Red Nights

by Shari J. Ryan

  * * *

  Tanner hasn’t said much to make me feel better. Instead, I’ve downed a few more vodkas while he’s been nursing his beer, staring through the TV in front of us. Maybe he’s realizing he shouldn’t even associate himself with me. I’d probably be thinking that if I were him too. At least it’s almost eleven. I have to go meet Hayes—a very good reason to end this uncomfortable silence.

  I pull my coat off the back of my stool and slip my arms through the sleeves. I throw some money down on the bar, covering my drinks and Tanner’s. “I can take care of it,” he says, reaching into his back pocket.

  “No, really. I called you down here. Let me.” I stand up and reach around him, giving him a quick hug.

  “Need a ride back to the restaurant? I don’t like you walking around down here by yourself.” I briefly consider his offer and then think about Hayes waiting for me. My head is on straight—the vodka didn’t have the effect it was supposed to—and I’m guessing it won’t go over well if they see each other. Not that they know each other. But it’s just a bad idea.

  “No, I’m okay. Hayes is picking me up at the restaurant.” I guess the vodka did work a little. Shit! I’ve kept this whole dating thing quiet with Tanner. It’s awkward talking to my ex about the person I’m now sleeping with. Not that he knows I’m sleeping with him, but, yeah.

  “Hayes?” he calls me out. “The guy you’re dating?”

  “Yeah,” I sigh. So. Awkward. I want to slap myself. Why did I even call Tanner down here?

  Oh right. Because I’m a fucking suspect in my own brother’s death. The vodka was supposed to make me forget. It didn’t. Killed my filter, though.

  “He’s being good to you and shit, right?” Tanner asks, finally slugging his beer that has to have gone warm by now.

  “It’s only been a week, but yeah, things are good. You don’t need to worry about me.” I don’t think it matters if I tell him not to worry. I get the feeling he still loves me, and a part of me still loves him, but I can’t go there.

  “Well, you know where to find me if you need anything. And let me know what happens with the investigation.”

  I push my stool in and take one last sip. “I will. Thanks for meeting me. You’re a good friend.”

  I pull my coat around me tightly, clutching my purse under my arm as I retrace my steps back to the restaurant. I hardly remember running down this street. It’s the type of street I would usually avoid. I definitely wasn’t paying attention.

  * * *

  By the time I walk up to Sur Le Feu, the lights are all off. The cars are gone, and Hayes is sitting out front. When he notices me walking from the other direction, his brows rise. The window rolls down and he leans out. “I thought you got out at eleven?” I do—or I would have, at least, if I’d had the balls to hear Grant out. Instead, I ran. Something else I don’t typically do.

  I climb into the passenger seat, settling myself inside and pulling the seatbelt over my shoulder. “I can’t handle shiiit any more,” I say, noticing a slur within my words.

  “Are you drunk?” he asks.

  “Maybe,” I giggle.

  He doesn’t look amused. Instead, I see him look in the direction I was walking from. Probably trying to figure out where I was. “What can’t you handle?”

  “It turns out Aspen was screwing someone I might know. And she was doing it in the freezer at work. Who has sex in a freezer? I don’t know. Maybe it’s fun. We should try that.”

  “You want to have sex in a freezer?” His dimples deepen with a hint of excitement, matching the cute grin growing across his lips. He’s cute. He’s sexy. Hayes Peyton is like a mind-numbing escape from reality.

  “Maybe,” I say, leaning over, placing a kiss on his neck. A small groan rumbles from him and makes me want to break into the restaurant and find out what the freezer is really like.

  After a minute, he clears his throat and pulls out of the lot. “So you left work because Aspen was having sex in the freezer?” he asks.

  I shrug. “I don’t know if I’m ready to handle work yet. Aspen was sort of the icing on the cake. I thought I needed to get back as quickly as I could, so I’d have something to focus on, and I still think that’s the case, but I had a moment tonight where I just lost it. So I ran to a bar down the street. I thought maybe some liquor might lessen the stress. I asked Tanner to meet me so I could tell him about the investigation—”

  “Tanner? You’re ex, right?” He’s asking as if just clarifying for name’s sake, but his adam’s apple dips into the crook of his neck. “Did he come down?”

  “Yeah. I just figured since he’s Blake’s best friend—uh, was Blake’s best friend—I should tell him what’s going on. I don’t want you to think anything of it.” I messed up. The alcohol is wearing off and I’m starting to feel like a moron.

  “You don’t have to explain it to me.”

  “There’s nothing going on with Tanner.” It doesn’t matter how many different ways I say this, I can see I’ve painted some kind of image in his head. And it isn’t a pretty one.

  “I believe you,” he laughs, a weird, forced laugh. “I know you have a past. We met each other a week ago, and I don’t expect you to pretend you don’t have a life outside of whatever it is we’re doing.”

  What exactly is it we’re doing, anyway?

  I’m not sure I have a clue.

  * * *

  I asked him at least a dozen times if he was upset with me. He told me he wasn’t, but he wasn’t convincing. We sat in his truck for a while, long enough for the haze in my head to clear. Neither of us said much, and I have a sinking feeling I screwed things up. Did I really need to text Tanner? I didn’t want Hayes to think I was needy and weak—weak enough that I had to go running out of work. Straight to my ex. Only I could mess things up this quickly.

  He hardly even kissed me good-bye. It was like that quick peck an old married couple might share before going to bed. He said he’d call me tomorrow. I hope he does.

  The alcohol has completely worn off now, and I’m sitting on Aspen’s couch, shaking and desperate for a cigarette. Except now I know there’s a possibility that my little smoking habit may have been the reason for the fire. I can’t knowingly go outside and engage with the enemy. Which ultimately means I will sit here, sweating and shaking for the next however many hours it takes to calm down. If you asked me last week if I was addicted, I would have said no. I didn’t think I could become addicted to cigarettes if I only smoked one a day. It’s why I never allowed myself more than one. Now I’m realizing, it only takes one.

  It was my fault.

  Being awake at three in the morning has its advantages, one of them being that I get to catch Aspen sneaking in. She’s tiptoeing, trying to figure out how to lock the deadbolt without it making a loud clinking noise. “I’m awake,” I say. I never went to sleep; I’m still plopped down in the middle of the couch.

  She jumps. “Shit, Felicity! You scared the crap out of me.” Falling back against the door, she presses her palm into her chest. “Why are you still awake?”

  “Couldn’t sleep,” I say, tapping the couch and waving her over.

  She plops down next to me. “I was with Jen. We closed the bar.” She drops her head down onto my shoulder. “After I was so nicely kicked out of Sur Le Feu, I was just feeling kind of blah, so she met me at Murphy’s. It was karaoke night and yeah, I may not have a voice in the morning.” She does sound hoarse, and drunk. I can definitely smell the rum on her breath. She can probably still smell the vodka on mine.

  “Sounds like you had a nice time,” I say, trying to seem happy for her. In reality, I just want to know who Grant caught her with.

  “Aspen,” I begin.

  “Oh,” she shouts. “Did you see lover boy? Things must be starting to heat up with you two.” She lifts her head, allowing me to see her twisted grin and her wiggling eyebrows.

  I can’t stop the smile from stretching across my lips. Things definitely got hot today.
Except, I’m pretty sure I cooled everything down tonight. And with that thought, my smile slips away. “Yeah,” I sigh. “He’s uh…he’s pretty incredible.”

  She claps her hands together with excitement. “When do I get to meet him?”

  If he ever actually calls me again, I think. “Soon. I promise.”

  Her arms swing around my neck “Yay!” she sings.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Are you trying to figure out how to sixty-nine? It’s hard, but I have some good techniques you can try.” She looks up at me, puckering her lips. “Kidding. What’s up?”

  I can’t help but shake my head at her. The things that come out of her mouth shouldn’t surprise me any more, yet, they always do. “We can go over that later,” I say. “Will you tell me who you were in the freezer with?”

  A record scratch is the only way to describe this moment. She pushes off of the couch, her stone-cold eyes widen as she stares into mine. I don’t think she’s even breathing. What’s the big deal? “I’m…” her hands tangle in her long hair. I want to know what the big deal is. “It was Ralph,” she spits out.

  Ralph? “Rat-tail Ralph?” I want to laugh and maybe crawl out of my skin. Ralph’s the dishwasher, and I’m pretty sure he showers once a month. And he’s got the whole rat-tail thing going on—a shaved head with this tiny ponytail at the nape of his neck. I’m totally skeeved out hearing this. “Whyyy?” I ask.

  She looks around, tucking her hair behind her ears. “Would you still be friends with me if I told you I had a thing for rat-tails?” She moves in closer, pouting her bottom lip. “I’m sorry I put you in the position to can me. He wasn’t worth it.”

  “Thank you for saying that. Like I said, I fought for you.” She falls back into me. “We need a girl’s night tomorrow night. I miss us.”

  “You mean, you miss living vicariously through moi?” She nudges her shoulder into mine.

  “I’m not so sure about that any more,” I laugh. “Grant was about to tell me about Ralph tonight, but I didn’t let him. I didn’t know what he was going to say. So I left. I legit walked out on my shift.”

  “You should have seen the look on his face when he walked in on us.” She mimics the deer-in-headlights look. I’m guessing he was probably grossed out.

  “Well, I’ll go in and let him know I know everything tomorrow. Hopefully, he doesn’t want to get rid of me now too. Walking out during my shift probably wasn’t the best idea.” Seriously. If I lose this job, I’m moving to Mexico. Or Jamaica. I’ll count my losses there.

  “I’m sure if you just apologize, he’ll be cool,” she says. “He knows what you’re going through. I wouldn’t even bring me up again. It’s obviously a sore subject.”

  When Aspen goes to bed, I grab my phone, trying to distract myself from the cigarette screaming at me from my purse. I’d like to think sleep would help, but I don’t know how to sleep with the urge.

  I’m sure Hayes is asleep, but this heaviness in my chest is eating away at me.

  Me: I feel horrible.

  Shit. Stupid trigger finger hit send. I’m going to feel a lot worse if I find out I just woke him up. I don’t know if he keeps his phone on or not, but I’m guessing it’s probably on his nightstand. After a couple of minutes, of feeling a little more hopeful that I didn’t wake him up, my heart stops when I see he’s typing something. And it’s taking forever.

  Hayes: Don’t worry about it. Really. Get some sleep.

  Shit. Shit. Shit. Why did I just do that? I can feel the iciness through the text message. I did just text him at—shit—four a.m.?

  It’s four a.m.

  I surrendered to the cigarette, the rest of the pack, actually. It was my final good-bye to the death stick. Then I watched the sun rise from the front steps. I never realized how much a rising sun looks like the actual ball of fire it is. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to understand how something as beautiful as what makes up the sun, can destroy so much, and yet leave the sky looking as picturesque as it does every day.

  It must be close to seven when I feel my phone vibrating in my sweatshirt pocket. I pull it out—my heart awakens at the sight of Hayes’s name on my display. My hands are shaking as I open the message…

  Hayes: First—do you sleep? Because I try to.

  Me: I’m so so so sorry. I was out of my mind last night.

  Hayes: Second—I was bothered by the whole Tanner thing. And while I shouldn’t have been, I guess I had already counted my eggs before they hatched. My problem. Not yours. I still like you and stuff…

  I think I’m happy he’s saying this. I knew he was mad, and I’d rather him say it so I can—I don’t know—keep apologizing until I’m blue in the face or fix it or whatever. Because I will. I hate that I upset him. Whether I’ve known him for a week or a year, it was a shit thing to do.

  Me: Eggs before they hatched?

  Hayes: Hungry?

  Me: Starved. And I still like you and stuff, too.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  HAYES INVITED ME to his condo. He’s been busy whipping up eggs, bacon and pancakes. “You have something to prove, don’t you?” I ask, getting settled on the stool at his kitchen island.

  “I may never look as cute as you in an apron, Blondie-locks, but I can cook breakfast like no one’s business.” I’m marveling at the speed and precision with which he mixes the eggs. To a chef, the visual of guy with a beater couldn’t be hotter. “I’ve been thinking about your case.”

  My case? The thing I’ve been diligently trying to avoid? The fact that someone thinks I may have done the unthinkable? “Oh?”

  “You didn’t do it,” he says. There isn’t a question in his voice.

  “What do you mean?” I ask, praying he has some logic or fact to back this up. Because anything that pushes me farther from being considered a suspect will make me feel better.

  “A cigarette was not the cause of the fire. Even if you lit your cigarette against the house, it wouldn’t have caused the fire you described. This isn’t your fault, Felicity.” I want to ask him so much. I want to know how he came to this conclusion. How can he be so sure? But mostly, I want to know that the detectives and investigators on this case will prove my innocence as easily. “However,” he continues, “smoking will kill you.” I knew that was coming. “You don’t need that shit. Trust me. I used to smoke a pack a day. When I quit, it was like a blanket of smog being lifted off of my chest. Everything smelled better, tasted better and I felt lighter and healthier.” He plates the eggs and the bacon. “I can help you.”

  By help, he means taking away my cigarettes—my security, then telling me to think calming thoughts whenever I get the urge to smoke. “I don’t know. Blake tried to get me stop a few times.” I walk over to his cabinets, opening up each one until I find a bottle of Tabasco. “Mind if I—?”

  He winks. “The hotter, the better.”

  I nudge his shoulder, turn around and lean back against the counter. “Honestly, I didn’t think I was addicted to them. It was only one a day, more like a hobby than an addiction. It’s just not who I am. But when Blake tried to get me to stop or even when I told myself enough was enough…it never really was enough.” It’s hard to admit it to myself, let alone out loud. But he’s done it; he’ll make for good company. “How did you quit?” I open another cabinet and find powdered sugar for the pancakes. I reach for it as his hands find my hips, his lips find my neck, and my knees go weak.

  “Persistence. Motivation. Perseverance.” Each word muttered softly between kisses expertly placed along my neck. “And sex,” he whispers into my ear in a low hum.

  I whip around and catch the seductive look in his eye. “You used sex to help you quit?”

  “No,” he says, pressing against me and pinning me to the cabinets. “But it could help you.” His lips leave a trail from my ear to my neck, and my head falls to the side, welcoming his every touch. He lifts me up, sliding me onto the counter, pressing himself between my legs in pursui
t of another kiss. “Now, sit still. I’m making you breakfast.” He moves to the stove, continuing with the pancakes.

  “You should flip those.”

  “You just can’t help yourself, can you?” He laughs, pointing the spatula over to the island. “Go sit over there and keep your hands to yourself. They’ll be ready in a second.” I hop down from the counter and reclaim my seat at the island. “Anyway, I won’t if you don’t want me to, but I’d like to help with the investigation. I can get my firm to collaborate with the station.

  “So, I’d be hiring you as my own personal private investigator?”

  “Yeah, something like that.” He places two plates down between us.

  “Okay then. But, there’s one condition.” I take the fork he hands me and stab it into the eggs. “Only if this food is as good as you claim. If it’s not, I don’t know if I can trust your judgment.”

  He nods his head toward my plate. “Go ahead, Chef-Boy-R-You-Snotty.”

  I take a bite, which turns into a few more. Everything is perfect. Impressive. “Not bad, Mr. Peyton.” I take a few more bites. “Where did you learn to cook?”

  “My mother is a chef. Owns a little restaurant in Bristol.” A shit-eating grin stretches across his lips. “So, yeah.”

  I drop my fork, shocked and excited. “Shut up. She does not.”

  “The Clam’s Pearl.” He takes a bite of his eggs, still having trouble clearing his face of that evil little grin of his. “Heard of it?”

  “Definitely!” I exclaim. “I think I may have eaten there even, when I was younger. I hear the crab cakes are excellent.” What are the odds? “What else are you holding back?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  Something has cleared his face of all emotion. He’s suddenly pale. “I’m sorry. Did I say something wrong?” He looks away from me, filling his mouth with more food, chasing it with an entire glass of orange juice. “Hayes?”

  “You didn’t say anything wrong. I just want to eat before it gets cold. Do you want to meet her?”

  “Meet who?” I’m so frazzled by his whiplashing mood, I don’t even know who or what he’s talking about right now.