Fall Into Me: Hearts of the South

by Linda Winfree

  He waited until Maggie disappeared into the backroom. “Are you okay?”

  A rueful expression crossed Tori’s pretty features. “Other than feeling like an idiot for not reading the situation better and almost getting Troy Lee hurt? I’m good.”

  He nodded, finally letting the relief have its way. He flicked a finger toward the door marked Employees Only. “How about Maggie?”

  “She’s really shaken up, and to make it worse, feels guilty for calling 911.” Her troubled brown gaze darted toward the front glass and her posture slumped. “Oh, Mark. Go stop that, please.”

  He followed the direction of her gaze. Sure enough, Tick stood with Troy Lee in the middle of the parking lot, giving him hell. His face flushed, Tick stabbed his index finger into the palm of his other hand. The kid wasn’t saying anything, his features set in a stoic mask, his gaze trained somewhere beyond Tick’s shoulder. Chris had retreated to the driver’s seat of his own patrol car.

  A sigh shook his shoulders. Obviously, Tick didn’t understand the concept of “lay off”. “Let me go see if I can calm Tick down.”

  He pushed the door open. At least Tick wasn’t yelling. Instead, he seemed to be speaking in the low, deadly tone he used in the interrogation room. Mark approached, noting the muscle flicking in Troy Lee’s jaw. Ten to one, the kid was chewing the inside of his cheek.

  “Do you understand how easily she could have been hurt?” Tick laid a hand across his side, where Mark knew the surgical incision ended.

  Mark clapped an easy hand on his partner’s shoulder. “Hey, Tick, go wait in the truck.”

  “What?” Tick stopped mid-harangue to stare at him.

  “Go sit in the truck.” Mark gestured toward the Blazer. “Now would be good.”

  Tick glared at him for a moment then threw his hands up and stalked toward the Blazer. Mark hooked his thumbs in his belt and studied Troy Lee. The blank mask remained in place; he continued to stare at the middle distance.

  “Better get Jed to lockup.” Rotating his wrist, Mark glanced at his watch. “Your shift ended twenty minutes ago.”

  Mouth tight, Troy Lee nodded. None of the tension drained from his stance.

  Mark darted a look at Troy Lee’s unit, Jed’s silhouette visible through the back window. “You did good, kid. Jed’s a tough arrest.”

  “Yeah.” He rolled his shoulders, each motion tight and uncomfortable. “Can I go now?”

  “Sure.” Mark watched as Troy Lee walked to his patrol car and slid into the driver’s seat. The young deputy wheeled around and pulled out of the lot. With a wave, Chris followed. Mark went to confer briefly with Tori before returning to his Blazer.

  In the passenger seat, Tick glowered, bouncing his thumb off his knee. Strain painted a white line about his mouth. “Is there a reason I’m waiting in the truck?”

  “Yeah.” He fired the engine. “Because I asked you to.”

  “Very funny, Cookie.”

  “Fine. You’re sitting in the truck because there’s real potential in that kid and I refuse to let you ruin him single-handed.” He shifted into reverse.

  “What?” Surprise vibrated in Tick’s voice, raising the deep timbre almost to a yelp. “Do you realize what could have happened if Jed had—”

  “Tick.” He turned onto the two-lane highway. “She’s fine. Feels bad for misreading the situation and leaving the car before Troy Lee had Jed cuffed and in the unit, but she’s fine. And Troy Lee had it in hand. He controlled the scene, had Jed pretty much subdued when Chris got there, which you’d have known if you’d bothered to stop and ask before you jumped on him.”

  Tick ignored that and waved a dismissive gesture at the passing scenery. “Where are we going?”

  “To get a cup of coffee and talk before I run you home.”

  “I’m not going to like this conversation, am I?”

  A grin quirked at Mark’s mouth. “Probably not.”

  Minutes later, they were settled into a back booth at the diner on the four-lane highway, mugs of steaming black coffee before them, and Tick looked anything but happy. “Go ahead, Cookie. Out with it.”

  Mark ran a fingertip around the rim of his cup. “You’re not Superman, Tick, even if you think you are. You need to go home and stay there until your doctor actually clears you to return to duty.”

  Tick frowned over a long sip. “If this is about me helping you work that wreck—”

  “It’s not.” Mark folded his hands around the hot pottery. “It’s about you being out of your comfort zone and taking that out on Troy Lee. I’m telling you, Tick, I’m not letting you break him. If that means you go home until your head is straight, then that’s what it means.”

  “Who the holy hell died and left you in charge?” A flush darkened Tick’s cheekbones. “The last time I checked, I was the one with rank.”

  “You might have rank, but you’re no FTO. If we’re talking chasing down organized crime or murder leads or anything to deal with federal law, I’ll give you that, Lamar. But taking stupid rookies and turning them into good cops? That’s my field of expertise.”

  “You cannot send me home.”

  “Oh, I think I can. See, I happen to have an in with your very own version of kryptonite, Superman. She’s about five-six, black hair, green eyes, owns your ass and you know it. Trust me. Not only can I send you home, I can keep you there.”

  “You would too.” Pure disgruntlement tinged Tick’s voice.

  Mark didn’t even try to restrain a smirk. “Damn right I would.”

  Tick slumped in the booth, tracing idle patterns on the faux-wood tabletop. “What do you mean, out of my comfort zone?”

  A chuckle rumbled up from Mark’s chest. Did Tick really not see it? “You’re a total control freak, Tick. Probably worse than Falconetti is, I think. Look what’s been going on in your life for the last month, stuff that you can’t control—your wife’s uterine rupture, your son’s premature birth, your cancer diagnosis. Hell, even me and Tori. You don’t think I know your issues with us go deeper than your doubts about my level of commitment to her?”

  Tick lifted his mug. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yeah, I’m clueless. That’s why I haven’t figured out the reason you keep showing up at work when you’re not supposed to be. You know, because it’s the place you can control things when you have none over what happens with that baby in the NICU.”

  He was sure when Tick opened his mouth and closed it again, the words “go to hell” were being left unsaid. He leaned forward. “Shit, Tick, your whole life just changed. Y’all have waited forever for this baby and the reality of finally having him would be an adjustment even without the other stuff. Man, you’ve gone from being numero uno in Falconetti’s life to sharing her with the one other person she loves as much as she does you. No wonder your center of gravity is off. One thing, though, is for damn sure—you’re going to lay off that kid.”

  ***

  Troy Lee ran, feet nailing the track’s pavement with perfect rhythm. His iPod was turned up, and Rage Against the Machine battered his eardrums so loud they should be bleeding. Fury pounded in him, hitting with every smack of his worn runners, blending with the waves of heat emanating from the asphalt.

  Damn it all, he was supposed to be with Angel, drowning in her presence, forging more between them. He couldn’t take this overwhelming anger to her, though. He’d given up playing the whole scenario through his head over and over. Reliving it didn’t change anything. On the blackboard of his mind, he laid out the variables—Calvert’s expectations, his previous screwups, the odds of reconciling the two. That kept coming up a big fat zero.

  Maybe something more lurked out there, some indefinable factor he couldn’t see. Maybe that something more was missing within him, a trait or strength he didn’t possess. Maybe he should just quit.

  The idea hurt. He let the rhythm of running, the utter familiarity of the track take him. Memory flashed in his mind, his father standing
before the big chalkboard in his study, frowning over the massive, multilayered theorem he’d pursued for years. A couple of years after his death, another professor at Georgia Tech had finally solved the equation, but he’d made it clear he wouldn’t have been able to succeed without Troy Farr’s groundwork.

  Troy Lee clenched his fingers into tighter fists, nails biting into his palms. His dad hadn’t quit. Every single night of his life he’d stood before that blackboard, tossing a piece of chalk up and down, thinking. Somehow, quitting, letting Calvert’s low opinion of him win, dishonored his father’s perseverance.

  However, he had to find a way to deal with it. Proving himself didn’t seem to be working, no matter what he did. He rounded the curve, no closer to a solution than when he’d started, but the endorphins were kicking in, relieving the tension and rage. Yards in front of him, Cookie leaned on the fence and Troy Lee’s body tightened all over again. He slowed the punishing pace, as much to begin taming his thundering heart as to prolong the inevitable.

  Wasn’t like he could avoid this conversation. He eased to a walk mere feet from where Cookie waited and tried to catch his breath. Sweat coated his skin, dripped from his hair, plastered his T-shirt to his body. Cookie extended a bottle of water covered with condensation. “Chris thought I might find you here.”

  “Yeah.” Troy Lee seized the bottle on a burst of gratitude and bent double. “Well, you found me.”

  His voice emerged hoarse and shaking with exertion. Straightening, he walked out a circle and poured icy water down his throat, a hand at his side where a familiar stitch stabbed him. The too-cold liquid kicked off his heartburn and he grimaced, bending again as his lungs cramped, refusing to let him breathe fully.

  When he could finally draw air in again, he uncurled and met Cookie’s patient gray gaze. “Particular reason you wanted to find me?”

  Cookie shrugged, his hands clasped easily, forearms resting on the fence. “Tick was pretty hard on you. Wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  “I’m fine.” He picked out a point beyond the older man and focused on it, the way he did when he was running a race and needed to tune out the existence of competitors around him.

  “Yeah. That why you’re running yourself in the ground out here?”

  He shrugged and took another slug of water. “I run every day. No big deal.”

  “I could make excuses for him, talk about what all’s going on in his life right now, but I won’t. He was a son of a bitch, pure and simple, and he shouldn’t have jumped down your throat without reading the situation first.”

  Troy Lee rolled his shoulders again and looked away. “Yeah, whatever. Doubt it’ll be the last time.”

  “I’m working on him, Troy Lee.”

  Working on him? Right. “Is that all you wanted? I’ve got somewhere to be and I’m already late.”

  “What are you doing in law enforcement, Troy Lee?” Cookie regarded him like a particularly difficult puzzle. The question slammed Troy Lee in the chest. Hell, now Cookie was going to start in on him. A frown twisted Cookie’s heavy brows. “Or maybe I should ask what you’re doing in police work down here.”

  “I’m in law enforcement because it was real.” As he reacted to Cookie’s easy, natural authority, the words spilled out before he could stop them. Troy Lee gave a short, harsh laugh and looked away. “As to what I’m doing down here…don’t ask.”

  “Real, huh? It’s definitely that.” Cookie’s calm voice brought Troy Lee’s attention back to him. “But real compared to what?”

  “I don’t know.” Annoyance crawled under Troy Lee’s skin. “Math, art, music.”

  “Makes sense.” Cookie cleared his throat. “Listen, Troy Lee, don’t let today set you back.”

  Set him back where? Into negative numbers? Didn’t Cookie get it? Hell, he was at zero, he was failing, had been failing since day one in Chandler County. In the past, he’d skirted failure—coming in second or third in a race, making a B on a math exam—but he’d never outright failed at anything.

  Until he’d put on the six-pointed star and everything had gone to hell.

  “You’re not a quitter.” Cookie’s quiet statement brought him back to reality with a jolt. Troy Lee looked up to find the investigator watching him the way Christine did a piece of clay, figuring out what to make of it. “Are you?”

  “No.” He straightened as much as his burning chest and cramping gut would allow. “I’m not.”

  “Good.” Cookie’s nod and slow smile of approval lightened the weight of personal disappointment somewhat. “We can work with that.”

  Angel tried to settle down, first with the piece of cross stitchery she’d been working on for almost two years and then with the latest Southern Living. Ridiculous, really, to be disappointed and completely at loose ends because Troy Lee had called to say he’d be delayed, had been edgy about whether or not he’d even show up.

  A now-familiar engine rumbled to a stop outside. Anticipation fired to life and had her heading for the door. She swung it open within moments of Troy Lee’s knock. At her first sight of him, hair damp and ruffled, a white T-shirt untucked over his jeans, her stomach lifted and fell with a distinctive flutter of female reaction. She lifted a nervous hand to brush her hair away from her face. “Hey. I’m glad you made it.”

  “Me too.” Tension lingered in his voice, but he smiled as he stepped inside.

  She leaned up to feather a kiss over his lips. He stilled for an almost imperceptible breath. The next, he seized her shoulders and she found herself backed to the wall. His chest warm and hard against hers, he took her mouth in a full, hot kiss filled with a hunger that bordered on desperation. Desire slammed into her and she parted her lips, allowing him full access. She wound her arms around his neck and gave into his devouring. He groaned and pressed closer, hips canted into hers. Even with heavy denim separating them, she couldn’t miss the hardening ridge nestled against her belly.

  “No.” On a strangled sound, he pulled his mouth from hers and rested his forehead on the wall next to her temple. He gasped, his chest heaving.

  She ran the tip of her tongue over her lips, tasting him still. Her entire being buzzed with passion, doing the whole singing-the-body-electric thrill. “No, what?”

  He turned his head and swept his mouth across her cheek. “Not ruining this with you by going too fast because of today.”

  “Today?” Shifting to meet his blue gaze, she fingered the edges of his hair. She caught a glimpse of a bandage under his chin. “Did you have a bad day?”

  A grimace crossed his face. “Something like that.”

  She nodded, still stroking the soft strands at his nape. On a shaky exhale, he released her, laid his palms against the wall and levered away. He leaned down to retrieve the small bag he’d dropped earlier. “Still interested in that movie?”

  “This is nice.” Two and a half hours later, the relaxation in Troy Lee’s voice mirrored the boneless slump of his posture on her couch. Whatever tension he’d been carrying when he came through the door had drained away while they’d laughed through a light comedy.

  “It is nice.” She’d given up trying to keep a decorous distance between them halfway through the film, and now her head rested against his shoulder while they watched intrepid plumbers-turned-ghost-hunters on one of her satellite channels. She dipped a lazy hand into the almost empty popcorn bowl on his lap and pressed her thigh closer to his. “I can’t remember the last time I slowed down enough to actually watch television like this.”

  He shifted, lifting his arm to drape it along her shoulders. “Told you…you gotta slow down and enjoy what’s along the way.”

  They lapsed into silence, watching while sensors and cameras were placed in a 1930’s-era school building. She fanned her fingers over his knee and trailed a fingernail along the seam of his jeans in an idle up-and-down movement.

  Onscreen, two of the ghost trackers walked down a dark hallway, trying to lure out any unseen spirits with question
s and reacting to noises beyond their range of sight. Troy Lee coughed and set the bowl aside, removing his arm from her shoulders with the movement. Focused on the television, she settled her head against his arm once more, tracing the seam before drawing random designs with her fingertip on the top of his leg.

  He coughed again and dropped his hands in his lap. She drew her leg up, knee bumping his, and traced the word boo on his lower thigh. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

  “No.” His voice emerged strangled and rough. He cleared his throat and she clued in to the shallow way his breathing had changed. Her gaze dropped to his hands, loosely draped over his zipper, then she lifted her eyes to his.

  An impish grin pulled at her mouth. “Oops.”

  “Oops, my ass.” His lazy smile set off swirls of desire low in her belly. He turned halfway and slid his arm behind her, playing with a stray tress of her hair. “So, Angel, when was the last time you made out on the couch?”

  Made out? Did anyone actually do that anymore? With Jim, the goal of any kissing and petting had always been his getting her into bed with as minimal fuss as possible. The idea of wrapping up with Troy Lee Farr, kissing and touching and going no farther, sent a thrill through her.

  “I can’t remember.” She ran a finger down his chest. “But it sounds like fun to me.”

  On a dark chuckle, he sifted one hand through her hair and lowered his head for a series of light, nipping kisses. She nipped back, nibbling at his lower lip before opening her mouth to allow him deeper access. With a sigh, she gripped his shoulders, let her hands slip over his biceps to the leanly sculpted muscles of his chest. He rewarded her with a low groan of pleasure.

  With his fingers teasing riffs over her spine, he slanted his mouth across hers at a different angle. His taste, blended with a lingering hint of salt and butter, exploded on her tongue as the kiss deepened.

  “Mm-hmm.” Purring her approval, she snuggled closer, rubbing her fingertips down his chest and over the indentation of his abs, fanning them over his sides. The clean scent of him, warm and male, infiltrated her senses, saturating her, filling her.