Chapter 15
15
Davis
I wait until Sloane’s breathing has settled into a steady rhythm, and then I sneak out of the bed.
Fire’s still going outside.
Need to put it out.
Also need to breathe in the cold night air to try to get a grip on my body.
I’ve been around people having a difficult time before. Been around women having a difficult time.
And I’ve never wanted so badly to be the shield protecting them from all of it.
Has to be because it’s my fault.
If I wasn’t looking for the treasure, Dixon wouldn’t be looking for the treasure, and he’d be leaving Sloane alone.
If I hadn’t let her take photos of me to tell her grandma that I was her fake boyfriend, we wouldn’t be fake engaged, getting fake-married, and?—
And the two have nothing to do with each other. I didn’t ask her family to be controlling, manipulative dicks.
I blow out a slow breath in the chilly evening.
Then another.
And a third.
My phone rings.
I move as far from the trailer as I can before I answer. “Hey.”
“I always assumed that the day you got in over your head with a woman, it would be with someone who had a criminal record for trespassing and being a public nuisance. An activist type. Maybe a hacker who robbed from the rich to give to the poor. But you have managed to find the squeakiest-clean woman on the entire planet.”
“I’m not in over my head,” I tell my sister.
I am completely over my head.
And as much as I want to blame seeing those dildos—I can’t.
I was already in over my head.
Sloane smiles, and the world gets a little brighter. My world gets a little brighter. That’s not supposed to happen with strangers.
Vanessa makes an amused noise on the other end of the line. “Keep lying to yourself. That’s a fabulous tactic that’s always ended well for you.”
It has never ended well for me, and we both know it. “Where’s Dixon?”
“Ah, the distraction so we don’t talk about how you wanted me to call a woman to vouch for you for the first time in a decade.”
“Yes.”
“Thank you for your honesty. Refreshing change in this conversation.”
“My pleasure.”
“And I suppose you want a reward of information for that honesty?”
“Yes.”
“Fine. I lost Dixon south of Shipwreck, which feels off. He shouldn’t have been going south.”
“You on this officially?”
“Something about this entire situation is off. I’m missing a vital piece of a puzzle, and I don’t like it.”
“That wasn’t a no.”
“It’s a no.”
I fill a bucket from the water pump between the old cabin and the old outhouse while we talk. Don’t want to leave Sloane alone too long, so I need to get the campfire handled.
“You sure?” I ask my sister.
“My organization doesn’t work on American soil. I just happen to live here and like puzzles. I’m personally curious. That’s it.”
“But you checked to see if Sloane had a record.”
“Yeah. Duh. Not the first time for any of you yahoos, and I’d like it known it took immense self-control to let Tripp figure out Lila’s secrets on his own, but I did it, and I’m proud of myself. So. Patrick Dixon. He went south of town this morning, circled back, ransacked Sloane’s house, and then disappeared into the ether again. How good are the witnesses?”
“Four total. Three of them picked him out of a random group of pictures.”
“Gotta love small towns.”
“Only if you don’t love boundaries.”
She snickers. “You really tell an old lady your dick’s a biological weapon?”
And people think I hear everything. How the fuck did she know that? “Not my finest moment.”
“I’m looking into this Nigel guy too. What do you know about him?”
“He’s a dick.”
“What else?”
What else matters? I pour the water slowly over the fire while I continue filling Vanessa in on anything she might be able to use to find dirt on him. “Pastor at a small church in a town called Two Twigs, Iowa.”
“What’s he doing in Shipwreck?”
“Tormenting Sloane.”
“Why now?”
“She told her grandmother we’re getting married and Grandma doesn’t like me.”
“What did you do to Grandma?”
“Breathe.”
She snorts.
“Didn’t even talk to her until tonight.”
There’s a pause.
And then— “Tell me you didn’t verbally eviscerate an old lady.”
That’s not happening. I keep emptying the bucket. The fire sizzles and smokes, just like it should. And when I breathe through my irritation with Sloane’s grandma, I know I’m on even ground again. That my temper has been locked back up where it belongs, and I’m in control.
“I need more information on this Nigel guy,” I say. “I don’t like him.”
“He’s a preacher, Davis.”
“He gives off Uncle Gerry vibes.”
I feel my twin shiver on the other side of the phone.
Creepy old dude always telling us we were wrong for breathing. Best thing about not doing family shit with our father anymore is not having to see Uncle Gerry.
Or think about him.
Until now.
“Thanks, asshole,” Vanessa mutters. “It had been at least eighteen months since I last thought about that guy.”
“Same.”
Something creaks in the night.
I pause and make a slow turn, listening and watching in the darkness.
Leaves rustle in a cold breeze. Clouds are moving in. No stars, minimal moonlight.
Fire’s nearly out.
No more creaking noises.
But I still don’t like it.
“If you know where the thing that I’m looking for is…” I trail off, cocking my head again.
Doesn’t feel like anyone’s out here, but something’s moving.
Likely a small animal. Squirrel. Chipmunk. Skunk. Something.
Vanessa sighs. “Told you already, that’s before our time, and even if I knew something, I’m not telling you. What’s going on there? You got quiet.”
I turn in one more slow circle.
Gonna lock the trailer door tonight.
“Animals making noise,” I tell Vanessa.
“You sure?”
“Mostly.”
“Stay safe, okay?”
“You too.”
“It would be helpful to have a last name for Nigel.”
“I’ll text it to you. Gotta go. Left a burner on inside.”
I didn’t, but she knows what I mean.
I need to get off the phone and don’t want to say why .
I want to go check on the woman sleeping in my trailer, and I don’t want to tell you that’s what I want to do, because you already know I’m in over my head with her .
I slip inside as silently as I left and lock the door.
Then check again that the door is locked.
And a second time for good measure.
When I’m satisfied that I’ve locked the fucking door, I duck into the bathroom and change into cotton shorts and a T-shirt, moving as quietly as possible, with little light.
Even then, Sloane’s sitting up, rubbing her eyes when I step into the bedroom. “What’s wrong? What happened? Did you hear something? Is someone here?”
The way I have to restrain myself to keep from hugging her and kissing her and promising her she’s safe… “Had to put out the campfire.”
“You had a campfire?”
Her voice holds a yearning that hits me in the gut. “You like camping?”
“I like campfires. And s’mores.” Her voice gets softer. “And friends. Tillie Jean took me to a campfire at Beck’s house once. It was nice.”
I sit on the edge of the bed. “Unlimited s’mores at Beck’s house.”
“Unlimited fun. Friendly people. Very entertaining.”
“That too.”
I missed a campfire at Beck’s house that Sloane was at.
That sucks.
But is probably a good thing.
Peggy meows at me.
I stretch out on my side of the bed, wishing I had this room arranged so I could be closer to the door than Sloane is instead of having the door at our feet, where if someone or something broke in, it would have to go through me first.
I locked the door.
I made very certain to lock the door.
Dixon’s a coward. He wouldn’t break into an occupied home.
But I still triple-checked that I locked the door.
“You can get under the covers if you want,” she says quietly. “We’re both adults. And Peggy always sleeps with me, and she likes you, so she’ll probably sleep in the middle of the bed. She’ll be like a self-appointed barrier. And, it’s your bed. Very important detail. I could go sleep on the couch.”
The cat meows again.
“You’re not sleeping on the couch.” I hesitate briefly, then climb under the quilt.
The sweatpants I left out are on the floor next to her side of the bed, right next to her scrubs, which means she’s in nothing but a T-shirt and probably her panties.
One of my T-shirts.
Mind over body. Mind over body .
She’s here because she needs help.
Not because it’s playtime.
And now I’m thinking about her toys. That one dildo—it was ungodly large. Not the largest I’ve ever seen—or nearly been hit with—but larger than necessary. I think. My dick’s not really a biological weapon, but it’s healthy. I’m blessed , as the fucking gaslighter from Sloane’s past would say.
And that vibrator—I haven’t dated in a very long time.
A very long time.
I have no business knowing anything about vibrators.
But I want to know if she uses it on her clit, or if it’s for internal use. If she sticks it up her?—
Stop it, you dumbass .
It’s fucking hot under this quilt.
“Davis?” Sloane whispers.
I almost jump out of my skin. “Yeah?”
“Are you okay?”
Shit.
I’m breathing hard. “Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
Not. At. All.
I roll onto my side and look at her in the dim light still coming in from the kitchen. She’s shadows and curves, rolled onto her side so she’s looking back at me.
And I give her an excuse for why I won’t be sleeping tonight. “Been over a decade since I had anyone else in my bed.”
The silence is exactly what I expect.
What’s anyone supposed to say to that?
I’d wonder if she’s wondering if I mean that’s how long it’s been since I’ve had sex with anyone either, but I doubt she’s thinking about the state of my dick.
“Two years for me,” she whispers. “If you don’t count Peggy.”
Fuck.
Now I’m wondering if she means two years since she’s had sex.
Given what I saw in her bedroom—probably.
“Do you…miss…having someone else in your bed?”
I swallow hard.
My cock gets harder.
“No,” I lie.
It’s not a full lie.
There’s only a handful of days in any given year when I’m lonely. When I stare at the ceiling, unable to mind-over-body myself to sleep, wishing there was someone to talk to.
Someone to touch.
Someone to kiss.
Usually happens around the holidays, when I’m more likely to hang out with my friends and family. Noticeably when spring training hits for the Fireballs and we all get together at their training facility in Florida because why wouldn’t we?
We get together when they make it all the way in the playoffs too.
Any excuse for some of our old favorite things to bring us back together.
“I like stretching out and keeping the room at whatever temperature I want it, and I like no one else complaining about my cat being on the bed or that my décor is too feminine, but sometimes when I’m hanging out with Tillie Jean and Max, or with Annika and Grady, or with Ray and Jacob, or with Georgia and Francisco, or take your pick of any of the rest of the Fireballs and their significant others, I wonder if I’ll ever have enough therapy and life experience to want to take a chance at dating again. I like kissing. I miss it.”
I didn’t.
Not until she kissed me on Saturday.
“I’m not asking you to—” she starts in a rush, cutting herself off when her cat meows loudly.
Like the cat’s saying you don’t have to explain yourself to that dumbass .
“Sorry. Right. Sorry. I’ll go to sleep. We should both go to sleep. All . We should all go to sleep. You too, Peggy.”
Neither one of us is sleeping tonight.
For all that I don’t know Sloane well, I can feel it.
She’s hyped up now.
Peggy meows again, rises, climbs over me, and settles in the crook behind my knees.
Like the cat’s saying leave me out of this, I’m not interested in being your barrier .
Sloane stares at me.
I stare back.
Had a staring contest like this once with Tripp’s oldest kid. I’d crashed at his place and woke up to James standing six inches from my nose. He was probably three.
I don’t startle easily, but I was so startled that I almost fell out of the bed.
And while I was telling myself to breathe, that it was a kid standing there, he leaned into my face, whispered ooga-booga , turned, and left the room.
Definitely not the right tactic here.
“You’re not closing your eyes,” she whispers.
I inch closer to her to give the cat more room, and our legs touch.
Her bare skin against mine.
I swallow again. “Peggy needed more room.”
“She’s a crotch sleeper. If you lay on your back, she’ll curl up on your crotch. Or more likely mine. She likes my—I’m going to stop talking now.”
“I’m making you nervous.”
“Life makes me nervous today.”
“I’ll go?—”
“ No .”
She sucks in an audible breath, and I hear her teeth chatter again.
My heart squeezes.
I hate that she’s afraid.
I hate that it’s my fault she’s afraid.
That I can’t fully and completely protect her from what’s out there.
“I’ll quit talking,” she whispers.
Fuck this.
Fuck all of this.
She’s scared, but she doesn’t have to feel alone too.
She’s not alone.
I’m here.
I slide one arm under her pillow, the other around her back, and I tug her against me. “You’re safe,” I murmur.
Her breath rattles out of her, and she loops an arm around my waist and scoots closer.
And closer.
And closer.
Until she freezes as her hip connects with my raging boner.
I don’t move.
Don’t breathe.
I stay still as I can make myself while my heart’s still beating, waiting for her to relax.
But she doesn’t relax.
And my heart doesn’t slow.
It speeds up.
It launches faster when she lifts her head to look at me.
And when she whispers, “Thank you for trusting me,” it hits the stratosphere.
I can’t do this.
I cannot lie here with her, holding her, my cock against her body, and not kiss her.
And so that’s exactly what I do.