Red Nights

by Shari J. Ryan

  “Do you need a ride? My car is right over there,” he says, pointing in the direction he came from.

  I shake my head, not caring whether or not he can see my gesture in the dark. From the corner of my eye, I see him coming closer. My heart is in full sprint mode now. It has just hit me how utterly stupid I’ve been, coming here alone at night. I’m one of those girls people blame for their own abduction. She put herself in that situation.

  His hand rests on my shoulder, and I can feel the iciness of his touch through my sweatshirt. I jerk away from him, standing up and creating space between us. I take some steps in the other direction, praying he doesn’t follow me.

  But I hear his footsteps. I can feel him closing in.

  The sound of him tripping over something gives me the motivation to pick up my speed into a full-blown run, hoping it’ll give me more of a lead. I consider screaming for help, but it’s only seconds before the sound of footsteps close in on me. And my voice gets lost in the middle of my heaving breaths. “No. Leave me alone!”

  A hand locks around my wrist as he twists me around, forcing me to face him.

  But it’s not the psycho killer.

  It’s Hayes.

  I feel like I’m going crazy for a second, but when I look around him, I see the other guy limping off with his dog. “Don’t worry about him,” he says breathlessly. “But you have to stop this.” He wraps his arm around my shoulders, and I nearly collapse into him. “Do you know how many lunatics are out here at night? This park is like their stomping ground.”

  “Yeah, I think I get it now,” I say. “How did you know I was here?”

  “I always walk Lady at this time, luckily for you.”

  The adrenaline running through me is breaking apart now, which makes me shake. Hayes pulls me in against him, holding me tightly. “Thank you,” I mumble.

  “I don’t want you doing this any more, Felicity. No more late night walks to the park. Please. I care about you. And this isn’t a safe area.”

  I lay my head against his chest, hearing his heart beating hard, which makes my pulse speed up. He does care about me. “Okay,” I whisper.

  Lady presses her snout in between us, breaking us apart and nuzzling her head into my hip. I drop to the ground, wrapping my arms around her neck, welcoming the warmth and comfort this dog continues to give me. “I think this lady is coming between us,” Hayes says. I look up, finding his usual corny joke grin stretched across his face as he pulls me back up to my feet. “You are doing something to me. Something I can’t explain. I’d been stuck in a rut for so long. I hadn’t found an honest reason to smile since that kid’s death a couple of months ago, and then I stumbled upon you. I know you get it, and I think watching you pick up your pieces is helping me pick up mine. I also think some of our pieces might be getting mixed up. In a good way.”

  He’s making more sense out of all this than I am. We need each other. It’s so simple. He’s independent of the life I have to leave behind, and I’m separate from his. It’s perfect. “I like being mixed up with you,” I say.

  “This could get messy,” he replies, his voice low, raspy and oozing sex. His hands drop to my hips, pulling me with him until he’s leaning up against a tree.

  “Is messy bad?” I ask.

  “It’s okay once in a while.”

  “Well if things are messy, then I think we can make this count as a date—you know, the kind when the guy saves the girl from the creepy guy in the park. It could work.”

  “I thought I was the creepy guy in the park?” he says.

  I press my fists into his chest, gripping at his shirt. “Do creepy guys invite girls back to their houses?” I ask.

  “I’m pretty sure a creepy person is one who uses reverse psychology to get herself invited over to said creepy guy’s house.” He leans down and lightly touches his lips to mine. “I want you to…but even if we count this damsel in distress act as a date, it’s still only number five. So don’t come to my condo and try to have your way with me, Blondie-locks.”

  I finally get the whole “you want what you can’t have” thing. It’s ringing quite loudly in my head right now, and I’m pretty sure he’s well aware too. But I think he might also be regretting his stubbornness with his seven-date rule. “I have resistance like you wouldn’t believe,” I tell him.

  I decide not to leave my car here after my parking ticket this morning. Instead, I follow him down several side streets until we pull into a small parking lot up against a tall stone-covered condo complex. It’s a nice street, and the lot is filled with expensive cars. I’m not sure what to expect going into his place.

  I step out of my car; he holds the door open and leans in, placing a plastic card against my windshield. “Guest card. Prevents parking tickets,” he says, looking over at me with a wink. He takes my hand, leading me toward the front door. I can see inside the windows; the building is beautifully kept with hardwood floors and charcoal-colored walls.

  We hike up two flights of stairs and unlock another door from the stairwell. “This is my floor. It’s kind of like a flat.” We walk in, and he flips the lights. His condo matches his style of dress: everything is neat and in its place, and it can’t be for my benefit since we didn’t have plans tonight.

  Lady runs in past us and finds her bed in front of a fireplace, turns a couple of times and plops down. So cute. I’m in awe looking around, amazed by his decorating skills and the high-end vibe. The walls are all steel blue with white trim, accenting the dark walnut floors. His furniture is a light gray, almost white, and everything in his open kitchen is stainless steel. He has really good taste.

  “Nice place,” I say, still looking around.

  “My dad owned the building. Left me the condo,” he says, walking into the kitchen. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  I follow him, finding myself looking for a hint of dust or dirt. His home is immaculate. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a guy live like this. “What do you have?”

  He opens the fridge and pulls out a bottle of white, turning it around to read its label. “Pinot? The secretaries from work sent me bottles of wine and beer when I left. It was kind of a ‘get well’ thing.”

  He must have been in rough shape. No one has sent me wine. Or flowers. Or cards. Nothing. I don’t think anyone would push the blame in my face, but I think everyone has placed it on me. Which I suppose I’ve also done. There’s nowhere else to put it.

  “I’d love some.” He reaches into the cabinet above—each glass is perfectly lined up, one in front of the other. He pulls down two glasses and fills them half way. “So, where does your dad live now?” I follow him out to the couch where he places two coasters down, then the glasses. It’s official: I’ve fallen for him. A guy who uses coasters—they do exist. He flips a switch on the wall behind the couch that ignites the electric fireplace, then flicks on the TV. It’s so normal, common…unlike the way I’ve been living for the past couple of weeks.

  We settle into the couch. He takes the wine glasses and hands me one. “He and my mom divorced when I was twelve. He lives in California now with his new wife. Sells real estate on the beach. Not too shabby.”

  “Do you ever see him?” I ask.

  “Not really. He’s been pretty absent through most of my life. He leaves me things like a condo in hopes of it giving him a ‘good dad’ label. Honestly, from the twelve years I remember with him, I’d rather just have the condo.” He laughs and holds his glass up to mine.

  I tap my glass lightly against his. “Well, then. Cheers to a fancy condo, distractions, and getting mixed up with each other.”

  He smiles in response and places a kiss on my cheek before bringing the glass to his lips.

  After a few sips, my phone buzzes in my sweatshirt pocket. At first I didn’t think it was loud enough to hear, but after the third time, Hayes looks down at my pocket. “You going to get that?” he laughs.

  “It’s probably my roommate, Aspen looking for me.” Or Tanner. O
r Aspen and Tanner. Or Tanner, Aspen, and the guy she slept with to get a job.

  I pull my phone out of my pocket. Shit, it is Tanner. I kind of wish my texts wouldn’t display on my screen, considering Hayes can clearly see Tanner’s message right now.

  Tanner: I’m guessing you’re still awake since I’ve heard you don’t sleep any more. Anyway, sorry about earlier, but you were wrong.

  I tuck the phone back into my pocket, feeling guilty. Not sure why, but I do. I’m wondering if Hayes is going to ask me about it. Or maybe I should just be honest and tell him.

  “Tanner’s my ex,” I say, as if it were word vomit. “He came out of the woodwork a couple of weeks ago since he was Blake’s—my brother’s—close friend. He and Aspen are both kind of worried about me. I mean, not to the point where they’re sending me wine and stuff. But I’m getting constant check-ins.”

  I can see a bit of discomfort playing through Hayes’s eyes, probably due to the mention of an ex who’s still in the picture. “I think it’s great you have people who care about you.”

  Oh, Hayes, I think. You don’t really mean that. But I’ll give you a point for the good-guy act.

  “We broke up a year ago. I did the breaking up, actually. All I know is my past needs to stay in my past. And I’m desperate for a new beginning right now.”

  His expression brightens as if he can read between the lines. “So why did you break up with him?” I’d be asking the same question if I were him, especially since I’m guessing he’s not looking to walk into the baggage claim area with me, even though I’m dragging around a number of suitcases these days.

  “Blake had some issues with us being together. He said Tanner had bad intentions, and that I was just another notch on his bedpost. But I thought it was just a bogus reason to break up his sister and best friend. Jealousy maybe? The whole thing made him so upset and angry that I put family first and ended things with Tanner.” I sigh and take a long sip of the wine. “But you know, out of respect for Blake, no matter how many times in the past year he’s asked me to reconsider, I haven’t given in. I can’t.”

  Hayes nods and takes a sip of his wine. “Shows the kind of person you are—loyal and honest. You put your family’s feelings first. It’s noble.”

  I place my glass down on the table, “Yeah.” I’m not sure I’d call myself noble right now.

  He wraps his arm around my neck, pulling me in a little closer. “We’ve all got a past, Blondie-locks,” he says, placing his glass down next to mine. “My ex-fiancé is a train wreck who left me for some yuppie country-singer wannabe.” I give him a curled lip. “She left her ring on a piece of notebook paper saying, she needed to ‘figure things out.’”

  This little tidbit twists at my insides. “Ouch.”

  He laughs, more cynically than cheerfully. “Life kind of dumped on me this past year. After she left, I did nothing but focus on work and becoming a detective, the thing I had been working toward since I started at twenty-two. Everything was getting better, and I was damn good at what I did. When the kid got shot and died in my arms, I decided I needed a sabbatical from life. I obviously lost my ability to focus.” He sucks in a sharp breath. “And that’s where I am now.”

  “Have you considered running away to Mexico?” I ask with a soft laugh. “Because I have.” And I mean that. God, I’ve wanted nothing more than to run away. After this whole thing with Tanner last year, then the stress in the kitchen, and now Blake and the fire, running away seems like a viable option. The only viable option.

  “Way too many times,” he says. “I’ve thought of moving, I’m just not sure where I want to go. So, I’m still here for now.”

  A mish-mash of broken pieces, I think. That’s what we are.

  I take another sip of my wine and stand up. “Show me the rest of your place.”

  He laughs, a real laugh and turns to look at me. “You sound like a dude, trying to work your way into my bed.”

  “Call it what you want. I just want to see the rest of your place.” I give him a teasing smirk, which is all it takes for him to stand up and pull me with him.

  He opens the first door on the right side of the hall. He pokes his head in and flips the light on. “My office, which is out of commission for the moment.” I move past him, walking in, curious about what I might see. His desk is lined with photographs and note cards. His wall is covered with corkboards filled with maps that contain names and locations. A web of string is woven around pins connecting people to places. I guess it’s exactly how I’d imagine a detective’s office to look. But neater.

  He flips the light back off and pulls me out. “And this is the bathroom.” The walls are heather grey; towels and bathmat are a bleached white. Everything is in its spot just like the rest of the condo—everything except a towel draped over the tub.

  For a second I imagine him wearing it.

  “And where does the magic happen?” I ask, nudging his shoulder.

  “I just moved in about six months ago after I sold my house. There’s been no magic here,” he points to the shower, “out there,” he points to the living room, then he flips the light on in his bedroom, “or in here.”

  “Interesting,” I say, moving past him into his room. As I walk into the oversized bedroom, I look at the pictures lining his bureau. They’re all of a little girl. “Is she your niece?” I ask naively.

  He drops his hands into his pocket and plops down onto the edge of his bed. “That’s my daughter.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  I TRY NOT TO LOOK shocked as I lean over the bureau, looking at the pictures. She’s cute. Springy blond pigtails, large green eyes—and those dimples…his dimples.

  I turn to look at him, finding him staring at the pictures too, admiring her. A lump forms in my throat, making it hard to swallow. He has a daughter. “What’s her name?”

  A smile twitches at his lips when he says, “Her name was Ella.”

  Was. Meaning: in the past. Meaning…

  My heart falls into my stomach. “What…?” is all I can manage to say.

  “She died.” There’s no emotion on his face. Like it isn’t new.

  He pulls me over to the bed to sit down beside him. “I’m fine. I don’t want you to worry about it. Okay?” I want to ask when she died, how it happened, and how he’s even surviving right now. But he would have offered up that information if he wanted me to know.

  “I’m so sorry.” With each new bit of information, I feel like I’m looking further into Pandora’s box.

  “Want to run away yet?” he asks.

  “I want to stay.” But I need to put this out of my mind somehow.

  “I want you to stay too. And I want to drop this and pretend it didn’t come up.” That sounds easy to do, but I’m not sure I can just forget about this. “Felicity,” he wraps his hand around my shoulder, pulling me into his side, “you have to understand what you do to me—for me. You make the pain go away. You’re the first person to make me feel something else. I like it. A lot. I want more of it. More of you. It’s like you’re giving me air to breathe after being suffocated for so long.” His words are like little electrical currents zapping my nerves. He just described exactly what he does for me.

  I make him forget, the same way he makes me forget.

  “I don’t want to talk any more,” he says.

  “Me neither,” I say, almost whispering. I want to forget. I want to forget my pain—and his.

  His knee bounces for a few seconds, and then I’m thrown backward onto his bed, his arm scooped behind my back, dragging me up to his pillow. In two blinks, I’m beneath him, his eyes boring into mine. My heart is in my throat, and eagerness boils through my blood. “I told you seven dates,” he says in a growl from his throat.

  I can’t respond. I can only nod. But I don’t agree. Can he see it on my face?

  He sighs with disdain, “Rules can’t be broken.”

  Then, his mouth is all over mine.

  If rules can’t be broken
, why is he kissing me like this? His lips caressing mine as his teeth graze my lips like the tip of a feather. Electrifying.

  His hand closes around my leg, slowly moving it up toward my hip. His fingertips slip under the hem of my shirt. The contact of his skin against mine pulsates through my core. We’re fully clothed, yet I feel naked, exposed and needy. His hand continues up to my breast, leaving a trail of heated sensations as it goes. His other hand pushes my shirt up to my neck as he lowers his lips to my stomach, the tip of his tongue drawing a line up to the seam of my bra. Both hands grip my waist now, making me feel so small. He breathes hot air against my neck; his hands slide up and press my arms above my head as his knee fits between my legs. He leans only half of his weight into me, but I want to feel him. All of him.

  I pull my arms out of his grip, reaching down until my fingertips graze the waist of his jeans.

  And then everything stops.

  He pulls his lips from my neck and stares down at me with a drunken look in his eyes. “If those hands of yours touch me, I will lose all restraint.”

  “Then lose it,” I say, breathless.

  “No. I need you to digest everything before we go further,” he says, bringing me back to reality and the shitty hands we were both dealt. Does he think I won’t last for seven dates? Is that what this is about?

  I sit up, straightening my shirt and brushing the loose strands of hair out of my face. “You make it sound like there won’t be a seventh date.”

  He works his fingers through his hair, ruffling it up, which of course only makes him look hotter. And like he just had sex. “I can’t do the casual thing. I used to, but I just can’t any more.” And now I feel like a slut. Awesome. “You’re just so damn beautiful, Felicity. You’re like no one I’ve ever met.” He laughs silently, in a crazed sort of way. “I mean, look at you: your life is falling apart too, and yet you still have your head on straight—aside from the whole lying in a dark park alone at midnight thing. I suppose I could learn a thing or two from you. I mean, you’re honestly something else, and I’m lucky you’ve even considered going on a couple of dates with me, never mind sticking around.” Isn’t that the person I’ve always been—the one with her head on straight?