Chapter 3
ASH
I t’s been ten days since I got back from Ireland, and three since Jamie and Sawyer returned from their honeymoon in the Maldives.
Sawyer and I are in the guest room of the condo they’re now renting, which came freshly painted and furnished in a neutral mix of crisp whites and pale grays.
They haven’t had a chance to hang any art on the walls, which could really use some color.
Glancing between the icicles hanging outside the window, I spot a campus police car sidling up to the curb. My hands still, dropping from Sawyer’s honey-highlighted hair that’s even warmer and prettier from her time in the tropical sunshine.
The cops don’t emerge immediately, but they’re definitely parked directly in front of my cousin’s walkway.
Frowning, I lean forward. I’m not worried about myself, mostly because I’ve forgotten they could be here for me.
A stellar ability to compartmentalize probably makes me a special little psycho, but that doesn’t occur to me at first either.
Sawyer stiffens when she spots the uniformed guys emerging from their car. I squeeze her shoulder through her bathrobe .
Thoughts of tonight’s themed costume party fall away. Jamie’s in the house and so is War, though I haven’t seen the latter yet. It’ll be our first encounter since the tense scene at the reception, and I’m half dreading, half looking forward to it. Yeah, special little psycho.
Leaning closer to the glass, I narrow my eyes as a middle-aged bald cop heads toward the front door with a younger partner behind him.
“James,” I call out. “Cops inbound.”
Since their summer training and induction into the Crue, it’s anybody’s guess what dark deeds Jamie, War, and Killian have gotten up to. I know something bad went down when Jamie and Sawyer visited her dad in Connecticut. That guy’s been missing ever since.
Sawyer sets down a pot of gold glitter blush before glancing over her shoulder toward the doorway with a worried expression.
I squeeze her shoulder again. “It’ll be fine.”
With a hand smoothing her partially-curled hair, she grimaces.
Sawyer seems the most nervous when it comes to the police.
The recent disappearance of her dad has had the law sniffing around, but so far, not because law enforcement suspects she and Jamie did something to him.
Apparently, the cops are searching for the dad for their own reasons.
I’ve only heard the “bare bones” intel on that asshole, but whatever happened to him, he definitely deserved.
I’m one of the few people in the world who knows Jamie and Sawyer needed a Crue debrief on the day they returned from the dad’s Connecticut home.
There’s a cover-up afoot, but things are still too raw for me to go digging.
If I ever bring it up to Jamie or Sawyer, it’ll be long after the dust settles.
A dark shadow passes outside the doorway, drawing my attention. I wonder if War knows what really happened. Something tells me he does, and that pisses me off. I have more of a right to know what’s going on with my cousin and best friend than he does .
The condo suddenly feels too warm, brimming with the scent of Pumpkin Spice candles, citrus hair oil, and the sharp, masculine bite of War McCann’s cologne.
His is a scent I pretend to hate, but which actually causes my pulse to jump into high gear—as though he’s expensive danger I want a piece of.
It’s annoying as all F that my body can’t just ignore him.
Before emerging from the guest room, I check that the zipper of my silver, low-rise vinyl pants is as high as it goes.
My navel is bare, because all female costumes, even demon ones, are sexy apparently.
I tie the silver strings over my sternum a little tighter, but the sides of my boobs are still on display.
The fabric is metallic, liquid-looking, and hugs my frame as though I’m a sexy Terminator.
With my coloring, I’d probably make a better angel than demon, but I refuse to play to expectations. Frosty, slate blue makeup dusted over my face, neck and collarbones makes me look cold—and hopefully, aloof and dangerous.
From the kitchen, War’s voice rumbles—a low, sandpaper scrape that always sounds like he’s one breath from losing patience with the world. Or me. Mostly me.
His tone grates along my nerves, but my heartbeat thumps harder anyway. He has that effect: irritation and heat braided so tightly together I can’t tell which burns more.
I press a palm to my stomach as I tug at the bottom of the bustier where it meets my lower ribs. I’m not used to showing this much skin. It feels weird to me.
War’s presence filters through the walls like smoke—big, dark, impossible to ignore. When I look around the corner, I find he’s not in costume. At least not yet. Not that he needs one. He always looks as though he rode out of Hell on a flaming Harley.
I drop back, staying hidden because I’m not sure what I’ll say to him if he tries to interrogate me again about the shooting.
Heavy footfalls approach the hall .
Not Jamie’s. Jamie moves like a normal human being. These steps are weighted, deliberate… Menacing.
War fills the doorway. Completely. Broad shoulders stretching a black t-shirt that clings to every thick line of muscle.
He’s got a chest that could block out the sun, full eclipse, and arms inked with brutal, beautiful tattoos.
His forearms bulge as he crosses them, veins standing out like dark ropes.
He’s too muscular. If asked, I’d call it overkill.
Bordering on obscene. But there’s a part of me that is so drawn in by the sheer size of him.
From the first bitter encounter, I’ve had the same pattern… one where I notice everything about him.
“Are the cops here for you?” I ask hopefully.
The other possibility, as I see it, is that they’ve come for my newly married cousin, which I don’t want. I’m protective of Jamie and Sawyer.
War shrugs, his eyes roving over the reflective fabric of my costume and narrowing at the way it shows my waist and belly button.
His slow gaze gives way to an infuriatingly skeptical expression as it returns to my face.
“What are you supposed to be? An aluminum foil angel for the top of a Christmas tree?”
“Horns.” My fingernail taps one as it rises from my clear plastic headband. “I’m a demon.”
“Right.” His tone is an eye-roll, which makes me want to punch him in the junk since that’s about the only vulnerable place I could actually reach.
Three loud, commanding thuds shake the door. It’s the kind of knock that freezes your blood before your brain catches up.
Sawyer stops mid-step. Jamie goes silent. War straightens subtly, like a predator scenting threat.
The air thins.
None of us breathes.
Jamie moves first, jaw clenched, wiping his palms down the front of his black pants before heading to the door. Sawyer trails behind him, going pale beneath her suntan. War stays where he is, shoulders squared, ready to move.
He’s a wall. And a weapon.
Suspicion flashes in his dark eyes as Jamie opens the door.
The two uniformed officers stand on the porch.
The tension in the condo snaps taut—Sawyer clutching the back of Jamie’s shirt, Jamie blocking her with an arm, and War going completely still in front of me, coiled like a fuse burning short.
“Evening,” the bald officer says, loud enough to cut through the stillness. “We’re looking for the owner of the 1969 Camaro parked out front.”
The words hit the air like the sound of shattering glass.
Me, then. I’m the one they came for.
Jamie gives a nearly imperceptible shake of his head. Hidden behind him, Sawyer’s mouth falls open. War shifts and, without warning, his big hand snakes behind him and shoves me from the hallway into the master bedroom.
War doesn’t even know why they’re looking for me. How could he? And yet, he’s going to block their access?
The thump of my heart is more pronounced, but it’s not racing. The more dangerous the situation, the more steady I try to make myself.
With cold, hard reflection, I’m not sure why the campus police are looking for me. I have done bad things… But that was in the jurisdiction of the Boston PD.
Oh wait. Maybe there was a witness to my firing a gun from a campus bar’s rooftop. That happened a while ago, but it may have taken the cops this long to identify me and get to the point of arresting me.
If they spill the details, War will know that a shot I fired is the one that ricocheted off the concrete and hit him in the thigh. Based on what he said to Scott at the reception, he already suspects, but getting confirmation may change things .
I lean back against the master bedroom doorway and tilt my head into the hall, so I’m staring at War’s back, waiting.
“Warrant?” War demands, his voice low but a full frontal assault, too.
“No, we just want to ask Miss Patrick some questions. We’re investigating a missing person case.”
Missing person?
“Who’s missing?” I ask, loud enough for my voice to be heard around the wall of muscle blocking me.
“Is that Ashling Patrick? Can we come in?” the bald officer asks, trying to step forward.
“No, you can’t,” Jamie says, blocking the doorway with a forearm. “Back up. She’ll come to the doorway.”
My cousin’s training is showing. Good for him. Once the cops have been allowed inside a residence, they can stomp through it, searching for anyone or anything that’s in plain sight. Once they’re inside, you’ve lost control.
“Fine.” The cop’s tone is terse now. “Bring her to the door.”
Conversations with the police are something I should never get involved with, but I am curious.
Poking War’s back, I say, “I guess, move.”
He doesn’t budge. Instead, he repeats my question. “Who’s missing?”
“A young woman from Boston that Miss Patrick was living with here in Foxgrove. GU student, Madelyn Hearn.”