Chapter 3
Charlie
The ringing phone jerks me awake, pulling me from a dream that ends right before fists hit bone. Disoriented, my heart pounding, I blink into the unfamiliar room.
Another ring.
Last night rushes over me.
The bar.
The woman.
Fumbling our way into the shitty roadside motel.
I crane my neck to find the pillow next to me empty.
I run a palm over the tangled white sheets, now cool to the touch.
The phone drones on.
I survey the room where clothes had been ripped from bodies and tossed in every direction. In the darkness of the blackout shades, I see no evidence of her things.
My attention swings to the dresser where I’d dropped her lace panties on the wooden surface as I’d fucked her from behind. The way those vivid, light-blue eyes had shot daggers as she came, cursing me, her fingernails trying to dig into the mirror to find purchase.
They’re gone.
She’s gone.
Thank fuck.
I reach for my phone on the nightstand. My chief deputy’s name lights up my screen. Shit. That’s not good.
I answer with a clipped, “What’s up?”
Ryder Moore is the best hiring decision I’ve ever made as the county sheriff. I’d fought for the budget to afford him, and he’s worth every penny.
Which is why I know my Saturday is about to be fucked.
“There’s been a twenty-car pileup on the highway.” He doesn’t bother with preamble.
I sigh. This is my least favorite part of the job. “Casualties?”
“Four total. Two critical injuries. Ten minor. Unfortunately, one of the four is Congressman Bradley Crenshaw.”
I rub my gritty eyes. “The politician under investigation for racketeering?”
“That’d be the one.”
“I’ll have to hold a press conference.” That’s the last activity I want to do today.
“Yep.” Ryder has a matter-of-fact attitude that I appreciate in a crisis. “His passenger was a young, unidentified female who definitely wasn’t his wife.”
“Fantastic.” Talk about a shitstorm.
“I sent you coordinates.”
My phone beeps with a dropped pin. “I’m about forty minutes out. Let me get on the road.”
“Press is already here.” Ryder is one of my best friends, but he’s all business now, considering time is of the essence.
“I’ll get there as soon as I can.” I disconnect and sit up, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. I put my elbows on my knees, rubbing a palm over my face. The scent of the woman I did such unspeakable things to clings, and as if she’s a Pavlovian response, my lust stirs.
I blow out a breath and stand. The room is a disaster. Sheets tangled. Bedspread pushed to the side. One of the lamps has tumbled to the floor, shade askew.
I’m not sure why I’m disappointed to find no sign of the sable-haired, blue-eyed siren who sat down beside me yesterday afternoon.
I walk over and flick open the heavy curtains, letting the blinding late-morning sun stream through the window.
Her car is gone.
A pad of cheap motel paper had fallen off the table somewhere in the middle of the best sex I’ve ever had. I pick it up off the floor. It’s blank.
The second she’d sat down next to me, I’d wanted her, despite my shit, broody mood. When she’d been so prickly, I’d been content to admire her from afar. But when she’d been unable to stop engaging, I’d known exactly where we’d end up.
An image of her, sprawled across my chest, both of us panting for breath after I’d exhausted all her chaotic energy, fills my mind. I can still feel the weight of her body on mine. Still feel her skin on the pads of my fingers as I’d stroked her sweat-slicked back.
What the fuck? Why am I having thoughts about the feel of her skin?
So we’d had amazing sex. It didn’t mean anything. We’d gotten what we’d needed, and that was the end of it.
I drag my hand through my hair and vacillate between irritation she skipped out and gratitude she spared me an awkward goodbye.
I can’t deny that she would have been hard to let go.
That if this were a normal Saturday morning and I’d woken up to her instead of an empty bed, I’d have convinced her to stay.
I’ve never been good at delusion. I’m more of a cold-hard-facts kind of guy. So I can admit that I don’t feel done with her. That she’s still in my system.
A bark of laughter escapes. Guess she’d been right to warn me not to fall in love with her.
Not that love is something I’m capable of, but my night with her did nothing to cool my desire.
At least we’d been smart enough to avoid personal information, because the pull to find her burrows like a thorn in my side. It’s mixed with irritation that I still want her, while she took off without a backward glance.
But I’m smart enough to know that’s an ego thing I’ll get over sooner rather than later.
I step into my pants and run to the car, where I keep a spare uniform for these types of unavoidable occasions. I’m about ten miles outside my county lines, but my house in the small town of Revival, Illinois, is clear on the other side of town, making going home a nonviable option.
At least Ryder is on the scene, and I don’t have to worry about any fuckups before I get there.
He’s my second-in-command for a reason. He’s got a knack for calming things down and the patience to see through the rough spots.
But considering this is a political situation, I need to get to the accident as soon as possible, leaving me little time to think about the dark-haired witch.
I flick on the bathroom light and step into the room, only to freeze.
On the mirror, in red lipstick, she’s written, You know why. Followed by a heart.
A smile twitches at my lips. What a drama queen.
I run a hand through my hair, the tension in my shoulders easing as I glance back at the note.
She’d felt it too. Not sure if that’s better or worse, but at least we’re on the same page. It sure as hell shouldn’t make me happy, but it does.
Because I do know why.
It’s why she left, and I’m glad she’s gone.
Why I’m grateful I don’t have her information.
Why I was careful not to look at her license plate and accidentally memorize it.
It’s bad enough I want her with a relentlessness that’s settled into my bones.
But what’s really throwing me is the foreign and entirely unwelcome feeling sitting heavy in my chest.
I feel…connected to her.
Like we’d walked into this room and stripped away all our normal walls and barriers and ended up naked in more ways than the obvious.
The truth taunts me.
If I put my mind to it, I could find her.
The part of me trained to search for patterns, to gather information from the periphery, already wants to catalogue everything I know about her.
I won’t, but I could.
I shake my head, ridding myself of the crazy thoughts.
Forget her.
I turn on the shower and get on with what is sure to be one hell of a day.
Many hours later, Ryder and I are sitting in Sam Roberts’s bar, located on the outskirts of town. A charming but shabby dive that is blessedly empty at dinnertime on a Saturday.
I’m exhausted. Bone-weary.
But no matter how tired I am, sleep is hours away.
The adrenaline is still rushing through my veins.
Which is why, instead of going home, Ryder and I came to visit Sam.
The free alcohol he supplies as one of our best friends is great, but we’re here to ease the transition between work and home. Where we talk through what happened and what needs to be done, so we’re fit for the rest of the world that doesn’t deal with tragedy on a semi-regular basis.
And, what neither of us would ever admit, we come for Sam.
The way he somehow smooths the rough edges away with…whatever it is he does with the energy. It’s one of his unusual talents I can’t explain and don’t need to because he doesn’t like to talk about it.
“Are we missing anything?” I ask Ryder, before downing the rest of my beer.
He digs his thumbs into his eye sockets. “I think that’s it.”
“I’m sure we’ll think of a few more things at two a.m.” An unfortunate byproduct of a racing mind.
“I’m banking on Sophie putting me into a coma.” Ryder’s fiancée is a little blond-haired spitfire by way of Chicago who now works as the PR director at Revival’s city hall. She rocked his world the second he laid eyes on her and hasn’t stopped rocking it since.
“Can’t say I blame you.” The woman from last night fills my thoughts. Again. She’d put me in a coma. She already had. I’d slept so deeply, I’d dreamed.
It wasn’t a good dream—they never are—but it was a rarity.
I hadn’t even heard her slip out of bed and leave, which irrationally irritates me. She’s not a quiet woman, and I’m a cop. I’m lucky she wasn’t on the con and that I woke up with my wallet and car.
Although if she’d robbed me, I’d have an excuse to hunt her down.
So there’s that.
I scrub a hand over my stubbled jaw and try not to think about what it would be like to exhaust myself in her body.
Despite my best intentions, she’d plagued me all day.
I want her again. It was like she possessed all my weaknesses in one heart-stopping, unforgettable package.
She’d been defiant, unbelievably beautiful, visceral, and alive.
All that cunning sparking in those white-blue eyes of hers.
Touching her had been like handling live electrical wire.
I could feel all her vibrating energy under my palm. The way I slid—
“Thinking about last night?” Ryder’s question breaks into my ruminations.
For a moment, I’m disoriented. I haven’t said a word about her.
But then I realize that’s not what he’s talking about.
He’s talking about what led me to be sitting in that bar in the first place.
I shake my head. “Nope.”
“How’d it go?” Ryder asks, his gray eyes curious.
I shrug one shoulder. “About as well as could be expected.”
I’d been in that bar nursing my guilty conscience over ending things with Felicia Hayes, my longtime situationship.
Even though I’d been completely honest with the pretty pediatrician that I was not relationship material, she’d gotten ideas anyway.
Ideas I’d suspected but had ignored because there’d never seemed to be a good time to deal with the fallout.
But she’d taken the decision out of my hands when, last month on her thirty-fourth birthday, after dinner and a couple bottles of wine, she’d gotten up the courage to confess she’d caught feelings that included a wedding gown and save-the-date cards.
We’d ended the second she’d wanted more, but I couldn’t break up with her on her birthday. I’m not cruel.
Yesterday, I pulled the trigger.
I cringe, downing the rest of my beer.
I’m saved from an answer when Sam wanders over.
He’s tall and lanky with guileless blue eyes, shiny golden hair, and a face that makes him look like an angel he definitely isn’t.
He plops a fresh bottle in front of me and leans over, placing his hands on the bar.
In his slow, lazy drawl that hides all his hidden depths, he asks, “You doing okay?”
Instead of remorse over Felicia, the woman from last night flashes across my mind.
Sam’s gaze narrows.
I tense. I don’t want him using his powers on me. I visualize a wall between him and the thoughts in my head, purposefully relaxing my shoulders to rid myself of her.
Sam doesn’t know anything. He’s asking because of Felicia, that’s all.
I scrub a hand over my jaw that’s moved well past five-o’clock-shadow territory. “Obviously, I felt like an asshole.”
Sam cracks a smile. “Should be used to it by now.”
“Funny.” I drag my fingers through my hair. “Why did she have to confess her love on her birthday? Of all days.”
Sam taps a beat on the worn bar top. “If you’d been paying attention, you’d have seen she’d believed her birthday was her best and only shot.”
“Unfortunately, I only have hindsight, instead of foresight.” I don’t push back on his assessment because he’s right. Sam is always right.
“Point still stands,” he adds helpfully.
I sigh.
Ryder shoots me the side-eye. “How’d she take it?”
I cringe just thinking about it. “There were a lot of tears. Lots of asking if anything would change my mind. Then, when she saw that it was a lost cause, she pivoted to promising things didn’t have to change between us.”
Ryder’s expression twists. “All the things you hate.”
“Yeah. And I had to sit there and take it.”
Ryder chuckles. “It’s hard being just enough of an asshole to dig yourself a hole, but not enough of one to walk away, huh?”
“Fuck off.” The words don’t have any bite because he’s dead-on. It is a hard balance to maintain. This is why, before I moved to this town, I’d kept to myself. People understanding me doesn’t sit well.
Truth is, I spent a long time with Felicia, and in my own way, I did care about her.
I broke her heart, and I regret that, but it didn’t sway me.
She’d crossed an invisible line, and there had been no coming back.
So I’d done what I’d needed to do, but my conscience wouldn’t let me leave without comforting her.
I couldn’t ruin the fantasy she’d concocted then not help her pick up the pieces.
No matter how much I’d wanted the freedom that lay beyond her front door, I’d stayed.
I’d spent hours talking to her, listening to her.
I’d handed her tissues while she’d cried.
Rubbed her back. Fended off her desperate pleas for one more time to show me how good it was between us. I shudder. “It was awful.”
“If it helps,” Sam says, “even though you did it in the worst way possible and didn’t end it when you should have, this is the right timeline.”
Oh no. This sounds suspiciously like a premonition. With caution, I ask, “Oh yeah?”
“It’s the catalyst for the change to come.” His words settle into my gut, making my heart beat faster than it should.
I don’t want to ask, but I’m unable to help myself. Because there’s no way he can know about the woman from last night. What would she have to do with his premonition? And why the hell am I even thinking about her?
She’s not a part of this. It doesn’t matter if I can’t shake her.
I cock a brow. “You mean for Felicia?”
He’s wearing that expression he gets, when he understands things the rest of us mere mortals don’t.
I’m holding my breath, and then I exhale slowly, like breathing is a normal part of my day.
“For both of you.” The statement lands like a gut punch.
Immediately, I think of her.
That dark, tumbling hair spread out over white sheets.
Her silvery-blue eyes flashing up at me.
Her throaty laugh as she pulled me to her.
Fuck.
I meet Sam’s gaze, and dread mixed with excitement pushes my adrenaline back into overdrive.
No. Don’t even think about her.
She has nothing to do with this.