Chapter 20 – LISA
LISA
I've been parked outside Beau's house since before dawn, and I'm starting to question my own sanity. Are these the actions of a hard-nosed determined detective who's following her gut, or a deranged woman and borderline stalker now, who's still obsessed with the man she scorned?
I remind myself that I came here to try and talk sense into him.
In daylight, sober, no audience. After last night, after that kiss, lying in bed at three in the morning, I decided that if I showed up and made sure he knows that I’m not interested in finding out if Bodhi was at that cabin, if he’s the one that killed Kozlov, he might finally do the right thing.
If not, I'll find out my own way.
Only time will tell.
It's a quiet, family-friendly street. Not the kind of neighbourhood I expected from a Lennox, but then again, nothing about Beau is what I expected. His pickup truck sits in the drive, and there's a single light on in what I assume to be the kitchen.
He's awake, at least. Hopefully being up at this ungodly hour bodes well for me not having to witness a walk of shame that might just tip me over the edge.
Not that I have any right to care after I kissed him last night.
Or let him kiss me. Either way, it's none of my business what happened after I stormed out.
Except, it wouldn't be a walk of shame. I've been with Beau Lennox. Any woman crawling out of his bed would be skipping down that road with a big smile on her face. If she could still walk, that is.
Grinding my teeth as an ugly wave of jealousy washes over me, I ponder what being jealous of an imaginary woman, doing things I just made up with a man who's not mine, says about my mental state.
I reach for my coffee to wash away the bitter taste in my mouth and grimace when I realise it's gone cold, but I drink it anyway, needing the caffeine badly.
I should have grabbed breakfast before coming out here, but my stomach wasn't interested.
Way too early. I fish a pack of crackers from my glove box and nibble on one, more to have something to do than out of any real hunger.
My appetite still isn't what it should be, the bug I've been staving off making its presence known through a pleasant combination of hot flushes and exhaustion.
It's weird. I'm never ill. My grandmother used to say our family is strong, unnaturally so, and that's why we didn't get sick like other people. I never believed her, just assumed it was another one of her quirky ideas about our family being special.
As I struggle to keep my eyes open, I don't feel so special now.
The street is quiet. A dog walker passes. A car pulls out of a driveway three houses down. Normal morning stuff. Nothing interesting enough to keep my attention, that is, until the garage door opens, and Beau steps into the pale morning sunlight.
He's been working out. Grey tank top damp with sweat, and black shorts only coming to mid-thigh, revealing gloriously muscled tanned legs. He pulls his bare arms across his chest, one by one, showing off veined forearms and strong hands.
Even from here, I can see the definition in his shoulders, the way his biceps flex as he stretches. His dark hair is pushed back from his face as he stares off in the distance, expression solemn, like some kind of male fitness model sent to Black River to torment me.
When he sits down on a weight bench and leans back, powerful legs spread, my raging libido interprets it as an invitation. It takes all my willpower not to walk over there and straddle him.
I flap the front of my shirt, desperately needing to cool down. Maybe I'm not getting sick. Maybe this is early menopause, and I'm having hot flushes.
Embarrassed at myself for being such a salivating horn-dog, I sink lower in my seat and tug the peak of my cap lower.
This is surveillance. Professional surveillance. I'm not ogling.
But I'm absolutely ogling.
He heads for his truck and pops the tailgate, then disappears back inside. When he returns, he's carrying a heavy duffel bag that he swings into the bed like it weighs nothing. Then another. Then a hard case that looks like it might hold weapons and must weigh a tonne.
My half-formed plan to reason with him evaporates. He's packing for something big.
I watch him work, bending, standing on the footplate and stretching, his vest rising to reveal toned abs. I'm gathering intel, I repeat, tilting my head, as if that's going to help me get a better view.
The way he moves is methodical, efficient. Everything has its place. He straps the gear down with ease, confident in what he's doing but checking each tie twice like every good boy scout, tugging to make sure it's secure.
His forearms flex as he tightens the final strap, and I have to look away for a second. Focus, Harris. This isn't a show.
But god, it kind of is.
By the time he's finished, the truck bed is loaded and covered. My heart is racing. You'd think I just watched him strip tease. It's almost a relief when he goes back inside, and I wait, fingers tapping against the steering wheel, finally able to regain my composure.
That man. He has an effect on me that I've never experienced before, and I'm starting to realise that might be part of the reason he bugs me so much.
I don't like feeling so unbalanced, completely unable to rein in my emotions around him.
The second I'm in his presence, they seem to just erupt out of me. Like I have no impulse control.
Twenty minutes later, he emerges again. Showered now and dressed in dark blue jeans and a henley that skims his impressive physique, his damp hair curling at his temples. He locks up, climbs into his truck, and pulls out of the drive.
I give him a head start, then follow, careful to hang back and stay out of sight.
Beau doesn't go far. At a rest stop about forty minutes out of town, the kind truckers use, he parks next to a black SUV I don't recognize.
Parking across the street, I watch as two men get out.
They're built like soldiers, moving with the kind of efficiency that screams ex-military.
One is tall and broad, with a thick moustache and a shaved head.
The other is leaner and lighter. There's a scar running down his forearm, and a slight limp he hides well.
Beau greets them with enthusiastic handshakes and brief words I can't hear. They talk for a few minutes, leaning against the vehicles, gesturing and nodding. Then they're waving farewell and returning to their vehicles.
This is a team, preparing for a mission.
They're going after Amber. I know it.
When they pull out, with the black SUV leaving first, I make a split-second decision. Following Beau is risky. He knows my car, and he certainly knows my face. He'll spot me if I get too close as I trail him.
But these two don't know me at all, and I'm willing to bet they're all heading in the same direction.
I tuck in behind the black SUV, keeping three cars between us, and settle in for the drive, praying I'm right, and that I haven't lost my only chance to see what Beau's up to.
The landscape changes as the miles pass, towns giving way to open roads, then to stretches of nothing.
When the traffic thins, I'm forced to stay back even further, but I manage to keep the SUV in view.
They're not trying to shake a tail. They don't know they have one.
I look like any other young woman just going about my normal, boring life.
Eventually, they signal and turn off toward a motel with a giant flashing palm tree on the sign outside. Staring at the wide-open space it's sat in, nowhere near the ocean, I frown. Maybe it's supposed to be ironic.
I drive past, pull a U-turn at the next intersection, and find a spot down the road where I can watch from a distance.
Beau's truck is already there, and he waits for the two men to exit their vehicles.
When they approach, he pulls a key from his pocket and walks to a room on the ground floor.
He unlocks it, and carelessly tosses his bag inside, then leads them to the next door and props it open, waiting while they step inside.
A few minutes later, the unloading begins. All bags, cases, and equipment, and there are lots of them, go into the second room, Beau and the big guy making return trips until it's all inside, while the other occasionally comes to the door and points.
Whatever this is, it's not a quick trip, and it's definitely not a social visit.
I settle in to wait, watching as afternoon bleeds into evening.
At some point, one of the men leaves in the SUV and comes back twenty minutes later with takeout bags.
Just the sight of it is enough to remind me I've eaten nothing more than a few crackers and an old granola bar I found in the bottom of my purse.
My stomach growls loudly, finally demanding something more substantial.
Deciding they're probably settled in for the next half an hour anyway, I start my car and head for the town we passed a few miles back. I need real food and I need supplies.
As I drive through the town, I realise calling it that is being generous.
There's one main street, a gas station, a diner that's seen better days, and a general store with a hand-painted sign.
A hardware store with a faded sign may or may not still be in business, and a hairdresser that also offers pet grooming might be the most concerning thing I've seen so far.
I pull into the general store's parking lot and dig out my phone, scrolling to Morrison's number with great trepidation. He's the last person I want to ask a favour, or to figure out what I'm up to, but I have no choice.
He picks up on the fourth ring. "Harris. Thought you were taking a personal day."
Even though he can't see me, I roll my eyes so hard, it hurts. Just mention a menstrual cycle to these men, and they run a mile. Normally, I don’t play the only woman in the station card, but sometimes, you gotta do what you gotta do.
"Oh yeah, I am. Soooo bad." I climb out of the car, cradling the phone against my shoulder.
Adding a pained groan for good measure, I push through the store's front door, cursing when a bell jingles overhead.
"Just checking in while I'm down at the chemist buying tampons and a heat pack. Anything happening?"
I swear, I hear him gag. Or maybe, that's the sound of his balls sucking back up into his body.
"TMI Harris. I don't want to know about your flow."
Jesus. Did he get that from a bumper sticker?
I grab a basket and head for the clothing section, such as it is. A few racks of basics, mainly in camo or sickly-sweet pastel colours, and certainly not anything fancy. "You're telling on yourself, Morrison. You've never had a serious girlfriend, and it's showing."
He scoffs. "Well, you're calling me on your day off, so you must want me for something."
The urge to say something sarcastic is almost too much to avoid, but now isn’t the time to piss him off.
"Actually, I do. I'm looking for a quick favour."
I pull a pack of underwear off the rack, toss it in the basket without looking.
It's the right size, so it'll do. Pyjamas next.
Sensible cotton catches my eye, but so does something silkier.
I grab both. "Listen, does anything ever happen out near.
.." I try to remember the name on the motel sign. "Out in Crow Valley. That area?"
Morrison snorts. "That shithole? Why?" He may be a dick, but when he wants to be, he's a good detective. I need to give him a little, but not a lot.
"Just curious. Got a girlfriend talking about following some dude out there." Jeans. A T-shirt. Hoody. I'm grabbing things at random now, not really paying attention, just filling the basket. "Nothing weird or wonderful?"
There's a pause. "There was that bare-knuckle boxing thing a while back. Illegal fights at some old warehouse. So, unless he's got a busted nose and fucked up hands, she's probably safe enough. She's going to be bored as hell though."
My sixth sense tingles, tickling the back of my mind. "An underground fight ring? They really must have been bored."
Morrison laughs at my lame joke as I toss a packet of facial wipes and a toothbrush in the bottom of my basket.
"Anyone step up to take over? Someone's usually waiting in the wings if there's money to be made."
Morrison laughs again. "Why? Do you think your friend's boyfriend is sketchy?"
I hesitate just enough for him to assume the worst, and that I'm asking to protect her.
"Not that I've heard." He sounds bored now, ready to end the conversation. "But I'd still tell her to give it a miss."
My eyes land on a rack near the back. Black leather pants. A skin-tight top that's more daring than anything I'd normally wear. I stare at them for a second, then shove them into my basket along with everything else. "I should go. Eh, these cramps. They're killing me."
I can almost feel him recoiling in disgust as he hangs up before I can gross him out any more.
Conscious I don't want to be away from the motel for long, I shove my phone into my back pocket then head to the register.
It only takes so long to eat a take-out, and I still haven't picked up any food.
The cashier rings everything up at a glacial pace, but thankfully, without comment, and I pay without really looking at the total, my mind elsewhere.
Underground fights. Could it all be connected?
I'm still turning it over as I bundle my shopping bags into the back seat, and my stomach growls at me again. I spot a drive-through up ahead, and suddenly, I'm ravenous in a way that's almost painful. Really, I should head straight back in case they leave, but I don't.
What I do is order more food than I can possibly finish and eat half of it before I've even made it back to the motel, the brown paper bag perched precariously on my knee as I shove fries into my mouth.
The hunger is intense, almost desperate, and it takes two burgers and most of the fries before it finally eases.
The sun is setting, painting the sky orange and pink, by the time I pull in and clamber out, shoving my new purchases into a backpack and heading for reception. Their vehicles are still there as I pass, the lights still burning brightly in the room with all their gear.
Terrified I'll get caught, I duck my head and hurry by. The clerk barely looks up when I push through the door into the reception area, shutting it behind me.
"I need a room for the night."