Chapter 12
Chapter twelve
Jasmine
A shudder runs down my spine when I take him in properly.
He’s a mess. Not dramatic, movie-type bleeding—worse. The kind of damage that makes a person move like each breath owes rent. Tiny bruises spot his face. The way his eyes glass over when he shifts tells me the real trouble is under the shirt.
“Are you—are you hurt?” My voice comes out too soft. He’s in a white tee and pajama pants, looking like he tried to pretend pain to death and pain said, cute.
He shifts and winces. “No.”
“Oh, Asher.” My hand lifts before my brain can stop it.
“Don’t—” he starts, but the word turns into a groan when even that small reach lights him up. He’s not stopping me in this condition. I lift the hem of his shirt.
There it is: angry purple swelling across his ribs and abdomen, a constellation of blooming bruises, a couple shallow cuts that look like they met a rough surface fast. Heat radiates off him.
My other hand goes weak around the bowl of scones. I set it on the floor before I drop it and really make this night historic.
“Asher, what is this?”
“It’s none of your business,” he whispers, and even his stubborn sounds tired.
“Yeah, I’m not playing stoic statue with you.” I point at the door. “We’re going to the clinic. Shoes.”
“No.” He’s more adamant that time, which would be impressive if it weren’t so infuriating.
“What—why?”
“I can’t leave Brick alone.”
“Look at you.” I lower the shirt carefully. “You don’t deal with this; you could be leaving Brick for good.”
“I’ll go tomorrow.” He swallows. “Not tonight.”
“Asher—”
“Please, Jasmine.” He lifts a hand in my direction like a stop sign. The simple motion flares pain through him again. He rides it out. “I’m not leaving the house tonight. That’s that.”
Two truths collide in my chest: I want to throttle him, and I can’t walk away.
“Fine.” The word tastes like a compromise I’ll regret, but a better idea is already forming. “Then give me twenty minutes. I’m grabbing supplies.”
“What are you—”
“If you won’t leave the house, you’re at least getting basic first aid,” I snap. “Sit. Don’t move. Breathe shallow. Try not to be a hero about it.”
“Do you ever do as you’re told?” he mutters as I step backward onto the porch.
I pause under the light and arch a brow. “If you have to ask that by now, Sheriff Vaughn…”
He exhales—half annoyed, half relieved—and I pretend I don’t care which half wins.
I drive home like a courier on a timer, grab my emergency kit, a roll of cohesive bandage, gauze pads, antiseptic wipes, a couple of instant ice packs, and a bag of pharmacy extras for good measure.
Back at his place, he’s on the couch, trying to look composed and only succeeding at “man heroically loses that battle.”
“You didn’t have to—”
“Raise your shirt.”
“Jasmine, I’m seri—”
“Raise. Your. Shirt. Good gravy, man, do you ever listen?”
He sighs like I’m tossing him into a volcano and lifts the fabric.
Up close it’s worse. The bruising is deep and blotchy, a few areas more tender to the touch. The cuts are superficial but messy. His face has one split spot that will probably flower by morning.
“You’d still rather not go to the ER?” I ask as I tear open antiseptic wipes.
“I’d still rather not leave Brick.”
I shrug because arguing in circles wastes time I need for triage. “We’re doing this my way, then. I’m cleaning these, pressing the swelling down, and binding the ribs so you can breathe without stabbing yourself from the inside.”
He gives a grunt that might be permission. I start with the cuts—quick, clean passes, gauze pressure until the oozing chills out. He flinches once and clamps his jaw.
“Why?” he asks as I work, voice quieter than the room.
“Why what?”
“Why are you doing this?” He looks at me full on. The porch light from the window throws little gold flecks into his eyes. Stupid eyes.
“Because being a decent human is free?” I unwrap a bandage and measure by feel, keeping my hands gentle on the worst of the bruising. “And because I don’t want you dying on my watch. Is that surprising?”
“You tell me.”
“Just shut up and let me do this, Officer Vaughn.”
I glance up. He’s watching me, every hard edge ground down by pain and something that looks a lot like apology. I look away fast and tighten the first wrap. He hisses between teeth.
“Who did this?” I ask, more clinical than curious. If I sound clinical, I’m safer.
“Some kid’s dad.” He grunts when I press near the lower ribs. “His son pushed Brick off the rock wall. I… went to talk to him.”
“Right,” I say. “By ‘talk’ you mean ‘you attempted a Jean-Claude Van Damme impression in his yard’?”
His silence is admission with a badge on.
I shouldn’t smile. I do, and it makes the next part where I check for rebound tenderness more bearable, for me at least. His skin is hot under my fingers. He’s burning energy holding still. I crack two instant ice packs and set them where the swelling is meanest; his exhale gusts like relief.
“So,” he says after a beat, “were you a nurse in a past life?”
“No. College medical team.” I slide the wrap one rib higher, snug not strangling. “Learned a few things. Also, YouTube.”
“Great,” he deadpans, and the corner of his mouth lifts. “Now I’m definitely dying.”
I snort before I can stop myself. “Wait. Did you just make a joke?”
“Shut up.” He turns his head so I can’t see the almost-smile.
“I didn’t know that was in your skill set.”
“I could say the same for you,” he says, eyeing the neatness of my wrap. “Competence looks good on you.”
“Don’t get sentimental,” I say, and (very professionally) press near his navel to test for deeper pain.
“You’re evil,” he breathes, but the sound that follows is a laugh—quiet, surprised, real.
We sit in a pocket of quiet that I don’t hate. His breathing evens as the ice and compression do their jobs.
“Since Brick’s mom…” he starts, then pauses.
“Since she died—I’ve always had this fear that there will be things I won’t see.
That I’ll miss the important thing because I’m busy surviving everything else.
Then I look up and my son—he’s… being pushed off walls and befriended by the kid who did it, and I didn’t catch it. ”
I swallow. “There isn’t a manual for any of it.”
“I’m a cop,” he says, frustration roughening the words. “Patterns are my job.”
“You already got beat up today,” I say, softer, surprising myself. “Maybe don’t do it again in your head. You can’t retro-notice a thing. You can notice it now.”
He goes quiet. I finish the binding and secure the tape, tucking in the end clean. My hands stay there a second longer than necessary.
Why am I here? Last week, I wanted to wring his neck. Today I’m wrapping ribs like we share a mortgage.
“Why?” he asks again, equally soft.
“I told you.” I sit back on my heels, suddenly aware of the heat coming off him. “Decent human. You should try it.”
A smile thins across his mouth. “I’ll pencil it in.”
I stand, stretch the kink from my back, and put the kit open on his coffee table. “You’re taking the morning off to see a doctor.”
“I—”
“You can fight me, or you can agree with me,” I say, gathering used wrappers. “Either way, you’re going.”
He exhales like compromise hurts more than bruises. “I’ll go.”
“Good boy.” I cap the antiseptic and glance down the hall. “Brick?”
“Asleep.” His voice warms. “He slept through your grand entrance. Teenage levels of oblivion, but he’s still only eleven.”
“Okay.” I box the trash. “I left the scones. Extra calcium because Riley insists that’s a thing.”
“I’ll tell Brick the town’s best baker brought him contraband.”
“Don’t push it, Sheriff.”
We look at each other for a breath that feels too long. Then I step back, suddenly aware that it is, in fact, late at night in a man’s living room and my heart is being an idiot.
“Text me in the morning so I know you actually went,” I say, moving toward the door before I talk myself out of leaving.
“I don’t have your number,” he says.
I rattle off digits. He repeats them back slowly, memorizing. Something too warm slides under my sternum and I hate that, too.
“Night, Asher.”
“Night, Jasmine.”
On the porch, the air is cool and clean. I close the door behind me and only then realize my hands are shaking.
***
By lunch the next day, I’ve almost convinced myself last night was a fever dream that belonged to someone else.
“Few more minutes, Lady Jasmine,” John calls from the kitchen, his accent turning minutes into meenoots.
Steam hugs my face as I peek in. Trays of food are marching toward their destinies.
Out front, the diner hums—low conversation, the bell over the door dinging in shy little bursts, the coffee machine sounding like relief.
“Faster than a rumor,” I tell him, tapping my watch. “The brunch crowd is sniffing us from three blocks.”
He winks and goes back to commanding the griddle.
I pivot to triage the dessert case—cakes aligned, fruit glistening. My brain drifts on its own leash: to bandages and ice packs, to the gentle way he said my son, to the way his laugh sneaked out like it forgot who it belonged to.
“Jasmine,” Sarah sing-songs, arms folded. “You’ve been grinning at that cheesecake for a full minute. Should I be jealous?”
“I was thinking about a joke my mom made,” I say too quickly, which is worse than a lie because it sounds like one.
Sarah lifts a brow but lets me off the hook. “FYI, there’s someone outside. Been idling for at least thirty seconds. If they wanted curbside, they could try saying words like a normal.”
“What, are they allergic to doors?” I mutter, wiping my hands on my apron. I follow her gesture to the plate glass.
A black Escalade crouches at the curb, deep-tinted windows, purring an expensive sulk. The kind of car you see in movies right before the soundtrack changes.
Who the hell—
“I’ll go,” I say, untying my apron and draping it over a chair. My heart decides to practice double time. Something about that car feels familiar in a way my body knows before my head does.
On the sidewalk, I knock on the back passenger window. It slides down like a curtain on a show I didn’t buy tickets to.
The man inside looks sixty and engineered: pale eyes, clean shaven, a suit that costs somebody’s rent. Two men sit up front in identical sunglasses and faces that say employee.
“Good afternoon,” I say. “Can I help you?”
“No,” he says, voice deep enough to rattle flatware. “I’m here to help you.”
I smile the way you smile at a toddler holding a fork near a socket. “Do I know you?”
“Not yet.” He tips his chin toward the back door. “Get in. This isn’t a curb conversation.”
I blink slowly. “That’ll be a no from me. If you’re ordering, you pick up at the counter. If you’re lost, I can list three other diners that aren’t mine.”
“Get in, Jasmine,” he repeats, and the way he says my name peels every nerve thin.
“Who are you?”
“The man whose buy offer you rejected,” he says, and the pieces click in a way that makes my stomach drop.
“Oh.”
H.S. Incorporated. The mansion on Madison Street. The envelope. The too-good number. The way the paper felt like a trap.
He smiles without joy. “Now will you get in?”
I shouldn’t. I know better. I also know he’s not leaving until he does what he came to do. The two shadows in the front don’t turn, but I feel their attention like heat.
I open the door and slip into the back seat—just far enough from him, just close enough to end this fast.
“Everyone else on the block is settled,” he says, smoothing an invisible crease on his trousers. “Is there a reason you’re holding out? The offer is generous.”
It is. Triple what Scotty’s is worth on paper. Too generous to be clean. We both know it.
“I’m not selling,” I say. “So, there’s your reason.”
“Brave,” he says, almost admiring. Then, like he can’t help himself: “Stupid.”
“Pick one,” I say.
He studies me, pale eyes flat as coins. “I sent warnings. I expected you to understand.”
I frown. “Warnings?”
“That little incident with the two men,” he says, like he’s discussing the weather. “Thought that might… encourage you. Your officer complicated it.”
Officer. My heartbeat ticks faster.
“Sheriff,” he corrects. “He did his job.”
“He did,” I say, and I don’t bother hiding the edge in my voice.
He leans back, folding one ankle over a knee. “I looked you up, Jasmine Wallace.”
Of course he did.
“Your father—Jonah Wallace—left when you were two. I assume that has something to do with the way you cling to places like they’re people.”
“I don’t think about him,” I say, voice flat as a sidewalk.
“Your mother, Annabel Kelly Wallace,” he continues, ignoring me. “Dementia. Quickly advancing. That’s sad. Tragic, even. Care isn’t cheap.”
My hands go cold. “Where is this going?”
He steeples his fingers like a villain in a cartoon. “You and Ms. Jenkins. Interesting pair. The earnest educator and the mouthy baker. How did that happen?”
“We had a lunch break at the same time once,” I say. “Wild story. Would not recommend.”
He smiles, as if impressed. “And the diner. Named for your mother’s family name. Scotty.” He savors the word like it’s his. “Sweet. Nostalgic.”
My patience frays. “You know a lot of things about me, Mr…?”
“Swanson,” he says, and my stomach recognizes the name before my brain does. “Harold.”
There it is. The signature at the bottom of that letter.
“Great,” I say. “Harold, you can get out of my life now.”
“You can make this easy or difficult,” he says, as if he’s offering appetizers. “You’re fond of difficult. Anyone who reads your file can see it.”
“My file,” I repeat, hating how my voice thins. “You threatening me with my own life story?”
He tilts his head, unbothered. “I’m giving you context. Sell, and you get to be generous and noble and keep visiting your mother in a facility that stays paid up. Don’t, and things get… complicated.”
I meet his gaze. “Nothing good ever came from easy.”
He laughs, short and pleased with himself. “See you around, Ms. Wallace.”
I open the door and step out without permission. The air outside feels new. My heart thumps hard enough to shake the ice in the water glasses on table three.
The window slides up. The Escalade pulls away, swallowing the street reflection whole. I stand there a second longer than I mean to, palms damp, throat tight, the world too bright for a breath.
Did I just get threatened? Oh yes.
I walk back into the diner and tie my apron, hands steadier than I feel. Sarah looks at me like I brought the storm inside with me.
“You okay?” she asks, eyes wide.
“Yep,” I say, and surprise myself by meaning it. “We’re going to need more scones.”
She blinks. “That bad?”
“That good,” I say, and reach for a clean tray. “If Harold Swanson thinks he’s buying my block and my life in the same week…”
I smile, the kind that shows teeth.
“…he doesn’t know this town. And he definitely doesn’t know me.”