CHAPTER 4
Timothy
I don't sleep after I leave her apartment.
I go back to my place and lie on the couch staring at the ceiling, replaying the feel of her mouth under mine. The sound she made when I touched her. The way she kissed me back.
And then the way she shoved me away.
I should feel guilty. Should feel like I pushed too hard, moved too fast.
But I don't.
Because she wanted me. I know she did. I felt it in the way her hands fisted in my shirt, the way she arched into me, the way her breath caught when I said her name.
Something scared her. Someone scared her.
And I'm going to find out who.
The kiss keeps replaying in my head. The taste of her. The way her body fit against mine like it was made to be there. I've been with women before. Plenty of them. But nothing felt like that. Nothing felt like coming up for air after being underwater too long.
Which is a problem.
Because Carla is clearly running from something, and getting involved with a woman who's got that kind of trouble following her is the definition of a bad idea.
Except I'm already involved.
The second I stepped between her and that truck in the Walmart parking lot, I made a choice. And the kiss just sealed it.
She's mine now. Whether she knows it or not. The thought should scare me—too fast, too intense, too everything. It doesn't. She's mine, and anyone who tries to hurt her goes through me first.
Around five thirty, I hear her moving around through the wall. Shower running. Cabinets opening and closing. She's getting ready for work.
I get up and make coffee, then position myself by the window where I can see the parking lot. When she comes out of the building twenty minutes later, I'm already outside, leaning against my truck.
She sees me and stops.
For a second, I think she's going to turn around and go back inside. But then she squares her shoulders and walks toward her Honda like I'm not even there.
Tough. Even now, even after last night, she's not going to show weakness.
I respect the hell out of that.
Doesn't mean I'm letting her walk away.
"Carla," I call.
She doesn't look at me. Just keeps walking.
I catch up to her in three strides. "We need to talk."
"No, we don't." She unlocks her car and tosses her purse inside.
"About last night."
"There's nothing to talk about." She finally looks at me, and her face is a mask. Closed off. Defensive. "It was a mistake. I was upset. It won't happen again."
A mistake.
The word pisses me off, but I keep my expression neutral. She's deflecting. Pushing me away because she's scared of what happened between us. I've seen this move before, from soldiers who got too close to the edge and didn't know how to step back.
"You weren't upset," I say. "You were scared. There's a difference."
"I'm fine."
"You're not."
"Timothy." She says my name like a warning. "I appreciate what you did yesterday. The parking lot thing. Checking on me last night. But I don't need a babysitter."
"I'm not trying to babysit you."
"Then what are you trying to do?"
"Keep you safe."
She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "I've been keeping myself safe for a long time. I don't need help."
"Everyone needs help sometimes."
"Not from you." She gets in the car and starts the engine. "I have to go to work."
She backs out of the parking space and drives away without looking back.
I stand there watching her taillights disappear, frustration coiling in my gut.
She's running. From me, from whatever happened last night, from the fear I saw in her eyes when she thought that guy in the Ram was someone else.
But running only works for so long. Eventually, whatever you're running from catches up.
And when it does, I'm going to be there.
***
I SPEND THE MORNING running errands. Hardware store for supplies for the job that starts next week.
Grocery store because my fridge is empty.
Normal shit that feels anything but normal because my brain won't stop circling back to Carla. Jonah came back with the info on the Ram. It was rented by a guy named Gordon Pickett from North Carolina. This town wasn’t exactly a tourist destination.
I wondered what he was doing here. Jonah was going to take a deeper dive on him just in case.
I'm loading groceries into my truck when I see another truck. This one had Tennessee plates. It’s parked at the edge of the lot near the diner. The driver is watching the diner entrance. Just sitting there. Waiting.
Every instinct I have starts screaming.
I close the tailgate of my truck. The guy isn't trying to hide. He's too obvious for that. Which means either he's an amateur or he doesn't care if he's seen.
My money's on the second option.
After about ten minutes, he starts the engine and pulls out of the lot. Heading toward the highway.
I get his plate number before he disappears.
Could be nothing.
Or it could be connected to the North Carolina driver.
I pull out my phone and text Jonah.
Need another favor. Tennessee plate. BKR-8834. White F-250.
You collecting plates now?
Maybe. Can you run it?
Yeah. Give me an hour.
He calls back sooner than that.
"Another rental," Jonah says. "Enterprise in Knoxville. Rented three days ago to a guy named Adam Hagelin. Address in North Carolina."
North Carolina. Same as the Ram yesterday.
"You got a description on this Hagelin guy?"
"Hang on." I hear typing. "White male, thirty-six, six feet, two hundred pounds. Military affiliation listed. Army. Just like Gordon from yesterday."
So much for coincidences.
"Thanks, man. I owe you."
"You owe me a lot at this point. What's going on, Tim?"
"Just keeping an eye on someone."
"Someone who's got military guys from North Carolina renting trucks?"
"Yeah."
"That's not good."
"I know."
"You need backup, you call me. I'm serious."
"I will."
I hang up and stare at the phone.
Both men spying on Carla. Both from North Carolina. Military.
This isn't random. This is organized.Which means whoever Carla is running from has resources. Has people. Has the kind of network you build over years in the service.
And they're closing in.
I grab my keys and head out.
***
THE DINER IS CALLED Rosie's, and it sits on the edge of town near the highway. Faded red exterior, gravel parking lot, neon sign that flickers. Carla's Honda is in the lot. She's still working. The white F-250 and the Dodge Ram are nowhere in sight. I’m not sure if that’s good news or bad news.
I get out and go inside.
The diner smells like coffee and grease. Booths line the windows. There’s a long counter with stools. Maybe a dozen customers scattered around.
Carla is behind the counter pouring coffee for an old guy in a John Deere cap.
She's smiling. Laughing at something he says.
Playing the part. But I can see the tension in her shoulders.
The way she's positioned so she can see the door.
The way her hand keeps drifting toward the apron pocket where I'd bet money she's got pepper spray or a knife.
She sees me and the smile drops.
I slide onto a stool at the counter. "Coffee."
"What are you doing here?" she asks quietly.
"Getting coffee."
"Timothy."
"Black. No sugar."
She pours me a cup, her jaw tight. "You need to leave."
"Can't. Coffee's terrible at my place." I take a sip. "This is worse, but at least I get to look at you while I drink it."
Her lips almost twitch. Almost. "That's not funny."
"Wasn't trying to be funny. Trying to get you to stop running from me."
“I have to go back to work.”
“I’ll be here.”
“You can’t stay here all day.”
“I can if I keep ordering.”
She sighed. “Suit yourself.”
A cheeseburger deluxe platter and an apple pie a la mode later, she came back to clear the plates. “You can’t possibly be still hungry.”
“I’m not, but I need to talk to you.”
"We talked this morning."
"That wasn't a conversation. That was you running away."
"I wasn't running. I was going to work."
"Same thing."
She leans against the counter, lowering her voice. "I meant what I said. Last night was a mistake. I'm not looking for whatever you think this is."
"What do you think this is?"
"I don't know. And I don't want to find out."
"Too late."
"Timothy."
"Someone's watching you," I say. "White F-250. Guy named Adam Hagelin. Dodge Ram was Gordon Pickett. Both from North Carolina. Ring any bells?"
Her face goes pale. "How do you know those names?"
"I ran the plates. Who are they?"
She looks away. "They’re Randall's friends. They served together."
Randall. So that's the name of whoever she's running from.
"Tell me about Randall," I say.
"No."
"Carla."
"I said no." She refills my coffee even though the last three cups were drilling a hole in my stomach. "This is my problem. Not yours."
"It became mine when I kissed you."
"That doesn't make sense."
"Makes perfect sense to me."
She shakes her head. "You don't know what you're getting into."
"So tell me."
"I can't."
"Can't or won't?"
"Both."
The old guy at the end of the counter waves his mug, and Carla moves away to refill it. When she comes back, her expression is harder. More closed off.
"You need to stay out of this," she says.
"Not going to happen."
"Timothy, I'm serious. These guys are dangerous."
"So am I."
"You don't understand. Randall isn't some random guy. He's Special Forces. Green Beret. And he has friends. A lot of them. If he finds out you're involved, he'll come after you too."
"Good. Let him."
"This isn't a joke."
"I'm not joking." I lean forward. "Someone's watching you, Carla. Someone who knows where you work, where you live, probably where you shop. That's not going away. And eventually, he's not just going to watch."
She just shrugs.
"So what's your plan? Keep ignoring it and hope he gets bored?"
"My plan is to handle it."
"How?"
She doesn't answer.
Because she doesn't have a plan. She's just surviving day to day, hoping she can stay hidden long enough for him to give up.