by Mary Stone
She slipped out of bed and went to his bathroom. He had the funniest house for a badass bachelor—flowery wallpaper and doilies and farmhouse quilts. It’d belonged to his grandparents, and he hadn’t wanted to change it because he loved them that much. Proof of what a sweet guy Linc was beneath the scar-riddled, gruff exterior.
He didn’t hurt women. That much was clear. He’d been beside himself with anger and guilt over last night. He’d been someone else entirely, somewhere else.
Kylie poured herself a cup of water, needing to down a couple Tylenol, and as she closed the medicine cabinet and swallowed, her attention was caught by the bruises on her upper arm. They were in the exact shape of Linc’s fingers.
Every nerve ending stood at attention as she touched the sore spots. He’d been trained as a warrior and could’ve done a lot worse. He would have, if he hadn’t woken in time.
He hadn’t meant to do it.
Kylie knew that, remembering the way the rage had given way to guilt and regret. All she’d wanted to do was pull him close and take care of him, soothe him, ease his mind.
They’d had sex, but that time, it had been different. It had been more like desperation. Like he was afraid of falling asleep and hurting her again.
She smiled into the mirror. He had hurt her again. In that wonderful, feel it the next morning way that only really good sex could do.
Then she frowned as she examined herself closer. She looked like death.
Her eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep, and her hair was a sweat-tangled mess. She’d be dead on her feet at work, for sure, and those boring reports wouldn’t help keep her awake. She quickly swooshed some Listerine in her mouth and wiped the sleep from her eyes. Pulling her hair on top of her head, she winced as her shoulder twinged.
She didn’t wear a bandage any longer, so nothing hid the mostly healed wound. It was easily the worst injury she’d ever had. She’d have that scar forever, just like Linc had his.
Had them.
Linc had so many, yet he’d never spoken about how he’d gotten them. But last night…
Her frown grew deeper. Last night had given her a closer glimpse of just how terrible his time in Syria had been.
Usually, Kylie was good at drawing people out, getting them to talk, but they had never spoken about what caused the crisscrossing of scars on his back and chest. He had circular wounds too, just like hers, but it looked like, in places, his skin had almost melted.
A lot of his scars, though, were buried deep under the surface. And maybe the anger that went with them was buried too. Festering. Just waiting to come out.
Kylie slipped out the door and watched him sleep, watched the rise and fall of his perfect chest. Despite being so sore and sexed-out, she ached for him again. She loved his strong legs, the way they curved up to his rock-hard ass. Loved every gorgeous part of him.
Instead of crawling back into bed like she wanted to, she found one of his black army t-shirts in his armoire and slipped it on. She swam in it; it easily fell to just above her knees. She went downstairs, into the cool September morning, and fed the dogs their kibble. Then she went back inside and looked through Linc’s stocked fridge.
He was quite the foodie—he had a veggie drawer filled with exotic things she didn’t like to look at, much less put in her mouth. Kylie was the worst cook in the world, but she did know how to make pancakes. Well, in theory at least. She’d made them exactly once. That counted.
He had a mix for instant batter, so she followed the directions, easy as could be. She found a griddle and set it on the stove, then turned it on. Then she found a bowl, stirred in the mix and some water, and got it ready to showcase her inner Rachel Ray.
It all went so well, up until she poured the batter.
The stuff started to smoke immediately. Angry, black smoke that hissed like a snake. She burned her finger on the griddle and unleashed a string of curses as the pancakes were quickly turned to cinders.
“What are you up to?”
Kylie jumped as Linc strode into the kitchen in just his pajama pants. God, he looked good, and she looked like a total moron.
“Clearly burning down your kitchen!” Kylie shouted in despair as she opened drawers, looking for oven mitts or a dish towel in which to grab the thing.
She groaned as the fire alarm began screaming its alert.
Calm as ever, he opened a drawer and used the mitt to grab the griddle and toss it into the sink. Then, just as calmly, he waved a dish towel in front of the alarm until he stopped its annoying blare.
“I told you I suck in the kitchen,” she pouted when she could once again hear herself think.
He put his thumb and index finger on her chin, gently lifting her face to his, giving her a chaste kiss that reeked of pity. “I like it when you suck. And you can do it anywhere you want.”
Kylie fake-glowered at him, but the expression wouldn’t hold. He looked delicious, even though his eyes were definitely red-rimmed and bleary from the lack of sleep. “Ha, ha.”
“You had the burner on too high. You want me to show you?”
She pouted some more. “I hate me.”
He kissed her again, this time on the forehead. “Well, I like you. Go sit,” he said, running the griddle under the tap. He smacked her butt as she did what he said, still sulking as he got to work, moving around the kitchen like a pro. Five minutes later, he presented Kylie with a stack of about ten perfectly round and golden pancakes, with a square dollop of butter on the top. It could’ve been on a magazine cover, it was so lovely.
“Show off,” she muttered, resting her head in her hands. “I will never be able to eat all these.”
“I know. They’re to share,” he said, sitting down next to her and grabbing the syrup before patting his knee.
Kylie smiled, scooted to the edge of the seat, and then perched in his lap as he poured the syrup over the pancakes. Even with her epic kitchen failure, she was happy.
Right here. Right now. With him. She was happy.
When she realized that she was eating more than he was, she glanced over at him, a huge bite of pancake in her mouth. Her cheeks immediately heated as she realized he was simply watching her with dark, tortured eyes.
Her heart squeezed, and she turned in his lap, placing her free hand on his face, her thumb rubbing down the middle of his eyebrows, hoping to ease that worry line away.
Her mouth was still full, and she was forced to chew and swallow before she could ask the question to which she thought she already knew the answer. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry about last night,” he said, his voice fractured. “I’ll make sure that it never happens again. I never want to hurt you, Kylie. Ever.”
Kylie rose until she could straddle him, face him completely. Even though her shoulder ached with the effort, she cupped his beautiful face in both hands and kissed the very tip of his nose.
“Like I told you last night, I learned a lesson too. You can’t control what your subconscious does, but I can control what I do when I notice you dreaming again.”
He nodded, still looking tortured. “You walk away.”
“Just a foot away, maybe two. Just out of arm’s reach until you wake up.” She leaned forward and kissed his lips. “And when the nightmare is over, I walk right back into your arms, and we talk about it…” he stiffened, and she immediately added, “if you want to.”
He pulled her close, and she nestled her head under his chin. Of all the sexual things they’d done with and to each other, this felt the most intimate.
“We need to go, get you to work, don’t you think?”
She lifted her head just enough to look at the clock, then practically leapt from his lap. “Shit. Yes. Let’s go!”
Linc took Kylie to her apartment and waited for her to shower and change, and she was glad for that. Ever since she’d had that run-in with the Spotlight Killer, she didn’t really like being alone in the apartment anymore, even with Vader.
When she
was ready, Linc drove her and the gigantic mutt to the office. It would’ve been nice to share some long, lingering goodbye kisses, but she was already late. Settling on a simple peck, she ran up the sidewalk, only realizing after she left him that they’d never made plans to meet up again.
Rushing into the office, she rammed into the door.
It was locked.
She smiled. That meant Greg Starr was late too. Unless he’d already come and gone? As late as she was, that was a real possibility.
Digging in the bottom of her purse, she frowned against the September morning drizzle. Fall was her favorite time of year, especially living in the mountains. While it was still a bit too early for the leaves to begin to turn, the crisp mornings let her know that day was growing close.
Finally inside, she glanced around the space. Everything in the office was the same as the day prior. Perfect. Greg usually left a mess, even when he was only there for a few minutes.
Vader went to his familiar spot by the window and curled up in the murky daylight. Slumping down in her chair, Kylie looked at the pile of reports she had waiting from the previous day and sighed. They hadn’t grown wings and flown off overnight as she’d hoped.
She loaded paper into the typewriter so she could start the next report, but her mind soon drifted to Linc. Her heart hurt for him. There was something inside him, torturing him, something she knew nothing about. Horrible things had happened to him in Syria. She wanted to know more but didn’t want to pry. She wished he’d just tell her.
Or maybe he’d never told anyone? Maybe he’d kept that all bottled up because he believed that strong military men weren’t supposed to have emotions or feelings, and it was eating away at him like a cancer from the inside.
Kylie’d heard about this before, about men from overseas not being able to forget the horrors of war. Or even firefighters and policemen from 9/11 who’d been so affected by what they’d witnessed, their lives were never the same. Some horrors were so awful, they reduced even the strongest men to homelessness or suicide, believing the world was better off without their presence. And to top it all off, they were expected to deal with it in secret, because men weren’t supposed to show weakness.
Screw that. In her mind, there was no weakness in seeking help when a person needed it.
Kylie pushed away from the typewriter and found her phone. She typed in PTSD resources Asheville veterans. A long list came up. She clicked on one and read: Western North Carolina is a good place for veterans seeking help with PTSD, in terms of available resources, a strong veteran community and a receptive VA Hospital. But it’s also a great place for people to hide from their problems. The nature of the mountains provides isolation and anonymity for many.
Escaping to the mountains for isolation and anonymity? That was, essentially, Lincoln Coulter.
She read a little more about the symptoms of PTSD, and everything just pointed to Linc: Withdrawn. Antisocial. Tendency to have mood swings. Then she read about treatment options, including group and individual therapy, and wondered if Linc had ever been to anything like that. If he had, he’d never said so. Something told her he might not be the most open person to trying things like that. He was just so macho and tough, talking about his feelings was probably the last thing he’d want to do.
Knowing how tight-lipped Linc was with her, she figured she already had her answer.
Maybe she could look into it for him. If she presented the evidence to him and made a good, solid case, so that all he’d have to do was make the phone call to the therapist, he might go for it. She started to write a few things down on a pad when she was jolted from her seat by the loud sound of the phone ringing.
Annoyed that it was interfering with her research, she lifted the receiver to her ear. “Starr Investigations. This is Kylie. What can I help you investigate today?”
“Hello, Kylie.”
The voice sounded creaky, fragile, and old. And very familiar.
Just a few nights ago, Kylie had listened to this same voice after a very spectacular roll in the hay—literally—after her mother had finally allowed her to be discharged from her tender loving care.
She’d left her mother’s home and had driven straight up the mountain, determined to retrieve Vader and give Linc the cold shoulder, just like he’d been doing her while she’d convalesced in her childhood bedroom.
But things had shifted quickly, almost from the moment their eyes met, and less than ten minutes later, they had been rolling in the hay, literally. Very, very literally.
Then this same woman had called. Emma Jenkins. No, Jennings, Kylie remembered.
She remembered so clearly because her boss had absolutely refused to let her take the case, and it had broken Kylie’s heart to call the sweet elderly lady back, telling her the bad news.
“Mrs. Jennings,” Kylie blurted. “How are you today?”
“How do you think?” the woman scolded. “I’m being robbed, and I need someone to do something about it.”
Did the sweet little woman have dementia? Alzheimer’s?
“Um, Mrs. Jennings. Do you remember that I called you back and told you I couldn’t take your case?”
The woman hrmphed her. She’d never been hrmphed quite so loudly before. “Of course I remember. I’m being robbed, not going senile.”
Kylie licked her lips. “Then I’m not sure why you’re calling. I’m not able to take your—”
“I’ll pay double.”
Kylie’s mouth fell open. It took several beats for her to be able to close it again. “Why?”
The woman’s tone softened. “Because you actually listened to me the other night. Really listened.”
Kylie’s heart gave a little squeeze. “Well…you deserved to have someone listen to you, and I’m still so sorry that I had to tell you no.”
“Like I said, I’ll pay you double.”
Here was where she should tell this woman that she needed to take a message and not get her stupid ass involved. She’d promised Greg. Promised Linc. Promised her mother. Promised she’d be a good little message-taker and consult with Greg at all turns. Kylie sucked in a breath.
“Can you give me all the details again? And has anything new occurred since we last talked?”
She wasn’t officially taking the case. She wasn’t. But it wouldn’t hurt to be a good listener again.
“Well, like I told you the other night, I think somebody has been stealing from me. But I can’t be sure. I’m a wealthy woman, and I get the feeling that one of the people I’ve put my trust in to handle my estate is not being one-hundred-percent aboveboard with me. So, I’d like you to look into it for me.”
Kylie tried to think of the questions she was supposed to ask, things she hadn’t thought to ask while she and Linc were naked in a barn.
“Have you spoken to the police about your suspicions?”
“I’d rather not get the police involved,” the caller said, tittering a little. “In fact, I’m just so embarrassed about this whole situation. That people in this world can be so heartless and cruel. I trust all the people I keep near me with my heart and soul, and if it’s true one of them is stealing from me, I will be devastated. But I simply must know. So…”
Kylie worried her lip. “Mr. Starr isn’t available right now, and he is the person who approves where my time is allocated.” She gave the typewriter the middle finger again. “I’ll need to speak to him again, see what we might be able to do.”
There. That sounded professional enough.
And honest. Mostly.
“All right, dear. And be sure to tell him that I’ll pay double.”
Kylie smiled. “I will. Can you please give me your contact information again?”
She jotted the information down, though the previous note was probably somewhere on Greg’s desk.
“Thank you, dear.”
“You’re welcome. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
Once they said their goodbyes and she’d disconn
ected the call, Kylie stared at the message. Who’d want to steal from a sweet old lady? Kylie already felt her acute sense of justice lathering up. She wanted to kick someone’s ass on the woman’s behalf.
But no. That was for Greg to do, not her. She had reports to tend to, papers to file. She’d promised she would change her ways, and she was going to stick to it.
Kylie jammed another piece of paper in the antiquated typewriter. She’d be a good little note-taking assistant, just like Greg and Linc and her mother wanted her to be.
So, why did it make her feel like a big, fat loser?
7
Linc wanted to kill someone as he walked through the pelting drizzle to the barn and started to feed the animals. The llamas, Dolly and Carl, hummed softly as he approached. As always, they were happy to see him, Carl even more so than Dolly, who could sometimes be grumpy enough to spit.
The farm had changed a great deal since his grandparents’ early days. There used to be horses and many additional head of cattle, but the elder Coulters had downsized as they grew older. Linc had added the llamas and smaller farm animals, with the goal of humanely breeding them.
Just spreading the feed calmed him down. Usually, being with animals of any kind had a soothing effect on Linc, and brushing their coats was all it took to calm him, help him find his Zen.
Not today.
Today, he only stood there, feeling impatient, muscles tight.
Linc didn’t feel much like a man. He felt like a failure.
He’d wanted to give Kylie what she wanted. Just sex. She asked, he delivered.
And it had started out fine. Great, in fact.
Until he went and had that batshit nightmare and showed her what a grade-A pussy he was. He’d hurt her. Now, something dangerous and hot surged through his veins. Linc hated himself. He couldn’t even look at himself in the bathroom mirror without wanting to punch his fist through it. Now, Kylie was sporting bruises that matched his fingerprints. What kind of asshole touched a woman like that?
And the worst part? She’d been so damn understanding. Linc thought he would’ve felt better about the whole damn thing if she’d yelled at him. Told him what an asshole he was. But no, Kylie had to hold him and cuddle him and tell him it was okay and…why the hell didn’t she want a relationship, again?