Never Say I Want You

by Pennza, Amy

  As the grass crunched underfoot, her mind whirred with thoughts. What to do next? She had no place to stay. No job. She didn’t have food or a car—

  She stopped in the middle of the lawn. A car… How could she have forgotten? As the sun disappeared on the horizon, she hurried the rest of the way across the lawn and headed toward the small, freestanding garage at the back of the house. Her grandmother had stopped driving after an unfortunate incident with a stop sign, but she’d never allowed Cheryl to sell her car. She’d insisted on renewing her insurance and registration, even after she’d fallen one too many times and Cheryl had panicked and moved her to an assisted living home in Laredo. “I want to know it’s out there if I need it,” Grandma Winnie had said, a stubborn look settling over her features. Exasperated, Cheryl had parked it in the garage and thrown a tarp over it. An older model Buick, it only had a few thousand miles on it, since Grandma had never driven farther than church or the local grocery store.

  Ashley entered the garage through a side door. As she fumbled for the light switch, she muttered, “Please, please, let something go right for me today.” She found the switch and flipped it on.

  Yes! The unmistakable outline of a sedan sat under a dusty blue tarp. She picked her way around stacks of boxes and tugged the tarp away. Dust motes whirled, forcing a cough from her lungs as she popped open the door and stuck her head inside. “Keys, keys, keys,” she chanted, mentally crossing her fingers.

  And there they were. Her grandmother’s keyring—a miniature cowboy boot with “Everything’s Bigger in Texas!” printed down the side—dangled from the ignition. She leaned farther inside and turned the key. The engine roared to life. Slowly, the fuel gauge climbed past the middle hatch mark. Not only did she have wheels, she had half a tank.

  She withdrew from the car and did a little victory dance, the rubber soles of her knock-off Sperrys squeaking on the concrete. Her predicament had just gone from dire to hopeful. Optimism flooded her, and the start of a plan formed in her mind. She’d drive into town and grab enough groceries to get through a day or so, then she’d return to the house and wait for the mysterious Mr. Smith to come home. Surely he wouldn’t mind letting her stay for the month. She’d offer to clean up the house, or maybe even refinish some of the furniture squirreled away in the attic. She was an actress. She could talk anyone into anything.

  She walked to the garage door, unlatched it, and pushed it up. The hinges squealed as it locked into place. She eyed it for a second to make sure it was going to stay put, then slid into the car and put it in gear. As the big car rolled onto the gravel driveway, she relaxed into the leather driver’s seat and flicked on the radio. Upbeat country music filled the cabin, the lyrics about cruising down a back road and blowing through stop signs.

  Grinning, she turned up the volume and lowered the driver’s side window. The cool air soothed away the last of her headache.

  Finally, her luck had turned.

  * * *

  Smith Salvatierra unwrapped a double cheeseburger and gave it to his partner, who swallowed it in two bites. Smith shook his head. “You know, you’ve really got to stop eating like this.”

  His partner looked at him, head cocked to the side. A liberal dollop of ketchup smeared his nose.

  Smith held up his hands. “I’m just saying, you’re not getting any younger.”

  His partner leaned across the seat and nosed the fast food bag on Smith’s lap.

  “Hey!” Smith pushed the shaggy head away. “Leave something for me, Deuce.”

  The big German Shepherd settled back on his haunches, then screwed up his face and sneezed. Droplets hit the windshield with a wet sound.

  Smith recoiled, one hand over the bag’s opening. “Gross. Here, you look ridiculous with that ketchup.” He grabbed a baby wipes container from between the seats and withdrew a damp wipe. Deuce sat patiently while Smith swiped the ketchup off his muzzle. What would the upstanding citizens of Prattsville think if they saw the town’s police chief sitting in a gas station parking lot, wiping his dog’s face with a baby wipe? That was life with Deuce, though. The dog was like a furry toddler.

  “You know,” Smith murmured, “this is probably the most exciting thing that’s going to happen to me all night.” Not that he was complaining. Prattsville was quiet and isolated, and that’s exactly why he liked it. Violent crime was almost nonexistent. Life had an orderly, predictable rhythm. On Sundays, half the population could be found in one of the town’s two churches. On Friday nights, the entire population could be found at the football stadium—football being the main religion in South Central Texas. And aside from the occasional truck backfiring, there were no loud, sudden noises.

  At least nothing that could be mistaken for gunfire.

  Deuce pulled his head out of Smith’s grip.

  “Oh no, you don’t. Sit still—”

  The dog’s ears perked up. He looked out the passenger window, one massive paw on the door’s armrest.

  Smith heard it, too—the deep roar of a car’s engine as it tore down the quiet neighborhood street. He leaned forward so he could see past Deuce’s profile. The headlights grew larger as the car approached. Whatever it was, it was coming fast. Too fast for this area. It was the oldest part of town—and the poorest—but the residents were proud. Many of them had lived in the old Victorians for decades. They were quick to call the mayor if they spotted someone racing down the street.

  And this car was definitely breaking the speed limit.

  “Hold on, buddy.” Smith tossed the wipe in the bag and threw the whole thing in the back. Deuce watched as he pulled out the radar gun and aimed it at the oncoming car. The display blinked an angry red, and the gun emitted a harsh beep as “fifty-seven” flashed on the screen. At the same moment, the car flew past the gas station in a cloud of dust and loud country music. The gas station’s sign threw out just enough light for Smith to make out a young woman, blonde hair trailing out the open window, mouth moving as she sang along to the lyrics.

  “Sorry to ruin the recital, sweetheart,” Smith said. He holstered the radar gun, flipped on his lights, and peeled out of the gas station. Deuce shifted, his body swaying with the cruiser’s movements. His tail thumped against the leather seat.

  Smith glanced at him. “You never met a chase you didn’t like, huh?” Although, this wasn’t shaping up to be much of a chase. Ahead, the car—a dark-blue Buick—braked hard and moved to the side of the road. Its taillights died as the woman put it in park and killed the engine. Smith angled his cruiser to the left of her bumper to give himself room to approach. Her gaze met his in her rearview mirror. As soon as they made eye contact, she ducked her head.

  No surprise there. Most people changed their body language as soon as he pulled them over. Their shoulders tightened, and they sort of shrank in their seats. Many even avoided looking at him, as if hoping he’d disappear if they pretended he wasn’t there.

  Deuce’s tail thumped harder against the seat as Smith opened his laptop and chicken-pecked the car’s license plate number into the database. Eyes on the screen, Smith reached over and rubbed between the dog’s ears. “Don’t get too excited,” he said. “You’re staying put.”

  The database returned a result, and he scribbled it down on a notepad before giving Deuce another pat and leaving the cruiser. He pulled his flashlight from his duty belt and ran the beam over the car’s back seat as he neared the driver’s side. Some departments insisted their officers approach from the passenger side, but he preferred staying on a driver’s left. Most people were right-handed. If they went for a weapon, they’d have to twist and shoot across their body, which was much more difficult than a straight-on shot. His way of doing things might not be popular, but he liked to think it gave him an extra few seconds to react.

  It was obvious he didn’t need to worry about that now. The woman clutched the steering wheel so hard, he feared she might break it. She stared straight ahead, her cloud of medium-blonde hair obscuring her face.
Hands at a perfect nine-and-three driving school position, she tightened her grip as he stopped beside her. He tucked his flashlight in the crook of his arm so the beam wouldn’t blind her.

  “Ma’am?”

  She looked up, and he caught his breath. Eyes as dark as bluebonnets met his…and held. A man could get lost in those eyes. He swallowed against a suddenly dry throat. Her heart-shaped face was smooth and makeup-free, but she didn’t suffer for the lack. Eyebrows several shades darker than her hair arched above those incredible eyes, which were fringed by long, black lashes. Her nose was small and rounded at the end, the little groove beneath it deep and strangely appealing.

  And her mouth…

  Her lips were full, the bottom one bigger than the top. A tiny beauty mark flanked one corner. She caught her lower lip between her teeth.

  His heart thumped, the beat so strong it seemed to lift the body armor vest he wore under his shirt. He’d never been partial to a certain type of woman. Tall and lean or small and curvy—he didn’t discriminate. Brunette, blonde, redhead…it didn’t matter.

  But damn if he didn’t prefer petite blondes right about now.

  She made a little sound, and he realized he was standing on the roadside, staring at a woman’s mouth like a caveman. He shook himself and forced his gaze back to hers. “I’m Chief Salvatierra.”

  She took a deep breath. “Yes…sir?”

  He almost groaned. She couldn’t know it, but that husky sir sent blood pumping to all the wrong places—inappropriate places.

  Get a grip, dickhead. He cleared his throat. “I stopped you for speeding, Miss…” He glanced at his notes. “You can’t be Winifred Thompson of Laredo, born in 1940.”

  A ghost of a smile played around her mouth. She shook her head. “That’s my grandmother. Grandma Winnie. She’d die if she ever heard anyone call her Winifred.” The smile fled, and pain flashed across her face. “If she were alive, I mean. She passed away.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Thank you.” Her shoulders relaxed, but she kept her hands on the steering wheel. When he glanced at her grip, her knuckles turned white.

  She’s scared. It wasn’t surprising, or even out of the ordinary. People he stopped tended to fall into one of two groups: the pissed off and inconvenienced, or the terrified and paranoid. The funny thing was, he could never decide which was more of a pain in the ass to deal with. Angry people could ruin his mood, but they weren’t paralyzed by fear. When people got scared, they sometimes lost all sense. More than once, he’d had to help a shaking, babbling driver open their glove compartment to retrieve their insurance card and registration.

  This woman didn’t shake or babble. She just gazed up at him with wide eyes—the blue so dark it was almost purple. Something about them lent her a vulnerability that called up every protective instinct he possessed. A rush of tenderness swept him, and his fingers twitched with the need to soothe away the little frown lines bracketing her mouth.

  God. He had to stop looking at her mouth. Had to stop looking at her, period.

  What had they been talking about? He lifted his notes. The grandmother. “Right,” he said. “Did she pass about five years ago?”

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  “This car’s registration expired five years ago.”

  “Oh.” She bit her lip again.

  Not going there. He kept his gaze firmly on hers.

  She tightened her grip on the wheel. “That’s probably bad, isn’t it?”

  “You don’t have to keep your hands like that.”

  Her frown deepened. “What?”

  “Your hands.” He nodded toward the wheel.

  She looked at it like she was seeing it for the first time. “Oh.” She colored and jerked her hands to her lap. “I guess I always heard you were supposed to keep your hands where the officer can see them. Probably too many episodes of Cops. I’ve never been pulled over before. Actually, I can’t remember the last time I drove.” She let out a nervous laugh. “I don’t even own a car.”

  In Texas? That meant she was either wealthy or had a man who did all the driving. Or both.

  Now why did that make his stomach drop to his feet?

  Time to wrap this up. Not for the first time, he was glad his partner wasn’t human. Right now, a fellow officer would be rolling on the ground, dying of laughter at his inability to conduct a routine traffic stop. This wasn’t a social call, for crying out loud, and she wasn’t a damsel in distress. Hell, she’d just blown through town going thirty miles over the speed limit. With tags that expired half a decade ago.

  And if he had to bet, she didn’t have insurance, either.

  “Do you have a valid driver’s license?” he asked.

  “Oh! Yes. Yes, sir, I do. It’s in my purse.” She leaned sideways, fingers stretched toward the ground, only to come up short when her seat belt locked. She leaned back and glanced at him, her cheeks a brilliant pink. “Forgot to unbuckle,” she muttered, pressing the belt’s release button. The seat belt retracted with a buzzing sound.

  Another swell of tenderness rose in his chest. He tried to think of a joke or something witty—something to put her at ease—but she went back for her purse, and the moment was gone. As she bent, her shirt lifted and her pants rode down, exposing a narrow band of golden skin at the small of her back. He started to look away, but something caught his eye. Just above her belt line was a small tattoo of a…tree? He squinted. No, it was a broomstick. The kind a witch would ride. Done in black, it was delicately drawn. The stick itself showed the knots and striations of the branch. There were even a couple twigs with leaves sticking out along the staff. Maybe she was a Harry Potter fan.

  Whatever the tattoo meant, the fine, black lines gleamed against sun-kissed skin. His throat went dry.

  She straightened and put a small quilted purse in her lap. He snapped his attention back to her face. Thankfully, she didn’t seem to notice his scrutiny. “One second…” She rummaged through her purse and pulled out a hot-pink wallet. A California driver’s license was tucked inside a plastic sleeve.

  “Here you go,” she said, sticking the wallet out the window.

  “Take it out, please.”

  “O-of course.” She wiggled her finger inside the sleeve and inched it out. “Sorry, these things are impossible.” She freed it at last and handed it over.

  “Thanks.” He tapped it against his notepad. Now for the hard part. Or at least the unpleasant part. “Texas requires all drivers to have car insurance. And if I’m not mistaken, California does, too. Do you have proof of insurance?”

  Her face fell. “No, sir. I don’t.”

  “Do you have car insurance, ma’am?”

  She winced and shook her head. “No, sir.”

  Then what on earth had possessed her to drive in the first place? It was on the tip of his tongue to ask, but he forced himself to stay quiet. Experience had taught him that silence was the most effective interrogation method. Most people couldn’t abide quiet. Confronted with an impassive stare and a lack of noise, they’d do just about anything to fill it. He arranged his features in what he knew was an inscrutable expression and settled in for a wait.

  After a second, her shoulders slumped. “I’m such an idiot,” she said in a low voice. She stared at his badge while she spoke. “I promise I didn’t know about the tags. I should have checked. I just didn’t think about it. I came home for a short visit to see my mom, but she’s out of town. There aren’t any groceries in the house…” She flicked her gaze to his before refocusing on his badge. “It’s a long story.”

  “I see. You’re staying in town?”

  “That’s right. I was just running to the store and back.”

  He nodded. “Just sit tight. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  The frown reappeared. “Okay.” She looked like she wanted to say more, but she settled back against the tan upholstery. Panic flashed across her features, followed by what might have been defeat.


  He walked back to his car and slid behind the wheel. Deuce greeted him with a soft woof.

  “Sorry, buddy,” Smith said, giving him a pat before pulling the laptop close. “That took longer than I expected.”

  Deuce’s tongue lolled, his breath warm on Smith’s arm.

  Smith ran the license, then studied it while he waited for the system to complete its search. Ashley Ann Scobel. Most people’s driver’s license photos looked like mugshots. Not Ashley Ann Scobel’s. She gazed up at him from the square, blue background, her lips curved in a soft smile. If there was such a thing as a stereotypical California girl, Ashley Ann Scobel might be it. Blue eyes. Tan skin. Blonde hair. The license photo didn’t show it, but her hair was streaked with lighter strands the color of ripe wheat. He knew enough about women to know those usually came from a salon chair, but he imagined her reclined on a beach, chin tilted toward the sun while waves pounded against the shore. She had an easy, carefree beauty that bespoke an easy, carefree life.

  Which meant she was no kind of woman for him.

  A familiar weariness settled over his shoulders. If he let it sit there long enough, it would weigh him down. Some days, the temptation to do just that tugged at him. It was like walking against a strong wind. There were times it seemed easier to just turn around and let it push him—even though he knew exactly where he’d end up.

  Deuce whined and nudged his head under Smith’s hand.

  Smith tossed the license on the keyboard, then rubbed the tan-and-black fur. “Hey, buddy. You’re right, you know. Duty calls.”

  Apparently satisfied, Deuce settled back in his seat, his soft, amber eyes tracking Smith as he flipped open his citation holder and checked boxes on a small, pink form.