CHAPTER 12 #3
Ciara let out a soft, sympathetic sigh, her face softening in the dim light of the dashboard.
“Damn, Joshua. That’s heavy. To have the cops probing into your files, making you feel like you missed something?
I’m sorry you had to deal with that. But you know what?
I bet she’s gonna show up soon. Like I said this morning, women do wild things when they’re stressed.
She probably just needed to disconnect from the world for a minute. ”
An internal, dark chuckle rattled through my chest. Oh, Ciara, I thought, looking at the smooth, innocent curve of her jaw. There will be no showing up for Amanda. She is six feet beneath the rich, damp earth, her pretty mouth filled with mud, completely disconnected from the world permanently.
“Perhaps you’re right, baby,” I lied smoothly, letting a weary shadow touch my voice. “Let’s hope she finds whatever peace she’s looking for.”
Noticing that the air in the vehicle had grown a bit dense, a bit too heavy with the ghost of a dead woman, Ciara reached over with her right hand and tapped the digital display of the car’s audio system.
“Alright, enough of that depressing talk,” she said, her bright, playful Houston energy bursting back into the space. “We are out tonight to enjoy ourselves. Let’s get some vibe in here.”
A smooth, buttery bassline began to throb through the car’s high-end speakers.
The slow, rhythmic chords of Miguel’s “Sure Thing” filled the interior, the sound rich, deep, and heavily seductive.
Ciara immediately began to vibe, her head tilting to the rhythm, her shoulders moving with a lazy, effortless grace as she gripped the steering wheel.
Then, she began to sing.
“Love you like a brother... treat you like a friend... respect you like a lover... oh, oh, oh, oh...”
I sat there, completely marveled, my breath catching in my throat.
Her voice was stunning—not just good, but rich, smoky, and full of a raw, soulful texture that vibrated directly against my ribs.
She sang with an effortless confidence, her lips curling around the lyrics as she glanced over at me, her dark eyes flashing with a playful, teasing heat.
But what she didn't know was that this specific track was my absolute jam. During my long, late-night research sessions in medical school, when the silence of the anatomy labs became too loud, this song had been a permanent fixture on my playlist.
As the pre-chorus built, I leaned my head back against the headboard, let out a slow, wicked grin, and allowed my smooth, deep baritone to join her voice in the tight space of the car.
“Even when the sky comes falling... even when the sun don't shine... I got faith in you and I... so put your little hand in mine…”
Ciara’s eyes went wide, her mouth dropping open in absolute, unadulterated shock. She literally gasped, the car swerving a fraction of an inch before she corrected the wheel, her head snapping toward me as I continued to sing the harmonies perfectly, my voice deep, resonant, and incredibly smooth.
“You could be that… never gotta sweat that...”
When the chorus ended, Ciara let out a loud, dramatic scream of pure laughter, slapping her hand against the steering wheel as she looked at me as if I had just grown a second head.
“Oh, hell no!” she shrieked, her face lit up with a brilliant, beautiful amusement. “Dayum, Doc! I did not know you were smooth like that! A whole white boy singing Miguel with the harmonies? Mind blown. Absolutely blown.”
I let out a rich, boisterous laugh, the genuine playfulness of the moment washing away the last remnants of my clinical mask. “What can I say, Ciara? I am a man of many hidden talents. You shouldn't judge a book by its academic cover.”
“Child, please,” she chuckled, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she accelerated down the open highway, the dark waters of the bay beginning to shimmer in the distance. “You keep surprising me, Joshua. I might just have to keep you around for a long, long time.”
“I certainly hope you do, beautiful,” I murmured, my eyes locking onto her thick thighs as she drove into the night. “I certainly hope you do.”
An hour later, the highway gave way to a narrow, winding road lined with ancient, moss-draped oak trees that completely cut off the lights of the city. The air grew cooler, thick with the sharp, briny, and heavy scent of salt water, crushed oyster shells, and damp earth.
At the very end of the peninsula sat the restaurant.
It was a lowkey, highly exclusive establishment built directly over the waters of the bay on heavy timber pilings.
The architecture was rustic but incredibly sophisticated—weathered cedar wood, floor-to-ceiling glass walls, and flickering gas torches that cast a warm, primitive orange glow over the dark, rippling surface of the sea below.
The moment the Mark X pulled into the gravel lot, the level of customer service became immediately apparent.
A valet in a crisp black vest hurried forward, opening Ciara’s door with an air of profound respect.
When I stepped out of the vehicle, my six-foot-eight frame drawing the immediate attention of the staff, the host’s eyes widened, but he recovered with a polished, professional bow.
“Welcome back, Ms. Long,” the host said, his voice smooth and deferential. “We have your usual table ready on the private deck, right over the water.”
They escorted us through the main dining room, which was dimly lit and filled with the rich, intoxicating aromas of garlic, melted butter, searing hot peppers, and fresh seafood. The staff treated us like absolute royalty, moving around our table with a silent, hyper-efficient grace.
Our table was situated on a secluded wooden balcony, completely separated from the rest of the patrons by thick canvas drapes.
Below us, the black waters of the bay lapped gently against the pilings, the sound a steady, hypnotic rhythm.
A single candle flickered in a glass hurricane lamp between us, painting Ciara’s face in a soft, golden light that made her look like an ancient queen.
The meal was a masterpiece of sensory indulgence.
We ordered a massive platter of spicy blue crabs, grilled lobster tails brushed with habanero-infused butter, and a mound of garlic-and-chili-spiced shrimp that arrived steaming hot.
The heat of the food was intense, a sharp, stinging fire that made my tongue tingle and brought a fine sheen of sweat to my brow.
“See? I told you it was good,” Ciara said, her fingers coated in spicy butter as she cracked open a crab leg with a satisfying crunch.
She popped the sweet, hot meat into her mouth, letting out a soft, appreciative moan that went straight to my groin.
“You holding up okay over there, giant? Or is that Texas spice too much for your delicate palate?”
“I am performing exceptionally well, thank you,” I laughed, wiping a drop of butter from my chin with a linen napkin.
I reached across the table, my hand wrapping around her wrist, my thumb stroking the soft skin where her pulse throbbed.
“The heat is incredible, Ciara. But the company is far more intoxicating.”
Her eyes darkened, a soft, flirtatious smile curving her glossy lips. “Mmm, you are a smooth talker, Joshua. A dangerous man.”
After we finished the meal, our fingers cleaned with warm lemon water brought by the attentive staff, Ciara looked out at the dark, empty expanse of the beach stretching away from the restaurant.
“Come on,” she said, standing up and reaching for my hand. “Let’s go walk by the water. I need to clear my head.”
We stepped down from the wooden deck onto the cool, damp sand of the beach.
The ocean breeze was sharp and clean, wiping the heavy scent of spices from our skin.
Without a word, Ciara stopped, reaching down to slide her emerald-green high heels off her feet.
She held them in one hand, her bare, beautifully formed feet sinking into the soft, shifting sand as we walked hand in hand along the shoreline.
The dark foam of the surf rushed over our feet, the water freezing cold, an intense, shocking contrast to the burning heat of the food we had just eaten.
It was an incredibly romantic, pure moment.
I looked down at her—her hand small but solid in mine, her hair blowing wildly in the wind—and for the first time in my life, the quiet, analytical voice in my head went entirely silent.
I didn't want to analyze her; I didn't want to manipulate her. I just wanted to hold her.
Everything was perfect. The universe was in absolute alignment.
Until the illusion was violently shattered.
“Well, well, well. Look what the fuck we have here.”
The voice cut through the quiet rush of the surf like a rusty blade. It was a loud, abrasive, and completely unhinged sound that instantly triggered the predatory response at the base of my brain. My posture stiffened, my muscles locking into place as I turned my head slowly toward the source.
Morgan.
He was standing on the edge of the boardwalk, about ten feet away from us.
He was dressed in a flashy, overpriced designer tracksuit, a heavy gold chain swinging against his chest. He was holding a plastic cup of liquor in one hand, his eyes bloodshot, his face twisted into a smug, aggressive sneer.
Beside him stood a young black woman—not Tesha, the girl from the grocery store, but a different, younger girl with an anxious, uncomfortable expression on her face.
He had been eating lobster at the restaurant’s outdoor bar, and he had clearly seen us walking.
Ciara stopped dead in her tracks, her hand going instantly cold in mine. I could feel the immediate, violent surge of adrenaline rushing through her body. She stepped in front of me, her shoulders squaring up, her Houston attitude flaring like a localized explosion.