by BK Rivers
We pull out into traffic, siren blaring and lights flashing, and quickly match the speed of the LeBaron.
“Shit, Steele, it’s a freaking granny driving. She can barely see over the steering wheel.” Kilty slams the CB radio on his thigh and mutters a string of curses. “Dispatch, this is Kilty. Driver is an elderly woman. How should we proceed? Over.”
“Attempt to pull over and stop by force if necessary. Go ahead.”
“You heard dispatch,” I say, waiting for Kilty to change over to the megaphone. He hates using that thing. Then again, I guess so do I. I pull the car up beside the LeBaron, matching her speed. Kilty swears again then holds the megaphone to his lips as I roll his window down using the automatic button.
“Ma’am, please slow your vehicle and pull over to the side of the road,” he says, his cheeks burning red. His silvery hair is flopping in the wind the open window is causing and it reminds me of my great Uncle Henry’s toupee. The woman pays us no attention and Kilty repeats his order. Still no response, he gets back on the CB.
“Suspect shows no signs of slowing down. Approaching mile marker ninety-five, requesting backup to stop by force.” Kilty shakes his head and neither of us can hold in our laughter.
“Copy that, Kilty. Highway has been cleared and tack strips laid out. Proceed with caution.”
A mile up the road, the woman finally drives over the nail strips, causing her to swerve right into my car, sending us spinning into the concrete median. The airbags deploy, sending out white powder and thick bags of air ramming into our faces and shoulders.
“Suspect has been detained, good work, officers. Sending medical units, sit tight.”
An hour later, I’m sitting in the ER waiting to be cleared to go. Somehow Kilty weaseled his way out of being driven to the hospital in a freaking ambulance. I’m not so lucky.
A buxom nurse with a tight perm in her chocolate brown hair slides back the curtain to my little room and looks me over. She’s in her mid-forties and smells like antiseptic.
“Chase Steele?” she asks, glancing down at my chart.
“That’s me.”
“I see you were in an auto accident.” She reads through the papers on her clipboard then finally turns her attention to me. She winces at the sight of my face. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m great,” I answer, only partially lying. My ribs are sore from the seatbelt and my eyes are burning from the powder in the airbags. But other than that, I’m fine.
“I’m pretty sure you’ve seen better days, Mr. Steele. I’m Veronica and will be reporting to the doctor on call. You mind if I check you over?”
I shake my head and let her run her tests of blood pressure, heart rate, and oxygen levels. All results are normal, well, at least normal for someone who’s a little amped up on adrenaline.
“I’m supposed to be meeting someone for dinner tonight,” I say, trying real hard to draw on all my patience. “Do you know when I can be discharged?”
“As soon as you see the doctor and he says you’re good to go,” Veronica says before stepping away and closing the curtain. I get off the bed and retrieve my phone from my coat pocket and send off a text to Stacey.
Me: Long day, going to be a little late. Should we reschedule?
Reschedule? I sound like a receptionist.
Stacey: No. Just come when you can.
Me: K. Sorry. Will explain when I get there.
Forty-five minutes later, the doctor finally comes in and clears me to leave with only bruised ribs and airbag burns to my face and arms. A cab picks me up and takes me to the station where I climb on my motorcycle and drive through town, stopping at a floral shop I used to go to when I worked late. Thankfully it’s still open and I buy a bouquet of peach-colored lilies because they remind me of her. I drive the rest of the way with the flowers tucked into my jacket and curse myself for not having the forethought to have driven the SUV today.
Chapter 29
Stacey
I can’t stop glancing at the clock on the microwave. Ace texted over an hour ago and he’s still not here. Maybe he’s not coming.
No. He said he’s coming.
He’ll be here.
He’ll—the low rumble of his motorcycle sends a thrill through me and my heart beats heavily in my throat. He didn’t park on the street. He always parks on the street. Calm down, Stacey. You’ve got this. Pep talks are for people who believe they work. I guess I’m not that kind of person because my palms are sweating and I keep checking my breath every ten seconds.
Will he knock or just come in? A hollow tapping on the front door answers my question and sends my pulse into a frenzy. When I open the door, a beautiful bouquet of peach lilies greets me and my stomach does a little flip in appreciation.
“They remind me of you,” he says, handing them to me. When I glance up at his face, I gasp in shock. His eyes are puffy and red, and he has some bruising along his cheekbones.
“Ace, what happened?” I grab his hand and pull him inside. He jerks his hand away before I can drag him into the kitchen.
“Can you just…give me a minute.” He stands against the door, breathing hard enough through his nose that his nostrils flare. His hands ball into fists at his sides, then raise to his eyes as he pushes them hard against his sockets. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down as though he’s trying to control his emotions.
Crap. Maybe this was a really bad idea. Like a horrible, no good, really awful idea.
“Ace, we can go—” I start to say, but he cuts me off with a sudden kiss to my forehead.
“No. It’s okay. I want to do this.” His jaw clenches as though it pains him to admit what he wants.
“I’m serious. We could go out for dinner. Or if you’re not up to it, we can try another time.” I move away from him, giving him the choice to stay or go. After what feels like an eternity, he glances toward the kitchen, takes a deep breath, and with determined strides, walks into the newly remodeled room.
“Can I help you with anything?” he asks when I join him next to the fridge. I pull a vase from the cabinet and quickly put the flowers in water.
I shake my head, gaze up at his red, puffy eyes, and bring my fingers to his eyebrows and then trail them over his lids and down to his bruised cheeks.
“I’m just glad you came, Ace,” I whisper as my fingers slowly move over his cheeks before settling on his lips. He kisses them then brings his hand up to mine and places it on his shoulder. “Please tell me what happened. Did you get into a fight?”
He laughs, forcing a smile as he shakes his head. “Hardly. It was a work-related car accident.”
I look him over, trying to find injuries, but can’t see anything. “Are you okay? What happened?”
“Some elderly woman was speeding down the highway thinking the highway signs were the speed limit. She was going seventy-five in a fifty-five zone and we had to bring out the nail strips to stop her. Poor thing blew her tires, swerved into my partner and me, and sent us spinning on the highway.” He’s laughing but I don’t see the humor in it. On instinct, I playfully slap his chest and he buckles over, gasping for breath.
“Ace!” I fall to my knees, place my hands over his cheeks, and pull his head up to me. “Are you okay? What’s going on?”
The jerk’s still laughing, now harder than before, and he slips down to the floor, sitting on his ass. He pulls me with him, only to drag me over his legs.
“Are you going to tell me what happened or am I going to have to pull it out of you?” I ask, folding my arms across my chest. Gah! This man can drive a sane person crazy.
“Bruised…ribs,” he says through gasps of breath. Oh. Oh!
“I’m so sorry.” I’m such an idiot. I quickly untuck his shirt and work the buttons until I can slide it off his shoulders. He shrugs out of it, closes his eyes, and leans his head on the kitchen cabinet behind him.
“You know, taking your date’s clothes off typically happens at the end of the date,” he says, his
voice thick and husky all of a sudden. When he opens his eyes, they’re darker and filled with hunger. When my gaze locks on his, his brows raise, issuing a challenge.
“And here I thought you only wanted me for my cooking,” I say, moving my hands slowly over his shoulders and down his arms, loving the way his muscles tighten under my touch. Ace in his navy blues is incredibly sexy, but in a white t-shirt where his tattoos on his left arm are on display…well, let’s just say mouthwatering. That. Is. All.
Ace allows my playful exploration and closes his eyes while my fingers trail over his t-shirt and down to the bottom hem. His breathing grows quicker and the pulse at his throat picks up speed. When my fingertips glide across the skin above his pants, he hisses and sucks in a breath.
“Stacey,” he says like a warning, but makes no move to stop me. I lean forward and press a kiss above his right eye and then his left. His hands move to my hips where they grip my jeans like a vise. My hands glide under his shirt, sliding it up over his stomach inch by inch. When it becomes clear I plan to take it off, he lifts his arms and pushes off from cabinet to allow me to slip the t-shirt over his head and arms.
My eyes fall to his rapidly rising chest and I pull my lips between my teeth when I see the angry purple and green bruise slicing across his chest in a diagonal direction.
“I’m so sorry I hit you,” I say, returning my gaze to his face. He’s staring back at me, his pale blue eyes growing darker by the second. Ace’s hand moves to my chin as he guides me closer so he can feather kisses on my lips. We’ve had hungry kisses, angry kisses, and even lust-filled kisses. But this kiss. This kiss is something altogether on a higher plane. It’s the start of a journey, the cost of a ride, a token for the train. It’s slow, gentle, and filled with a carefree itinerary. There are no plans, no schedules, no places to go. Just a slow discovery of the feel of his lips on mine as his hands travel over the mountains and valleys of my body.
“What about dinner?” I ask, breaking the kiss and already missing the warmth from his lips.
“What dinner?” Ace playfully nips at my bottom lip, pulling it between his, and slides his tongue across it.
Three.
The number of breaths that pass between us before I slide off his lap and stand up, reaching my hand to help him off the kitchen floor.
Two.
The number of steps Ace takes before his hands land on my waist then trail behind to lift me into his arms.
One.
The number of doors standing in the way of a place both of us long to go but are unsure how to proceed.
Yes.
The answer to our unasked questions.
Ace’s lips descend on mine as he effortlessly carries me up the stairs. At the top landing, he hesitates before dropping a hand from my butt to open the bedroom door, softly closing it behind us and cloaking the room in blackness.
“I don’t have any condoms,” Ace says when he sits me on the edge of my bed, standing between my legs. “But I can still make you feel good.”
“I’m on the pill.” I’ve never gone without a condom, so I’m not exactly sure why my mouth decides to blurt out this particular fact.
“Stacey,” he says, but I hook my fingers in his belt loops and pull him down beside me, stopping his protest.
“We don’t have to do anything, Ace. You could just sleep next to me and I’d be perfectly happy.”
“I can’t lay next to you and not touch you,” he says, gliding his fingers through my hair as if to demonstrate. “I’m clean. I haven’t been with anyone since—”
I quickly turn and throw my leg over his lap to straddle him again, pressing my lips to his. His words aren’t necessary and will only stir up painful memories. My hands slide over his chest, snake behind his neck to tease the short hair at his nape. He tears his lips from mine and begins peppering kisses down my neck until his quiet attention turns frantic and desperate.
Gone is my shirt, but I’m wearing his kisses like fabric. Gone is my bra, but his hands hold me better than that old thing anyway. Pants and shorts are discarded in a pile on the floor. His legs twine between mine, hands grip bed sheets, my mouth catches his sobs, my skin absorbs his tears, and a small part of me dies while he releases into me and crumbles on top of me.
When he moves off me, he sits up, rests his elbows on his knees, and covers his face with his hands. He’s shaking the bed with how hard his body is trembling and I don’t have a clue how to make him feel better. Instead of rising to sit next to him, I pull the sheet over myself, turn my head away, and fight tears of my own that are threatening to spill.
“I won’t ever love you,” he admits when he finally stops shaking. He moves off the bed to gather his clothing and takes a part of me with him, ripping a hole in my chest. The hurt is dangerous and sickening, and my stomach is balling into such tight knots I feel like I’m going to throw up.
“You won’t or you can’t?” It’s not a question, it’s a demand, and the bitterness in my voice leaves out any doubt.
“What’s the difference?” he asks, pulling on his pants and heading for the door. “You shouldn’t fall in love with me.” He leaves the bedroom. Leaves me. And I’m shattering into a million pieces.
His warning came too late—I fell a long time ago.
Chapter 30
Ace
As soon as I stumble out of the house, I turn and lose my dinner in the bushes beside the front porch. What I was thinking? I squeeze my eyes closed only to feel the burn of more tears slip down my cheeks. I made a promise to Marley, and tonight, not only did I break it. I freaking shattered it—and in our old bedroom.
My hands won’t stop trembling, and if I can’t get my heart rate under control, I risk going into cardiac arrest on the porch. Leaning over, supporting my weight on the porch post, I vomit again into the bushes, spilling more tears.
“I’m sorry,” I say, falling to my knees on the grass. My hands grip the back of my neck as I pour out apology after apology to the one person who can’t hear them instead of the one person who should be receiving them. But I can’t help it.
“I’m so sorry, Marley. God, I’m so sorry.” Crumbling further still, my forehead meets the grass as I tear at the soft green blades and scream curses into the ground. I hate this. I hate that she’s dead and I can’t move on. I hate myself for sleeping with Stacey, for betraying Marley. And I hate myself for running out on her and lying to push her away.
***
Somehow I made it home. Somehow I got undressed, showered to scrub the evidence of my betrayal off my body, and got in bed. I’m so screwed up that in the middle of the night I can smell peaches and lilies and feel the warmth from Stacey’s body, holding me. Cradling me. Somehow I fall back to sleep, and when I wake up in the morning, she’s lying in my bed looking like an angel with a fiery halo of red hair tossed over the pillow.
And for a minute, she’s all I want to see. All I want to hold and kiss and…love.
The clanking of pans in the kitchen lets me know Ethan’s up and cooking breakfast. He must know Stacey’s here and last night was pretty much the second worst night of my life. Quietly slipping out of my bedroom, I pad barefoot down the hall and find him cracking eggs into a small mixing bowl.
“Hey,” I say, my voice scratchy and raw.
“So, I think we need to talk,” Ethan says without taking his focus off the eggs. “Sit.”
I tread slowly through the kitchen, turn a chair around and sit, arms folded across my chest. “So talk,” I say, sniffing while steeling myself for the lecture that’s sure to come.
“You said you wouldn’t hurt her.” Ethan cracks two more eggs into the bowl then turns to face me. “The girl called me in tears after you left her house, begging me to let her know when you got home and if I thought you could use someone to watch over you last night. I invited her here because you need her more than you realize.”
A stirring of jealousy rises in me over the fact that she called my best friend to console h
er. But then my rational side returns when I remember who caused her pain.
“Did she tell you what happened?” I ask, clenching my teeth until an ache in my jaw forces me to relax.
“She didn’t have to tell me. Ace, believe it or not, I know you probably better than you know yourself. For the life of me, I can’t figure out what your problem is.” Ethan tosses the fork he was holding in his hand onto the counter and it clatters across the granite.
“What my problem is? What’s your problem?” My temper is rising, making heat climb across my body. I’m not going to sit here and take this crap—I had one of the worst nights of my life and don’t need any reminders about what I’ve done.
“My problem is that you went to her house last night knowing full well what was most likely going to happen. And when you two hooked up, you freaked out. Dude, you royally screwed up, and what’s worse is she forgave you. That girl is so totally crazy for you that she’s willing to overlook your past just to be with you.”
“Are you kidding me? You think I planned to have sex with her?” My hands glide through my hair in frustration.
“It’s been building for weeks and you know it,” Ethan says.
“Whether or not it’s been building doesn’t matter. I broke my promise to Marley, and in our house. In our old bedroom. Do you have any idea what that makes me?”
“A guy. It makes you a guy who has finally developed feelings for someone other than your dead wife. Jesus, man. She’s been gone for five years. Move on. Don’t move on. But whatever you do, don’t take Stacey with you on your path to self-destruction. She’s better than that and deserves to be loved. Not used and then kicked to the curb because you feel guilty for making a promise to yourself to be faithful to a ghost.”
“I made that promise to Marley,” I say, my voice sharp and loud.
“Oh yeah? When exactly? Before she sliced her wrists with the box cutter? Did she hold that box cutter to her arms and threaten to kill herself if you ever loved someone else?”