3
I ’ve learned over the years that high stress always equals low logic.
And yet, here I am.
Dead of night, my truck roars down the highway, headlights coasting over flat terrain. I keep my eyes trained on the signs for the Sioux Falls exit and yawn, fighting the urge to let my mind wander.
Good fucking luck with that.
My mind doesn’t have anywhere to go except the past.
To Dakota McGraw.
My unofficial welcome wagon when I first arrived in Resurrection, recovering from a bullet that sent me home. I was hurting and pissed off at Charlie for not keeping it together.
Sent by Stede, she was the girl next door rumbling down the road in her daddy’s Chevy.
Dakota came drifting onto the ranch, bringing soups, cakes, and breads.
Wearing short shorts and halter tops. Always a dusting of flour on her face.
She’d arrange the food in the kitchen, wait for me to storm in and growl at her, and somehow draw me into a conversation.
“What’ll it be, cupcake or cookie?” she asked as she arranged food on the counter.
I grunted. “Don’t eat sweets.”
She mock-gasped. “No sweets?” Her black eyes twinkled. “Then I’m afraid you and I can never be.”
Curious, I crossed the room and leaned over her shoulder. Close enough that I could smell her hair. See the plump pout of her lips. “What’s in the basket?”
She smiled. “Everything you never knew you wanted.”
And she was right.
Slowly that wall I built crumbled. I couldn’t stay away from the girl with the big brown eyes.
I told her my secrets, showed her my ghosts, and she never flinched.
She gave me more than I deserved. With her, I relearned how to be human. She let me talk, never once taking my pissy attitude, always making me laugh. She rehabbed my arm with her massages. I should have gotten a goddamn therapist. Instead, I had Dakota.
She made Resurrection my home.
Any spare time we had; we’d meet. Sneaking around. Hiding it from everyone, including my brothers. Fucking in the cabin, her bedroom, The Corner Store. Ruby-red lipstick streaks left on every inch of my body. I finally found a weakness, and it was her.
And then she left.
I didn’t anticipate how much her leaving would ruin me. After she took off for culinary school, I was angry at everyone and everything. I got a dog. Joined MONSAR. Put Charlie to work on opening the ranch. Anything to fill the gaps in my time. Shore up the leaking hole in my chest.
We kept in touch via text the first four years, but out of nowhere, the texts stopped.
Those bright bursts of hellos that gave me joy fizzled out like I had imagined them.
And when I tried to call her—I found she had changed her number.
Iced me out completely. I understood. She had her bakery.
She met someone. But goddamn it stung so fucking hard I still have whiplash from it.
Every time I close my eyes, I’m right back in the past. I see Dakota and that last goodbye where I fucked up everything royally.
I didn’t do what I should have done.
Ask her to stay.
Tell her I loved her.
It’s better this way. The Marines taught me to swear off permanency. Holding things close and precious was a liability. Life. Love. They make you soft. They make you care right before everything is ripped away from you.
Breaking out of my fugue, I check the address on my phone. On the passenger seat is a first aid kit. Stede said she was hurt, so I brought a goddamn pharmacy.
Did something happen at her bakery? Is she having money problems? Was she in an accident? She would have called me if something was seriously wrong, right? The echo of her promise rattles around in my head.
There are so many unanswered questions and all I can do is gun the gas to get answers.
My gut twists as I pull into the lot of the Lights Out motel, feeling the familiar beat of battle.
I retrieve my Glock from the glove box and shove the gun into my hip harness while doing a quick assessment of the motel.
Gravel parking lot right off the highway.
An L-shaped strip of rooms that open to the outside.
A gaudy pink neon sign above the office blinks out a VACANCY refrain.
A few feet away, the curtains of a darkened motel room flutter, and then the door opens.
My palms go slick on the steering wheel.
Dakota .
She stands under the eave of the motel, head down, arms wrapped around herself and the oversized hoodie she wears.
Waiting for me.
Heart pounding, I grab the first aid kit and hop out of the truck. My boots stomp gravel. I head toward her like I’m being pulled. Instinct. A primal, powerful urge I’ve only allowed myself to feel for one woman.
In three long strides, I’m in front of her. “Dakota?”
Without hesitation, she walks right into my arms. “You came,” she says, sighing into my chest.
“You called.” I exhale, tension leaving my body as I wrap my arms around her.
Another sigh and she’s melting into me. Something hard knocks me in the ribs as her hands of velvet wind their way up my jacket and hook under my arms. Delicate, skilled hands.
Hands that played pinball with expert precision that entire summer, and hands that changed my bandages when I was too damn stubborn to do it himself.
Hands that palmed my broad chest as she rode me like a fucking mustang.
Her scent aggravates my senses. Milk and honey, like freshly baked bread. Unable to help it, I tuck her face against my collarbone. Her face fits perfectly between my jaw and chin.
It takes everything out of me to release her, but I need to see her. Gripping her gently by the arms, I pull back.
The second she tilts her gorgeous face up to mine; I forget everything I’ve been trained to do. Keep calm. Stay steady.
In the fluorescent light of the motel, I see a bruised cheekbone. Black eye. A busted lip.
Rage courses through me, swift, blinding. “Who did this, Dakota?” I demand, fighting to keep my voice controlled even as my breath comes out in ragged pants. “Who. The fuck. Did this?”
Her eyes flutter closed. “Davis, don’t—”
“Cupcake, I’m gonna need you to shut that pretty mouth and let me hold you.” It’s instinct to call her by her nickname. To tuck that hair behind her ear and pull her into my arms to calm my racing heart.
“Cupcake,” she breathes, clinging to me like I’m her lifeline, when all this time she’s been mine. Her voice turns watery. “I haven’t heard that in so long.”
As I hold her, trembling in my arms, I calculate it. Drive Dakota back to Resurrection. Get in my truck and find the motherfucker that did this. Kick in his door. Rip out his fucking throat.
That’s when the same hard something hits me in the ribs again.
I glance down to see a light-yellow cast poking out of the sleeve of her black sweatshirt. “Your arm.”
Her eyes drop. “It’s a clean break.”
A clean break. There’s so much wrong with that sentence I don’t even know where to start.
With a soft nudge, I steer her toward the room, not wanting her out in the open until I find out what the hell’s going on. “Let’s go inside.”
The room’s threadbare, the kind of room I’d expect in a cheap motel. Drab, dim, pea-green walls, floral bedspread. On a corner chair is a small backpack like the kind we’d carry on overnight missions. I’d recognize a bug-out bag anywhere.
What. The. Fuck.
After locking the door, I turn on the light. As I shut the curtains, Dakota sits on the edge of the bed. She looks small and fragile. Soft and recently showered.
I set my gun on the nightstand. Her eyes fall on it, but she says nothing.
For a long moment, I stand there, staring down at her like she’s a mirage. But she isn’t. She’s real. Here.
Just as beautiful as I remember.
Her dark, silky hair hangs snarled over her shoulders. Her eyes are the color of earth after a rainstorm. Deep, dark brown against the pale ivory of her skin.
Too beautiful for words.
I’m fucked.
I kneel in front of her and unzip the first aid kit. “Where else are you hurt?”
She shakes her head. “Just the arm.”
“ Just the arm? That’s fucking enough, don’t you think?” My voice comes out rough. I can’t keep it together; I ball my fists to regroup. “Let me clean that cut on your lip.”
“You don’t have to do that. I’m okay.”
“Dakota,” I warn. My eyes lock on her face. It looks like someone grabbed her by the jaw and squeezed. Hard. “Don’t argue with me.”
“Still bossy, I see.” Her tone is light yet strained.
I grunt, digging through the kit for some gauze and antiseptic. Gently, I dab at the cut on her swollen lip. As I tilt her head back to check her pupils for a concussion, my vision fuzzes with rage.
I pride myself on having a cool head, a calm center, but when it comes to Dakota McGraw, I lose the battle. Every fucking time.
She watches me closely like she’s been as curious about me as I have been about her all these years.
She leans in, breaking the tense silence. “I like your scruff, Hotshot.”
“Is that what we’re talking about, my scruff? How about your face?”
She flinches. “What about it, Davis?”
“Tell me what happened, Koty.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she whispers, her gaze skating away from me. “You’re here now. I got out. I’m safe.”
“It fucking matters,” I growl. “A whole hell of a lot.”
She waves her hand up her body, stopping at her face. “What do you think?” Bitterness stains her husky voice. “I lived right. I loved wrong. End of fucking story.”
My heart stutters at the word love. So this is where she’s been the last two years. Why the texts stopped. Why her visits home to Resurrection became rarer and rarer.
Her bruised, delicate jaw clenches. “And now…I’m running.” She gives me a crooked, tired smile. “On the lam, something sad and pathetic like that.”
“Not sad and pathetic.”
“It is to me. I should have known better.”
“Who?” I grind out. Tell me. Just fucking tell me so I can buy a shovel and gallon of bleach . “Who did this?”
She sits silent. Stubborn.
“Your…husband?” Fuck. I don’t recognize the sound of my own voice.