Chapter 1
ONE YEAR LATER
MEMPHIS
Not for the first time, and I’m sure not the last, I find myself wondering why I keep coming here.
It’s not as if Cailin needs me. Not anymore.
She has an apartment. A job. A car. Money tucked away in the bank, thanks to the money that piece of shit Dario was forced into paying her.
A year ago, I would have said differently. Back then, Cailin was struggling. She didn’t have a job or a place to stay. Traumatized by her captivity and the horrors she’d seen, she was too scared to do much of anything other than hide in the hotel room I’d arranged for her.
“I can’t bring myself to go outside,” she admitted tearfully when I offered to help her look for a new job. “Just thinking about it makes me feel sick. And the idea of going to casting calls again… I just can’t.”
I wasn’t about to force her. Not when she was so obviously hurting. Not when I could still see the fear in her expressive amber eyes.
Instead, I assured her she could take as long as she needed. And when she nervously inquired about the cost of the hotel after staying there for two weeks, I made up a story about some charitable organization rather than the truth, which was that I paid for it myself.
Why wasn’t I honest with her? I’m not sure. Maybe even then, I didn’t want to admit how invested I was.
A year ago, I told myself I was simply doing the right thing by helping her.
As I scoured the thrift shops, searching for the jewelry Cailin’s roommates had sold, or pre-screening apartments all over L.A.
to find the safest one for her, I held fast to the belief that I was only doing what anyone else would.
I promised her, after all. How could I not?
So I stayed in L.A. for nearly a month, in the hotel room adjacent to hers. I put my business on pause. I paid the hotel an exorbitant amount of money so they’d look the other way when I brought my cat with me. I tolerated a city I can’t stand so I’d be around to support her.
And whenever one of my friends or colleagues would ask why I was putting my life on hold for a woman I barely knew, I’d tell them the same thing. “Cailin reminds me of my little sister. If something happened to Marian and I wasn’t around, I’d want to know someone was taking good care of her.”
It was mostly true, at least.
My sister and Cailin are close to the same age. I feel protective of both of them. And during my years in the Army, I made my buddies swear to look out for Marian if anything happened to me.
The difference is, my feelings towards Cailin are far from brotherly.
“Good evening, sir.” As I approach the hostess stand, the blonde standing beside it perks up. Her smile brightens. “Are you meeting someone?”
“No,” I tell her. “Table for one.”
“Oh. Okay.” She glances at the table chart in front of her. “I have a lovely table near the bar—”
“I’d prefer to sit in Cailin’s section,” I interrupt. Casting a glance around the crowded restaurant, I add, “I can wait if all her tables are full.”
The hostess frowns slightly as she studies the chart. “It looks like she has one open table.” Grabbing a menu and silverware rollup from the stand, she turns and gestures for me to follow her. “If you’ll just come this way.”
She leads me to a booth in the corner of the dining room, which I’m happy about. Even though I’ve been out of the Army for five years now, the habits I made during my service still hold strong, like trying to sit with my back to the wall and having a clear view of the entrance.
As the hostess sets the menu and silverware on the table, she turns back to me and asks, “So, are you here on business? Or pleasure?”
“Business,” I reply quickly. With a thin smile, I slide into my seat. “Thank you. Enjoy your night.”
Fortunately, she takes it as a goodbye, as I meant her to. Not that I have anything against the hostess, but I’m not here to make small talk with strangers.
While I wait for Cailin to come over, I take out my phone to check my email.
I have two new responses from the contact form on my website, both inquiring about arranging a helo tour sometime next month.
Neither of them---a bachelor's weekend and an influencer looking for footage---sound particularly appealing. Technically, I don't need to take either job, if I don’t want to. Thanks to the inheritance I got from my parents and my retirement from the Army, I’ve got more money than I know what to do with.
But I like to work. I enjoy staying busy. And I love to fly. The only reason I’m not a Night Stalker anymore is because I wanted to leave on my own terms before they tried to push me out because of my age.
“Memphis!” At the sound of Cailin’s voice, my gaze lifts to meet hers. As she smiles, it hits me square in the gut. “How are you?”
Before answering, I quickly scan her face, and some of the tension I’ve been carrying over the last few weeks eases.
It’s the same every time. I come for my monthly visit—under the auspice of business, when in reality, I’m really here to check on her—and once I’ve established that she’s doing okay, I’m briefly reassured.
Then a week goes by, and the same stubborn worries reemerge—is she eating enough?
Sleeping enough? Is the apartment I arranged for still as safe as it was the last time I checked?
After two weeks, I’m counting the days until I can visit again. And by four, I’m losing sleep, convinced that Cailin’s in trouble and I’m not there to protect her.
So, yeah. I’m invested.
Forcing the unpleasant thoughts away, I return her smile with one of my own. “I’m good. Just got into town a couple of hours ago.”
Cailin rests her hand on the table, bringing her sweet floral scent closer.
The overhead lights pick up the hints of red in her dark hair, making it look like its lit with bits of fire.
Her eyes are more honey than amber, softening as she looks at me.
“It’s selfish, but I’m glad you have so many jobs in Bakersfield.
Because it means I get to see you more often. ”
I don’t have any jobs in Bakersfield. That’s just another white lie I tell.
I should feel guilty about lying. But if it’s between lying or not seeing Cailin at all, I’ll pick the lie every time.
Or I suppose I could tell her the truth, which is that there’s just this visceral need to see her. And that, quite honestly, once a month doesn’t feel like nearly enough.
But whenever I toy with the idea of telling her, logic intervenes, reminding me of all the reasons why it’s better to keep things as they are.
With twenty years between us, I’m far too old for her.
We live eight hundred miles apart, and she should have someone who’s always nearby.
Cailin’s still dealing with her trauma. She needs me to be a supportive friend, and not push for more.
I’m not the kind of man she needs. I’m grouchy and tend to intimidate people and I’m happier being home with my cat than going out to socialize. Cailin should be with a young guy who takes her places and helps her blossom into the woman she was on her way to becoming before that fucker took her.
I tell myself all of those things. Over and over.
But shit. Now that I’m less than a foot away from her, so close I could pull her into my arms, it’s a lot harder to hang onto those reasons.
Instead, I find myself trying to debate them.
Plenty of relationships have age gaps. It doesn’t mean they can’t work.
I can fly to Bakersfield whenever I want. Or, if things go well, I could ask Cailin to move to my home in Oregon, instead.
Maybe I’m assuming what’s best for Cailin, instead of just manning up and asking.
But now—sitting in a booth at Four Seasons Bistro, where Cailin’s worked for the last ten months—is not the best time to bring up any of those things. Instead, I stick with answering her question.
“I’m glad I get to see you, too,” I tell her.
Cailin studies me for a moment. Her hand lifts from the table and twitches towards me before stopping halfway. Her smile fades as a flicker of something unreadable moves across her face.
A second later, her smile is back, only a little tighter than before. “Your hair is longer,” she says. “So is your beard.”
Instinctively, I run my hand through my hair. Which, now that I’m thinking about it, is well-overdue for a trim. But a trim means venturing into Salem, the nearest city to me, and I try to keep my trips there to a minimum.
Plus, it’s not exactly like my cat is about to comment on the state of my hair. As long as he has food, water, fresh catnip—yes, I grow catnip for him, it’s much healthier than the packaged crap—and his designated spot on the back of the couch, he’s satisfied.
“Sorry,” Cailin hurries to add. “Not that it looks bad. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“It’s fine.” I flash a reassuring smile. “I am overdue for a haircut. I should probably get to it before I end up really looking like a hermit.”
“Oh, no.” Her eyes widen. “I like it. Longer like that. It makes you look kind of rugged and—” Her mouth snaps shut and her cheeks go pink. “Anyway. I think it’s fine as it is.”
Fine? Or better than that?
Selfishly, I’m tempted to push her on it. But that might make Cailin uncomfortable, so instead, I reply lightly, “Still. I’ll add a reminder to do it when I get back home.”
Cailin’s gaze moves to my hair again. Her expression turns contemplative. “Maybe you should leave it. Just for a while.”
Before I can respond, a buzz sounds from the pager at her hip. “Do you need to go?” I ask.
She frowns. “I suppose I should.” Reaching into her apron, she pulls out a pen and small notebook. “What would you like to order?”
“You choose,” I reply, just as I do every time I visit her here. I’m far more intrigued by what Cailin thinks I’ll like than anything I might choose.
Her forehead creases in thought. “We have a special tonight. It’s meatloaf topped with bacon and cheddar mashed potatoes. I tasted it and it was excellent.”
“Sounds great,” I reply with a smile.
“And club soda with lime?”