the last of them were dragged out. “Haven’t figured that out yet.” Then he looked at you. A small smile. “Guess I’ll see where you go.” “That’s cute.” You patted the roof of the car—once, twice. "Then try not to fall behind, tough guy.”

Two weeks later. Santa Cruz.

The air smelled like salt and clean sunlight. You stood just outside the fenced garden, one hand resting lightly against the railing, watching. They were helping her walk. Slow steps. Careful. Supported on both sides by staff. Your chest tightened anyway. But she was standing. That was enough. More than enough.

You reached into your pocket, pulling out a cigarette, rolling it between your fingers— A lighter clicked before you could. You glanced sideways. Clint. You leaned in slightly, letting him light it. “Thanks.” Your eyes dropped briefly to the duffel at his feet. You smirked faintly. “Someone finally decided to leave Oakland.” Clint exhaled, gaze drifting toward the horizon. “Yeah. Shoulda done it sooner.” Silence settled easy between you. Then— “Offer still good?” he asked. You didn’t answer right away. Your eyes found her again. She was laughing now. Weak, uneven—but real. One of the staff said something. She tried to wave them off. Almost stumbled. They caught her. You smiled, softer this time. Then took a drag from your cigarette. “Can’t,” you said. "Got someone to take care of.” Clint followed your gaze. Saw her.

Something shifted in his expression—small, but there. Your sister looked up suddenly. Like she felt it. Her eyes landed on you. Then drifted. To him. A slow, unsteady smile. She lifted her hand. A weak wave. Clint hesitated— Then raised his hand back. “Hey,” he muttered under his breath. You huffed a quiet laugh. “They’re letting her out this weekend,” you said, softer now. “I’m taking her home.” Clint nodded once. Then, casually, “There room for anyone else?” A slight tilt of his head. Almost teasing. You looked at him. Really looked. Then smiled. “Don’t have another room. But my bed’s pretty big.” Clint huffed a quiet breath, almost a laugh. “Yeah? Good. ‘Cause I’m outta work.” His gaze flicked to you. “Gonna take me a while to pay rent.” You shrugged lightly. “I got a job. I’ll keep us afloat for a while.” His brow lifted slightly.

“Yeah? What, you rob people full-time now?” You snorted. “Relax. I teach.” He glanced at you. “Teach what?” You took a drag from your cigarette, then looked back at him. “How to hit people properly." A faint smirk. "Less chaos. More technique.” Clint let out a low chuckle. “Sounds like a hell of a class.” You tilted your head. “It pays.” A beat. Then softer— “So… we got a deal?” Your eyes held his. “Or you need it in writing? Could always seal it with a—” He didn’t let you finish. He stepped in—and kissed you. Firm. Certain. Like he’d been thinking about it for longer than he’d admit. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his hand still in your hair. You stayed like that, watching as your sister’s session ended. Neither of you said anything. You didn’t need to. This time—you both stayed.

And for the first time in a long time—it didn’t feel like you were on your own.

hope you enjoyed reading ❤️ feel free to leave your thoughts if you’d like — i’d love to hear them 💋

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