Chapter 3
Three
Cole
Fuck.
Ow.
The first thing I register, after the pounding headache, scorched throat, and sour stomach, is the ticking of a clock.
TICK—TOCK—TICK—TOCK.
It's inside my skull.
Then I hear the buzzing of a phone. I crack an eye open—not my house. Not my bed.
Where am I?
Oh, right. Nyxie's place. I tied one on last night.
Drank way too much whiskey, played Go-Fish because Nyx is a weirdo like that, and watched Toy Story.
I may or may not have toked a joint, too.
It's legal, okay? And as the sheriff, my policy has always been that my deputies can live their lives as they see fit as long as they do their jobs with honor, integrity, and dedication.
I expect them to set examples in the community.
But they also have lives. So I don't drug test regularly, and only if I suspect one of my people is abusing a substance or working while on any substance, and only then to get them help, not to punish or judge.
Fee and Nyx, for all the shit they like to give me, didn't ask a single question. They knew better.
I can't believe she showed up here.
Nope, can't go there before coffee. Nope, nope, nope.
I work myself upright on the giant sectional. Fee is on my left, Nyx on the right. Nyx has wrapped himself up in a blanket like a mummy, only his face exposed. Fee has his arms crossed over his chest, legs stretched out ankle over ankle. Both are snoring.
I scan the living room, really seeing it for the first time—last night is a bit of a blur.
He moved in here just last year after renting the same shitty apartment for almost a decade—Nyx doesn't like change.
Back in high school, he ripped a hole in his favorite shoes and was damn near inconsolable for a week.
When the landlord announced unexpectedly that he'd sold the dumpy old block of apartments behind the old sawmill to a developer, and that tenants had to relocate, Nyx was apoplectic.
But there was nothing he could do, so he moved.
Nyx is also very private and doesn't like other people in his home—he almost never invites people over, even the three of us. Which means this is the first time I've been here.
It's a nice place, a single-story ranch with two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a half-acre yard. More importantly, it has an attached garage and a detached one, so he has space for his personal restoration projects.
Inside, it's not what I'd have expected from Nyx, who comes across as kind of devil-may-care, never serious, and only really cares about cars and drinking.
Nothing could be further from the truth, but only those of us who know him well would know.
And even to me, the clean, spartan, and cozy decor in here is a bit of a shock.
There are framed prints of ads from old motoring magazines and black-and-white photos of classic cars on the walls, two large bookshelves stuffed with sci-fi, fantasy, and thriller paperbacks, and even a wicker basket that contained the throw blankets the three of us are using.
The kitchen is well-done, too, in a classic, timeless style with nice finishes and appliances. It's tidy, and he clearly takes pride in his home. And I know he didn't clean just for us because we didn't plan on coming over.
I spy a coffeemaker on the counter and shuffle to it, snagging my phone off the coffee table on the way.
The call was from Lt. Aimes, and instead of a voicemail, he sent me a text asking me to call him back, but not an emergency.
I leave him on read and get the coffee brewing; while it chugs and hisses, I stare out the sliding glass door overlooking his big backyard.
It snowed a few inches overnight, so everything is washed with sparkling white that glitters in the bright winter sun.
Beyond the privacy fence at the back, I can see the rooftops of downtown just a couple of blocks away.
The other houses are separated on each side by a pretty nice-sized side-yard—on the left is another ranch, this one owned by a retired couple—Tim and Aubrey Whitshire.
Tim is a retired detective who spent his career in Cleveland, and I've had a few shop-talk conversations with him over a beer at The Cellar.
On the right, a remodel project of Felix's and Riley's, the house where the Cartwright girls grew up.
I hear the coffeemaker splutter a few times and then beep, telling me it's finally done brewing the sweet nectar of the gods.
Operating under the assumption that Nyx is logical, I open the cabinet above the coffeemaker and discover yet another surprise: a collection of handthrown ceramic mugs, no two alike and made with varying degrees of skill.
There's one upside down on a cloth drying mat, and this one is lopsided and clearly the effort of a novice; a quick peek reveals the letters CAN scratched into the bottom…
Cody Alonzo Nyx. The man is just full of surprises, and I've known his ass for thirty fucking years.
Seeing his initials brings back a long-forgotten memory.
From seventh grade till we graduated, our football coach was Robby Brokaw, who discovered that Nyx's initials were C-A-N and thereafter called him CanCan exclusively.
It started to catch on with the players, but Nyxie hated it with a passion and refused to answer to it for anyone except Coach Brokey, as we called him.
Once in a while, old Coach Brokey will make an appearance at some town event and run into Nyxie, and that old nickname gets trotted out, and poor Nyx has to ward off people trying to revive it.
I leave Nyx's mug where it is and grab a different one.
This one is done in swirling streaks of gray and blue, with a big handle, which I like because my hands are disproportionately big.
I fill the mug and then stomp my feet into my boots and shrug into my jacket, step out into Nyx's deck.
It's brisk but not frigid, and the sun feels amazing, if a little painful on my hungover eyes.
I sip coffee and breathe the crisp, cold, late December air.
I hate feeling hungover—I don't drink to that kind of excess very often, purely for the reason that hangovers fucking suck, and they suck worse with every year older I get. It ends up not really being worth it. Last night, though? Seeing Lacey again was…
Not to put too fine a point on it, but it was fucking agony.
She was as gorgeous as ever, and more. Age had turned the smokeshow high school girl into a classy, elegant woman. But even in the few moments I'd spent in her presence, I could feel the sadness radiating off her.
Sadness may not be the right word—our encounter was too brief to get a solid read on her, and that's not unusual.
She was always hard to read, emotionally.
She kept her feelings on the inside, mostly.
I mean, except that temper of hers—you fucking knew when Lacey Grey was pissed, because you could hear her from three counties over.
But her other emotions, she tended to be more reserved with, acting fine even when she wasn't. As an ignorant, immature, punk-ass teenager, I wasn't very good at understanding this about her, mistaking her lack of outward expression of emotions to mean she didn't feel things.
Now, as a grown man with some life experience under my belt, I see it—and her—differently.
The backyards in this neighborhood form a single open strip of grass—some houses have opted to fence off their portion, and others have not.
Nyx has installed a gorgeous wrought-iron fence around the perimeter of the backyard and has planted roses every few feet all the way around.
Being winter, they're wrapped in burlap now, but he showed us a few photos on his phone last night, and they're pretty stunning. Again, not something I’d ever have expected of Cody Nyx.
I hear a sliding door open on my right, which is weird because I’d thought that place was empty, as I know for a fact Fee is still working on the basement. If Felix is passed out inside behind me, then who is in the old Cartwright place?
I look, and my heart clenches painfully, does an excited somersault, and settles back to a general hungover queasiness.
Lacey.
Clad in tight black leggings and a T-shirt, with a throw blanket around her shoulders.
Svelte.
Curvy.
Lush.
Fucking breathtaking.
Her hair is loose and wild and wavy from having been tied up in a braid for who knows how long, hanging over one shoulder down her more than ample—and delightfully unfettered—chest.
"Is that coffee?" her voice is barely above a whisper, as if it took courage to ask.
I nod. "Yup."
I see her swallow hard, fingers knotting in the blanket, fidgeting—a sure sign that she's scared and nervous.
To ask me for coffee?
The Lacey I knew would have let herself into Nyx’s house and poured herself a mug.
The woman she's become in the fifteen years since I've seen her last is someone I don't know.
I let the silence linger for a beat…two…when she still hasn't voiced the request I know she's trying to work herself up to, I take pity on her. "You want a cup?"
"Oh god, please. I've been up for over an hour, and there's no food or coffee in here."
"Be right over. I'd invite you in, but this isn't my house."
Her nose wrinkles; she still has the packing in it from the break last night. "No?"
"It's Nyxie's."
Her eyes fly wide in surprise. "For real?" Her glance flicks to the burlap-shrouded rose bushes—at least a dozen of them of varying sizes, some of which have trellises behind them, indicating that they're the climbing kind—according to him, at least. "Wow. It's…wow."
I nod, chuckling. "Trust me, I understand the sentiment. One sec and I'll caffeinate you. Still like it heavy cream, no sugar?"
Her eyes betray…a complicated mix of reactions. Hurt? Surprise? Guilt? A lot of shit.
"Yes," she says. "That hasn't changed."