by Harlow Stone
The lighting outside the door is bright; therefore, it’s easy to make out the unforgettable man on the other side.
Detective Cavanaugh.
Unlocking the door, I swing it open. “That was fast.”
He nods and replies, “Was in the area.” The deep timbre of his voice doesn’t fail to give me goosebumps. “Why didn’t you ask who was on the other side of the door before opening it?” he asks.
I remain silent and point toward the peephole on the door. When he looks in that direction, I take the opportunity to study him.
Same black jacket he was wearing the last time I saw him. A tight grey Henley underneath paired with dark jeans and motorcycle boots. He looks familiar. Then I think of the dirty books Portia has introduced me to; I’m pretty sure this man is on the cover of half of them.
Not waiting for any other reply from me, he turns and heads toward my apartment door. I follow him, feeling safer in his presence, and watch as he pulls a flashlight out of his pocket.
“This light out, last night?” He asks, nodding toward the large marine-style lamp above my apartment door. When I shake my head, he reaches up inside the lamp and gives the bulb a few turns. It comes back on again.
“Broken glass makes noise,” he mumbles.
“Pardon?” I ask.
Squatting down in front of the locks to look at the scrapes on the door, he says, “If they broke the glass, stepping on it would make noise. Turn it, no light—no noise.”
Leaving the stoop, he walks back toward the shop door. “Needs to be finger-printed. Let’s make sure they didn’t enter the apartment.”
A man of few words.
I unlock the rear shop door again and lead him into the building. Turning to head upstairs, he puts a hand on my arm, causing more goosebumps and halting my steps. “Stay behind me.”
Frowning at his request, I do as he says and follow him upstairs. Cavanaugh flips on the lights as he goes, darting around furniture with far too much grace for a man his size. I wait near the island in the kitchen, watching as he flits in and out of the closet, looks under the bed, and pauses to stare at the erotic photo above.
I still love that picture. The man’s hand possessively placed on the bare hip of a woman. The curve of her naked back is smooth and flawless in contrast to his lightly scarred working hand.
Shaking his head mildly, he quickly checks the bathroom before coming back to the kitchen. “I’ll check the terrace,” he mumbles as he walks past me, opening the patio doors to the small rooftop terrace at the back of my apartment. It’s not huge; it’s only about a fifteen-by-fifteen-foot space holding a small outdoor sectional, a small grill, and a narrow table with chairs.
“All clear,” he tells me, closing and locking the patio doors.
“Jesus!” I jump, startled when something touches my leg. Looking down, I see the cat—who has never come upstairs—sitting pretty, as they call it, shooting her evil eyes at Detective Callaghan, who has rushed to my side.
Holding my chest to calm my racing heart, I mumble, “It’s just Pussy.”
I nearly get lost in the Detective’s bright blue eyes when he bends down to my level. Closing my eyes against the rush of attraction, I take a moment to collect myself as he asks, “Come again?”
“Come, Lass. Again!” Locklin shouts in his deep Irish brogue as he pounds me into the headboard.
I gasp, opening my eyes, cursing these pregnancy hormones, which are making me hornier than a cat in heat. “Nothing,” I mumble. “The cat.” I laugh lightly, pointing to the floor. She hisses again when Cavanaugh looks at her. He simply scowls back before nodding.
“No intruders,” He tells me.
I nod back and repeat, “No intruders.”
We stand in an awkward silence. He’s staring everywhere but my eyes, and I’m wondering if I’m supposed to offer him a drink or something. He breaks the silence when he says, “You shouldn’t be alone.”
I cross my arms, nearly offended, and reply, “Plenty of single women live alone and manage just fine, Mr. Cavanaugh.”
He does a shitty job of holding back a scowl and says, “Until the man is caught, you shouldn’t be staying alone. Maybe you can stay with friends?”
I shake my head and move to the stove. Grabbing the kettle, I take it to the sink and begin filling it with water. “I’m not going to impose on my friends’ lives. Wouldn’t it be counterproductive to put more people’s lives in danger if someone is in fact trying to get to me?” Placing the kettle on the stove, I add, “And it’s been almost four months since the accident. Tonight may not even be related to that. Don’t you think if someone wanted to hurt me, they would have done it sooner?”
Crossing his arms against his broad chest, he says, “Or they could be waiting for the appropriate time to strike.”
I laugh condescendingly and shake my head. “That’s insane. What do I have?” I ask, waving my arms around the apartment. “I may have a hefty savings account, but surely it’s not worth killing someone over.”
His face goes from frustrated to pissed off, and in two seconds he’s in my face, piercing blues aimed right at me. “Perhaps you saw something you don’t remember seeing. Maybe you pissed someone off and have no memory of it. The possibilities are endless, Ms. Sloane. Is there something you’re not telling me?”
I swallow and shake my head. “Nothing.”
He studies my face as I push my hair behind my ear and shakes his head as though he’s not sure whether he believes me or not. “I’ll be outside,” he mumbles, close enough to my face that I can smell the mint on his breath. Breathing deeper, I inhale the scent of fresh laundry and man. It’s not the woodsy scent of the man in my dreams, but it’s an aphrodisiac none the less.
Cursing my quivering body and hardened nipples, I shake off the attraction and ask, “Outside?” Not my most clever moment, and I swear he almost smirks before his scowl moves back into place.
“Outside. Parked near the alley. Make sure the doors are locked behind me. Someone will be here soon to print the door.” He turns toward the stairs and adds, “Won’t need you down there for that.”
I watch his retreating form, stunned, until I hear the slam of the door downstairs.
“What an odd man,” I mumble to myself, the kettle starting to whistle on the stove. After making my decaffeinated tea, I take a seat on the sofa and stare out the window at the SUV parked on the street.
Cavanaugh was true to his word: when I go to bed hours later and wake up in the middle of the night, he’s still parked there.
* * *
“What’s up with your partner?” I ask Detective O’Shaunessey the next morning. He came into the shop to tell me there were no prints to be found on the door other than my own. Obviously the intruder was wearing gloves.
Can’t say I’m surprised. Anyone who has watched CSI or any other crime show in the last ten years wouldn’t be stupid enough to not wear gloves.
He scowls before responding, “What do you mean?”
I shrug. “He’s odd, barely speaks, and has a seriously shitty attitude.”
Bryan coughs, trying to fight a smile, and replies, “He’s not much of a people person. Never has been.”
I nod, as if that answers the question. I suppose it doesn’t matter. If he’s good at his job, who cares what kind of attitude he has? I blame the fascination on my libido, which is currently off the charts, and continue rearranging the new dinnerware that just arrived on the shelves.
“Well, thanks for your time, Sloane. I’ll be in touch,” he says as he heads out the door. I don’t bother responding because I don’t have too much hope that he’ll find anything. If Cooper, who has been able to hack just about anything, hasn’t found any answers yet, I don’t have a lot of hope for the Detectives. Cooper was able to find every woman in the world who goes by the name Jerrilyn, and we still don’t have any solid idea of who I am.
It’s frustrating.
Some days it pisses me off more than others
. Days like today, when I’m tired from a lack of sleep and my hormones are running high. I obviously haven’t been laid since I got knocked-up. Top that with all the other drama happening in my life, and my lack of patience is wearing thin.
Or thinner, I suppose.
“It is a nice piece,” says Mr. Grant, the eyeballer of the Maserati couch. “Would look great—”
“In the reading room next to the oak credenza. I know,” Cory mockingly interrupts.
Mr. Grant scowls at him. Cory scowls right back. I don’t blame Cory for being short with him. The old man comes in a few times a month to eye the couch that never sells because it’s so expensive. He then always tells anyone who will listen the story of where it will go and how good it would look if it was his.
But he never buys it.
Even though he could buy out half the businesses on this street.
Apparently, the Maserati, as we call it, is better to be admired on my shop’s floor and never in his house, even though you know he wants the damn thing.
“I don’t appreciate the back talk, young man,” Mr. Grant haughtily says. Cory rolls his eyes.
“Oh for Christ’s sake. Buy the damn couch! Life is short, and sometimes memories are shorter. You want it? Buy it!” I shout before heading toward the break room.
“Thought you said she has amnesia?” the old man grumbles to Cory.
Apparently, Jerri was a bit of a firecracker pre-amnesia.
Post-amnesia, she’s just tired and impatient.
“Cory!” I shout. “We’re doing the theater. Tell Marcus I need a dress.”
Sometimes the best decisions are made under pressure.
Chapter Eighteen
“You sure about this, Love? You know I don’t like when you’re upset,” Marcus asks me as he fastens the back of my strapless dress. I thought he would have come at me with glitz, glamour, and BeDazzle—I couldn’t have been more wrong.
“This isn’t a celebration,” he said. “You’re practically in mourning. Whether he comes or not, you still feel as though you lost something. That something could either be your memories or him, but either way, we’re not here to celebrate. No. We’re here to weep over a divine man who planted that beautiful little creature in your belly.”
“What if it wasn’t him, Marcus? What if I slept with someone else?”
“You didn’t, Love.” He answers, and when I scowl at him, he firmly adds, “You. Didn’t.”
I regard the black, strapless, floor-length dress. It’s really stunning. Tight in the bust. Layers of chiffon and silk flowing over my hips in wispy waves before touching the floor.
It’s lovely.
“I’m not upset, Marcus. A little nervous, maybe. I’m glad they agreed to keep the lighting around me and not on me. But just because they can’t see my face, clearly doesn’t mean I won’t see theirs.” I huff out a breath. “I guess I just don’t like the idea of feeling exposed.”
Grabbing me by the shoulders, he turns me to face him. “Not a soul out there is here to think ill of you. You’re lucky none of them know who you are and where you work because I’m sure the shop would have been bombarded with fan people all rooting for the love story of Jerri and Locklin. People go crazy for that shit.”
He’s not wrong. After the millions of views, Portia had informed me that the unwavering support from people across the country was astounding. The hashtag #LoveLocklin is still going strong, and I admit that the backing from these people warms my heart at times. It’s the other times, when it’s cold at night and my bed is empty, that hurt.
“Correction, it’s not shit. But you know what I mean.” He flaps his hands around, fixing my hair. “You’re a vibrant woman, Love. If he’s worthy of that, he’ll find you.”
I give him a light smile before shaking off the nerves threatening to overtake me. I seem to have been making a lot of last-minute decisions lately, this being one of them. I waited weeks before saying yes to do this . . . two days ago, which gave me little time to prepare—little time to back out.
I go back and forth between being desperate to find Locklin, and being so pissed off at him that I can’t be bothered. Sometimes, I lie in bed, lonely at night, wishing for him to find me. And at other times, I spend endless hours in the shop, doing anything I can to take my mind off him.
I now get what Portia told me months ago: The shop is not my happy place. It doesn’t bring me joy; it makes me content to have a purpose. Perhaps that’s what I’ve done. I’ve drowned myself in work, fallen into old habits, even though I’m not necessarily sure what those habits are. It feels familiar, though. They give me the feeling that this is what I’ve always done when I’m lost or without him.
Drown myself in work.
Keep myself busy enough that I forget, even if for a short amount of time.
“Five minutes,” the stagehand tells us, poking his head into the dressing room. I briefly met the band when we arrived. The lead singer of the rock band—Scarlet Towns—gushed with me about my story, telling me that when the band does their signature shot of whiskey before taking the stage, it will be dedicated to Locklin coming back to me, not their usual play hard salute.
I told her I was grateful; for them to change-up their toast is like asking a baseball player to change his lucky socks.
“Deep breath, Love,” Marcus mutters in my ear as he guides me from the room. He plants a kiss on each of my cheeks before being escorted to his seat with the rest of the crew.
I stand awkwardly in the hallway behind the stage. Closing my eyes, I take a few more deep breaths and smooth my dress over my small baby bump. I’m happy Marcus chose a dress that was flowy and loose in the waist. The last thing I want is someone calling attention to my pregnancy. I’ve had enough drama to last a lifetime, and answering questions about the pregnancy would bring more.
“Ms. Sloane?” A deep voice rumbles behind me. Opening my eyes, I turn slowly to see both Detective O’Shaunessey and Detective Cavanaugh.
I frown. “What are you doing here?”
“You cannot go up there,” Cavanaugh grumbles. O’Shaunessey adds, “Sorry, Ms. Sloane. I know this is coming a little late, but considering we still haven’t found the person who wanted to harm you, we don’t think it’s a good idea for you to put yourself out in the open like this.”
I laugh humorlessly, shaking my head. “You’re joking, right?” Their faces remain stoic and emotionless. “I’ve been driving. I’ve been working. Hell, I even go out at night by myself when the craving for greasy drive-through food hits me. I’ve been exposed. I’ve put myself out there for months, and now you’re telling me, at the last minute I might add, that I shouldn’t put myself out there? You’re telling me I could be putting myself in danger?”
O’Shaunessey remains quiet, but Cavanaugh nods and says, “That’s what we’re saying.”
I scoff. “Give me proof. If you have some proof, I will think about not going out there. But if you don’t have anything, you can turn around and quit wasting my time.”
They share a silent conversation with looks and chin-lifts before O’Shaunessey says, “We have reason to believe someone’s been following you. Although he hasn’t tried anything yet, there have been reports of someone lurking around your neighborhood on and off for the past week.”
I shake my head. “And do you have an arrest? Proof that it was me they were after? Because I can tell you right now I’m alone. A lot. So if someone wanted to do something, they’ve had ample opportunity.”
Cavanaugh tightens his hands into fists, and O’Shaunessey flares his nostrils. “This could be very serious, Ms. Sloane, if this person is following you, especially if he’s the one who cut the brake lines on your Tahoe.”
“Time to take your place, Ms. Sloane,” the stagehand reminds me. I nod to him and turn back to the Detectives. “If what you’re saying is true, then he’s probably already here. Too little, too late, Detectives. I’m going on that stage, with . . . or without your consent.”
“We assumed you were here for the show; we didn’t expect to find you back here. What are you here to do exactly?” Cavanaugh asks.
Straightening my shoulders, I give them one last look. “Saying goodbye.”
* * *
“I’m sure many of you are familiar with the woman about to take the stage,” the lead singer, Scarlet Towns, tells the audience as she seats herself on a stool, acoustic guitar in hand. “You all know my shitty history with love and loss . . .” She pauses, allowing everyone in the small theater to remember her soulmate who was tragically killed.
Clearing her throat, she continues. “So I guess you could say I’m desperate for one with a happier ending.” Giving a hollow smile, she tells the crowd, “The woman attached to the trending hashtag #LoveLocklin is about to sing for us. This woman, who prefers to remain in the shadows tonight, has fought one hell of a battle. She woke up in a hospital room a few months ago with amnesia, and sadly, or perhaps fortunately, the only memories she has are of him.”
I stand in the shadow, the only light on stage beaming down on Scarlet as she finishes my introduction. “I could drone for hours about this woman, how much I’m rooting for her, and the man she can’t seem to find. But instead I’m going to let her finish off this intro and grace you with the soul-crushing song that literally makes my heart ache.”
The light on her dims slightly, and the one behind me brightens. The crowd’s attention shifts to where I’ve been standing the whole time, lost in the shadows. It’s fitting, it seems. And as they focus on my over-exposed form without being able to see my face, I have the urge to tell them that’s exactly how I feel every day.
Overexposed.
A blurry image that won’t seem to focus.
Perhaps the blur at this moment is the wetness in my eyes, but I ignore it and settle on a random face in the crowd, preparing myself for what I feel will be the final goodbye.
* * *
“This is the last time,” I tell them.