“Yeah.” He sat up straighter, cleared his throat. “My contact said he was bragging about having photos of Allie on our property. That’s what he was doing here last night: taking pics so he could edit her into them.”
“Your contact?” Dublin asked, frowning. “Who’s that?”
“Uh. The varsity quarterback. I’m sort of coaching him.”
That earned him more than a few surprised looks.
Walsh said, “But that brings us to the matter of the girl herself. Connors says that his friend Ricky went chasing after her down at the mill, came back empty-handed, and said he’d taken care of it.”
Ratchet pulled out a glossy photo and laid it in the center of the table. “My guy at the lab was able to confirm DNA on the shirt Reese found behind the mill. Hair and sweat were a match for Allie Henderson, with no blood, or semen.”
“Small favors,” Hound muttered.
“Vince said his people would go back over the area with a fine-tooth comb, but we didn’t find any freshly-overturned dirt out there. If she’s buried there, it’s back in the trees somewhere,” Ghost said.
“Eden thinks she was taken,” Fox said. “That there was another vehicle waiting down the road, out of sight, and this Ricky person subdued her, got her inside it, and that she’s still alive, penned up somewhere like those girls in Texas.”
“Could be,” Ghost said. To the table: “We’re looking for three people, now. Allie, and Fred and Ricky. Let’s get to it, boys.”
~*~
It was Saturday, and there were still shifts to be worked at all the Dartmoor shops, but Ghost divided them up into pairs so they could work, and hunt, in shifts. Carter was supposed to start at the shop, with Mercy, and then Aidan and Tango would relieve them at lunch. There was a faint buzzing under his skin; not anticipation, but something like it. Mercy had accused him of – no, congratulated him on – stepping up last night. He felt newly invested; invigorated and ready to set down his wrench, get on his bike, and go do something.
He was wrapping the pipes on a custom job when he heard a car pull up. Cars came and went constantly, so he didn’t think anything of it until Mercy called, “Hey, QB,” from the next bay. “There’s a pretty girl outside, and I don’t think she’s here to see me.” A teasing note in his voice.
Leah. That was his first thought, flashing like lightning inside his mind. From pretty girl he leaped straight to Leah; to her wide grin, and her laughing eyes, and the easy way she could tease and comfort all in one breath.
Then he remembered last night, and the bottom dropped out of his stomach.
He stood slowly, reaching for a rag to towel his hands. It seemed weeks ago instead of hours, that moment in Cook’s Coffee when she’d told him no. So much had happened since then, to distract and excite and concern him, but suddenly he was back in the coffeeshop, dinner turning to lead in his gut, while she gave him that pitying look and said he wasn’t serious, that he didn’t want her.
He took his time walking out to the door, telling himself it was probably Jazz instead. If she offered him a shoulder to cry on, he wasn’t sure he had the strength to tell her no at this point.
But it was Leah, standing in the bright morning sunlight, in heels, and a skirt, and a yellow shirt printed all over with pineapples. Her sunglasses had yellow rims, and her hair was in a shiny black ponytail that gleamed like polished jet. His heart gave a little bump, and he took a measured breath. It was okay. He could do this; could be adult enough to have a polite conversation with the girl who’d turned him down.
“Hey.”
Her smile was slow, and small – and doubtful, he thought. Cautious. “Hey.”
A dozen questions bubbled up his throat, and died on his tongue, forcefully bitten back. He’d been the one to go out on the limb last night, and had it hacked out from under him. It was her turn now. She’d come, for whatever reason, and even if it was childish, he didn’t want to make it easy on her.
The seconds stretched on – then he saw the subtle movement of her throat as she swallowed. She reached to push her sunglasses up onto her head, and it was easier then to see the worry in her expression, pressed into the little line of tension between her brows. “I know you’re busy, and you probably don’t want to anyway, but I wondered if we could talk for a minute.”
Yes. Hope sparked, a tiny kernel of it. But he dashed it; hadn’t life taught him not to hope? He didn’t get what he wanted, not ever.
He said, “I’m on the clock.”
“Nah,” Mercy said, appearing on the other side of a tool chest, massive arms draped over it, wrench in one hand. “We’re dead around here. Go take ten minutes and talk to the lady.” His grin was half-encouraging and half-suggestive, and Carter wanted to hit him, as stupid as that would be. He envisioned breaking his knuckles on Mercy’s jaw, and Mercy laughing and saying something about a fly landing on him.
He sighed. “Sure,” he told Leah, and walked out to join her.
They fell into step, an easy pace, headed toward Maggie’s sprawling, raised garden. He could hear the splash and tinkle of the water in the creek from here; could see the tender green leaves of the fruit trees, just now coming in after the blossoms had blown like snow across the parking lot.
“I wasn’t sure you’d be working today,” was the first thing she said. A glance proved her gaze was fixed on the garden, its waving flowers and decorative grasses. “I had breakfast with Ava and Maggie, and they said there was some big to-do happening at church this morning.”
“Some stuff’s going on, yeah.”
“More graffiti?”
He didn’t answer that. He felt protective of his club business, suddenly. If she didn’t take his interest seriously, then he wasn’t going to discuss sensitive topics with her. It was an angry, bitter thought, but an honest one, and he didn’t try to squelch it. “You thought you’d come by and see? You could have texted.”
“I don’t have your number.” He was watching her as they walked, and so he saw her halt, and turn to look at him, her gaze searching in a sharp, pointed way. Assessing him. Not with the hopeful caution of so many women. Her look alone was a question.
He took it as a challenge. Halting, too, turning to face her. He held out his hand. “Here, gimme your phone and I’ll program it in, if you want it.”
She frowned. “You’re pissed.”
He frowned back, curling and loosing his fingers. “Do you want it or not?”
“Are you–” She paused, and let out a deep breath. “Okay, I’m not gonna assume. I did that last night, and I was way off, apparently. I…” Her gaze met his, and her head tipped to a soft angle, her expression gentling. “I think I hurt you, didn’t I? And I don’t mean your pride, but you.”
Her gaze seemed to go right through him, and he felt naked, suddenly, his anger fizzling away in a rush, leaving him open to nerves, and doubt. He was a teenager again, standing in front of a girl maligned by her peers and unbothered by it. A girl who didn’t give a single solitary damn about his blond hair, and blue eyes, and football jersey. A girl self-possessed and world-weary and confident, and so very, very far out of his league.
His mouth had dried, and he had to wet his lips before could speak. Lying felt like a lot of effort he didn’t possess the faculties for right now. He could hear the faint note of his own voice, but couldn’t alter it. “I guess I thought things were heading a certain way, and that you felt the same, I was wrong.”
“No,” she said, quickly, swaying forward half a step. The spark in his chest flared a little brighter. “No, I – you weren’t wrong. I just thought…”
“That I was a sex fiend? Yeah, you said. Several times.”
She frowned again. “No, it’s…” she said, frustration plucking at her features. Join the club, he thought. He’d been wrestling with this for weeks now, and still had no idea what it was beyond the most nebulous definition of desire.
“Let me start over,” she said, taking a deep breath that seemed to stead
y her. “Up until a few months ago, I thought I was going to marry Jason and live in Chicago.”
Jason. It was the first time he’d heard her ex’s name, and even if it was a less pretentious name than his own, he immediately conjured a mental image of a douchey guy like the one Ava had brought home from Georgia. An unfair, but satisfying presumption.
“Things had gotten so boring and routine with us, and I thought that was normal. Couples drift; the spark fades. But he was the right kind of guy, you know? Very responsible, and mature, and he made a good living. We were comfortable.”
The presumption was a little less satisfying, now. “Sounds like maybe you shouldn’t have split up.”
She shook her head. “Looking back, I don’t think there was ever anything like a real spark. I liked him. Maybe I even loved him. But it wasn’t – there was never…heat.” Her brows jumped when she said that, chin tucking a fraction so her eyes looked huge, her gaze full of intent.
“Oh,” he said, stupidly.
“The other night at dinner: if you’d kissed me, I would have kissed back.”
“Oh,” he said again, even more stupidly.
Her cheeks flushed a rosy pink, but she pressed on, brave as ever, not mincing words. “I never stopped to consider someone like you – never expected you,” she corrected, with emphasis. “You were always the prom king type, and I was the smoking in the bathroom type, and that kind of hope was so She’s All That I could have gagged on it. And even if you noticed one of the bad girls, it was always going to be Ava. I was just the bubbly sidekick.” Her tiny, self-deprecating smile left him wanting to reach out, to pull her close, shocked to hear that kind of self-consciousness from her of all people. She’d always seemed so Teflon-coated, so impervious to the stupid shit that bothered everyone else.
“Leah–”
“You’re not the popular kid anymore, maybe. In the biker world, I think you’re the nerd, to be honest.”
“Wow, thanks,” he said flatly, but his pulse fluttered rapid in his ears, and his palms tingled, still wanting to touch.
She tipped her head, smile plucking at her mouth. “Come on. You know you’re not the killer bad boy type.” The smile slipped. “But you’re still someone who is very, very capable of breaking my heart. I think that’s why there are certain guys who I just block off. I don’t even consider it. I can’t–” Her voice shivered. “I can’t be that sad, desperate, dumb girl who goes chasing the butterflies in her stomach and winds up dumped for a blonde with big boobs. I’ve always promised myself I wouldn’t do that.”
He swallowed. “That’s not what I was asking you to do.”
Her smile showed teeth this time, edged with bitterness. “Oh, honey, they never ask. It just happens. Like clockwork.”
He sighed. “Do you think I’m that shallow? That I’m just an asshole?”
“No.” She blinked, gaze darting away. “I’m assuming again. Turns out I’m really good at it.”
The blonde with big boobs can’t make me happy, he thought, but didn’t say. This wasn’t about Jazz, or any of the girls he’d been with, really. It wasn’t about her ex. It was about fear, plain and simple, two-sided. Which was worse? Rocking along at a sustainable level of misery? Or reaching out for something like joy only to lose it, and go crashing into despair?
For his part, rocking along hadn’t gotten him anywhere in the past few years.
“Why did you come?” he asked, as gently as he could. “What do you want?”
She turned back to him, eyes glittering in the sunlight, lip caught between her teeth. “I wanted to apologize for hurting you. And to explain why I said no. And to see if…” She took a big breath that lifted her chest, and let it out in a rush. “See if maybe it wasn’t too late to say yes after all.”
“To say yes?”
“I want to go out with you. Yes. If you’re still interested.”
“Oh.” It was difficult to take his next breath. “Okay.”
They stood squared off from one another, and Carter realized this was a first. In high school and college, girls had always been quick to press up into his personal space. A hand on his arm, an arm around his waist; lots of lash-batting and chest-displaying. Jazz had all but fallen into his lap the first time she’d ever come onto him, and then kept doing it, dressed and undressed.
But Leah stood her ground, hands clasped together on her purse strap. Waiting for him to make the first move – no, he realized, correcting himself. She was challenging him, in her own, small way. If you want me come and get me. She wouldn’t be a sighing, swooning damsel. She’d laid all her doubts and presumptions at his feet just now, and he would need to gather them up, throw them over his shoulder, and prove her wrong.
If he could undertake an interrogation with nothing but prospects and half-cocked lunatics for backup, he could do this. He wanted to do this, suddenly, quite badly. Wanted to prove himself to her.
It struck him like a lightning bolt that he’d never had to do so before. No woman had ever demanded anything of him.
He actually relished the novelty of a challenge.
“Okay,” he said again, surer, and closed the distance between them with two long strides.
She reacted, he saw; a tightening of her whole body, a little flex of her knees; her eyes widened as his shadow fell over her. He heard the low, quick intake of breath, and imagined he saw the flicker of her pulse in the hollow of her throat.
He had doubts about just about everything lately, but he didn’t doubt that he was a damn good kisser these days.
He captured her face gently with one hand, and she froze – and then leaned into it, fractionally, eyelashes fluttering.
“Damn,” she murmured.
“What?”
“I’m already a total cliché. If I swoon, please drop me on my ass.”
That startled a laugh out of him, and she grinned in response, eyes crinkled with delight. It was easy as anything, then, to duck down, and press his lips, quick and soft, to hers. He could feel the shape of her smile, the warmth of it, and though he immediately wanted more – a bad habit from a few years of total, unrestrained passion – he pulled back, a laugh still caught in the back of his throat. “Okay?”
She nodded, expression suffused with warmth, her cheeks still so pink. “Definitely okay.”
“Carter!” Mercy called. The sound of his real name – and the look on Mercy’s face when he glanced over – put him on high alert immediately. His fingers tightened on reflex at Leah’s nape, and he nearly pulled her into his chest, wanting to shelter her.
“What?”
“Fox called,” he said, voice grim. “There’s another one.”
That could have meant a number of things, none of them good, but he guessed Mercy didn’t want to shout it for all the world to hear – or to worry Leah with it.
He nodded. “Coming.” He turned back to Leah, already regretting having to let go.
She was holding up her phone, offering it to him. “Gimme your number, and I’ll text you. We’ll talk later.”
He was flooded with a surge of warmth. She wasn’t a civilian, she wasn’t going to demand that he stay here, or tell her what was going on. He punched his number into her Contacts in a hurry, then ducked in to press another fast kiss to her cheek.
“Be thinking of where you want to have dinner,” he called over his shoulder as he jogged away.
Her laughter floated to him on the breeze, giddy and happy.
Twenty-Eight
Eden was pacing up and down the sidewalk in front of Miss Belle’s Boutique when they pulled up, her jaw set, her stride agitated. Fox went to her, but didn’t crowd her. She didn’t want a hug and a kiss and an assurance that he would make it all better – not ever, but especially not in front of half the club like this.
She halted when he stepped up onto the sidewalk, and turned a look on him that was outwardly pissed, but through which he could read the faint touch of desperation and helplessness. “If I’d come two
hours earlier,” she said, shaking her head, lips pressing together until they turned white. “Christ, Charlie, I could have prevented this!”
“What is it?” Ghost asked, joining them. “What happened?”
Eden took a breath, and smoothed both hands along the crown of her head, flattening nonexistent flyaways from her tight ponytail. When she spoke, she was more collected. “I came to speak with Allie’s friend, Nicole, the one who told me that Jimmy left the party right after Allie. She’s not here. Her boss said a man came in asking after her, and that she left with him, someone the manager had never met before, who introduced himself as Fred.”
“Shit,” Fox muttered.
“Her break is only supposed to last thirty minutes, but she’s been gone two hours, and she isn’t answering her cell.” Eden propped her hands on her hips and kicked at a bit of loose gravel on the sidewalk. “They’ve taken her. I know it.”
“Well,” Ghost said, expression hard. “It looks like it, but we don’t know.”
Eden challenged him with a sharp look, and he lifted a hand, palm-out in supplication.
“If we tell her folks, they can’t file a police report until it’s been twenty-four hours.”
“I thought you owned the police in this city.”
“Eden,” Fox warned, under his breath.
“I do,” Ghost said, meeting her glare with an implacable gaze of his own. “Part of it, anyway. An important part. Her parents can’t file a report, but I can get Fielding to set some guys on it. In the meantime, let’s see what we can do. Did the manger get a good look at the guy?”
“A good one. Tall, white, early-thirties, dark blond hair. She said he had an ugly nose.”
Ghost nodded. “I’ll see if Vince can spare a sketch artist. It was only the one guy?”
Homecoming (Dartmoor Book 8) Page 28