Out of Love

by RC Boldt

  It makes my balls shrivel up just admitting this, but it’s the truth. For a split second, I feel like I’m worthy of a woman, of her comfort. But only for a split second. Then I realize I’m Foster Kavanaugh. I recall my past; what I’ve done.

  I’m also not the greatest at picking women who aren’t Stage Five Clingers, either. The ones who are already planning which of my T-shirts they’re going to sleep in every night, planning on meeting my mother, planning our wedding.

  If that doesn’t induce a straight-up puke fest, I don’t know what will.

  “What’s wrong, baby?” The blonde beside me repeats in what I’m sure she thinks is a seductive purr.

  It’s not.

  “Nothing,” I say, rolling off the bed, already planning on shooing her out the door and going out for a run with Harley before the sun sets. I normally run in the mornings, but after today I need a double dose.

  Walking over to my master bathroom, I wash up quickly before heading back into my bedroom to pull on some boxer briefs, running shorts, and socks. And I notice she’s still in bed.

  Without turning around, I stop at the doorway and say, “I’m heading out for a run and have to set the alarm,” before exiting in search of my running shoes at the backdoor. I hear mutterings, but I don’t care. I’m being a dick, but let me be clear. I am up front about everything with these women.

  Always.

  I don’t make promises to call, don’t make plans ahead of time. They know the score. It’s just sex. Sometimes, it’s great sex. Other times, it’s mediocre. But it only happens a max of three times. Three separate times. Because, for whatever reason, some women get it in their head that anything past three times means you’re in it for the long haul.

  And I’m sure as hell not.

  I have to admit, though, the past few times hadn’t been as much fun. Hadn’t given me as much of an escape as in the past.

  Deep down, I wonder if it’s because of one particular individual who entered my life over a year ago.

  Chapter Four

  Noelle

  I had busied myself the remainder of the day with readying contracts for upcoming sites as well as renewals. TriShield Protection was growing and in much more demand, which was great for us, but it also meant Foster might end up needing to hire another employee.

  And I get the feeling bringing that up now might not be best.

  Working for him and along with the others, I’ve actually gleaned a lot of useful information. Some of which, I hope to never have to use, I’ll be honest. But they always stress, Be aware of your surroundings. At all times.

  It figures the one time I’m distracted by my thoughts of Foster and his friend, it would happen.

  Reaching to slide my key into the lock of my door, I freeze. Because it seems someone has already done me the honor. It’s been jimmied open, the wood splintered around the doorframe near the lock. And I do what I’ve always been told not to do; I enter my small house.

  At least I have some sense to grab the pepper spray from my purse, in case whoever broke into my house is still around. Stepping over the threshold, quietly pushing the door open as if I’m the star of a new slasher flick, I instantly notice the mess up ahead.

  Someone has flung the contents of my refrigerator all over the entire living room. The ricotta cheese I was planning on using to try and recreate Momma K.’s—Foster’s mother—famous lasagna rolls? It’s all over my couch and it almost appears as though someone smeared it into the cushions. And the jar of sauce I was planning on using as well? It’s shattered on the hardwood floor, the red marina everywhere like blood spatter from a scene from CSI.

  Stellar.

  As I quietly inch my way farther into the house, my finger on the pepper spray trigger, there is no way in hell I can withhold the gasp of horror at the sight of what is written—in Sharpie, no less—on my television screen.

  Lying slut!

  My stomach churns and I turn, running for the door, barely making it outside to the landing, leaning over the railing of the stairs to puke my guts out. Because there is no denying it any longer.

  I’ve been found.

  * * *

  I have no idea how long I’ve been standing here, still grasping the damn pepper spray, staring down the twelve-ish feet below at my own vomit. Not really seeing it, just dazed.

  I need to form thoughts, damn it. What was I going to do? I couldn’t just camp out on my front step all night, for God’s sake.

  My phone begins ringing, sending a startling jolt through me at the break in silence. Closing my eyes, I mumble quietly, “Please, don’t tell me he’s calling me now.”

  Reaching down into my purse lying at my feet, I halfheartedly pull out my phone, cautiously eyeing the caller ID. Instantly, my eyes fall closed. Because, really? Really? Now?

  Swiping the screen, I accept the call because he never calls me after work. Not unless it’s urgent, so I know I have to answer.

  “Yes, Kavanaugh?” I try to school my voice and attempt to make it sound normal. And promptly fail as I hear how weak, meek I sound; my voice actually wavers, damn it. Basically, I sound the complete opposite of the normal, everyday Noelle Davis. Which is just great because there’s no way in hell my boss won’t notice. But, I can still hope, right?

  There’s a brief pause on the other end. “What’s wrong, Davis?”

  Poof! There go my hopes on that.

  “Nothing,” I say much too brightly. “What do you need, boss?”

  Another pause. Damn it, Foster Kavanaugh. “Davis,” his voice is nearly a low growl, “what’s wrong.” And, yeah. He says this, not as a question, but as a demand. Because he knows something’s up.

  And that’s when the unthinkable happens. That’s the moment when I become my worst nightmare—everything I hate being. Weak, meek, and pansy-like. Because, right then, I break down crying.

  “Fuck,” I hear him breathe out on the other end. “Are you at home?”

  Sniffling, I swallow a sob before answering him. “Yes.”

  “Are you safe?”

  “I think so.”

  Another muttered curse. “I’m on my way. Keep your phone and your pepper spray out.”

  I utter an, “Okay.” We end our call, and it’s then I slink down on the top step, pulling my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around them. My hands are still clenching my phone and pepper spray, but for the first time since I entered the house, I feel something.

  Knowing Foster’s on his way to do… Shit, I don’t even know what he’s going to do, but just the fact that he’s coming over—my boss who can’t stand me and only puts up with me because I do a great job of running his office—it makes the tightness in my chest and the fear subside just a bit.

  Probably for the first time in longer than I’d like to admit.

  Chapter Five

  Foster

  I knew it when she answered, before she even finished the first word. Something wasn’t right. Noelle Davis was in some sort of trouble. Sure, she had tried to hide it, but I could hear it as clear as day, could detect the tremulous quality to her voice.

  After Harley and I finished our run and I showered, I called Noelle to ask her a quick question about a contract for one of our newer sites. I didn’t feel like dragging my sorry ass back into the office but knew I needed to distract myself from thoughts of Hendy and work always granted me that kind of reprieve.

  Grabbing my wallet, keys and phone, I set the alarm and lock up, sprinting down the stairs to my truck. It takes me less than two minutes to get to her small house. She rents an older, shaker-sided one-story beach home on stilts. Pulling into the driveway, she’s sitting on the top step, looking the furthest thing from my usual ballsy office manager.

  Exiting my truck, I bound up the steps, two at a time before crouching in front of her. Her head is down and the tears are dripping onto the fabric of her skirt.

  “Hey,” I say softly. “What’s going on?” She still won’t look up at me, and I glan
ce over at the front door.

  That’s when my entire body stiffens. What the fuck? Her door has been jimmied open, the wood splintered. Raising to stand, I slide my phone from the front pocket of my khaki pants and instantly dial my buddy at the Sheriff’s office.

  “Kavanaugh! What kind of trouble are you in this time, dude?” Ty’s tone is jovial, teasing. He did me a solid when Lee had some trouble a short time back.

  I heave out a sigh. “Sorry to bother you, man, but I’ve got a, uh, friend who’s had her place broken into. You think you could help out … discreetly?”

  “A friend, huh? She?” He’s poking at me and with good reason.

  “My office manager,” I add succinctly with a firmness to my tone because I don’t need him getting any ideas.

  “Huh.” Shit. Which means he’s already getting ideas. “I happen to just be finishing up my shift, but I can swing by in about ten minutes, max.” He pauses and I hear some shuffling sounds. “Any chance anyone saw it?”

  I glance around, noting the few surrounding homes appear empty, likely seasonal owners who spend the summers up north to avoid the heat and only inhabiting these beach houses once winter hits. There are two neighboring homes with For Sale signs in front of them that appear equally as empty. Shit. No help likely to come from the neighbors. “Doubtful.” I rattle off her address, thank him before ending the call, and slide my phone back into my pocket.

  Squatting down in front of Noelle, I see she’s dried her tears and is currently in the process of trying to smooth her hair.

  “Want to tell me what happened?” I try to gentle my tone, knowing I come off gruff pretty much all the time, according to my sister. I’m not prepared for the moment Noelle’s eyes raise up, meeting my own, because the look in them is unlike anything I’ve ever seen: despair, pain, and helplessness are all entwined. It’s in that moment I want nothing more than to take her in my arms and just … hold her.

  But I can’t. I can’t touch her because, not only does she dislike me, but I know, deep down, if I touch her, it’ll all be over.

  “I got home and found this.” She waves her hand toward the door. “I had my pepper spray out and went in.” She throws up a hand to stop me when I open my mouth to get on her case about entering. “I know, I know. It’s too late now. I only saw what was done to the first part of my place. It’s a mess in the living room.” Her head lowers, again. “I didn’t go any farther after I saw the TV,” she mutters.

  What about the TV?

  “I’m going to take a look.” Her head jerks up, eyes wide in alarm. “No!”

  Staring at her curiously, I cock my head to the side. “No?”

  She attempts to recover. “I just… It might not be safe.” It’s a pitiful excuse. She knows it, and I know it. Which means that there’s something inside the house she doesn’t want me to see.

  “Stay here. My buddy’s on his way from the Sheriff’s office. Harley’ll keep you company for the moment.”

  “Who—” she starts to ask, only to be interrupted by my quick whistle.

  Instantly, Harley bounds down from the truck bed, up the steps, slowing as he nears Noelle’s perch. His head tips to the side as if he’s inspecting her. Gingerly, he places a front paw on the next step, closer to her, putting his head down as if asking for permission to approach her.

  “Hey, you.” I hear the affection in her tone. I don’t want to admit how it makes me feel to see her welcoming my dog. She reaches a hand out tentatively to pet the top of his head and that’s all it takes.

  Harley moves up to sit beside her on the step, his tall body next to hers, and gives this odd little grunt-groan sound I’ve never heard before. She looks at him curiously and he leans toward her. And that’s when he does it.

  He kisses her. Licks her cheek displaying her tear tracks. Just once—just one doggy kiss—before turning, slouching and laying his head on her lap.

  Feeling like I just got punched in the solar plexus after what I just witnessed, I turn away and take a good look at the door and what’s left of the lock. It was definitely a cheap ass setup to begin with. I’ll have to have a chat with her landlord who’s known to be a bit of a glorified slumlord around here. It probably took someone less than two minutes to crowbar their way in.

  Gingerly entering and walking down the narrow hallway to the kitchen and living room area, I’m assaulted with a mixture of odors and come to find a lovely fucking array of food smeared around the place.

  What looks like containers of food are emptied onto her couch, a busted jar which contained pasta sauce is everywhere, the scattered shards of glass reflecting the overhead lights in the room. That alone tells me that this wasn’t just an average run-of-the-mill B&E. What further confirms this is the sweet, little message written on her television screen.

  Lying slut!

  Yeah. That’s a nice touch.

  Nothing on her back porch appears disturbed, the lock on that door is still engaged, so I walk down the hallway to what I assume is her bedroom. And this is when I hit the fucking motherlode.

  Red paint is everywhere. I know it’s paint, not only because of the shade, but because I’ve been around enough blood in my lifetime to know the difference. That and the asshole left the paint can in the corner of the room. Nightstands are knocked over and it appears that every single bra, underwear, and lingerie set is scattered about, appearing frayed as if rapidly shorn with dull scissors.

  I think it’s safe to say someone is decidedly unhappy with my office manager.

  I don’t enter the bedroom, merely stand in the doorway, taking it all in. I heard Ty’s voice a second ago, figure he was introducing himself to Noelle before coming to see me.

  A moment goes by before he joins me, and I hear him muttering to himself in between the click, click, click of his camera for the evidence he’s recording. When he finally makes his way over to where I’m still standing, I don’t say a word.

  “Fuck me,” he says under his breath before glancing over. “She know who did this?”

  “I’d bet money on it.” Pressing my lips firmly together to try and tamp down the rage I feel building inside of me, I let out a long breath. “I’m going to bring her home and send in a cleaning crew to try and fix this mess.”

  Feeling his eyes on me, I don’t turn his way, still taking in the scene before us. He jots down notes, takes photos and enters the bedroom as carefully as possible in order to make his way to the attached bathroom.

  I didn’t expect that to be spared—I’d hoped, of course, but didn’t expect it. From the way Ty utters a string of curse words, it hasn’t been.

  “If I were a betting man, I’d put all my money on the fact that someone is none too pleased with your woman.”

  Fuck. “Now, whatever makes you say that?” I grumble sarcastically. “Was it the sweet Lying slut! message on the television? Or maybe the fascinating artwork here in the bedroom?”

  “Or maybe the You belong to me! message on her bathroom mirror?” Ty adds drily.

  “Fucking fantastic.” I run my hands over my face, the start of scruff along my jawline rasping beneath my fingers.

  Damn it. Noelle’s in some deep shit, and there’s no way in hell I can leave her to fend for herself. One night at my place while I have her place cleaned and fixed up, safer than before is one thing. But now? Now, I don’t know if I can stomach the idea of having her stay here by herself even with better quality locks.

  Ty steps back out and walks over to me. “I’m going to see if I can get any prints before I head out and chat with her. See if I can get her to give me some info, a statement, so I can file this.”

  “Roger that. Thanks, again, man.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” He shakes his head with a smile. “You can thank me by dropping by with some of your mom’s home cooking sometime.”

  “Done,” I agree with a weak smile. As he leaves, I back away, leaning against the wall, staring directly across into Noelle’s bedroom.

  “Davis,
Davis, Davis,” I mutter under my breath. “What kind of shit did you get yourself into in Destin?”

  Chapter Six

  Noelle

  Ty Dennison. That’s the deputy’s name that arrives at Foster’s beckoning. He’s one of those men who has an easy-going demeanor, a kind smile that somehow puts you at ease in his presence.

  Exactly what I need.

  Except when he comes back outside after getting a good look at the damage, that easy-going smile has vanished. And I know, right then, it’s far worse than I could have imagined.

  Stepping to the side, casually leaning against the side of the house, he directs his attention to me. “You know who did this.”

  It’s a statement. As if he’s already determined the answer. And I realize how dumb I am to think anyone with an ounce of brainpower could see the mess inside my house and believe it wasn’t personal.

  Denial? It ain’t just a river in Egypt.

  Letting out a long sigh, looking away, concentrating on petting Harley’s soft fur, I nod slowly.

  “It’s best to get this reported in case things … escalate.”

  I nod again as I internally laugh. Escalate? That’s a joke, right? I mean, come on. As if having your home broken into, crap purposely spilled out onto your furniture, and nasty names written on your TV isn’t an escalated situation?

  “Ms. Davis, I—”

  “Noelle,” I interrupt him. Because deep down, a part of me has the fear—or possibly more of a premonition—that we’ll end up on a first name basis soon enough.

  “Noelle,” Ty repeats before adding, “I’m going to need you to tell me everything you can about who did this.”

  “Everything, huh?” I huff out a humorless laugh because where do I even start? Looking back up at the handsome deputy, I nod toward one of the steps nearby. “Might want to get comfortable.”

  He moves to lean against the railing, gaze intent, and he’s got that I’m here to help look.

  “I’m ready when you are.” Ty’s tone is kind, gentle and, for once, I feel like I can trust him, can trust someone in a law enforcement uniform. Because Foster clearly vouches for him and that, in itself, is more soothing than I can admit. So I do something I had hoped—prayed—I wouldn’t have to do since moving to Fernandina Beach.