The Deeper He Hurts Read Online Free PDF Page B

tranquil setting. Surrounded by the rocky shoreline and towering trees that bordered the river’s edge, Sawyer could almost believe in the peace it projected. Almost.
    He savored the moment, each shallow inhale sinking deep. The damp musty scent of rot and clean was distinct and different from the dry arid landscape of home. Instead of dusty red and gold rock, he was cocooned in green and brown life. Slightly claustrophobic in its closeness, yet somehow settling.
    Could he hide in those woods? Hunker down where no one would ever find him? The Utah landscape was too open to hide within, but it was vast and huge and he’d been able to hide in plain sight for the last fourteen years.
    “Hey, Sawyer,” Grady called out. “Are you ready to go?”
    He turned back to the group of rafters. The party was almost set to begin their day trip down the White Salmon. He’d received the rundown on process and logistics back at the Kick outpost before the tourists had arrived.
    “I’ll be right there.” A flash of guilt had him leaving the riverbank. He wasn’t a lazy fuck who let others do the work. He’d just needed a second to center himself.
    Grady waved in acknowledgment before refocusing on his job of strapping down the waterproof dry bags. The Kick crew was organized and efficient, every member working in sync with each other. It was impressive, and Sawyer’s respect for the company went up yet another notch.
    Mick would approve. Sawyer had learned the art of whitewater rafting at the hip of his surrogate uncle after his family had died. Mick’s company, Outsider Whitewater, had a thirty-year history in the Moab area and the river had been Sawyer’s salvation after his devastating loss. Mick had offered him a home and a life when he’d wished his had ended.
    He sucked in a breath, a waft of pungent smoke piercing him. He gagged. The retching urge to vomit flew up his throat fast and reflexive.
Fuck
. He swallowed hard, throat aching with the willpower it took to keep his breakfast down. The acidic burn inflamed his esophagus and he focused on that, pulling the pain in.
    The forest fire was a hundred miles to the east and nowhere near them—him. The wind had shifted that morning, bringing the smoke westward, but it wasn’t a threat. They weren’t in danger. The rundown of facts replayed in his mind in War’s steady voice. They’d been updated on it before they’d departed Kick’s White Salmon base.
    His hands shook, mind flaring with images from his past. Of flames and heat. Of panicked need and sooty residue.
No
. He systematically shut down each thought, each destructive memory forced back and locked away until he was once again in control of his emotions. His thoughts.
    He breathed through his mouth, the quick puffs slowing with his pulse. His hand was wrapped around the folding knife in his pocket before he’d consciously thought about it. The dull edge of the blade back smooth over the pad of his thumb where he caressed it, the strokes hard enough to dent his skin.
    His blood pumped, anticipation singing through him with its whisper of euphoria. The high would be shallow, nowhere close to what he could get from another person. Did he have time?
    “Here’s the tracker.”
    The deep voice cut through the cool morning air and general chatter to spear Sawyer. His head jerked up, gaze hunting for the source. There. Next to a black truck that’d just pulled up. Asher was here. He was talking to War, both of them focused on a piece of equipment in Asher’s hand.
    His heart hitched along with his breath. Mr. Preppy had taunted him last night at the dungeon, led him on, then cut him loose with a quip about not playing with employees.
Chickenshit.
If Asher had any balls at all, rules wouldn’t matter. Not in the dungeon at least.
    He was moving toward the pair before he’d consciously thought about it. Asher wore jeans today, which did nothing to roughen up the crisp efficiency he projected. The navy polo with the