Almost smiling, she felt a small sense of relief. He always called her HJ because he’d liked having something just theirs.
She wondered if he realized the slip.
“I need your help, Noah.” She drew in a deep breath. “I’ve been arrested. The police think I killed my boss.”
A humorless chuckle followed. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not kidding.”
Silence. Then, “Why are you calling me?” Impatience edged his tone. “If I remember your last words, ‘screw you’ and ‘I hate you’ and ‘I hope you get hit by frozen airplane toilet water’ come to mind. You also said that you never wanted to see my ‘ugly face’ again.”
Her face warmed. “I was upset.”
“You think?”
Rehashing the breakup at this point was counterproductive. Reminding him that everything had been his fault wouldn’t ingratiate him to her side. She needed out of the police station and into a shower. After six hours without hand sanitizer, she was convinced she was riddled with a fatal case of criminal cooties.
“Can’t we discuss that later,” she said, harsher than she intended. The headache turned her surly. “Will you help me get out of jail or not?”
A pause. Seconds clicked by.
“Not.” Then the line went dead.
* * * *
The holding cell smelled faintly of outhouse, and the smiling woman who’d shared the space was middle-aged, had tattoos from neck to toes, and was looking at Harper like she was a hoagie sandwich after weeks of famine. Across her ample chest, where her low-cut and dingy gray tank top neckline dipped down to almost an indecent level, a “Sexy Momma’ tattoo was written in blue ink just above her wrinkled cleavage.
Ugh. The day wasn’t getting better.
Harper smiled awkwardly and shuffled to the bench opposite her new roommate. She sat and tried to look fierce, like this wasn’t her first arrest. She fooled no one.
“How you doin’?” The woman winked and ran an appreciative gaze down Harper. A crooked grin followed.
Harper struggled not to flinch. She was convinced that if Kimmie didn’t get there soon, she’d be spooning on the narrow bench with her “Sexy Momma” before sundown and making plans for matching cleavage tattoos.
“Not bad, and you?” Did that sound as dopey as she thought? What do you talk about with your fellow inmates anyway? Crappy prison food and how to make a shank out of your toothbrush?
The woman waggled her brows. “Better now.”
“Harper Evans?” the female officer called out in a bored tone. “Your ride is here.”
Weak with relief, Harper pushed to her feet. Thank God Kimmie had come through. No spooning tonight.
Harper sent tattoo lady a small wave and scurried through the cell door.
It turned out that she hadn’t been officially arrested—Mignon left that part out—and since she’d sort of cooperated, she didn’t have to post bond. She jokingly promised she’d not make a run for the Mexico border when the detective grudgingly told her the good news.
Mignon assured her that he was building his case against her and would be happy to hunt her down like a mangy dog if she did flee the state, before leaving her to the female officer to check her out.
Harper signed for her phone and purse and was led through to the waiting room. Kimmie was dressed in a snug red dress and heels, clearly ready to go out dancing. Harper raced over and hugged her tight, blathering her gratitude while Gerald’s assistant firmly extricated herself from the embrace. The young woman quickly stepped back and made a face.
“You smell like sewage backup,” Kimmie said and checked her dress as if looking for old gum and plastic wrapped moldy cheese.
“I’m just happy you came,” Harper said, ignoring the dis. She reached into her purse for a bottle of hand sanitizer. At the moment, the younger woman was Harper’s favorite person.
She led Kimmie out the glass doors and sucked in her first deep breath of freedom. At no time in history had car-exhaust-filled city air ever smelled so good.
The cool germ-killing gel helped further lift her spirits until she got to a shower. “I thought you’d refuse to come.”
“I almost did. It’s a long drive.” Kimmie led her to a Mini Cooper. It was cute, cream colored, and about the size of a tuna can. “You’re persona non-grata at the office. You know you’ve been fired, right?”
“How can they fire me?” Harper said, her voice going shrill. “I’m innocent!”
After scrambling into the front passenger seat, Harper snapped on the seat belt and hoped they didn’t get run over by a big rig on the way home. It was that kind of day.
“Tell that to Willard.” He was the owner of the Lansing Mighty Muskrats and overall big ass.
Kimmie reached into the glove compartment and pulled out an alpine pine tree scented air freshener and hung it from the rearview mirror. Within seconds, the scent of outhouse dissipated.
“A lot of people hated Gerald,” Harper added in a rush and turned the air conditioning vent toward her flushed face. “He had a lot of enemies. Dozens, hundreds even. Heck, his ex-mistresses alone all wanted him dead.”
“Willard doesn’t care.” Kimmie left the parking lot with a bump over part of the curb. “Gerald’s his nephew and you’ve ‘always been a pain-in-the-ass’ so you’re out. Your personal items from the stadium are in the box on the back seat.”
Harper spun and looked. Sure enough, the plaque declaring her junior cheer champion of two thousand and two stuck out from the top of the box. They’d cleared out her desk and closed the door on her. Four years of loyalty to the team meant nothing.
She didn’t even get to keep one of the new stripper uniforms that had gotten her into trouble in the first place.
Her bottom lip wobbled. Her entire cheerleading career was boiled down to a box of mementos and a kick out the door.
“I can’t believe Willard can do that. Don’t I get to tell my side of the story? I did not kill Gerald!”
Repeating her innocence made her feel better even if it didn’t help free her from suspicion.
Kimmie pulled up to a stop sign and turned to her. “I feel for you and I believe you’re innocent. However, article VII, section eight of your contract gives the Muskrats the ability to fire you for any infraction. Murdering the team manager qualifies.”
“But I didn’t—” She stopped. Moving quickly from feeling sorry for herself to boiling over with indignation, Harper knew that taking out her frustration on Kimmie wouldn’t be fair. The girl had come to her assistance and was on her side. So Harper kept her thoughts about Willard to herself. She’d find a way out of this mess. She had to.
And she’d get Noah Slade to help her.
Chapter 3
“Crap.” Harper grabbed the lip gloss wand off her white shorts and made a face. Her hand shook as she shoved the wand back into the tube and twisted the cap. Goop oozed out from under the lid and got on her fingers. “Just great.”
Looking down, a jagged smear of pink peppermint gloss ran down the front of her floral shirt and onto her lap.
“Damnit.” She rubbed a spot with a tissue from her glove box and a squirt of hand sanitizer. The effort made it worse. She expelled a frustrated breath. Even if she resented Noah for the hang-up, and had no desire to impress him, she’d wanted to project a confidence she didn’t feel. Having lip gloss all over herself only projected that she was still the same hot mess from high school.
“Excellent.” She considered heading home to change, but she was already so far out of Ann Arbor that she swore she was almost halfway to the Mackinaw Bridge. It would take over an hour round trip to change just for a minor smear.
“Maybe he won’t notice.” Sure.
Before she lost her nerve, she climbed out of her faded red nineteen-seventy Boss 302 Mustang and jerked her peasant top into place. Ch
in lifted, eyes level, she headed for the building.
The façade of the auto shop was two stories high, cement block, with two large bays that were closed until the nine a.m. opening.
Good. Harper headed for a smaller side door, pleased that her first meeting with Noah after these many years wouldn’t be for public consumption. She wasn’t sure how either of them would handle the moment. Weeping and hugging was out. Assault and battery with car tools? Maybe.
The door was unlocked and she stepped inside.
The garage smelled of motor oil and exhaust fumes as she nervously walked into the dim interior. She’d sat in her car in the cracked parking lot for a full ten minutes before getting her argument ready and summoning up courage. Well, that and taking time to ruin her cute outfit.
Normally, she’d take Noah’s hang-up as a firm “no” and move on. But with Taryn and the Brash & Brazen crew out of state, she had limited options. The longer she waited to get started clearing her name, the colder the clues.
Besides, rumor had it that Willard was actively seeking her conviction by hiring a team of lawyers and investigators to join his revenge-fest. With zillions of dollars and connections to back his string-up Harper party, without help, she was toast.
At the early hour, the garage was quiet except for someone banging what sounded like a hammer on metal. Her eyes turned to the source of the noise. A low curse from a male voice followed.
Noah?
It had to be. The description of his truck matched the one parked outside. Odds were in her favor.
She’d begged his mother for his whereabouts, had sworn Monica to secrecy when she provided the details. Monica Slade always liked Harper. That hadn’t changed.
What would her son think?
Hopefully, the element of surprise would keep him from throwing her out on her butt.
Would she still recognize him? Years had passed since their bitter breakup. The guy with his head under a delivery truck hood was the right height. His dark blond hair was also correct, although, it was shorter than in high school. The loose work pants and shirt that covered his body left that part of him unrecognizable.
Not that his teen body hadn’t changed over the course of eleven years. The coveralls could be hiding a physique ravaged by whiskey and pork rinds.
Still, none of that mattered. This was about her case and not Noah. If he’d let himself go, that was none of her concern. She wasn’t interested in him on a personal level anymore.
With that thought firmly planted in her mind, she took a deep breath and headed his way, weaving in and out of car parts and repair equipment. Her chest tightened as she braced for a confrontation. Although their final fight hadn’t been her fault, she’d ignored his calls for weeks afterward, and he’d finally—and angrily—ended all contact.
“Noah?”
Tension tightened the man’s shoulders as he straightened and slowly turned around. A pair of intense blue eyes, staring from beneath brown brows, showed annoyance against the backdrop of a tanned and hard-edged face.
Good Lord.
Her heart raced. Noah had been a kid too good-looking and cocky for his own good. He’d grown into the promise of something more, a man who could break hearts with one look and leave women devastated in his wake.
Yep, Noah Slade was every woman’s dirty sex dream without any of the happily-ever-after.
“I can’t believe it’s you.” Her attempt at levity failed. His scowl intimidated her but she pressed forward. “After all these years you look well. How are you?”
The wrench clattered on the fender of the truck. “Cut the crap, Harper,” he said. “What in the hell are you doing here?”
So much for a happy reunion between old lovers, and no more affectionate “HJ” either. Not that she expected a touching movie-type moment. Civility yes, open rudeness, no.
“It’s nice to see you, too, Slade.” She regarded him openly as if buying a side of beef and quickly discovered that he hadn’t succumbed to booze and rinds. Even in the oversized coveralls, there was no paunch that she could discern on his tall frame, or a double chin hanging down to his collar from eating too many cheese balls.
Of course not. Karma would not be that fair.
Instead, he could still make her drool, and that wasn’t a good thing. This was the jerk who had broken her heart.
Crossing her arms, she faced him full-on without flinching and tried to ignore the shiver prickling through her. He was close enough for her body to detect the yummy male pheromones dancing off him in waves.
Damn, he looked great, albeit, grimy, though she struggled not to feel anything for him.
Was it too much to ask for one rogue ear hair or killer case of halitosis to level the playing field?
She forced herself to look into his eyes. “Did you really think that a hang-up would get me off your case?”
“Nope.” He rubbed the back of his hand over his forehead. “But I hoped.” He ran his gaze down her and stopped midway. A smirk tugged his mouth. “Slurpee accident?”
He could have been polite enough not to mention the lip gloss. “Something like that.”
Harper knew arguing about bad manners wouldn’t bring him to her side. She had to use diplomacy. “Look, Noah. I’m in a bind. I’m the prime suspect in a murder. I need your help.”
“So you said.”
Her hand closed into a fist at his emotionless response. She was desperate and he was cold. How had he ever been the center of her teenaged world?
Beneath her top, her heart tugged knowing he’d sit by and let her go to prison. He’d once been everything to her and had claimed the same in return. Now he looked at her as if they were strangers.
All hope died. “I’m sorry I came.” Her dramatic exit faltered when the scrape of wheels brought her eyes downward. A pair of boots appeared from under the delivery truck, followed by stained jeans, and then a work shirt that showed about an inch of a taut belly at the waistband. But it was the woman who owned those things that kicked Harper in the gut.
Lori Carlson.
“Hey, Harper.” The smile was genuine if not sheepish.
The last time Harper had seen Lori, she was in the backseat of Noah’s car, tugging down her T-shirt over her pink lace bra with her hair mussed and her red lipstick smeared.
Harper felt sick.
The woman who helped destroy her relationship was still in the picture. It was the final injustice in an already crappy couple of days.
“Great.” Straightening her spine and forcing her chin up, Harper walked out of the garage with all the pride she had left. She got into her car and turned the vehicle toward home. It was only when she knew she was out of sight of the two people she’d once hated with everything inside her eighteen-year-old heart that her frayed emotions dissolved into tears.
* * * *
“You are a shit, Noah Slade,” Lori said as she crawled off the creeper and stood to her full height of almost six feet. She wiped her greasy hands on her already hapless jeans and glared from beneath a fringe of red bangs. “You could have heard her out.”
Noah scowled. He’d already been knocked off his feet at the desperate and broken look in Harper’s big brown eyes. She asked for help, he’d refused, and she’d taken Lori’s presence the wrong way. He didn’t need Lori in his face, too.
As if he could explain Lori in a way that would make Harper feel better. She’d looked at him with the same kicked-dog expression he’d seen that night eleven years ago in his headlight beams.
It didn’t matter that they were no longer together or that he didn’t answer to her anymore. He still felt like a giant ass for treating Harper poorly. Again.
“Thank you for your support.” He struggled to shake off his own guilt. Lori only added to the burden.
Clearly there was some girl code that wouldn’t allow her to let it
go. “Did you see how hurt she was? You should have gone after her and explained me.”
He struck back. “You’re blaming me? You could have stayed under the truck.” Turning, he headed for the office.
His friend hurried after him. “Oh no, you’re not dumping this on me.” She waited until he was seated behind the desk before placing her palms on the scarred surface. She bent until she was close enough that he couldn’t ignore her.
“After what you, we, did to her, it took guts and desperation to come here and face you. You owe her something, Noah. Advice at the very least. She’s facing serious charges.”
He leaned back, put his feet on the desk, and crossed his arms. Why had he confided in Lori about Harper’s call from jail? He should have known she’d butt in like a bossy sister.
“How do you figure I owe her anything?” It annoyed him that his best friend was not on his side. “I haven’t seen her since we were kids. I’m not responsible for her problems.”
Even if he was right, it didn’t ease the painful twist in his gut. Those damn sad eyes of Harper’s had knocked him flat.
Taking a deep breath, she pushed back from the desk. “You should help her for no other reason than she asked, and you once loved her. There was a time when you would have jumped off a cliff for Harper. Now when she needs you most, you turn your back?” She walked to the door. “You are a shit.”
The words weighed heavy in the air.
He picked at the grease under his thumbnail, trying to appear casual, while his emotions warred inside him. Seeing Harper again was like getting backed over by a truck. Everything inside him felt crushed under the weight of her standing in front of him and not being able to touch her.
“What can I do?” He made one last argument to assuage his guilt. “You forget that I no longer carry a badge.”
Lori pushed back her choppy red hair from her face, sighed, then turned and left the office.
No words were needed to make him feel worse. The idea of Harper being convicted and incarcerated made him queasy.
Noah leaned back and stared up at the ceiling. Why had she come to him? He’d been suspended from the FBI in disgrace. Surely, Harper had other people she could turn to. A good lawyer would be able to do more to free her than he could.
The Sweetheart Mystery Page 2