Chapter Eight
~ Ransom ~
I always wake up first. It’s a habit from years of sleeping in strange beds, always prepared to bolt, always prepared for the wrong person to walk in.
Even after a night like last night—a night that I’d have bet my right hand would leave me dead to the world until noon—I still came awake before the light did.
Floyd was next to me, mouth slack and breathing slow, every line of his body loose in a way I’d never seen. Not even when he was pretending to relax.
I took a minute to study the face he usually guarded like evidence in a locked file: the jaw a little softer without the day’s tension, lashes long and, weirdly, almost delicate for a man who could pop my head like a grape with his bare hands.
His hair was a mess. I’d done that. I felt a stab of pride, then something worse.
I reached out and brushed a thumb along his eyebrow, following the ridge down to the bridge of his nose.
I waited for him to stir, but he didn’t.
I let my fingers trace his cheekbone, then his mouth, remembering how it had felt biting down on mine, the soft and the sharp of it, the way it broke open and then let me in.
Last night had been everything and nothing like what I’d pictured. I’d fantasized about breaking him open for years, but the reality was more like opening a vault that didn’t just have treasure, but actual heart.
He’d given up control so completely, so fast, that it almost scared me. I thought I’d have to fight him every inch. I thought I’d have to drag surrender out of him. Instead, he’d practically begged for it. The memory left a pressure in my chest, hot and slow, like I’d swallowed a coal.
I watched him sleep, daring myself to believe this was real.
That he was real, that the world hadn’t gone back to zero at sunrise.
I slid out of bed, careful not to wake him, and padded barefoot down the hall.
The carpet was stiff, probably vacuumed within an inch of its life, but the kitchen was the kind of clean that only comes from someone who needs things to stay in their place.
I found the coffee without looking. He kept his beans in a sealed jar, filters stacked like origami, mugs lined up by height.
The first two had police department logos, but the third was a chipped blue one with a river valley painted on the side, the kind of thing you buy at a gas station because you don’t want to risk your real mug getting stolen at work.
I took that one and set it down with a thunk. The sound startled me. For a second, I thought about how out of place I should feel, how out of place I usually did. But I didn’t. Not here, not in the house that reeked of him.
I ground the beans by hand, savoring the simple violence of it, then set the machine going. The smell bloomed out, sharp and bitter, a reliable promise. I wondered if he’d wake to it, or if I’d have to bring a cup to the bedroom and spill it on the sheets just to see what he’d do.
I stood at the window while the coffee brewed, watching the sunrise drag color over the street.
Out here, in the little subdivision where everyone’s lawn was the same length and the houses were just different enough to pretend they weren’t identical, you could almost believe you had a shot at something like normal.
I pictured myself as one of those husbands on the block, sipping coffee in the driveway, nodding at neighbors, not even a blip on anyone’s radar.
The idea made me want to laugh, but it also made me want to scream.
The machine clicked off. I poured two mugs, black, because I knew he wouldn’t take it any other way. I leaned against the counter, sipping, letting the acid sit on my tongue. I was halfway through my cup before I heard his footsteps, heavy and deliberate.
He came in shirtless, sweatpants riding low on his hips, a long stripe of my teeth marks fading on his neck.
His hair looked like it had lost a fight with a leaf blower, and his eyes were half-lidded, still soft at the edges.
For a second, he didn’t see me; he just went for the coffee, poured himself a cup, and took it down in three long gulps.
When he turned, he saw me watching.
“Morning,” he said. His voice sounded like it’d been sandblasted.
I let my eyes drag down his body, then back up. “Didn’t take you for a morning person.”
He shrugged, coming over to the table. “I’m not.” He settled in across from me, arms folded, mug tight in both hands. “But you made coffee. I could smell it.”
I grinned. “I almost put in sugar, just to see if you’d die.”
He snorted, then sipped again. The silence was thick but not uncomfortable. In fact, it felt more like a challenge: who would break first and talk about last night?
He shifted, and his leg bumped mine under the table. He left it there. I wondered if he even noticed. “I usually go for a run,” he said, staring at his coffee. “Keeps the dreams from sticking around.”
I let that one hang, then nodded. “You want me gone before the neighbors see?”
He frowned, but it wasn’t annoyance. “No. I just—don’t know what you want. Or what you’re expecting.”
I looked at him for a long time. “Honestly? Not sure. This isn’t my usual routine.”
He laughed, almost silent. “Yeah, mine either.”
I tapped my mug, thinking. “You ever do this before? Bring someone home, I mean.”
He shook his head. “Not since the divorce. Not even then, if I’m honest. Vivian and I—” He trailed off, as if the words were toxic.
I wanted to press, to poke, to see if I could make him say it out loud, but I didn’t. Instead, I reached across the table, slow, and set my hand on his. Just for a second, just to see if he’d pull away.
He didn’t.
“I’m not trying to fuck up your life,” I said, voice softer than I liked. “But I’m not going to pretend this was nothing, either.”
He gripped my hand, just for a moment, then let go. “Good. I don’t want you to.”
For a while, we just sat there, drinking coffee, legs tangled under the table, like we were two people who knew how to do this.
Then his phone rang.
He stiffened. The ringtone was sharp and officious, something you’d expect from a man who needed to be in control even when he was off the clock. He fumbled for it, glanced at the screen, and his face changed.
He pressed “answer,” put it on speaker. “Vivian,” he said, voice shifting to a register I hadn’t heard before.
The voice that blasted out was pure vinegar and smoke. “Floyd, honey, I thought I’d swing by before work. Brought you scones from the bakery—your favorite, the lemon ones. I’ll be there in fifteen?”
He looked at me, panic raw and naked. “Sure, Viv. I’ll see you then.”
She laughed, brittle. “Perfect. Don’t be in your underwear.”
The line went dead.
We stared at each other over the mugs, the silence suddenly radioactive.
“Well,” I said, “sounds like your morning’s about to get real exciting.”
He ran a hand over his face, then through his hair, making it worse. “I’m sorry. She’s—she does this.”
I shrugged, masking the sting with a crooked smile. “Ex-wives. Always know how to pick their moment.”
He stood up, moving toward the hallway, then stopped. “You should probably—”
“Go,” I finished for him. “Yeah.”
He didn’t say anything, just disappeared down the hall, leaving me alone with the coffee, the sunrise, and the sudden chill in the air.
I finished my cup, put it in the sink, and wiped the counter before heading back to the bedroom for my clothes.
It wasn’t love, not yet. But it was something. And if Vivian thought a lemon scone could scare me off, she hadn’t met a McKenzie.
Back in the bedroom, the sheets were tangled and still smelled like him and me and the half-dozen things we’d done to each other in the dark. I found my jeans half on the floor and started to pull them up, working them over my hips as if every button was a new indictment.
Floyd was in the hall, his voice low and clipped as he talked to Vivian again—something about how the front door would be unlocked, and yes, he was awake, and no, he didn’t need her to bring cream cheese because he still had some from last week.
The normalcy of it made my teeth ache.
In less than an hour, this place would be full of the ex-wife and her lemon scones, the scent of my hands on his skin replaced by baked goods and passive aggression.
He must’ve realized I could hear every word, because he dropped to a whisper for the last bit. I laced my boots and waited for the confrontation, practicing faces in the closet mirror: bored, amused, maybe a little contemptuous. Anything but the truth.
He came in before I could finish the performance. He’d thrown on a polo shirt and khakis, the uniform of suburban camouflage, and he looked like he’d aged a year in the last five minutes.
“You need to go,” he said, and for a second, I thought he might actually cry.
I shrugged, casual. “Wouldn’t want to put a dent in the scone run.”
He flinched, just a hair, then looked away. “She’ll be here any minute.”
I zipped my jacket, then waited. “You want me to go out the window? Or just do the walk of shame?”
He looked up at me, finally, and something in his face cracked. “I’m sorry. I just—no one can know. Not right now.”
I bit my tongue, the reply sharp and sour on the tip. I wanted to tell him it was fine, that I understood, that I hadn’t expected anything different. But I wanted more than anything to tell him to go fuck himself.
Instead, I settled for a smirk. “Relax, Sheriff,” I said, grabbing my keys. “Your secret’s safe.”
He watched me from the doorway as I packed my things, double-checking the room for any evidence. I left the pillowcase unmarked, pulled the sheets up, erased the indents from where I’d lain.
In the bathroom, I wiped the steam from the mirror and made sure my toothbrush was gone. I moved through the house like a burglar, stealing only the memory of last night.
When I got to the front door, he was there, hands braced on the frame, body blocking the exit. “This isn’t nothing,” he said, low.
I wanted to spit back, “Could’ve fooled me.” But his eyes had gone soft again, the walls down just for a second, and I couldn’t do it.
“Yeah,” I said, softer than I meant. “I know.”
He stepped aside, and I slipped out into the early morning. The air was cold enough to make my breath hang, a ghost in the space between us.
I was halfway to my bike when I heard the door open again. He caught up to me in three strides, all coiled muscle and unshed apology. He grabbed my arm, spun me around, and for a second I thought he’d changed his mind. That he’d say fuck it to the scones and the secrets, and ask me to stay.
Instead, he kissed me. Hard. Desperate, messy, nothing like the control he tried so hard to keep. His fingers dug into my jacket, pinning me in place, and I kissed back just as rough. I wanted him to taste everything I wasn’t allowed to say.
When he broke away, he was breathing hard, eyes wide and raw. “Come back tonight,” he said, and then pushed me away, turning on his heel and heading for the house without another word.
I watched him go, my mouth still burning. Then I got on my bike and left, the rumble of the engine swallowing up everything else I felt.
The ride home was colder than it should’ve been for this time of year. Maybe it was just the wind, or maybe it was the way my body remembered the heat of him and shivered at the loss.
I gunned the engine hard at the first intersection, letting the rev echo off the houses until a porch light flicked on two blocks down. I smiled at the thought of waking half the town. At least they’d know I was still alive.
The morning was pale and blue, streets empty except for the one old guy who power-walked the park loop at dawn every day, wearing headphones like armor. I passed him at thirty, got a salute and a scowl.
Main Street was still asleep, the bakery not yet open, the windows of the sheriff’s station dark except for the glow from the dispatch desk. I resisted the urge to loop the block and see if Floyd was watching from behind the blinds.
Instead, I took the long way home, cutting out to the edge of town where the river flattened out and the woods took over.
The road there was narrow and mean, lined with blackberries and half-rotted fence posts.
I leaned into the first tight turn harder than I needed to, scraping the pegs, just to feel something bite back.
I wanted to be angry. I wanted to be furious at Floyd, at his cowardice, at the town and its bullshit traditions. But mostly I was mad at myself—for wanting him so bad I was willing to be hidden away like an embarrassing tattoo.
I’d spent my whole life refusing to hide, refusing to play the game everyone else did.
I’d lit myself on fire for the sake of a good spectacle, called out the school board for their hypocrisy, gotten my first tattoo just to piss off a Sunday school teacher.
Now I was sneaking out the back door, the same as every closet case I’d ever mocked.
I throttled up and took the next corner so fast my back tire fishtailed, caught, and sent a jolt up my spine.
For a second I let myself imagine what it’d be like to just keep riding—past the town, past the fields, until there was nothing left but the blur of trees and the hollow thump of my own heartbeat.
But the road always loops back. No matter how far you run, it brings you to the same place.
I pulled up to my place just as the sun burned through the low clouds, turning the front windows to mirrors.
My house was a mess of mismatched siding and old paint, porch half-collapsed, wild rosebushes strangling the mailbox.
I killed the engine and let the silence settle in, broken only by the creak of cooling metal and the distant call of a crow.
I sat on the bike, helmet still on, and replayed the morning in my head. The taste of him, the way he’d clung to me in the dark, the way his hands had trembled when he said my name. The way he’d pushed me away as soon as the sun came up.
I knew, in that moment, that I wanted more than a secret. I wanted him in the daylight. I wanted him in front of everyone, not just in the dark or in the aftermath of a phone call from a woman who still owned his kitchen.
I swung off the bike, slammed the gate behind me, and stomped up the steps to my door. Every part of me was shaking, but not from the cold.
I told myself I’d give it time. That I could play this game a little longer, wait for him to figure it out. But deep down, I knew I wouldn’t wait forever. The next time he called, I’d make him choose. Me, or the dark.
And this time, I wouldn’t take no for an answer.