Running With the Devil by Lorelei James Page B

him to pick up my duffle bag. All my stuff is there.”
    “And then what? You’re not staying with him at the campground?”
    Kenna didn’t answer.
    Drake watched some mental communication pass between them. Gave him a weird vibe he didn’t like one bit.
    Marissa hugged Kenna and said, “Promise you’ll call and let me know how you’re doing. Promise me. I mean it. No matter what, you have to call me.”
    “I promise.”
    She stood. Flicked her long brown hair over her shoulder as she spun on her navy pump and melted into the crowd.
    Kenna slowly rose to her feet. “I need to get this blood cleaned up. There’s a first aid station on the next block.”
    When she wobbled, he caught her. “Want me to carry you?”
    “And make a bigger spectacle of myself than I already have? No thank you.” She shrugged off his assistance and tottered down the block in her sexy boots.
    Damn stubborn woman. She wouldn’t even let him inside while an EMT tended to her.
    Racked with guilt, he paced outside the medical tent.
    A stick-thin teenage boy sat on the folding chair. An angry red road rash stretched from his elbow to his shoulder. Next to him, a shirtless, bloated Jerry Garcia clone held a bloody towel to his recently broken nose. His old lady chewed his ass for fighting again.
    Where the hell had Bobby and Geo been? They were supposed to keep an eye on Kenna. Coupled with the gunshots last night, he had a hard time believing she’d been a random mugging victim today.
    But who could possibly want to hurt her? And why? What wasn’t she telling him?
    An EMT led Kenna through the tent flap. Drake rushed to meet her, forgoing the urge to fold her frail body in his arms. “Is she okay?”
    “Not the worst I’ve seen this week.” The stout African-American woman wagged her finger in his face. “There a reason she hasn’t had anything to eat today, sir?”
    He blanched, showing his guilt.
    The plastic beads adorning the med tech’s braids clicked merrily as she shook her head. “I gave her some crackers, but she should’ve eaten something before she took those painkillers.”
    “What painkillers?”
    “I asked Marissa for some aspirin,” Kenna said. “No big deal.”
    He exchanged a look with the med tech.
    She shrugged.
    He hoped whatever it was she’d taken kicked in soon.
    “Thanks. I’ll see she gets food in her stomach right away.” Drake draped his arm over Kenna’s shoulder. When she flinched he took perverse pleasure in pulling her closer.
    Despite her protests, Kenna managed to eat a soft pretzel and drink a Coke. She glanced up from the row of Indian motorcycles she’d been admiring and froze. Impatient bikers nearly mowed her down.
    He gently moved her from the flow of traffic. Her eyes were wild. Sweat trickled down her face. Oh man. He hoped she wasn’t going to throw up. “What?”
    “The head of my department is right over there. Omigod. That suck-up Trent is with him!” When he tried to peer over her shoulder, she clapped her palms on his cheeks, holding his head in place. “No. Don’t look.”
    “What do you think he’s doing here?”
    “Weaseling his way into Dr. Herbert’s good graces.” She gasped. “Shit! Herbert’s posing with the Hooters girls. And that cheapskate Trent is paying for it.”
    Kenna seemed to be missing the main point; Trent could’ve seen her and snatched her purse. Or paid somebody to do it.
    But why? For kicks? For spite?
    Drake needed to see what this Trent guy looked like. He craned his neck despite Kenna’s paranoia.
    The chunky, mustached, bald guy wearing black socks with sandals had to be the professor. Christ. Even his Hawaiian shorts were starched. Drake’s gaze narrowed on the tall, good-looking Native American man. He had expected a greasy pencil-necked geek with a pocket protector and thick dork glasses. With the exception of the butt-length braid, Trent dressed like a frat boy: khaki Dockers, navy polo shirt, brown leather boat shoes and