Pretty Little Lies (Deception Duet Book 1)

by Morgan James

  The crunch of gravel came from outside, and I glimpsed a flash of red through the kitchen window as the vehicle pulled into the driveway. Barely a minute later, Eric entered the house.

  “Hey, boss.” Riley moved toward the door. “You good?”

  Eric nodded. “See you tomorrow.”

  Riley tipped his chin in acknowledgement, not offended by Eric’s curt tone in the least, and he made his way outside. I heard Eric’s harsh exhale as he closed and locked the door behind Riley, his broad shoulders tense.

  I sucked in a breath as he turned to fully face me for the first time. A bandage stretched over his nose, and there were dark bruises beneath both eyes. I had the sudden irrational urge to run to him, throw my arms around him, but his posture stopped me cold. For nearly a minute, we stood there in silence just staring at each other.

  Finally, I swallowed hard and forced the words out of my constricted throat. “Are you okay?”

  It was a silly question, and the answer was fairly obvious—of course he wasn’t okay. He nodded anyway. When he still didn’t say anything, I continued. “What happened?”

  He studied me for several seconds then tipped his head toward the kitchen table. “Let’s sit.”

  He didn’t take his eyes off me as I moved around the table and sat gingerly in one of the hard oak chairs. “Had some trouble with your car today.”

  “Is that what caused the accident?” He nodded, his hesitation so brief that I almost didn’t catch it—he was lying to me.

  I dropped my gaze away before summoning my courage and meeting his stare again. “What really happened?” My voice was barely more than a whisper, and he exhaled through his nose before speaking.

  “Someone shot at me.”

  “What?!” I was out of my seat, hands planted on the table as I leaned toward him before I realized I’d moved. My gaze raked over him before jumping back to his. “Someone shot at you?” Eric’s face remained impassive as he returned my stare, and I sank back down into my seat. “You’re serious?”

  He nodded. “While I was driving to Briarleigh.”

  It all made sense. The broken nose, the abrasions. They were from an airbag. Oh, God. He could’ve been killed. I pressed one hand to my chest as bile rose in the back of my throat.

  A soft sound drew my attention back to him. “We’re still trying to figure out who’s responsible.”

  I knew with surety that it hadn’t been my uncle. If he was the one who’d shot at Eric, I wouldn’t be having this conversation right now; I would be on my way back to Chicago while the town prepared for his funeral. The only other person I’d had any kind of contact with recently was Sam—and he’d been cleared of slashing my tires. Besides, why would he shoot at Eric? It wasn’t worth going to jail just for retribution.

  I shook my head again. “Who would do something like that?”

  Eric’s gaze darkened as he stared at me. “I don’t know, but you can be damn sure I’m going to find out.”

  His words sent a chill down my spine. The look in his eyes told me he wouldn’t stop until he’d gotten whatever answers he was looking for.

  Chapter 24

  Eric

  I leaned back in my chair and stared at the water-stained ceiling. The cells were empty—kind of a surprise there, since it was Christmas. Seemed that holidays and full moons brought out the worst in people, often landing them in jail for the night. So far, I hadn’t encountered shit. The one time I actually needed something to happen, it was quiet. Why the hell couldn’t someone do something stupid so I could haul their ass to jail? Then I wouldn’t have to think about Jules every second of the day.

  Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her soft curves, smelled her sweet scent—saw that stricken look when I’d cut her down like the asshole I was. Goddamn it. And that was precisely why I could never have her. She was too fucking pure for me. Even when I’d turned her down, she’d taken my rejection with grace and dignity. She hadn’t thrown things, hadn’t yelled, hadn’t even said a word. The following morning she’d acted like it never happened.

  Things had gotten progressively worse after the shooting incident. I knew Jules was holding back; she knew something. Whether it pertained to her past or to whoever was responsible, I didn’t know. Over the past three days, we’d barely spoken at all and avoided each other whenever possible. It was exactly what I’d wanted. And I fucking hated every second of it.

  Things on that front were at a standstill, too. The fact that someone had shot at me—at Jules, rather—still had the power to send fire roaring through my veins. I replayed the events of that day, thinking through each step. When I’d spoken with Mia, she and Jules were eating at Rosie’s. It was possible the shooter had seen Jules in town and assumed Mia had taken her down to pick up the car during her lunch break. Charlie parked the vehicles outside when they were ready to be picked up, so the shooter may have made the connection and headed through the woods to lie in wait.

  For at least the dozenth time, I flipped through the report that Riley had compiled from the deputies’ findings from the scene. Over the past few days, the guys had been busting their asses to find the person who’d fired at me, and they had cataloged every finding along the mile-long trail stretching between the general store and the spot on the mountain. Partial treads from a man’s work boot. A shell casing that we’d sent in to be analyzed. Fibers from an article of clothing, probably some type of outdoor or hunting wear, judging from the coarse material. A plastic wrapper from a Mountain Dew bottle that had seen better days. Various other pieces of trash picked up along the way.

  The clothing emporium in Pine Ridge only carried a dozen or so styles of boots, so Riley stopped in there first and got one of each pair to verify against the tread we pulled from the scene. It had been easy enough to compare. The size ten-and-a-half men’s Red Wing work boot was one of the most popular sold at the Clothing Emporium. When I spoke to Joey, she told me that she would pull sales for the boots as far back as she could. With the holiday and her grandfather’s lackluster attempt at keeping book over the past year, she apologetically told me that it might take several days.

  Truth be told, I wasn’t totally optimistic anyway. If someone took care of them, boots like those could last several years. We would have to sift through every purchase, question each suspect, in order to find out who’d been up there. Judging from the tracks to and from the scene, it appeared the person had approached on foot. It was just over a mile from the tree line on the main road to the back of the general store, and I imagined the shooter had parked somewhere behind the plaza. The trek would’ve been easy enough to make for someone adept at spending time in the woods—which narrowed it down to about 70 percent of Pine Ridge’s population.

  A soft scuffling sound outside drew my attention toward the outer office, and I leaned back in my chair to check it out. I bit back a groan as a familiar form appeared in the plate glass window beside the front door. With a muttered curse, I pushed out of my chair and strode to the front door. I twisted the lock on the doorknob to unlock it, then slid the chain on the deadbolt over to release it. I knew most people in Pine Ridge didn’t bother to lock their doors at any time of day, but as a city boy born and raised in Chicago, it wasn’t a habit I was able or willing to break. I insisted on the safety of myself and my men at all times and kept the doors locked whenever possible.

  I opened the door and stepped back, allowing Cynthia to enter. She stepped inside with a smile, bringing with her the sugary scent of freshly baked cookies. I closed the door but made no move to invite her back to my office. I refused to lead her on, to give her any hope of anything ever happening between us.

  After a long moment of uncomfortable silence, she held up the tray in her hands. “Merry Christmas, Sheriff.”

  I offered her a tight smile. “Merry Christmas.”

  I slipped it from her hands, careful not to touch her as I did so, then set it on Warren’s desk. My deputies would enjoy them tomorrow when they got in. I pe
rsonally had no intention of indulging in them. I casually leaned one hip against the desk and crossed my arms over my chest as I regarded her. “What brings you by today?”

  She clenched her hands together at her waist, her mouth twisted into an expression of discomfort. “I knew you were here all by yourself, and...” She gave a little shrug. “The cookies are fresh. I baked them myself.”

  “Thanks. The guys will enjoy them.”

  Her face fell, and part of me felt like an asshole for hurting her. Still, I refused to encourage her. Her gaze darted around the room before finally landing on me again. “So, I, um... I thought maybe we could do something sometime?”

  She framed it up almost like a question, as if she were afraid to ask, and my heart went out to her for having the courage to speak up. “Cynthia, I really appreciate the offer, but...” I shook my head. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

  Her eyes narrowed on me, flashing with fire. “So it’s true then?” I refused to dignify her impertinence with a response. Unfortunately, she pressed on. “You should know better than to fall for some girl just because she has a pretty face,” she remarked bitterly.

  I seethed inwardly but refused to let her see that she’d affected me. “And you should know that my business doesn’t pertain to you.”

  My soft words hit their mark with surprising force, and her face twisted into a stricken expression of hurt and remorse. “I... I’m sorry. I should go.”

  “I think that’s for the best,” I agreed as I moved toward the door. Cynthia paused in the doorway as if she wanted to say something else, then decided against it. With a slight nod, she hurried out onto the sidewalk to her car, and I locked up behind her with a sigh. I hated to hurt her feelings, but she needed to know that there was nothing between us. Not now, not ever. There was only one woman who might ever be able to tempt me out of my bachelor status, but I wasn’t sure I had the courage to pursue Jules, no matter how much I cared for her.

  With all honesty, I could say that I was jaded from my first marriage, which had been a disaster of epic proportions. It hadn’t started out so badly, but then, they never did. In the beginning, Steph had been sweet and sexy, and she seemed to care for me. But the reality was so much darker than the truth.

  Steph and I were so young when we got married—too young. We first met junior year when she transferred into my school, and I fell hard for her pretty face. She was kind of a mean girl back then, but I’d written it off as Steph adjusting to life in her new high school. She’d been terribly possessive, jealous of my friends and any girl who tried to talk to me. I continued to make excuses for her bad behavior, because, well... I was in love. Or as my football coach used to say—young, dumb, and full of cum.

  I’d seen the pale scars on her wrists soon after we started dating and, with me doting on her, things seemed to get better. But the more possessive she got, the more we fought, and she picked the habit up again. She was so worried about losing me after graduation, she said, that she couldn’t stand the pain. She’d promised to stop if I married her. And it worked—for a while. When it was good, it was good. But when it was bad, it was volatile. We fought like cat and dog, but she drew me back in after each fight with tears and apologies, claiming that she couldn’t live without me. She’d even gone so far at one point to tell me after a particularly bad breakup that she considered killing herself. No more idle threats with shallow cuts; she was at her breaking point. She said I was too harsh and demanding, and I felt guilty for pushing her that far.

  I should’ve seen the red flags, should’ve known that those manipulations were just the beginning of a tumultuous downhill slide. I had no doubt that she liked me and was attracted to me, but she certainly didn’t love me. She loved that I dressed up in uniform each day after going through the academy and joining the force in Chicago, but that’s where it ended. She didn’t seem to care that the job could be dangerous or that I could be hurt. Some nights men didn’t make it home. Instead of being concerned for my welfare, she seemed to thrive on the drama of it. She’d become jealous and antagonistic when I explained once that there were details of my job I couldn’t divulge. She resented that and saw it as a betrayal.

  I remembered her words from that day, still ringing clearly in my ears. “It’s a choice. And if you can’t talk to me about your job, then what else are you hiding?”

  I’d laughed at her. “Are you accusing me of cheating on you?”

  She threw a temper tantrum, and I told her I was going to leave and give her some time to herself to figure things out. The words she’d thrown at me still had the ability to chill me to my bones. “If you leave, I’ll tell everyone that you’re abusive and you rape me.”

  I’d never lifted a hand to her, but the conversation had been an eye-opener. I’d never been more ashamed in my life to have to go to my chief and explain the situation. The very next day, while she was at work, I moved in with my partner, Ric. I’d had to leave half my shit at our house, but breaking ties had been worth it.

  When she realized I was gone, she called me up, raging and screaming. Finally, she broke down and begged me to come back, even going so far as to entice me with sex. I felt bad and was tempted to fall back into the rhythm we’d established, but her betrayal and threats eclipsed all the good memories we’d made. There was no fucking way I would risk having sex with her and knocking her up. It was literally the worst thing I could imagine.

  Since then, I had resisted a serious relationship, certain that it would feel just like my marriage had ten years ago. As sheriff, I had a certain reputation to uphold. If I needed the satisfaction of a woman to warm my bed, I made sure to seek them out at least one town over. I didn’t want to stir up the drama by dating someone in my own backyard. That way, if things didn’t work out, no one was the wiser. We could go our separate ways and not have to worry about running into each other every day. No one over the past few years had struck my fancy—until Jules.

  I didn’t know what it was that drew me to her like a moth to flame; it didn’t make sense. I felt lust and passion for her, even protectiveness. But that’s all it was, all it could ever be. I fucking hated secrets, and I hated more the fact that she refused to open up. I couldn’t be with someone who held her cards so close to her chest the way Jules did. I needed to know where I stood with someone.

  With her, I never knew what to think. Sometimes she was so aloof, so inaccessible. Other times, her eyes burned with longing, but for what I didn’t know. Freedom? Me? I’d be stupid to hope it was the latter. I didn’t want someone I couldn’t trust. And that was the crux of the matter. I didn’t know if I could trust Jules or not because she was so damned closed off. Even as the thought crossed my mind, I knew it wasn’t completely true. Jules was a vault of secrets, but she was nothing like my ex-wife. She had nothing to hold over me, rarely even spoke to me if she didn’t have to.

  Which was precisely why her actions the other night had shocked the hell out of me. There was no way she could feel anything for me, not the way I did for her. She’d been fueled by fear and worry, still half asleep. Though I had to admit, she seemed fully aware of what she was doing at the time. Turning her away had made me physically ill. Since then she’d been coolly polite but distant, and it had damn near killed me.

  Part of me wanted to breach the gap, to put everything on the line and tell her how I felt. The trepidation that sat like a stone in my gut kept me from taking that leap. For so long I’d lived my life just going through the motions. After the incident back in Chicago, I’d shut myself off completely. Tired of the political bullshit and not able to go back to my job, I’d come here to heal, both mentally and physically. I hadn’t allowed myself to think about the future; Rather, I spent my time living only in the present when my head wasn’t stuck in the past.

  I never intended to be sheriff, but the people had coerced me into it, and I found that, for the most part, I enjoyed it. Things around Pine Ridge were typically pretty slow, and sometimes it grated on my nerves.
It was almost a culture shock coming from the bustling busyness of Chicago, where something was always going down. The worst thing to happen around here was usually a drunk and disorderly conduct or domestic dispute. The recent incident with Jack and Mia at Briarleigh was the most action I’d seen since moving here nearly three years ago.

  There was no saving him, though God knew I tried. The loss still hurt sometimes, and memories of that awful day came back to me. The members of our SWAT team had all been close, but Ric was like my brother. I still wasn’t sure exactly where it had all gone wrong, but I remembered the gut feeling I had walking in there that something wasn’t right. The events of that day left two FBI agents dead, as well as my partner, Ric.

  We’d infiltrated a warehouse to aid in the interception of contraband smuggled in by one of Chicago’s most notorious crime syndicates, and shit hit the fan almost immediately. The firefight hadn’t lasted more than two minutes, but I remembered every second as if it had just happened yesterday. About thirty seconds in, Ric went down—a bullet had slipped between the ballistic plates of his vest and lodged itself in his lungs. When I thought we had them neutralized, I did chest compressions to keep him breathing until a medic arrived. So focused on him, I hadn’t heard the soft footsteps behind me. Before I even knew what was happening, my head was jerked back and a knife slipped between the bottom of my helmet and the top of my vest.

  With his dying breath, Ric lifted his pistol and shot the man, killing him. Thankfully—though I wasn’t sure how—the blade had just barely missed my artery. The laceration had severed my vocal cords, and the corrective surgery they’d performed at the hospital had returned it almost to normal. Though we’d eliminated one monster that day, it was kind of like cutting the head off of a snake—another would just pop up in his place, probably a family member who’d been groomed for the job since birth.