Chapter Twenty
J ocelyn leaned back on her hands when the tape came to an end and Bill Fogerty’s distinctive cadence no longer filled the quiet garage. She continued to stare at the cracked cement floor while Birch ejected the cassette and returned it to its box before climbing the ladder and tucking it back into the attic above.
She was emotionally drained from the roller coaster she’d ridden over the past twelve hours. Numbness was beginning to settle in after swinging through the high she’d awaken to, to the low she felt on Tower Hill, to the confusion, rage, and sadness she cycled through all evening.
Now she just wanted to crawl under a blanket, curl into a ball, and sleep.
And good or bad, she wanted to do it beside Birch.
She hadn’t realized she needed to hear Sheriff Fogerty clear his throat before he launched into a clear, almost robotic, retelling of the events leading to the deal. A part of her was aghast she trusted Birch’s story without proof, shocked her instincts had told her to listen to him. But Birch was right. Hearing Epson’s top cop confirm everything eased any hint of betrayal.
And the numbers backed him up.
He stepped off the ladder and shoved his hands into his back pockets. “So that was it. Not quite as exciting as they make things like this seem on TV.” When she looked up and met his eyes, he seemed to shrink a fraction. “Is it okay if I follow you back to the hotel? I’d feel better knowing you made it safe.”
Getting to her feet, she walked over to him and dropped her forehead to his chest. “Why is everything about you so easy and so hard at the same time?”
His arms wrapped around her, cocooning her as he rested his chin on her head. “I’m morally sound but ethically challenged?”
“Where did you hear a phrase like that?” she murmured into his shirt, inhaling the heavy spice of his cologne.
“On a podcast.”
Inching her arms around his waist, she held on to him and closed her eyes. “You really do blur the good-guy-bad-guy line.”
“I prefer to think of it as shading my character.” He nuzzled her hair and kissed the top of her head when she scoffed, his hold on her completely enveloping her. “Stay?”
*
Birch trailed his fingers along the neckline of one of his shirts Jocelyn was wearing, keeping his roving hands Rated-PG while she lay beside him in the dark.
Her trust in him had wavered, and for good reason. It served as the reminder he needed: they weren’t the same breed. They saw their hometown through different eyes, viewed their neighbors through different lenses, lived their lives following different goals and rules. Whether he thought of them as ships passing in the night, intimate strangers, or a long fling, what they weren’t was permanent. And he had to stop indulging in the idea.
He adjusted the blanket around her shoulders. “The whole only child thing must have been so quiet. I can’t see you being a holy terror as a kid.”
“It definitely had its benefits,” she replied, her thumb tickling his ribs as she aimlessly drew circles on his skin. “My parents were completely dedicated to my activities and school, and they were super focused on making sure they kept an open door to my friends so I wasn’t lonely. But now that I’m older, there’s that little cloud over me reminding me that I’m it. And my parents are it. When they die, it’ll just be me unless I marry into a big family.”
An image of her sitting at his table during the Baker brothers’ loud Christmas dinners flashed through his head and he shoved it back, unable to reconcile that jump with his inevitable future. “I never thought of that. I always thought only kids had it made, since they didn’t have to fight to the death for the last piece of cake or the final fry in the bag.”
“Oh, I’ll fight anyone for the last piece of cake.” She laughed and snuggled closer. “It was totally normal for me growing up, but when I got older, I was so jealous of my friends who had brothers and sisters because they had someone to ‘remember when’ with. I’m also horrific at sharing my space, and I don’t believe I’ll ever grow out of it.”
He tightened his arm, locking it around her. “You’re sharing it pretty damn good right now.”
“Come to my hotel room and move my toothbrush, and you’ll see precisely how territorial I can be. I lived with a roommate once for a month. By the third day, I was looking for a new place because she put things away in the wrong drawers.” She smoothed her hand along his stomach. “I suspect I’m not easy to live with.”
“Winter used to eat cereal in his room and leave the milky bowls under his bed for weeks at a time. Grey takes off his socks, shoves them under the couch cushions, then denies he did it while I’m pulling eight pairs out of the sofa on laundry day. River has never used the same cup twice for water, so he goes through a dozen a day and lines them up beside the sink despite the fact that the dishwasher is right. Fucking. There.”
“And you?” she asked with a laugh as she poked her finger into his bicep. “What’s your bad habit?”
“I’m the easiest guy ever to live with. If you excuse the fact that I push things off the kitchen counter into the closest drawer available every night before bed.”
“You’re a monster.”
Smirking, he nodded. “Yup. But in my defense, I’m the one who goes through the drawers every month or two and reorganizes them, so I don’t think it should count.”
*
Jocelyn could hear the pounding of rhythmic footsteps closing in on her as she rounded the bend in the path and Birch’s tattooed arms and chest hit her peripheral moments later.
She had snuck out of his bed and his home in the early morning while he slept, returning to her quiet hotel room to shower and change before deciding she needed a run to process the tightness in her throat every time she thought about Birch Baker.
He didn’t say a word as he adapted his pace to hers, his attention straight ahead, oblivious to the three women blatantly checking out his shirtless body while they strolled past them.
There seemed to be an unspoken agreement between them last night when she followed him to his room and accepted the blue t-shirt he handed her. Changing in the bathroom, she crawled into bed beside him in the dark and burrowed under the heavy blanket while his arms wrapped around her.
But he hadn’t made a move on her. And she reciprocated.
“Anyone else can think whatever they want about me, but not you.”
His walls were back, reinforced and strengthened. Although she didn’t feel bad for asking him about the money, she judged and sentenced him in her mind long before she spoke to him. She approached him prepared to hear him stammer and lie his way out of his deception, ready to battle as he fed her excuse after excuse.
Instead, he told her the truth then proved it.
“You really do blur the good-guy-bad-guy line.”
Slowing as they reached the final stretch of the path, she looked over at him, her heart clenching when she saw the hard line of his jaw and the guarded darkness in his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
He kept his gaze locked ahead. “You should be. I hate running.”
Coming to a stop, she watched him continue ahead. “Seriously? I thought you were kidding before.”
“As serious as the heart attack I’m probably going to have if I keep pretending I can keep up with you,” he called over his shoulder as he came to a stop, collapsed on the grass, and rolled onto his back. “The only thing I like about running is the lying down part at the end.”
Catching up, she sat beside him, draped her arms over her knees, and did her best to keep her eyes off his bare torso. “Why do it, then? I could have met up with you later.”
He tossed an arm over his eyes, shielding them from the late morning sun. “Again, I like the lying down part. Or the sitting down part. Both are almost euphoric afterwards, like my own version of a runner’s high.”
“So you torture yourself for a few minutes of bliss?”
“Damn right I do,” he replied with a smirk. “Besides, you and I seem to come to terms with each other when we’re running. And when I woke up this morning and discovered you’d already snuck out, I figured you and I had some terms we needed to address. So here I am. Almost dead, but ready to negotiate.”
Reclining back, she tucked her arms under her head and looked up at the marshmallow clouds peppering the sky. “I’m sorry I condemned you without hearing you out.”
He was quiet for a moment. “Condemned? Just a straight line from suspicion to damnation?”
“The numbers fit,” she stated quietly. “At least, they fit if you weren’t you. And I should have taken what I know of you and realized something else may have been at play.”
Lifting his arm from his eyes, he glanced over at her. “Done and forgotten. Don’t beat yourself up over it. All you know about me is what I told you and what the people around here say. It’s not like you were working off an encyclopedia of accurate or complimentary intel.”
“Maybe not, but I do know you aren’t a bad guy.” Exhaling, she turned toward him. “I forgot it in the moment, let my own hang-ups take control, and I’m sorry.” When he responded with little more than a grunt, she leaned over and pushed his forearm completely off his head. “It’s neither done, nor forgotten, Birch. You deserved better. Especially from me.”
Groaning, he pushed himself off the ground and stood, holding his hand out to help her up. “You really take this apology thing and drive it headfirst into awkwardness. Is there anything I can say to make it stop?”
Nodding, she brushed the grass from her clothes with her free hand, refusing to let his go. “Tell me how I can make it up to you.”
His brows furrowed and he stared at the ground for a second before smiling at her with satisfaction. “Keep me company at the Freedom Festival on Sunday. I paid a premium for a tent between the main stage and the kid zone and I want someone around to talk to if no one comes by. Someone who isn’t Grey, because he’ll be on my last nerve before noon.”
“It’s a deal. I’ll even toss in vendor scouting and food hoarding for free.” Staying close to him while they walked up the hill to the parking lot where his truck sat beside her car, she glanced over at a woman eying Birch from a bench. “Can I ask now?”
“Ask what?”
“Why you aren’t wearing a shirt?”
Shrugging, he tugged his keys from the back pocket of his basketball shorts. “I figured if I screwed up the talking thing, this might be distracting enough to buy me another shot at it.” He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it before he opened his door and got into his truck. “I’ll call you later.”