by Nicole Helm
“Because no one will let me out of this hellhole.”
Her mouth flattened and she jammed her hands into her pockets. “Well, I need to take your statement.”
“You came all this way to take my statement, princess?”
“Yes. Is your head a little clearer now, or should I wait until morning?”
“My head is just fine,” Grady said, willing the snap out of his tone and failing. “Everything about me is just fine.” To prove it, he slid off the hospital bed and into a standing position.
“Sit back down right this instant,” Laurel demanded, crossing the room as if she was going to push him into bed herself.
“You ain’t in charge of me, Deputy,” Grady returned, folding his arms across his chest and fighting back the dizziness that had taken over him. “The doctor is working on my discharge papers, so I can stand just fine.” He glared down at her, but that scowl she’d been using seemed to fall away as she took in the bandage on his temple.
She looked...defeated. Sad. Guilty.
Hell.
“I just need to get your statement,” she said quietly. “We don’t need to argue.”
“But arguing is what we do best.”
Laurel shook her head faintly, and that weird cloak of sadness didn’t leave her. “Did you get a look at the attacker?” she asked, pulling her ever-present notebook out of her pocket, along with a pen. “Any identifying marks or facial features that might distinguish them from other people? A height, weight or build.”
It galled that he didn’t have any answers, but he couldn’t exactly make any up, so he had to be honest. “No. It was dark and I couldn’t see anything except for the fact he had a gun. Did you guys find it?”
She swallowed and gave a sharp nod, her dark eyes soft and something else. Something he couldn’t recognize no matter how many other emotions on her he could.
“Yes,” she said, her voice rough. “We found it. Ideally it’s traceable and this is over, but...”
“The murderers of the world don’t usually use traceable guns.”
“No, they do not. We also recovered a shoe, which was the weapon that...” Her eyes darted to his bandage again. “Did you have to get stitches?”
“Yeah. Ten. Must’ve been some shoe.”
“It was sharp. Hard-soled.” She inhaled shakily and he didn’t understand what this was. Just guilt over someone hurting him? He wasn’t sure he understood why she should feel that way. Which made it hard to know if he wanted to comfort her or tease her.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, all earnestness and Laurel. Just Laurel, this bastion of right and fighting wrong.
Which answered that question for him. He didn’t want to tease her when she was all soft. “For what?” he demanded a little bit too brusquely.
“I shouldn’t have left you there. I shouldn’t have taken you there at all, but I really shouldn’t have left you with a hurt man completely unarmed. I should have known or predicted he’d double back and... He could’ve killed you, Grady. So easily. He could have killed you both, and I wouldn’t have been able to do anything about it. And that... It was shoddy police work and I’m sorry that you got caught in the middle.”
“See, I just thought it was one of those instances where you did your best but bad things happen because life is unpredictable,” Grady returned gruffly, because he didn’t want her guilt or her apologies. Not when he’d forced her hand, and not when... Well, she had done her best. He was no idiot.
“I should’ve known better,” Laurel said firmly.
“How?”
“Because as a police officer you’re trained to deal with these things. You are trained—”
“You’re trained to know exactly where a murder suspect might go in the dark? In an isolated, enormous park that no one has been to in years and therefore has no brush cleaned up, no identifying markers, no nothing?”
“I am trying to give you an apology,” she said through gritted teeth.
“I don’t want your apology. I was the one who made it impossible for you to go without me, and I’m sure glad I did. Because the fact I could stay with Hank made it certain you didn’t both end up dead.”
“It would’ve been in the line of duty. It would have been my job. It’s not your job. You shouldn’t have been there, and you shouldn’t have gotten hurt, and it’s my fault that you did.”
“How long you going to self-flagellate, because I’m out until you’re done.”
Laurel threw her arms up in the air. “You are insufferable. And ridiculous. I’m trying to be nice and...and...be a good person, and you’re throwing it back in my face!”
Even though his head was starting to throb, Grady couldn’t help smiling. Maybe it was sick, but he sure liked seeing her irritated more than he liked seeing her...contrite or upset or whatever that was.
“I need your statement,” she snapped, hitting her pen against the notebook, eyes flashing angry gold. “Tell me everything that happened once I left.”
To placate her, he did just that. He went through calling 911, and trying to stop Hank’s bleeding. He remembered the paper, but then things started to get a little gray. Not quite linear. There was something about a paper. Hank had a paper?
“You can’t remember?” Laurel asked gently and he scowled at her.
“I remember. Some things. Bits and pieces, but I can’t seem to put it all back together in the right order.”
“I think that’s a fairly common concussion symptom.”
“It’s not a serious concussion.”
“But it is a concussion. And ten stitches.”
“And not your fault. I probably would have gotten knocked around a lot worse if I hadn’t been thinking about you.” Which was not an admission he needed to make, except he was tired. Exhausted. His head hurt, and he didn’t... He didn’t want her guilt or her cop crap. He just wanted her.
“What do you mean you were thinking about me?”
“I was worried about where you had gone, and what might be happening to you, and I was listening for you. I heard a twig break and shuffling of leaves and then I knew someone was there. Which gave me time to prepare and fight back.” But he couldn’t remember much of the fight.
“You don’t have to worry about me,” she said, shoving her notebook and pen into her pocket. “I’m the cop.”
“You’re not invincible because of a badge,” he snapped, wanting to shake some sense into her.
“No, but—”
“Just shut up,” he bit out, because if she spent any more time talking about her line of duty, he was going to end up kissing her until they both forgot their last names.
Which was the number one thing he wanted, and not just because of this night. He couldn’t remember a time he hadn’t wanted a piece of Laurel Delaney, and the events of this night made him tired of pretending.
“I found a scrap of the paper you mentioned,” Laurel said, using that cool cop tone that seriously tested his self-control. “It doesn’t make any sense to me. But I took a picture of it.” She took her phone out of her back pocket and handed it to him.
He looked down at the screen. It really was just a scrap. Two dates listed, then not even two full words after. He knew he’d looked at this. He’d looked at this paper and...
“It’s okay if you don’t remember,” Laurel said gently. “It’ll come to you. In the meantime, we have a shoe, a gun and the first real evidence-related lead we’ve had this whole investigation. And, unless either comes back as being Clint’s, which I find very hard to believe, your brother is off the hook. Which means so are you.”
Off the hook. Because Clint would be proven innocent. It didn’t make him feel any better. In fact, it pissed him right off. “Like hell I am.”
Chapter Eleven
Laurel didn’t think Grady would ever make any sense
to her. He should be relieved. He should be skipping out of the hospital room. Free.
But he was fuming. Fuming.
“Clint isn’t a part of it,” she repeated. Maybe the concussion was making it hard for him to think straight or understand everything properly. “Which means I don’t need your help anymore. At least, there’s no reason for you to help me. Your brother is in the clear. Probably.”
“You really don’t think I have a reason to still be involved in this?” Grady asked incredulously.
“Well—”
“Someone hit me over the head with a shoe and gave me a concussion. It could have been a lot worse, too. So, I am going to be a part of bringing him down.”
“Grady,” she began, doing her best to find a reasonable tone.
“Do not argue with me, princess. I am in this now. No one knocks me out and gets away with it. I’ve got a little revenge to enact.”
“My job isn’t about revenge. It’s about justice, so you wanting revenge can’t—”
“Consider my revenge justice. Now—”
A knock sounded at the door and an older woman in nurse’s scrubs stepped in. “I have your discharge papers, Mr. Carson.” She smiled pleasantly at Laurel. “And good, you have someone who can drive you home.”
Laurel opened her mouth to argue. She should not be driving him home. He needed to call one of his cousins, or his sister or even Clint. Anyone who was not her.
She needed some distance from Grady. No matter if he had revenge or justice on the brain. She had let herself be compromised by all his irritating goading and charming smiles and that kiss, and she had done things she knew went against protocol.
Laurel never went against protocol.
But Grady flashed the nurse a charming smile. “Yes, I got myself a ride home. Now let’s get me out of here.”
“We just have to go over some paperwork, I’ll need a signature, then you’ll be free.” Again the nurse turned to Laurel. “Will you be staying with Mr. Carson overnight?” she asked innocently.
Grady grinned. “Yeah, I think she owes me that.”
Again Laurel opened her mouth to protest, but there was no point in arguing in front of the nurse. There was no point in arguing, period. Grady would get her to do what he wanted. He always seemed to.
So, she would get him home to the Carson Ranch. The other Carsons would kick her out so fast her head would spin, and the fact that idea disappointed her was reason enough to go through it. She needed a Grady-ectomy and stat.
“Here is a list of symptoms you may have for the next few weeks,” the nurse said, handing Grady one of the sheets of papers she’d brought in. “You should avoid driving for at least twenty-four hours and tonight, if you’re sleeping, you should be woken up every two hours to make sure you’re responsive. All of these papers have information on how to deal with a concussion and when to call us, but mostly the main concern is if you’re unresponsive or your symptoms get significantly worse.” She went through the medications Grady could take and rattled off more instructions before letting him sign his release form.
“You are free to leave whenever you’re ready,” the nurse said cheerfully. “Take care of Mr. Carson,” she added to Laurel before striding out of the room.
“Come on, driver. I’m ready to go home.”
“I’m going to take you to the ranch and drop you off with your family,” Laurel said firmly. No matter that looking at the bandage on his head made her want to touch his face. Press her cheek to his chest and listen to his heartbeat.
Maybe she had been hit over the head.
“You’ll drive me to Rightful Claim and take good care of me all through the night,” Grady returned, that sharp, wolfish smile on his face as he gathered his belongings.
What was wrong with her that she wanted that, and so much more? And, worst of all, she always kind of had, but she’d learned to keep her distance, to force her focus elsewhere. But Grady Carson had always been that thing she couldn’t want or have, and so she’d turned it off.
But it was impossible to turn off when he was here all the time, when he’d kissed her, when he was saying ‘take good care of me all through the night’ with that glint in his eye.
She wanted to be him for a second. To say outrageous things and not give a crap. She wanted to be free of all the rules and protocols she’d placed on herself. “I’m pretty sure she said no vigorous activity,” she retorted.
Grady barked out a laugh and she hated the part of herself that was warmed by that. Encouraged. The part of her that wanted to fuss over him and, yes, have a little vigorous activity. It was a lot more than a concussion standing in her way of all that.
“That makes me wonder all kind of things about you, Laurel.”
“I’ll drive you to Rightful Claim, but I’m not your nurse. Someone from your family should come stay with you.” Because she did not trust herself. A sad, pathetic fact.
“Someone from my family isn’t the reason I have a concussion.”
She knew he was trying to use her guilt against her. She knew she absolutely shouldn’t let him. A good cop knew they weren’t at fault for something that went wrong. It was the fault of the bad guys. Murderers and rapists and burglars—they were at fault when bad things happened.
But knowing something and feeling something were two very different things—hence her current predicament. She walked down the squeaky hospital corridor and toward the exit, warring with herself. With knowing and feeling.
She knew better than this and yet some part of her wanted to take care of Grady. She wanted to talk over the details of the case with him, and she wanted to be there when he remembered what he would inevitably remember. Something about that paper.
Grady slung his arm across her shoulder, casual as you please. “Don’t think so hard, princess. You’re giving me a headache.”
“I think the concussion gave you a headache.”
“Nah, it’s you.”
They stepped into the cold chill of late-night autumn. Or, more accurately, way-too-early morning. She led him to her car and felt a sudden wave of exhaustion roll over her. This had been the longest night and it felt as though nothing concrete or impactful had been accomplished.
You have evidence. You are making progress.
She was, but it was the knowing versus feeling thing again. She didn’t feel progress. She couldn’t seem to feel anything that wasn’t futility, despair or frustration.
She glanced at Grady sitting in the passenger seat of her car. He had his eyes closed, and the white bandage stuck out against the tan skin and dark beard of his face.
It really wasn’t fair he was so handsome, and that he was here, the living incarnation of her current life crisis. He was so many things she couldn’t want, and yet did. Why couldn’t her emotions ever follow the reason she was so desperate to live by?
“We going to sit here all night?” he asked, eyes still closed, voice a rumble in the quiet of the car.
“I’m not going to sleep with you,” she said firmly, because if she put it out there, in real, spoken words maybe she could be sure.
“You’ve said that a few times now. I can only assume that means you think about sleeping with me an awful lot.” He turned his head to face her, eyes open and far too blue, and he grinned.
But Laurel didn’t have it in her to grin back. There was this out-of-control thing inside of her she didn’t know how to rein back in, and she didn’t know what to do—when knowing what to do was all she’d ever done.
“For the record,” Grady drawled. “I don’t think I have it in me tonight. But I never say never.”
Laurel turned on the car and pulled out of the parking spot. “I didn’t say never,” she grumbled.
* * *
GRADY FELT NAUSEOUS and his head was pounding and if he had any energy at all, he would be tracking do
wn the person who’d done this to him and bashing his head in.
He pulled his keys out of his pocket and unlocked the back doors of Rightful Claim, Laurel hovering behind him. Her presence was the only thing that kept him from actually punching something. Because somehow just her being there felt comforting.
He’d never thought to look for comforting in a person he spent time with before, but Laurel gave him all sorts of interest in the feeling. Especially considering his body felt like hell and working up any other interest probably wasn’t happening.
Grady stepped inside and Laurel followed. He locked the door behind her and walked toward the stairs to his apartment. He paused at the bottom of them. Stairs he undoubtedly ran up and down a thousand times a day suddenly seemed daunting. Too much.
“They should’ve kept you overnight,” Laurel observed in a brisk tone.
He scowled in her direction. “I’m fine.”
“You’re struggling,” she said firmly.
“Then why don’t you help me up the stairs and take good care of me?” he asked, trying to flash a cocky grin her way and failing mostly. All he could seem to do right now was grimace.
She rolled her eyes, but she stepped closer to him so that they were side by side. With a huff of irritated breath she cinched her arm around his waist.
“Come on. Let’s go.”
He looked down at her incredulously. She really thought she was going to help him up the stairs? “You’re a slip of a thing.”
She made a scoffing noise. “I only seem like a slip to you because you’re ginormous.”
“Ginormous, huh?”
He noted the faint blush that crept across her cheeks and wished he had the wherewithal to lean down and capture her mouth with his.
“I’m sturdy enough,” she continued, gauging the stairs in front of them. “Probably kick your ass in the PT test.”
“No. Definitely not.”
She began to take steps with him, and he didn’t lean on her so much as let her presence be a guide in keeping his dizziness at bay.