by Beth Andrews
Judas Priest. How the hell could he still want her, after everything she’d done and who she’d become? He angled away from her. Busied himself pulling mugs out of a cupboard.
“You stayed,” he said curtly.
“You didn’t give me a choice.” She looked around, probably for the kitten, and draped the coveralls over the back of the nearest chair. “Are you feeling as miserable as you look?”
“Just about.”
“Good.”
He banged the mugs down onto the countertop, then flinched.
“I’ve been thinking,” she said, with just the tiniest trace of smugness. “I know there are...things we don’t like about each other. Things we both did that we’re finding hard to get past. Simply put, if we have any hope of getting this job done, we have to overlook these things—all of them. For now.”
“You mean, so Tackett can have his way.”
“So we can all move on.”
“To D.C. Where I get to be Tackett’s lackey. Got any pointers for me, Kincaid?”
Her lips went tight and she shook her head. “Got any coffee for me, Gallahan?”
It was like they were playing Go Fish. He set his jaw and slid a mug across the counter, hiding a wince at the loud scraping sound. “Help yourself.” He watched her, wondered what she’d do if he offered her a little Irish to go with her brew. As she hefted the pot, her gaze veered to his yolk-smeared plate in the sink and he closed his throat against an instinctive invite. She already had him by the short hairs. Damned if he’d offer up his balls, too.
And anyway, he didn’t have any eggs left, though where the hell they went, he had no idea. The loaf of bread seemed shorter, too. He hadn’t had that much to drink. Maybe he’d started sleep-eating? Wouldn’t be much of a stretch, considering what he’d dealt with over the past few days.
“Thanks for the coffee,” she murmured.
“Bring it with you.” He grabbed his own mug and headed for the door. But she didn’t move, didn’t even seem to hear him, her attention focused on the microwave he kept on top of the chest-high refrigerator. The kitten bounced into the room and was headed for the food dish when Allison suddenly reached out and stabbed a button on the appliance. The high-pitched ping startled the cat. Tiny claws scratched feverishly over the linoleum as the kitten scurried out of the room.
All Allison had done was zero out the remaining seconds on the display, but she was smiling as if she’d set the thing to detonate the next time he used it.
An hour later they had the carpet in #5 rolled up to within four feet of the far wall. They knelt in opposite corners, each working a hammer into the space between the carpet and the tack strip. As awkwardly as Allison handled her tools, she worked faster than he did. It was the damned hangover.
And his tendency to stop every minute or so and look over at her.
She’d shocked the hell out of him when he’d ordered her to wrestle a carpet lined with decades of grime and she hadn’t told him to go screw himself—because she sure had every reason to. She was used to wining and dining clients in high-end restaurants, facilitating million-dollar contracts and shopping for PR party duds at cutesy designer boutiques in Old Town. Yet here she was, wearing ill-fitting, stain-resistant cotton and big-ass boots, helping him renovate a country motel without giving him anywhere near the grief he deserved.
Which would be more impressive if it weren’t so obvious that the job—the money—meant everything to her. And he was dying to know why. What was the something she needed so desperately? Or was it a someone?
He shifted, relieving the pressure on his knees. How many times did he have to tell himself—?
Suddenly a wolf spider with a body the size of a goddamned golf ball popped out from under the carpet. Joe yelled and fell back on his ass. He stared at the spider as it scuttled toward the door, then over at Allison, whose eyes were rounder than the fried eggs he’d forced himself to eat for breakfast.
He started to laugh, and she started to laugh, and at the sight of her dirt-smudged face lit with unrestrained humor, the late morning sun gilding her hair and gleaming on her pale skin, he realized that he had screwed himself. Big time.
Because at that precise moment, what he wanted most in the world was the freedom to pull her into his arms, kiss her breathless, inhale her sweetness and absorb her heat. And that freedom was the last thing she’d ever grant him.
He jerked to his feet. “I have paperwork. We can finish this later.” He motioned with his chin at the nearest wall. “Next step is tearing down the paneling. Feel up to tackling that yourself?”
She rose more slowly, her face adopting the polite and professional mask she’d always worn for T&P clients. She nodded. “My trusty hammer and I won’t let you down.”
“Don’t forget your goggles,” he said, and got the hell out of there.
* * *
HE HOVERED AT the edge of the tree line, his gaze sharp on the open window. Surprisingly the meathead who’d convinced himself he could run a motel had had the sense to ventilate the room while painting it. Kind of a shame, really. ’Cause with all those fumes trapped in that tiny space, one flicker of flame was all it would take to burn the whole place down.
Whoosh. And a hellish history would be...history.
He shivered, glad that despite the bright morning sun he was wearing his hoodie. Not that he had much choice. If he had to make a run for it he’d just as soon nobody got a good look at him. An inhale rewarded him with a whiff of the lake—seaweed roasting on summer rocks. An answering ache in his stomach. He distracted himself by concentrating on the task at hand.
Pay attention.
Meathead must have finished painting because he’d moved on to the next room—and he had a partner now. Pulling up carpet—how much help could that skinny blonde be? Didn’t matter. What did matter was that his chances of being caught had just doubled. Uneasiness sparked at the base of his spine. He worked up a mouthful of saliva and spit.
He’d come too far, waited too long to back out now.
Keeping his eyes on that fifth window, he loped toward the only door on the back side of the building. Locked, of course. Meathead was smarter than he looked. But not smart enough to install a keycard lock, like the ones on the guest room doors. With the help of a torque wrench and a paperclip, he was in.
He carefully closed the door behind him, shoved back the hood of his sweatshirt and looked around. Three times, now, he’d broken into this dump. Still, he took a moment to bask in his accomplishment, to enjoy his triumph over the new owner and his cheap-ass locks.
At least, that’s what he let himself believe. The real reason for his hesitation was too complicated—too painful—to think about.
At the end of a long, narrow counter was a once-white stove, now yellowed with age, pushed into the corner. On the other side of a faded strip of linoleum crouched an undersize refrigerator. Beside it stood a small sink and a square of countertop big enough to support all four feet of a stainless steel toaster, the gleaming mass of which mocked the rest of the kitchen.
He squeezed his eyes shut, and curled his fingers into his palms, fighting the desperate need to bash, to bellow, to burn the whole godforsaken pile down to the goddamned ground. One shaking hand went to the pouch at his belly, pressed against the slim bulk of the lighter he kept there.
Not yet. He didn’t understand why, but he just knew he had to wait.
He opened his eyes, inhaled, yanked open the refrigerator door. Milk, cheese, apples, salad stuff. And the ever-present beer. He rubbed at the sudden tightness in the center of his chest.
The dude needed to shop. And he’d eaten the rest of the eggs, damn him. But he still had potatoes. And ketchup.
His belly let loose a pleading gurgle as he contemplated hash browns and toast. But he couldn’t risk taking the time to cook ag
ain, let alone wash up. With a grunt he grabbed an apple and hit the cabinets next. Not much he could take that wouldn’t be missed. Finally he eyed the loaf of whole wheat bread on the counter and sighed. Peanut butter and jelly it would have to be. Again.
He was drying the knife he’d used when the buzzer in the hallway sounded. Shit. Luckily the pocket doors were closed, but he should have thought to check them before.
Someone mumbling. It was Meathead. And he sounded pissed.
Soundlessly he set the knife on the counter, wrapped a paper towel around his sandwich and backed quietly down the hall and into the bathroom. He wedged himself into the narrow space behind the door, the backs of his legs mashed up against the toilet. Meathead would definitely see him if he poked his head in—or if he had to use the john.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
A muted rumble as the pocket doors slid along the track. Footsteps pounded on the linoleum. A frustrated sigh, the slam of a cabinet door, the soft rush of water as Meathead held a glass under the faucet.
The thick smell of peanut butter rose up around him, and his belly begged loudly for a bite. He held his breath. A clack as the water glass was put on the counter, more muttering, then footsteps coming closer, and closer.
Even as he fought to hold his breath, to keep quiet, the memories crowded in. Ugly, aching, relentless snatches of the past. Sweat dribbled from his scalp and into his ear. A rushing sound, punctuated by the echoing thud of his heart. He pressed his left fist to his mouth while the fingers of his right hand curled into the sandwich. If Meathead found him, he wouldn’t get another chance. He’d have to run, lay low and wait a hell of a long while before coming back.
A soft sound, near the floor. His stomach went into free fall. He looked down and saw a little orange tabby looking back up at him and almost pissed himself as his muscles loosened. The dude had a cat? Since when?
The thing meowed, like it thought it might like a bite of his sandwich. He swallowed a groan. With his left foot he nudged it back toward the door. It meowed again, and launched an attack on his boot.
“I hear you, girl. Where are you?”
Give me an effin’ break.
He shook the cat free of his boot and pushed it into a slide. The cat scooted on its ass out into the hallway and hit the opposite wall with a tiny thump.
“There you are. Ouch, damn, you really need to stop climbing my leg. Tell you what, let’s get some fresh air. You can drool at the birds while I kick my own ass for thinking I could get one over on a woman.”
Meathead continued talking nonsense to the cat as he headed back up the hallway. Front door, front door, front door. If he saw the back door was unlocked, he might get suspicious.
The buzzer sounded. He emptied his lungs. Silence settled over the little apartment.
So the dude’s new helper had him by the balls. If that was all Meathead had to worry about, he should count himself lucky.
He relaxed his hands and rested his forehead against the wall’s cool, cracked plaster. Gradually his heartbeat slowed. He sidled free of the toilet, opened his hand and scowled down at the remains of his sandwich. The sooner he did what he came to do, the sooner he could move on. Find someplace soft to sleep. Something decent to eat.
And, shit. Maybe he’d even get himself a cat.
* * *
ALLISON WANDERED INTO the center of the room, boots thumping across the subfloor. What just happened? One second they’re laughing, and the next...
She shook her head, tamping down the hurt that she knew was ridiculous to feel. What was she thinking, anyway? This was business. Nothing more, nothing less. Wondering whether she and Joe could be anything but bitter ex-lovers would win her nothing but aggravation. She’d do well to follow his example and keep her distance.
Especially since he was still drinking. Did she really want to get sucked into that alcohol-infused chaos again? She already had one addict in her life.
Just as well she was in the mood to do some damage. Maybe if she exhausted herself she’d manage to get some sleep tonight. Troubles with Joe aside, this...village he lived in was too damned quiet. And dark. And Stepford-like.
Hammer in hand, mask and goggles in place and teeth in a determined clench, she approached the nearest panel. After wedging the claw in between the seams, she levered the hammer to the side. The paneling gave way a lot easier than she expected and she stumbled forward and smacked her forehead against the wall. Good going, Allie. She backed up, rubbing the heel of her hand over what promised to be one heck of a bruise. And all for nothing, because instead of freeing the edge of the paneling she’d actually splintered it.
She tried again, a little lower this time, and managed to create a gap between two sections. She dropped the hammer on the floor, tucked her gloved fingers around the panel’s edge and pulled. Harder, and harder still. The thin board finally broke free and she staggered backward.
By the time she’d leaned the grime-covered panel against an adjoining wall, her arms felt heavy and she was breathing as if she’d just run laps around the motel.
She dusted off her palms and smirked at the space she’d opened up. Thick motes of dust floated and bobbed in front of her. Skinny strips of insulation and thick electrical wires dangled between the studs. It looked like an especially fat coil of cable was wedged between...
Hold on. What the—? She tugged off her goggles. Craning her neck, standing on tiptoe, she took a closer look.
And let loose the mother of all screams.
CHAPTER FOUR
THIS TIME SHE was halfway up the sidewalk before Joe appeared. She collapsed against the stucco siding and struggled to catch her breath while he came to a stop in front of her, hands on hips, chest rising and falling in sync with hers.
“You scared the hell out of me,” he said. “Please tell me it was just another mouse.”
She grabbed his arm, her hand shaking so hard his muscles vibrated. “There’s a s-snake. In the wall.”
He pulled away and looked her up and down. “Did it bite you?”
“N-no.”
“Was it poisonous?”
“I didn’t think to ask.”
“Where did it go?”
“It didn’t go anywhere. It didn’t move.”
“Judas Priest.” He rammed a hand through his hair. “Okay. So you saw a dead snake. You wait here. I’ll get a broom and a dustpan.”
She laughed, a little wildly. “Forget the broom. Got a wheelbarrow?”
“How big is it exactly?”
“You’re the one with the tape measure. You figure it out.”
“Tell you what.” His drawl sounded more condescending than patient, damn him. “You show me where it is, and I’ll take it from there.”
“No way I’m going back in there. You shouldn’t, either. We need to call someone.”
“Like who, the local snake patrol? You wait here. I’ll check it out.”
“But—”
“Be right back.” He jogged down the sidewalk and disappeared into the room. Five seconds later she heard “Son of a bitch.” Slowly he backed out onto the sidewalk, then lunged forward and pulled the door shut. When he turned to look at her, his face was almost as gray as his T-shirt. “You could have warned me.”
“I tried to.” The fact that he was nervous doubled her freak-out factor. She wrapped her arms around herself and backed toward the office.
“That’s a python,” Joe said, pointing at the closed door. “How the hell did a python end up in my motel? If that thing had got hold of either one of us, we wouldn’t have had a chance.”
Exactly what she needed to hear. She slumped against the building, unable to stop shaking. The thought of that thing slithering toward her, coiling around her...
“Aw, hell.” Suddenly Joe stood in f
ront of her. He reached out, hesitated, dropped his hands to his sides. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“I’m thinking we can blame that on the snake,” she muttered. Though the fact that he’d been about to pull her into his arms was nearly as frightening. How bizarre would that be, to have Joe Gallahan as her personal protector? Joe, who had the power to take away her only source of security?
Her gaze avoided his. “Do you think it’s dead?”
“No.”
“Should we call Animal Control?”
“Doesn’t exist in Castle Creek. Even if it did, I doubt they’d handle something like this.”
“So what do we do?”
“We get someone here who can help.” He watched her a moment longer, then freed his cell from the holster on his belt. She distracted herself from visions of slow suffocation by guessing who he was calling.
“Police?” she asked. “Fire department?”
He shook his head and held the phone to his ear. “Librarian.”
* * *
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Noble Johnson arrived, followed by two members of Castle Creek’s Volunteer Fire Department. Noble stepped out of his pickup wearing steel-toed boots and motorcycle leathers, carrying a hard hat in one hand and a hockey mask in the other. Joe didn’t know whether to mock him or high-five his good sense. Though none of that gear would matter if the snake decided to play Ring Around the Rosie.
After the introductions were made—Allison did an admirable job hiding her shock at the librarian’s mammoth proportions—Noble and the two firefighters checked out #5. Joe had no idea if the snake had stayed put and he’d had no desire to find out. When the three men emerged from the unit, they were shaking their heads and bumping knuckles.
“That’s a first for us,” the dark-haired volunteer—Burke—said. “We’ve trapped and released possums, ’coons, skunks and the occasional fox. But we’ve never seen anything like this.”