The Best Friend Zone: A Small Town Romance

by Nicole Snow

  Carolina glances at the money, then at me before she belts out another nasty laugh.

  “Girl, let me give you some advice—you need to go back to wherever the hell it is you’re from. Dallas isn’t the quaint little town you think. There’s always something that’s blowing up around here, or a serial killer to chase down, or mass poisonings. Hell, I’m just waiting for a fuckin’ tiger to come tearing through here one fine—”

  “Then why do you stay?”

  She glances at the door to the bar.

  “Who cares? It’s home, and it’s not so bad if you stay out of that shit.” Sighing, she adds, “Other than the fact I’m too broke to leave, I guess.”

  A part of me feels for her.

  She’s gotten herself stuck in a rut with bad decisions and can’t find a way out.

  I know the feeling.

  I’m in limbo, too.

  Just a very different, prettier limbo than hers.

  “Well, men like Marvin aren’t your ticket out of town,” I say, trying to steer her back to what I need.

  “I told you, I haven’t seen him lately. What do you think he wanted with me? To date?” She lets out a sad, dry laugh.

  Nuts to this. I tug the bills back toward me.

  She slaps a hand on them, pinning them down. “But I’ll tell you if I do! That counts, don’t it?”

  The door flies open just then, and Quinn comes barreling toward us with worry carved on his face.

  Crud.

  Carolina is sure to tell him what we’ve been talking about, which will definitely make him madder than he looks right now.

  What happened? I wonder.

  Judging by his expression, he might drive me to Chicago himself—or at least back to Granny’s house. The remodeling isn’t completely done in the kitchen, but the house is livable again.

  For a moment, I’m breathless.

  Carolina slides the bills out from under my fingers, balls them in her hand, and walks around the table. “Heyyy, Faulk. Nice moves tonight.”

  She gives him a gag-worthy switch of her hips and saunters past, back into the bar.

  “What were you doing out here with that witch? Talking to her?”

  I grin, trying to ease his worry. “Just getting a breath of fresh air. I worked up a sweat after all that dancing.”

  “Time to go home, Tory.”

  He sounds so cold. Angry. At the end of his rope.

  Desperate to change that, I grasp his hand, stepping closer. “How about one more dance? The band’s still playing and we could—”

  “No.”

  Guilt overcomes me.

  “I’m sorry, Quinn. I didn’t mean to upset you or cause any trouble,” I say as we walk across the patio to the parking lot.

  “You scared me fucking pale when you didn’t come back to the table,” he growls, throwing a heated flash of green-eyed anger my way.

  “I didn’t realize that there was a door at the end of the hall until I saw it, and then I just thought I’d cool off. There’s a lot of people here tonight. Grady could use a better air conditioner for nights like this. I wanted to get out and clear my head.”

  “And pick Carolina’s swiss cheese brain?” He does a slow, exasperated blink. “Don’t dabble in something you don’t know shit about, Tory. I’m trying to protect you.”

  Whoa.

  Justified or not, his warning comes out so condescending, it stuns me.

  It sounds too much like Mother, Jean-Paul, everyone who’s ever tried to control me.

  “For your information, I wasn’t dabbling.” I yank my hand out of his and speed walk to the truck.

  “Really? How much money did you give her?” he asks.

  “I didn’t—”

  “Don’t lie to me. Please. I saw cash in her hand. She doesn’t know a damn thing, and the more you give her, the more she’ll want.”

  Pissed, I wrench open the door and climb in, giving it a good slam shut once I’m in my seat.

  He slides in the driver’s seat a second later and starts the ignition.

  “This is exactly why I wanted you in Chicago. It’s too fucking dangerous for you to be here while I’ve got a target on my back.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Wrong.” He backs out of the parking spot and waits until we’re on the highway to speak again. “I want you out of Dallas. Until this Pickett shit gets settled. Whether that’s Chicago, Bismarck, or Paris, I don’t care. It’s not safe to be with me right now.”

  Stunned, I stare at him.

  “Seriously? Because I talked to Carolina, you’re going to blow a gasket and send me home?” The minute I’d seen his face when he’d walked out the door, I knew that’s what was on his mind.

  Sending me away.

  Something I expected from the start.

  It’s just like it was years ago, isn’t it? Growing up means nothing.

  Back then, I’d get to the point where I thought something might happen between us, and just like now, he’d put up an invisible wall.

  He’d always claim I was too young and didn’t know what I was doing.

  I’m not a kid now. I know what I’m doing this time.

  “Don’t tell me what to do or where you’ll send me, Quinn,” I tell him point blank, shooting my coldest look.

  “I’m not sending you anywhere,” he says, his voice softer. “I’m asking you to go. Stay safe. For me. For us.”

  I don’t know what’s growing faster, my confusion or my hurt.

  What happened back at the bar to make him act this way?

  It had to be more than my worthless chat with Dibs and staying away from the table too long.

  “You didn’t ask,” I whisper. “You said you want me gone.”

  “Fuck, don’t you get it?” His lip curls in a snarl. “You can come back when it’s over.”

  Something inside me snaps.

  “When what’s over?” I don’t wait for him to answer because it doesn’t matter. “When I leave here, I won’t be coming back. That won’t be an option.”

  “Tor—”

  “Shut up, Quinn,” I snap, trying to hold back the tears. “Just...please, shut up.”

  20

  Goat Me Twisted Up (Faulkner)

  There’s no denying the hard truth this time—I stepped in it.

  I’d iced over when she hadn’t returned to the table while I was busy talking to Grady, filling him in on the intrusions at the not-so-deserted Maddock place. When the waitress told me the ladies’ room was empty, my heart lodged in my throat.

  Tory’s right, though. I do need to shut my yap before I say more shit I’ll regret.

  Once she cools off, we can talk about it. I’ll apologize for turning into a colossal prick.

  I’ll convince her she can come back and that going to Chicago or wherever else she chooses is only temporary.

  My throat locks up at the thought.

  Temporary.

  Let’s be real—there’s nothing temporary anymore about Tory Three Names.

  I’ve tried fooling myself, claiming once this is over, after Pickett’s finished, everything will be fine.

  Like hell it will.

  She’s a dancing angel, a graceful swan in a woman’s body, and this little town can’t give her the chance she deserves. And no matter how territorial I get, what right do I have taking that from her?

  How the fuck can she stay with me?

  Sure, I could pack up, sell Gramps’ place, and move to be with her. There ain’t nothing truly holding me back.

  Don’t have a clue how I’d put up with that rotten piece of escargot if she has to suck it up and work for Jean-Paul What’s-It for a while, but...

  Fuck.

  We’ve got ourselves a dilemma, and maybe that’s what triggered our spat tonight as much as my assholery over keeping her safe.

  This simple small-town life won’t cut it, and neither will I, if I’m fool enough to tie her down.

  We could be happy together in Dallas
for a time, but there’ll come a day when she misses dancing too much, guaranteed.

  Would I be better off letting her go now, rather than later? While there’s still a chance to figure shit out?

  Not when she’s stuck and hates my guts. When she realizes all she’s given up to settle, and can’t ever get back.

  I can’t let her do that.

  Can’t let her give up her career, her dream, any more than I can let her get hurt by my imminent rematch with Goliath’s not-so-little brother. I know she doesn’t get how serious of a threat this is, and that’s also my fault.

  I’ve tried to sugarcoat this fuckery for too long, desperately fighting to insulate her from fear.

  The ride home is not only silent as the grave, the air in the truck is so thick it hurts to breathe.

  She heads straight upstairs when we get home, and I let her.

  I’d better let her sleep on it.

  That old tip about going to bed angry ain’t always true. Sometimes, a person needs their beauty sleep so they can wake up fresh, calm, their sanity restored.

  Tomorrow will be soon enough to talk.

  I head to the kitchen to grab a beer. My stomach sinks as I open the fridge and see the full shelves. Yes, there’s beer, plenty of it, but there are also containers of milk and eggs, fruits and vegetables, meat and poultry.

  Turning, I close the door with a grunt.

  It doesn’t help my pitiful state right now, knowing how she’s changed my life.

  The rest of the house is just as hard to look at with signs of her everywhere. Harsh, grating proof of just how deep I’ve let her into my life this summer.

  No, I’ve never been a slob—too much hard ass Army discipline for that—but she’s made this place shine as bright as her own smile.

  Not only is the house white-glove-inspection clean, she’s left flowers in vases she picked up from Grace, pillows on the furniture, and new rugs on the floor.

  This place looks more like a home versus the spartan, under-construction cave it’s resembled for the past year.

  Go ahead and laugh at my sentimental ass.

  I don’t care.

  If there’s any man around who claims he doesn’t appreciate a woman’s touch, he’s a stubborn damn liar.

  Tory’s spell is stronger now than it was years ago. Probably the same weird sign of the Peach she put me under years ago, when she fell face-first in a pie, and I got my first little taste of her wiping it off her cheek.

  Oh, I’ve tried running like hell, trying to live my own life, trying to forget her and this silly little town.

  I remember one night in Afghanistan, halfway through my deployment, I started penning her a letter. I’d looked her up, still had her address in Forest Glen and everything.

  I can still remember the first line I’d scratched out ten times before settling on something simple:

  Dear Peach,

  It’s been too long. Do you ever think about that crap I said a couple years ago to cheer you up? How I promised you “some dude” would be ecstatic to have you? That day you were sticky from that disaster pie, all teary eyed and hopeless? Because...I do. And I wish I’d had the balls to admit I was “some dude.”

  Yeah. When I said simple, I meant dumb as dirt.

  I’ll never win any writerly awards.

  Of course, I also remembered she was nineteen, barely out of high school. Hardly a good time for me to be sending her the world’s lamest marriage proposal.

  Still, that’s how you know I’d be lying if I ever said I’d moved on from my best friend during all of those years apart.

  That’s also the big fat liar ass I’ll become if I think for one second I can live without her laugh, her sparkling blue eyes, the sultry nights I wish would last forever.

  No matter where I’ve been, who I’ve been, what I’ve been doing, Tory’s always been there.

  Now more than ever since I’m staring down the barrel of actually losing her, if Pickett doesn’t terminate my life first.

  When I look up, there’s a big furry shape bearing down on me.

  I jump.

  Owl bumps my hand with his big head.

  “Thanks, dude,” I snort, roughing up his fur with a scratch that makes his tail wag. “You’re right. No use in dwelling on things that won’t get fixed tonight. She’ll come around.”

  He lets out a low whine that sounds exactly like he knows what’s on my mind.

  Smiling, I walk to the back door and let him out. He only takes a minute to empty his bladder and then returns.

  Locking the door, I double-check the front and the garage locks before I head upstairs, not looking forward to lying in my bed alone.

  If this is my fate after tonight, someday I’ll be thankful for the time we had together, sharing the same sheets.

  Her door’s closed tight as a drum. I get it.

  Owl plods over and drops down in front of her room, and I have to force my feet to walk by. I shut the door and plop down on the bed, fully dressed, knowing I’m not gonna sleep a wink tonight.

  I have no idea how long I lay there, not even thinking, when my phone vibrates.

  Looks like an unknown number. Could be spam, but it’s after midnight, so I answer.

  “Yeah?”

  “Quinn Faulkner,” a familiar voice snaps off crisply. “Forgive my lateness—it’s incredible what family life does to a man—but this is urgent.”

  “James?” I say loudly, sitting up. I was beginning to think he’d forgotten my dilemma in the thousand other things a married man working for the premier security firm out west has to do. “Is something wrong?”

  “Yes, Faulkner. Something’s been terribly wrong for too long, and I’m scolding myself that it took this long to tie up loose ends.” His words rush out, each one ringing with the same sharp coldness that made James Nobel an incredible Special Agent and a better elite security specialist now.

  The harshness of his tone has me standing, stiff as a board.

  “Have you heard from your contacts in Oklahoma? Official channels?” James demands.

  The supervisor of the police unit I’d been assigned to work with down there, Ted Goode, is who I’d been communicating with about Pickett. I haven’t asked for anything more than public knowledge, following the rule of law to the letter for former agents.

  “Not for several weeks,” I tell him. “Why?”

  “I have reason to believe you’re in grave danger, Faulk.”

  My breath sticks in my lungs.

  “Bat Pickett got released from prison today?” The way my gut churns answers before I even ask the question.

  “He was released, all right—over a month ago. Practically the same day his records were sealed. You don’t want to know what favors it took to breach that database. We found proof that someone altered the records and put an iron curtain around them on top of it. Faye and I will be babysitting for Enguard’s entire senior leadership until we’re grey.”

  “Shit. Worse than I expected,” I growl. “He’s been up here weeks then?”

  “It seems likely. Took us forever to get a facial match from Dallas confirming his presence. The security cameras there in rural North Dakota are fifteen years behind the times,” James snaps. “Listen, I’ve reached out to Section Chief Powers to fill him in on the latest. You need to—”

  “Powers?” I echo, scratching my neck. “Shit, man, you went that high up the chain? I’m sure he knows I’ve been digging, seeing how I served under him years ago, but hell. If we’re going the official route, it must be bad.”

  “Atrocious would be a better word for what we’ve found.” He pauses. “Did you have any inkling whatsoever that there’s a high-level insider involved?”

  “Jake Pickett’s girl insisted he had a helper in law enforcement years ago, but you know what happened before we could ever pull it out of her,” I say, my head filled with grim possibilities.

  The long silence on the other end of the line has the hair on the back of my neck
standing up. I hear some kind of...muttering back and forth?

  “James?”

  “Sorry. I had to remind my idiot friend, Riker, that this isn’t idle chitchat. This is the only chance I’ll get to relay everything. Wheels are in motion, Quinn, and you don’t want to get trapped under them. Powers is in flight as we speak and he’s informing your local sheriff—”

  “In flight?” I’m gobsmacked. “What, you mean here? To North Dakota?”

  “Correct,” James clips back.

  “What the—why?”

  “Because our insider took the bait and revealed himself. For now, forget the details. I’ll explain later how a brilliant strategy I crafted with my boss, Landon—and Riker, fine—allowed us to spoof a trusted contact’s number. We texted his phone, he opened a crucial link, and he gave the right response—covering Bart Pickett’s ass. Ted Goode is well aware of what Pickett’s planning against you. He’s fully involved with the cartel the brothers did local distribution for, and he’s still tight with Bart Pickett to this day. We have every reason to believe Goode’s currently trying to set you up with false evidence. Pin his dirty deeds on you, Quinn, as the insider who’s helped the Pickett meth machine fly under the radar for so long.”

  Boom.

  There’s my missing piece of the puzzle, and it kicks like a mule-strike to the head.

  Supervisor Goode.

  Ted mother-fucker Goode.

  That’s how Justin’s car was ambushed so perfectly, how Jake Pickett shot my partner and his turncoat girlfriend to pieces.

  Goode was the only other person who knew Justin was transporting the woman to safety that day.

  I never imagined he was the brains. He’d been a straight shooter, tough as nails, and played by the book almost to a fault. But he’d thrown me that day we had Jake Pickett for questioning, and now I know why.

  He’d been helping that maniac, shoving a knife in our backs the entire time.

  Fuck.

  No wonder he’s kept in contact with me all this time.

  No surprise he’s kept feelers on my old contacts with the Bureau, who innocently told him the minute I started asking around about Bat Pickett earlier this summer.