He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten to just be a kid.
Even after he moved in with his grandmother, he’d been too guarded to just play. He’d already been beaten by his stepdad and stopped being a kid then.
He looked up at the sign at the edge of the street. Dead end. Just like his life. Or maybe he’d just hoped. He’d given that cop ample time to shoot him. Why hadn’t he? He was almost certain it was the same guy he’d shot last week. Hadn’t he even been limping?
It would have been easier if the guy would have ended it. J.D. would rather be killed by him, than that son-of-a-bitch Jax. At least he deserved to be shot by the cop. J.D. hadn’t done shit to Jax.
Damn it! He slammed his hand on the steering wheel. He wanted it all to stop. He looked down at the passenger side floorboard. His powder was there. It would offer him an escape.
It was then he realized he hadn’t even touched the stuff he’d gotten earlier. Maybe he was punishing himself? Not letting himself forget what he’d done. He didn’t deserve to forget.
He had to fix this. But was he too late? Had Jax already gotten to the woman? Closing his eyes, he leaned his head back. He knew that cop thought he’d been there to hurt the woman. Which meant if Jax got to her now, the cops would think he’d done it.
Who would believe him that he’d gone there to warn her?
No one. Not one damn person would believe in him.
He reached down for his powder, but shot back up when a splash of headlights flashed across his truck.
• • •
Chloe made her way through the restaurant, back to face Dan and Cary. She stopped when she got her first glimpse of the table.
Cary was sitting where Dan had been, pulling out a credit card from his wallet. Dan was gone. To the bathroom, maybe? She looked back to see if she spotted him.
Nope.
Finally, she moved closer, watching Cary reach for the black book that held the ticket.
“What are you doing?” she asked, standing beside the empty chair.
“Uh, just . . . taking care of the bill.”
“Why?” She looked around expecting to find. . . “Where’s Dan?”
Cary started tapping his card on the table. “He . . . had to . . .” tap, tap, tap . . . “go.”
Okay, this was a shocker. And a first. She’d never been dumped by her date. Then came the shocker. She didn’t mind at all. That’s when she recalled Sheri saying one option was to date Dan just to get Cary’s attention.
Had she set out to do that? Hell, she didn’t care.
“Why don’t you sit down?” he suggested.
She dropped into the chair. Then she dug her wallet out of her purse. “Where did Dan go?”
“I don’t . . .” He ran a hand over his face, stared down at the credit card he continued to tap against the table. Finally, he glanced up. “I asked him to leave.”
Her breath caught. “Why?” Would he tell her now? That he remembered her?
“Would you believe me if I told you I was still trying to figure that out myself?”
“I might. Just a little bit.” She kind of felt that way herself. Trying to figure out why she felt this odd connection thing to him.
She sat her purse on the table, and searching for her wallet, she pulled her phone out. Wallet found, she retrieved her credit card then she reached for the black book that had the bill tucked inside.
“I got this.” He put his hand on top of the book.
“No, you don’t.” She held out her hand. “This isn’t even our date.”
“I kind of hijacked it. And I ate the dessert.”
“Why?”
“I like tiramisu.”
She frowned. He knew that wasn’t what she was asking. But part of her couldn’t blame him for not putting his cards on the table, when she held her own so close to her chest.
She stretched out her palm. “Hand it over, Buster.”
“So you’re one of those.” Humor filled his eyes.
She shot him a serious look. “One of what?”
“Independent types. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”
“Actually, I’m not one of those. I have no problem letting a guy pay when he asks me out on a date.”
“So what’s the problem?” he asked.
“You didn’t ask me,” she said.
“I see,” he said. He almost smiled, relented, and passed her the bill. “Fine. I’ll pick up the next one.”
Is there going to be a next one? The question sat on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn’t push it out.
The silence lingered, she glanced down at her phone still on the table and added, “I got your messages.” She couldn’t hide the smile.
“Yeah. I hate leaving voicemails.”
“I kind of hate walking into a room with a naked guy.”
“You do that often?” he asked, his eyes crinkling with humor, and darn if it wasn’t the sexiest smile she’d ever seen.
“All the time,” she said.
He laughed and so did she. And she felt it again. That feeling she’d gotten with him earlier. As if they were in sync. And she hadn’t felt that with his partner. Had she even felt that with Jerry? She couldn’t remember. Then she pushed thoughts of Jerry from her mind.
“Why are you here?” the question just spilled out.
Cary’s gaze lingered on her for a second and the humor seemed to fade. “I . . . went by your apartment. J.D. Stewart, the kid who shot me and hit you, was in your parking lot.”
“He was?” The butterflies in her stomach started fluttering to another tune. “Why would he be . . . and how . . . did you catch him?”
“No. Bum leg slowed me down.”
She shook her head. “But why . . . ?”
He told her about the news story. “Basically, the only proof we have that he shot me and was involved in another murder is your testimony that he was driving the same vehicle. That makes you a key witness.”
She frowned. “And he’s not wanting to meet up with me to congratulate me on the role, is he?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Is this where you tell me to lock my doors and take a baseball bat to bed with me?”
“I was thinking more along the lines of you staying somewhere else.”
“Like leave my apartment?”
“Just until we catch him.”
Her mind raced and she thought of staying with Sheri, but Kevin was there. And Sheri had bought the new underwear. Nope. She was not coming between Kevin and that new underwear when that might be what fixed her best friend’s waning relationship.
“I have an extra bedroom,” he said. “And I’m off for the next week.”
Her heart stopped and those butterflies took a nosedive. Had he really said that? A part of her wanted to say yes, another part knew it would be insanely stupid. If she went to his house, she would wind up sleeping with him. She felt pretty certain of that. She was also pretty certain she wanted to sleep with him, but . . . it felt too soon.
Okay, it didn’t feel too soon—not with the strange connection they had going on. But she had a three-date minimum. And she wasn’t even sure she could call a hijacked date a real date. The Room Six experience was even up for debate.
“Thanks, but . . . I . . . have locks on my doors. And there’s a security guard—”
“Don’t. They know where you live. They—”
“They? This guy has help?”
“He’s in a gang.”
“So you think the whole gang is after me?”
“It’s the most likely scenario.”
“This just keeps getting better and better.”
He looked down for a second and then back up. “The sheets are clean. It’s not five star, but it’s comfortable.”
She bit down on her lip. “I appreciate it, but I . . .” she suddenly remembered. “I’ll go to my mom’s place. She’s on a cruise now, so it’s not even an inconvenience.”
�
��You heard the part about the extra bedroom, right?”
“I did.”
He slowly nodded. “I guess this is where I stop pushing, huh?”
“That would be wise,” she said, her fear of gangs fading as she once again started noticing how much she liked him. His sense of humor. His direct approach. Well, direct with everything but about the whole Room Six thing, but she hadn’t been forthcoming either. She supposed neither of them wanted to take the chance of coming off like a nutcase.
“No one has ever accused me of being wise.” He exhaled.
She pulled her napkin closer and folded it. “Do you know what surprises me?”
“Me not being considered wise? It’s understandable, most people assume I am.” A smile pulled at his lips.
She rolled her eyes at him. “At you being here. You . . . you didn’t seem all that interested earlier.” She held her breath a little, wondering if this was all it would take for him to tell her the truth.
“Yeah, I’m blaming that on the fact that I was covered in banana pudding and beef stew. Then again, being naked could have been a part of it, too.” His tone was all tease, and she loved it. “But actually, now that I think about it, I’m betting it was you hitting me in the balls twice that probably caused the delay of . . . interest.”
She chuckled. “I apologized.”
“And as soon as I quit hurting, I accepted. But you’d already hightailed it out of there.”
Their eyes met and locked. And right then, she knew she was right. If she went to his house, she’d sleep with him. It wasn’t just the attraction—not that there wasn’t plenty of that there—but the feeling of . . . belonging.
And that was a tad scary, considering she barely knew him.
Her phone rang.
“You need to get that?” he asked.
“Uh, no, but she glanced down and saw the name on her screen. “Okay, maybe I should. It’s from my alarm company.”
“An alarm for your apartment?” he asked, concern tightening his tone.
“No. For my Bakery.”
• • •
Cary turned down Main Street. The black and white car still had its lights going. Blue swirls flashed along the dark street. A very worried Chloe sat beside him. The alarm company had told her that someone had broken into her bakery. She had suggested he drive her to her apartment and she’d just come alone, but he refused. His gut said this was all related to J.D. and the case.
As he pulled up in front of her shop, he looked around to make sure no apparent danger lurked in the shadows.
He didn’t spot any, but as soon as he parked, a Honda started down the street. Chloe immediately reached for the door and he reached for her. The casual touch felt powerful, a jolt of feel-good emotion went right to his chest. And if they weren’t in the middle of a possible crisis, he would have loved to see how powerful it could get.
“Just a minute,” he said, trying not to react to the touch, as he looked over his shoulder at the car crawling a half a block away. Their headlights sprayed light down the old empty downtown street. Probably just a civilian rubber-necking, trying to see what was going on, but he couldn’t be sure.
“What?” she asked.
“Let this car get . . .” The headlights on the older Honda Civic went out. He spotted what looked like a gun come out of the passenger side window.
“Get down,” he yelled and yanked her to the floor just as the bullets started spraying.
Chapter Twenty
Cary kept his hand on Chloe’s shoulder. Several bullets hit his car and one came through the back windshield, exiting out the passenger window. Tires squealed down the street.
“Are you okay?” he asked Chloe. When she didn’t immediately answer, he popped up and looked at her. “Chloe, talk to me!”
She lifted up. “I’m . . . not hurt.” But she sounded hurt. Her voice shook. Even in the dark, he could see the shimmer of tears in her eyes.
She looked scared, vulnerable.
“It’s okay,” he said, and reached over and ran the back of his hand down her face. The damp feel of tears on his knuckles had his chest aching with the need to fix all of the wrongs in her life. If the gear shift hadn’t been between them, he might have pulled her into his lap, wrapped his arms around her, and just held her to make sure she felt safe.
“No, it’s not okay,” she said, and pushed his hand away. “I’ve already died once this week. That’s enough.”
He almost laughed, but realized the lack of humor in her tone. “I know.”
The officers inside Chloe’s bakery came running out, their guns held ready. They neared the car.
Because they were more concerned than defensive, they must have seen what happened through the store window. Or what had been the store window.
Broken glass littered the sidewalk along the storefront. Someone had done a real number on her bakery.
Chloe moaned and he knew she must have seen it, too.
“We need to get inside in case they come back,” he said.
• • •
J.D. got back to his grandmother’s house. He grabbed his little bag of cocaine to take inside. The car turning around in the dead-end street had been some old lady in a pink Cadillac. She’d sat there staring at him, and he decided he’d had enough. Since he couldn’t go back to the apartment where all the gang hung out, he came back here.
Walking into the dark, quiet house, he stopped. How many nights had he arrived home past his curfew? But never to pure darkness. His grandmother always left a light on for him. Sometimes his grandmother would be waiting up, madder than a wet hen.
What he wouldn’t give to have her here now. She could yell at him, ground him. He deserved to be grounded. What he hadn’t deserved, was her.
Why hadn’t he appreciated her more? It was as if he’d taken her for granted.
Not that he’d laid a hand on her. He would have never done that. But she’d wanted him to do so much better.
He walked into his bedroom, feeling his way in the dark. Leaning against the wall, he slid down until his butt hit the old wood floor.
He had almost reached for the tiny bag of white power when his phone rang. Thinking it was Jax again, he almost didn’t even look at it. But then he saw Carlos’ number.
“Yeah?” he said.
“Don’t come back here,” Carlos whispered.
“Huh?”
“Don’t come back—ever. Get out of town. Jax’s pissed and . . .”
“He wants me dead,” J.D. said.
“Yeah, but listen . . . Shit!”
“What’s wrong?” J.D. asked.
The line went dead.
J.D.’s breath caught with an ugly thought. Had one of Jax’s gang figured out Carlos had seen him? Or perhaps someone found out that Carlos knew where he was?
He was tempted to call Carlos back, but what if he was with some of the gang?
Oh, fuck. He didn’t want to get Carlos killed.
The thought made him sick.
He closed his eyes for a second, and when he opened them he looked up at the ceiling. His eyes had adjusted to the dark and he could almost make out the water-stain angel. “I guess it’s too late to ask for help, huh? Not so much for me, but for my friend.”
• • •
Cary rushed Chloe inside the bakery, all the way into the kitchen away from any windows. After he showed his badge to the Hoke’s Bluff officers and explained what he thought was going on, they called for backup, just in case the Black Bloods decided to drop back by.
“So, you think it was this J.D. kid?” one of the officers asked him.
“It was too dark to see the shooter. But it wasn’t his truck,” Cary told them. “I think it was an older Honda Civic.” Right then, he recalled again how J.D. had just turned and looked at him, never flinching, even when he spotted the gun. That meant something. He just hadn’t figured it out yet.
The first few minutes, Cary didn’t leave Chloe’s side. She just looked
as if she needed someone to lean on. And he had never been more ready to be used as a leaning post.
But other than those first few seconds after the shooting, when her eyes had gotten damp with tears, she’d held herself together. He had to admire her for it, too. She’d had a rough week. They both had.
Dying took it out of you.
He stood a few feet from them now, listening to the officer questioning her, making sure they didn’t forget she was the victim. Some cops just automatically went on the defensive with everyone, thinking it would get them information quicker. He didn’t plan on letting them go there.
He wasn’t sure what it was about her—not that she came off as weak, but she brought out his protect-and-serve instinct. Along with a few other instincts, he admitted, watching how her body moved in that red dress when she stood from the chair to go start a pot of coffee. He frowned when he noted the two cops enjoying the view as well.
Adding to his annoyance was the fact that she’d put the dress on for Danny, not him. Had she been planning on letting Danny take it off, too? He knew that since her fiancé had killed himself, she hadn’t dated. Well, except Bob. Had she planned on Danny being her dive back into the dating pool?
Perhaps, but she sure hadn’t seemed upset about Cary hijacking the date. If she’d really been into Danny, she would have raised hell. Yet if anything, she’d seemed pleased. That had to mean something, didn’t it?
Still, neither of them had mentioned Room Six or his little dream trip to her apartment.
Not that there had been the right time to talk about it. Hell, for that matter, he didn’t know if the time would ever feel right. How did one go about asking someone if they remembered meeting in the afterlife? It sounded crazy. It felt crazy.
Hell, who was he kidding? It was crazy.
He knew that others who claimed to have had these kinds of experiences went on to write books about it. And the general public had a tendency to think they were bat-shit crazy, too.
Divorced, Desperate and Dead Page 15