“No,” Gabe replies slowly, as if racking his brain. “But I told you they wouldn’t bother you again, didn’t I?”
My fingers grip the steering column, squeezing. I can still hear the venom lacing Jordan Thomas’s threats when I refused to let him or his little cult drop their traps in my territory.
After trying to cite my father’s membership into their unofficial union as all the permission they needed, I reminded them that my father was dead, and therefore so was his relationship with them.
Jordan didn’t like that; lobstermen are aggressively competitive, and the promise of making me pay for not wanting to involve myself with them was very clear.
Maybe the bodies are their way of getting back at me.
Exhaling, I reach up and yank off my beanie, drawing my fingers through my hair. “Christ. I’m overthinking shit now.”
“What’s going on, man? That detective filling your head with conspiracies?” He pauses. “Or is this like the times you’ve tried convincing us that Jensen didn’t really kill his kid?”
Working my jaw, I glance out at the lighthouse, a stabbing sensation flaring to life inside my chest. “No, it’s just… would you put it past those fuckers to frame me for these recent murders?”
The radio goes silent for several minutes, and I briefly think I’ve lost connection. But then it comes back, a sharp sound piercing my ears as his voice returns.
“I think Thomas was your dad’s best friend, and that I told him and his guys to fuck off. It’s almost the end of lobster season, so they shouldn’t even have the time to be doing anything illegal. That’s a pretty elaborate scheme, even for them.”
Clearly, Gabe doesn’t know what harbor gangs are capable of. Didn’t grow up with his father shoving stories of their violent tendencies down his throat, another attempt at keeping me away from this life.
Funny that he left it all to me, in the end, anyway.
Rolling my shoulders, I nod, focusing on the shadows lining the coast, trying to let my eyes adjust to the darkness. “Maybe you’re right.”
“Not maybe. I’m always right,” Gabe says, tone light.
It sends a wave of envy through my gut, and I sigh. “You home?”
“Yep. Rocking my boy to sleep tonight.”
“All right, I’ll talk to you when I get back to shore.”
“Ten-four, good buddy.”
Flicking the switch off, I slump back against the wall and blow out a breath, then make my way over to the plastic bench seating on the other side of the deck.
For a beat, I stare up at the night sky, tracing constellations with my eyes, and then I reach under the seat for my lockbox, pulling my sketchbook out from beneath the scraps of paper and photos, and flip to a blank page.
My pencil strokes are soft at first as I try to relay the curvature of the eyes that haunt my conscience, and I lose track of time as I map them from memory.
It could be hours, could be minutes, before I hear a floorboard creek, and when I glance up, I see Sloane standing in the doorway, Monet at her side.
“I think you should get some sleep,” she says, toying with the edge of her light-blue button-down pajama top.
I huff. “You should be asleep right now yourself.”
“Well, I feel bad that you’re up here and I have the whole bed to myself.” She scratches at the inside of her wrist, her dark hair hanging like a curtain around her cheeks.
“I get in that bed with you, and I’m not going to be able to keep my hands to myself.”
She sucks in a little breath, and I see her tongue dart out over her lips, wetting them. “What if we... put a pillow between us, or something?”
My fingers curl around my pencil until it cracks.
“Please?” she says, and there’s an edge of unease to her voice that tugs at something inside me. Like she needs me down there for some reason.
The thought of leaving the deck unattended makes me a little nauseous, but there’s something else prodding at my nervous system, too. Something desperate to prove itself to Sloane.
To protect her, even if I’m not sure from what.
That need pushes me to my feet with a sigh; I tuck my notebook back into the box and gesture toward her. “Lead the way.”
Following her down, I do my best not to focus on the way her ass looks in her silk pajama pants, watching as she crawls onto the mattress and shoves herself as close to the wall as she can get.
Monet curls up at the foot of the bed, putting his head on his paws, and Sloane shifts back farther.
She turns so she’s facing the paneling, and I roll my eyes, shucking off my flannel and pulling my T-shirt over my head.
“Wait!” she squeaks, peeking at me from the corner of her eyes. “What are you doing?”
“Getting comfortable. I can’t sleep in these clothes.”
I don’t mention that I can’t sleep at all, loving the way my state of undress has her cheeks flaming.
“Don’t worry.” I kick off my jeans so I’m standing only in black boxers, then climb onto the opposite side of the bed “I won’t touch you unless you’re begging me to.”
“That’s what I’m worried about,” she huffs under her breath, trying to shrink away.
Her body heat radiates toward me as I pull the comforter up over my legs, the single pillow cradled between us no match for its intensity.
Already, my dick is throbbing, and I slowly run my palm over the shaft to try and tame my response. But with her scent invading my nostrils, it’s damn near impossible.
Somehow, though, the anxiety from earlier seems to dissipate, my body relaxing as it settles into the mattress.
“I heard you, you know,” she says after a pregnant pause, almost speaking to the wall. “I know there are people who want to frame you. I don’t know why you withhold so much information from me, when all I’m trying to do is help.”
“Try harder, killer,” I say, my eyelids growing droopy.
My body naturally fights the sensation, unwilling to be taken off guard for even a second, but my brain is very quickly losing the battle.
As I drift off for the first time I can even remember in my adult life, the sound of the waves slapping against the sides of the boat drowning out my worries, I swear I hear her mumble something about her name before the darkness takes over.
Chapter 24
It’s warm.
Like, fell asleep by the fire and wrapped in a heavy blanket type of warmth. It’s comforting, so I nuzzle in deeper while my brain fires off signals to my limbs, sending the buzzing feel of waking up through my veins.
I feel rested, and as I come to, my head coming out of the foggy dreamlike state I’ve been in, I realize there’s something solid against my back. I press into it, my lashes fluttering as my eyes move behind my lids. Awareness trickles down my spine as I wake up fully, realizing where I am and what exactly the source of my comfort is.
Lincoln.
Heat flares through me, my nipples hardening even though there isn’t any chill as his arms pull me tighter against him, something thick and hard settling between the cheeks of my ass.
A groan in my ear sends goose bumps sprouting across my neck, and my teeth bite into my bottom lip, stifling the moan that’s desperate to escape. My hands come down to rest on top of corded forearms, my fingers tracing along the veins as my eyes slowly open, glancing down at the inked-up skin that’s wrapped around me.
I’ve never been a big tattoo girl, but on him they’re so attractive they hurt to look at. The drawings are intricate, and I can’t help but wonder if maybe they’re his own. A way for his soul to shine through his skin.
Small breaths of air puff out of his mouth, tickling the back of my neck, and his calloused fingers rub against my stomach, resting underneath the hem of my shirt.
My heart skips, the butterflies exploding in my stomach making my breathing heavy.
I know I should pull away.
But last night was the first dreamless sleep
I’ve had in years, and I’m not ready to come back to the land of the living quite yet.
With that realization also comes the reminder that I shouldn’t have been sleeping at all. I should have taken a nap and then gone out to the front deck and forced my eyes to stay open while I watched the water for anything out of the ordinary.
The whole purpose for us being here is to stake out. But instead, I fell into everything that is Lincoln immediately, allowing him to overwhelm my senses until nothing else mattered. Until my head was so full of him that I didn’t do my job.
Again.
A sick feeling swirls in my stomach, burning a path through my middle, opening a gaping wound in the center of my sternum, allowing the weight of innocent victims to settle on my shoulders.
This isn’t supposed to be me.
I’m good at my job.
I want to find the culprit.
And every second I waste here with Lincoln and do things like this, I’m not keeping my eye on the prize. I hadn’t meant to sleep for so long, but the fact remains that I did, and as a result, we could have missed something vital. Something that could break the case wide open, and I’d have nobody to blame except myself. Just because everyone else in this town seems to be incompetent at their job doesn’t give me an excuse to be.
I fidget under Lincoln’s grasp, not wanting to wake him—wanting to avoid this awkward situation in general—but the second I move, he tightens his grip, drawing me into him farther, his naked torso pressing flush against every curve of my body. My entire body freezes at the motion, my lungs stalled—afraid to even breathe—afraid that if I do anything, he’ll wake up and start something I won’t have the will to stop.
His hips move, causing his hardness to press into me. My core spasms, remembering what it felt like to have him inside me—the way it felt as he came, his cock pulsing in rhythmic jerks while my walls gripped him tight, milking out every drop.
My teeth sink into my lower lip so hard I taste blood.
Blowing out a shaky breath, I attempt to move again, wiggling my body against him as I try to maneuver my way from his embrace, my heart stuttering every time he so much as breathes, worried that he’ll wake up. Eventually I escape from his clutches, and I slip to the edge of the bed, running my hand through my hair and breathing deep, trying to calm the throbbing of my core, begging me to lie back down and find the comfort of his embrace again, even if only just for a moment.
He exhales heavily, rolling from his side to his back, and I move gingerly from the edge of the mattress, spinning to face him.
My abs clench as my gaze traces up the dips and lines of his body, soaking in his inked skin like it’s art.
And then my lungs stall, my breath stuttering. The biggest piece he has and it’s rendered me speechless, my heart battering against my ribcage as I lean in to make sure I’m seeing it clearly. It’s stunningly beautiful, starting on his left bicep and running across his shoulder and over his chest, stopping right above his heart.
Black roses.
The rest of the trip is uneventful, if not tense. I don’t bring up the fact that I inspected Lincoln’s body like a prized possession while he slept, and I definitely don’t mention the visceral reaction his tattoos—well, one in particular—caused me. I did pull up my phone immediately, searching for black rose tattoos and calmed myself down, realizing that they’re extremely common. Still, the reminder of my nightmares made it easy to stay awake for the remaining two days, keeping my distance from Lincoln and focusing my attention on the water.
Not that anything happened while we were out there.
And now, after three torturous days and two long nights, we’re back on land and pulling into the drive of the lighthouse.
I glance at Lincoln as we bounce over the rough terrain, the tensing of his jaw muscle letting me know that he isn’t feeling great about the trip. He hasn’t spoken much since our first night out on the water, and although the reprieve from his coldness is nice, the silence is almost worse.
But at least he’s kept to his word, and is with me to see the lightkeeper. Paul Jensen.
For some reason, the thought of being here; of talking to him makes my stomach pull tight. Maybe it’s because of all the secrets that seem to line the town when it comes to his history, or maybe it’s because everyone seems to warn against even approaching him.
Or possibly—the smallest part of me—thinks it may be because last time I was here, Lincoln had me pressed against the lighthouse wall while I got myself off on his lap.
Heat floods my cheeks at the memory.
“You okay?”
I snap my head over to Lincoln, my eyes widening at the question. He throws the car in park at the end of the driveway, the lighthouse cottage sitting directly in front of us, and he twists in his seat, his hand resting comfortably on top of the steering wheel.
“Me?” I point to myself.
He quirks a brow. “Do you see anyone else in the truck?”
“I’m just surprised you’re asking is all.” I shrug, twisting my fingers together. “But, yeah, I’m fine. Just trying to stay focused.”
He nods, rubbing under his jaw. “Listen... don’t expect much from him, you know? He’s had a hard time and he isn’t very welcoming, even to me.”
“I can’t imagine why,” I mutter.
Lincoln smirks. “Contrary to what you may believe, I’m known to be a very likable person.”
I huff out a laugh. “Being revered as the town hero isn’t the same thing as being liked. You have to actually have likable traits to be a likable person.”
His lips thin, and guilt drops in the center of my chest. I smile, trying to ease the tension. “Must be that sparkling personality of yours that grabs them.”
He hums before unbuckling his seat belt and turning the key in the ignition until the rumble of the Ford’s engine dies down.
“You ready?” he asks. “I can’t guarantee anything, but let’s see what we can do.”
Nodding, I reach for the handle, but the slamming of a door halts my movement.
“Shit,” Lincoln curses.
My gaze snaps to the cottage where Paul Jensen stands on his front porch, his chin-length white hair whooshing in the ocean breeze, and that same rifle steady in his hand.
“Stay here for a second.”
“What?” My eyes move to Lincoln as he opens his car door. “No, I—”
He turns to me, his eyes dark. “Just trust me, killer. Remember?”
My heart falters, my gut squeezing as I nod, leaning back against the seat. Lincoln jumps out of his truck and heads over to where Mr. Jensen is. They talk for a few minutes before Lincoln nods and twists toward the truck, waving his hand at me in a come hither motion.
My stomach jumps as I leave the car, my feet crunching on the gravel as I make my way toward them.
I’ll never admit it out loud, but I’m impressed with how easily Lincoln controlled the situation. How the second he started talking, Mr. Jensen’s tension eased, as if he trusts him implicitly.
And that makes me wonder what it is about Lincoln that inspires such a reaction—why he seems to be the only person that can get through.
The cold wind whips across my face, the smell of saltwater stinging my nostrils as I make my way over, stopping when I’m directly next to them, staring into the dark eyes of the lightkeeper himself.
“Hi, Mr. Jensen.” I put out my hand. “I’m Detective Sloane.”
He grunts, the white scruff on his jaw glinting in the early afternoon sun as he glares down at my outstretched palm. “You gotta first name?”
Lincoln chuckles. “That is her first name.”
Confusion whirls through me as I spin to face him. “What?”
“Sloane, come on,” he sighs.
“Lincoln,” I reply. “Sloane isn’t my first name. It’s my last.”
His shoulders jerk back, his brows jumping to his hairline. “So what is your first name?”
“It’s Morga
n.”
Chapter 25
Disgust whirls around inside my chest, a vengeful storm threatening to destroy everything in its path as Sloane corrects me.
“It’s Morgan,” she says, a hint of amusement sparkling in her icy irises.
Like this is fucking funny to her.
My gut twists, knotting into a singular ball of apprehension, and my heartbeat shifts into overdrive as I try to process this information.
For some reason, the fact that her legal first name wouldn’t also be her detective name is only just now occurring to me, although it makes sense. Why would they call a respected officer by her first name?
I glance down at the “Det. Sloane” sewn into the right breast of her PPD windbreaker, tracing each letter over and over until the white thread blurs together. Sweat percolates along my temple, beads sliding down my cheek, and I take a deep breath, nausea curdling in my throat.
“How is that possible?” I manage, although my voice sounds funny. Faraway and distant, as if traveling through time to reach her.
She laughs. “It’s not an uncommon name...”
Dragging my gaze up to her face, I take in the soft curve of her jawline, roving up over pillowy lips and her slender nose, coming to rest on her eyes.
Those frustrating, familiar fucking eyes.
Taking a step toward her, I reach out, aware that we have an audience with Paul, but unable to rein myself in.
My mind spins, thrashing against the inside of my skull, as I grip her chin between my fingers and tilt her head up toward the gray sky.
Glacial blues blink up at me, freezing my insides the way they did the first time we met. Ice spreads down my spine, covering the vertebrae like tree limbs in winter, stretching out toward the shackles chained around my heart.
I feel Paul poke my side with the mouth of his rifle, clearly made uncomfortable by my loss of sanity, but I can’t fucking pull myself away.
Memories eat at my organs like little parasites, images of these exact eyes staring at me from across the lighthouse as a kid. Of tears streaming from them after their owner’d been pushed down on the playground and called names, all because of things she couldn’t control.
Be Still My Heart: A Romantic Suspense Page 16