7. Ronan
Chapter 7
Ronan
F ive things he’d learned about Jennifer Crandall on the way back to her house. One, she was well-read with a broad vocabulary—she’d at least started college at some point, maybe a psychology major. Two, she hated her boss, which meant she was hiding whatever she’d seen for another reason. Three, her parents were dead—that glint of sorrow in her eyes when he’d mentioned them, without the anger he always saw in estrangement, was indicative of loss. Four, the woman was terrified of someone—no matter what she said, she did not believe Mercer’s death was some isolated incident or related to Waylon. And finally…
Every word out of her mouth was a lie.
No one had mentioned gambling—he’d used that to see what her face did when she was actually surprised. The woman was better than most at hiding her tells, as if she’d been doing it her whole life. He imagined she had. Pain recognized pain… well, usually. Sometimes, you beat an innocent man in a parking lot for making out with his girlfriend, who happened to like it rough.
Bubble-gum Brittany had, in fact, told him that she’d heard Waylon arguing with the victim. But her eye had been twitching so hard he’d almost asked if she had a history of seizures. Waylon was a prick, but Brittany hadn’t thought the consequences of that lie through—at best, Waylon would figure out who’d said it, and she’d lose her job. Though he had confirmed that she was of legal age, she was barely so—eighteen as of three days ago. She was na?ve, but he couldn’t blame her for trying.
Brittany was protecting Jenny. Jenny was protecting Waylon, but more likely herself. Both could be true if Waylon had something incriminating on her. And he did—he had to. But what could she be more worried about than a murder investigation?
“Turn left here,” she said.
All she’d told him when she’d gotten into the car was “head for the east side,” but in the half an hour since, she’d directed them around a big square. They were only a few blocks from the club now.
Ronan hit the signal and eased onto the next road. “You weren’t sure whether you’d tell me where you lived, huh?”
She blinked at the windshield. “You’re pretty good at figuring stuff out,” she said quietly, but she didn’t sound impressed. She sounded worried.
He cut his eyes at her, trying not to stare. She was even more beautiful up close, which was a completely inappropriate thought. He was here to protect her. To make sure she got home safe.
But he could not help the way his heart beat faster when he watched her thick lashes flutter closed for a beat longer than a blink, the way her breasts rose in the pale glare of the streetlights as he assessed her breathing. The latter was a trick to determine whether someone was lying—respiration changes were a reliable indicator of untruth—but never before had such a thing turned him on.
“I promise not to try to figure you out too much,” he said, but it came out hoarse.
“Yeah, right. If there’s one thing detectives hate , it’s figuring stuff out.”
He paused, waiting for her to go on—hoping she’d keep talking. He loved the sound of her voice. A low alto, sexy as fuck.
Ronan shoved the thought aside. Stop it, Ronan. Stop it.
He really was an asshole. A stalker—Paddy had known that from the moment he realized Ronan had been inside the club. He should have told his partner that Waylon was the reason he’d started frequenting The Velvet Cage.
The brass had refused a search warrant, refused Ronan’s request for cameras. The chief had told him to leave it alone. But Ronan didn’t trust Waylon with the vulnerable woman in his charge—Waylon sniffed out weakness like a wolf hunting prey. Paddy would have understood that.
But Ronan also had a more selfish reason for going to the club: When he didn’t, he dreamed about Jenny. If he was lucky, her legs were wrapped around him, his dick buried deep inside her while she moaned his name. But it was the dreams where he saw her running from some unnamed assailant, her eyes wide with terror, that drove him back to The Velvet Cage. Could Mercer’s death be a part of what his gut had been trying to tell him for months?
Maybe. But good intentions weren’t enough to make you a good man. He’d do well to remember that.
“Why did you protect me?” he asked. “You told my partner that I wasn’t in the club. I assume you did that because you thought I might get into trouble for being there.”
“Turn left here,” she said, and he obliged. Was she avoiding the question? But then she said, “I mean… you protected me too. You didn’t say anything about the blood on my hands. I hope that means you believe me—I only touched him to see if he was alive.”
“I do believe you,” he said. But only about not being the one to stab that blade between his ribs. Whether she was an accomplice or just lying to protect someone else, she knew who had done this—he could feel it in his bones. She just didn’t trust him enough to tell him.
“I’m sorry if I overstepped,” she said quietly. “I just didn’t want you to get into trouble. I… like you. I mean, more than the other men at the club.”
“You like me, huh?” He chuckled, but the words heated his chest. “Is that why you didn’t know my name?”
“As you can probably imagine, talking to customers, let alone asking their names, is frowned upon. It can be dangerous.”
“Do you think I’m dangerous?”
Jenny blinked. Swallowed hard. Then averted her gaze, which was answer enough.
“Thank you for trying to help me,” he said. “Sincerely. And just so you know, I’m not a monster like the other men you probably deal with. I just want to help.”
But they all said that. His father had told his mother the same thing, but he didn’t care about her one bit so long as she kept quiet and did as she was told. If she got mouthy, he sent a courier to supply her with heroin. She hadn’t been safe until someone had murdered the man.
Jenny straightened, then pointed to a rambling building on the left side of the road. “This is it. Just take the path around. Room 314.”
He blinked at the sign— Broadway Lodge —then pulled in and followed the path to the lot, a crumbling square of pavement surrounded by a U-shaped building on three sides and a thatch of pine trees on the fourth. Nowhere near Broadway. Not even close to a proper lodge.
“You live in a motel?”
She shrugged. “It’s safer.”
Safer? Ronan scanned the building, the flimsy glass that wouldn’t withstand a fist, the doors that would burst open at the first kick. Dark back here, too—only a single streetlamp which stuck from the center of the lot like a needle.
He stopped in front of room 314 and slid the car into park, then turned to meet her eyes. “Who are you running from, Ms. Crandall?”
He probably should have asked her directly six months ago. Maybe then Jason Mercer would still be alive.
Her gaze locked on his, unwavering and unreadable. That was disconcerting. His entire career hinged on reading the thoughts of others, but with Jennifer Crandall, he was completely in the dark. And there was a part of him that… liked that.
The silence stretched. He opened his mouth to say something else, ask again what she was running from, or perhaps to ask how he might help.
But she raised her hand to his shoulder and squeezed. “Thanks for the ride, Detective.”
Ronan finally found his voice. “You have my card. Call if you remember anything pertinent.” He wanted to tack on or if you need help…
But she was already gone.