by King, Asha
Though she’d nosed around the police station and morgue for years, her stomach still turned sickly reading the details. By all rights it was a gruesome scene, the worst Stirling Falls had seen in recent memory. And there was the husband, Devin Archer, practically tied up in a neat little bow for police. People didn’t trust him, the wife had kicked him out. He didn’t even have a confirmed alibi—home drunk was his excuse.
But there was no physical evidence, and the house itself looked as though it had been broke into. Screen door damaged, a chair knocked over in the kitchen, water still running in the overflowed sink, dishes broken. Some money and jewelry was missing, but that was it—it almost looked like the theft was an afterthought.
Her heart broke for Adam through all this, with the glimpses of him caught in the middle, seeking justice that was never found. No wonder he didn’t talk about it much and even Danyiah didn’t push him on the subject.
She flipped to the next page, eyes settling on the first sentence of a witness statement when the porch light flicked on at the house. She killed the penlight, ducked down, and waited.
Archer locked up the house and headed for the truck.
Tash tossed the file folder onto the passenger seat where it knocked over the remnants of Chinese takeout, kept her head low and waited with her hand on the keys in the ignition. Archer pulled down the long driveway, kicking up dust as he went, and turned into the rural route that led in the direction of town.
She knew the road well—it went a few miles before there were any turns. After giving it two minutes, she started the engine and pulled out, heading after him.
Once the truck was in sight, she backed off a bit and held far enough away that it didn’t look like she was riding his ass, then pulled out her cell phone and hit record.
“It’s 10:43 p.m. on Saturday,” she said in a low voice, eyes on the back of Archer’s struck. “I’m pursuing the target. He’s spent the day at the secondary house, presumably working. He’s now headed toward town.” She hit pause, not entirely certain what else to say at this point—there was no sense rehashing what she’d read from Ingram’s files. Again, she hit record. “After purchasing paint thinner and a landline phone at the hardware store this afternoon, he was brought to the police station. An unknown amount of time was spent there; I caught up with him at the secondary house.” And I have nothing else to say. She liked keeping records of everything but it was really boring sometimes.
She followed Archer as he cut around town. Right when she expected him to keep going, he made a right onto Prince Street. Out here the houses started to thin out and farmland increased, the very edge of the downtown core. A handful of people were on the streets, especially as they drew closer to the bar Eight’s. Of the drinking holes in town, it was the farthest on the seedy scale.
When Archer’s truck slowed to park across the street from the bar, Tash kept going and swung around back. She didn’t head into Eight’s often but she knew the place well enough to predict the back door would be open.
And it was—as she parked around back, she glimpsed a couple of men in a shouting match and another holding open the rear door with a small crowd leaning out and cajoling.
Tash grabbed her purse, flew out of the car, scrambled back to lock up, then raced across the rarely used parking lot for the bar door. Classic rock blared and smoke filled the air even before she reached it.
A smile got her through the door and past the people watching the escalating fight. Eight’s was dimly lit with Christmas tree lights running the length of the hallway. Scuffed up doors were on either side of her, some leading to bathrooms and others the staff areas. She clutched her purse tight to her side and stepped swiftly down the corridor of stained once-white tile. The walls were wood-paneled, seventies style and scraped deeply with knife-carved graffiti. A cloud of smoke hung high above her head and she swallowed a cough. Though not a smoker herself, she hung out with enough people who were—she could fake it, just this once, if it meant not making a spectacle of herself.
The hall opened to the main room of the bar. Wide archways left and right led to additional rooms, one with a jukebox that didn’t work and the other with a pair of pool tables. Tash went straight for the bar instead, climbing onto a stool of split-vinyl repaired with electrical tape. She didn’t know this particular bartender but batted her eyelashes at him anyway and ordered a chocolate stout.
Only while she was waiting did she realize she wasn’t particularly dressed for semi-undercover work trailing her target to a bar. Still in her cotton crop pants, a tank top, and tennis shoes, she looked a little preppy for Eight’s. There was nothing she could do about that but from now on she’d maybe dress in layers and keep backup shoes in the car.
The bartender slid her drink to her just as the front door open. While she didn’t look, a hush fell over the room, and the atmosphere prickled with awareness. Clearly most of the people there knew it was Devin Archer, and as whispering took up, anyone who hadn’t kept up to date with small town gossip was swiftly being informed.
Tash didn’t turn, taking a sip of her frothy beer and acting oblivious. Men parted from the bar a moment before a figure stepped into her peripheral vision, sliding into a barstool two seats away.
“Jack D, on the rocks,” Archer called.
The bartender eyed him for a moment, then seemed to think the better of arguing and reached for a glass.
A package crackled and lighter clicked.
“Hey.” The bartender tapped on the non-smoking sign above the array of liquor.
Archer sighed and tossed a crumpled ten on the counter. The bartender tapped the sign again and when an additional bill wasn’t tossed down, he returned to filling the drink. Her target grumbled and stuffed his cigarette pack back in his pocket.
Tash couldn’t resist, speaking though she still stared ahead. “I warned you.”
He chuckled grimly. “You didn’t say how much extra.”
“Starts at twenty if they like you.”
“So upwards of fifty for me.”
She didn’t respond, taking a long drink of her beer. The bartender served Archer his drink, took the ten, and produced change.
The bar was still quiet, all the laughter and shouts from earlier falling to whispers. Music blared, vocals near intelligible with the bass thrumming. At last Tash looked around.
All the patrons stood around the perimeter of the room, watching. For a group of mostly men who had their share of mug shots, they all had a problem with Archer’s presence.
“Ever get the feeling you’re not welcome somewhere?” he said in a low voice.
“Nope, never. Must just be you.”
He scooped up his glass, ice clinking together as he took a sip. “Think they’ll stop staring if I get a table?”
“They’ll at least be more likely to come up to the bar. So you’ll have drunk people staring.”
Archer stood, moved closer to her side. “Join me.”
Play it cool, play it cool—just say no, you can’t. Go wait in your car. Because he is your target and likely a killer.
He moved toward a table across the bar without awaiting her response. She stared a moment longer, then gathered up her drink and followed. For the moment, he didn’t know who she was and she could play dumb with regards to him—maybe she’d find out where he hung out or how long he’d be in town.
Patrons shifted restlessly up to the bar in Archer’s absence, posturing and grumbling, looking back at him frequently. Tash sped up and slid into the seat opposite Archer as he sat.
He set down his glass and extended his hand. “Devin.”
At last she allowed herself a long, appraising look at him. Five o’clock shadow had settled in, dusting his sculpted jaw. He’d left the hat at home but otherwise dressed casually in a black T-shirt and worn jeans as he had earlier that day. He leaned back in his seat, stretched out, and she glimpsed cowboy boots.
“Natasha.” She accepted his hand, his long, callous-tipped fin
gers wrapping around hers. He held her hand a moment before releasing it and her arm was suddenly rubbery, fingers fumbling as she grasped her drink again. She sipped her beer in silence. If Adam found out about this, she...she just didn’t even want to think about it. But the air was charged between them and she shifted her eyes from his steady stare as she felt a blush work up her cheeks.
“What color did you pick?”
“Haven’t yet. Leaning toward light blue. Office setting and that.”
“I see.”
Little by little, Eight’s was shifting back to normal, men stepping up to order more drinks. The crack of pool cues hitting balls resumed and muffled voices grew louder. She glanced around the room and didn’t catch anyone looking at them.
“So you don’t know who I am.”
Natasha blinked innocently at Archer. “You just said you were Devin.”
He eyed her silently, his calloused fingers tracing the rim of his glass. “Police gave me a bit of a talking to today because I threw that guy onto his car last night—I thought you called them.”
Whether it was a total lie to cover up them questioning him over the murder or just a partial one and they did know he tossed Gordie Martin around, she didn’t know. “Nope, wasn’t me. But Gordie got on things early this morning, getting his ducks in a row—he must’ve.”
“So what kind of office is it that you’re painting blue?”
Oh, I’m a private investigator, and of course I am not following you. “I work in security.”
A wry smile tugged at his lips. “Which involves sitting in trees?”
“Sometimes. Other times it involves sitting in an office I’d like to paint blue. What do you do?”
“At the moment, I’m renovating an old house.”
Interesting he didn’t specify his old house. Tash played dumb, of course, and feigned interest. “And when you’re not renovating an old house?”
“I’ve worked in the city for the past few years, in a restaurant.”
“Waiter?” She already knew, of course.
“Cook.”
Even knowing that, she definitely wasn’t faking intrigue, because it was difficult reconciling a rugged outdoorsy type to that. “Really?”
“Head of the kitchen staff. Created the menu, the recipes.”
Wow, she had not been expecting that based on what little she knew. “Color me impressed. I’m lucky I can dial for takeout; if I had a phone phobia, I’d never eat.”
“It can’t be that bad.”
Tash rolled her eyes. “I burn Kraft Dinner.”
Archer chuckled. “Okay, that’s pretty bad.”
“See? Hopeless.”
“I’ll have to cook you a proper meal sometime.”
Oh, boy. She gulped down several mouthfuls of her drink, the chocolate stout suffusing her cheeks with heat and extra color.
“You know you’re pretty when you blush.” It was technically a question but he spoke it as a statement, and downed more of his drink.
“Actually, I don’t know—I don’t blush often enough to know the difference.”
“Maybe we should do something about that.”
Flirting. Jesus Christ. Adam’s going to kill me. I will be banned from the house and poor, very pregnant Dani will have to sneak out a window to visit me.
The rock blaring over the speakers fading, changing from unfamiliar noise to a tune she knew. The dulcet tones of plucked guitar strings opened, Mick Jagger crooning the beginnings of “Angie.”
Tash decided to slow down on the alcohol and set her glass down. Instead she drummed her fingers on the tabletop to the beat of the song, casually glancing away from his steady eye contact.
“Dance?”
She sharply looked back at him, cocking a brow. “You’re seriously looking for trouble in here tonight, aren’t you?”
Archer gave her a half-shrug, eyes glittering with mischief. “Well, darlin’, maybe I want to see you blush some more.” He extended his hand across the table to her.
While she didn’t sense anyone in the bar looking at them right then, she knew they would the moment they stood to dance. Trouble was spelled all over Devin Archer’s face, but even then she had to remind herself she was only here to observe him because everyone thought he was a killer. Her stomach flipped at the thought, at remembering crime scene details and everything she’d read that day. He didn’t look like a killer, but then she supposed killers never did.
It likely wouldn’t be long until he figured out who she was, that she was friends with Adam. She might as well keep up the charade in the meantime.
Tash accepted his hand, her fingers lacing with his. Electricity seemed to rush through the skin-to-skin contact, a giddy thrill alighting her veins. On its heels was shame, knowing that no matter how she tried to keep a clear head, prior to learning who he was she’d felt a strong attraction to him.
They both rose and his grip on her hand remained firm, almost demanding. There wasn’t a formal place to dance in Eight’s; the few times she’d been in there, she’d never actually seen anyone take to the floor. It could’ve been that men outnumbered women in there, and it wasn’t the sort of place where a pair of guys got cuddly. With nowhere in particular to go, Archer merely took a few steps from the table and tugged her to him, simultaneously demanding and playful.
Her breath caught as his arm came around her and free hand settled low on her hip. Her other hand he raised, fingers still twined together, and rested it against his chest. She reached up, tentatively putting her other hand on his shoulder, and leaned close as they began to move.
His scent enveloped her, the spice of an aftershave mixed with a hint of tobacco. The weight of his hand on her hip kept her nearly pinned to him, trapped. And if she hadn’t heard his name yet, she would’ve welcomed it, yielded to him. But as it was, all eyes in the bar were on them again and there was no getting away from precisely who this man was.
Archer’s dark blue eyes were steady on hers, intense and difficult to look away from. Heat rushed through her cheeks again and his lips lifted slightly—he certainly did enjoy her blush, as promised. She struggled to find something to say, to break the silence between them and relieve the heated tension wrapping around their bodies, but came up with nothing.
His hand on her hip tightened, thumb tracing circles just above the waistband of her jeans, beneath her tank top. Warmth spread through her at the contact and she clamped her mouth closed to prevent a gasp from escaping. It was just built up hormones and sexual tension, that was all. She didn’t date anymore and wasn’t into one night stands; it was very, very rare anyone got this close to her. Especially looking at her the way Archer was, his eyes heavy-lidded and glassy with want. And all the rational thoughts she’d been pushing to the forefront of her mind faded completely.
A shadow cut across her peripheral vision. Tash looked up and to the right, as did Archer, at the burly man in a plaid shirt standing beside them. He had to be at least six-four and had arms like tree trunks.
Tash tensed, her grip tightening on Archer involuntarily.
Archer, however, was entirely relaxed, as if he either didn’t notice or didn’t care about the violence humming in the air around the intruder. “Can I help you?”
“You can get the hell out of here,” the guy growled.
Like the killer he supposedly was, Archer looked unfazed by the threat implicit in the other man’s voice. But he slowed their dancing and his jaw twitched, anger clearly building.
If a bar fight broke out, she’d get hauled in as a witness. This would go badly.
“You’re not wanted here, murderer.”
Her gaze darted back and forth between them as Archer abruptly stiffened and stilled his feet. His height didn’t quite match the man who had interrupted them, but he was every bit as intimidating with the hard gleam to his eye.
When Archer released her, Tash took a step toward the table, grasping her purse. Now was not the time to announce she was armed, but she to
ok some security in knowing backup waited close.
Archer glared a moment longer, then pushed past the other bar patron, thrust open the door, and stomped outside.
All eyes fell to her. A blush rolled up her neck to her cheeks, her face feeling hotter than it had trekking through the sun all day. She fumbled to pull some bills from her pocket and dropped them on the table.
“Hey.” The man grasped her forearm, drawing her to halt before she could get far. “Do you have any idea who the hell he is?”
Tash leveled him with a look. “He’s a paying customer this bar just lost.”
“Good riddance,” someone said with a snort behind her.
She jerked her arm from the man’s grip, pushed past him, and slipped out the front door after Archer.
Chapter Seven
Devin popped a cigarette in his mouth and flicked the lighter. Orange burned brightly and lit the end of the cancer stick. He sucked in a breath of smoke, nicotine flooding his system.
After that first drag, he was able to speed his steps and think clearly again, but instead of heading for his car, he turned and leaned against the front of the bar, the corner of the brick building biting into his back. Why he didn’t just leave, he couldn’t say—maybe because he was angry enough that he knew he shouldn’t be behind the wheel of his car right then.
Maybe he was...waiting.
Which was stupid, he knew—he felt like goddamn idiot for it. After that display, well...
And are you surprised? What the hell were you thinking?
And that was just it, he wasn’t thinking for once. He was feeling. Feeling...something—a spark, like a charge running through his body and dragging him to consciousness after he’d been asleep. Just the touch of her hand had his heart thumping, and the darkening of her cheeks in a blush made him hard just thinking of all the things he’d like to do to her. It was foolish but—
The door opened.
Devin glanced right and saw Natasha step outside, her arms crossed at her chest and purse clutched tight. She looked around until her eyes hit his.