Chapter 6 Luke #2
I’d acted as her shield. I’d carry these burdens for her, for as long as it made sense, and let this woman live in peace. Scarlett had been through enough. And she’d need her strength. Because sooner or later, we’d have to face what was coming.
And before then, I wanted to remind her that Presley was on her side.
“She’s come to see me every day since . . . you know,” I said. “Today was the first that she missed.”
Scarlett sat up straighter. “Is she okay?”
“She’s fine. I texted to make sure. She said she was giving up.”
“I see.” Scarlett dropped her gaze to her lap, her shoulders sagging.
“Not on you. On me.” Presley hadn’t been as forceful in her recent visits. She wasn’t giving up on Scarlett, but she’d finally realized I wasn’t going to bend.
“Maybe on me too,” Scarlett said quietly. “I betrayed her. I never should have gone to Jeremiah. I should have talked to her first.”
“I don’t think she’s mad about Jeremiah.”
Scarlett turned toward the windows, staring at the closed blinds like she could see through them to the yard. If she could, she’d see grass that was overdue for a mowing and weeds taking over the flower beds.
This weekend, I really needed to spend some time at home. But I was so far behind at work, I couldn’t seem to catch up. Presley hadn’t been the only regular visitor to my office. At least Pres had kept her trips short.
Agent Maria Brown came into my office each day and stayed. She didn’t have anything to tell me. She refused to explain why she was so interested in Scarlett. She’d just sit in the same chair, ask if I’d heard from Scarlett, and when I gave her my standard no, one would think she’d leave.
Nope. She’d sit there, staring. Finally, I’d stopped staring back. Now when Agent Brown camped out in that chair each day, sitting statue still, I kept working. Fielding phone calls. Reviewing paperwork. Hell, I’d started inviting my staff in for meetings.
If the FBI wanted to know what was happening in Clifton Forge, then she had a front row seat to the drunk drivers, speeding tickets and petty crimes.
This continued presence in Clifton Forge had to be costing them money.
Eventually, they’d realize it was a waste.
The only case Agent Brown hadn’t been privy to was Ken Raymond’s.
Chuck had closed the case on Ken’s death two weeks ago.
After speaking to Ken’s wife again, it had been determined that Ken had gone out hiking.
His wife hadn’t been sure exactly where he’d gone.
According to her, he had a tendency to choose random places.
And his last random journey had brought him toward Clifton Forge.
No one would ever know for sure, but Ken must have been hiking near the river.
Somehow, he’d fallen in and been swept away.
The autopsy had confirmed water in his lungs and ruled the cause of death to be drowning.
On the day Ken’s case had been closed, Dash had come into my office—thankfully after Agent Brown had vacated the premises for the day. Because he’d come to tell me that at lunch, he’d seen a Warrior at the gas station.
To anyone else, it might have looked like a man on a motorcycle stopping to fill up as he passed through town. But the Warriors didn’t come to Clifton Forge. If they needed gas, they hit the next town over.
It was a message. A warning.
They wanted Scarlett too.
Dash had become a regular visitor to my office. He didn’t ask where I was keeping Scarlett, and I got the impression he didn’t know. That he didn’t want to know.
His visits were purely educational.
I’d learned the names of Warriors and details about their leaders. He’d told me about old rivalries they’d had with the Kings. About what he suspected the Warriors did for money, mostly drug running.
It was all information in my arsenal, to use when the time came.
And that time was when Scarlett decided to talk.
Until then, we’d wait.
Maybe she really had told us everything. Maybe there wasn’t much to her story and time at the Warrior clubhouse. But my gut said she was hiding something. Could be nothing. With the FBI involved, it could be something big.
Scarlett’s confession about her childhood was a good sign. She was beginning to open up. If I was patient, eventually, she’d tell me the rest. But in the meantime, she was busy mixing up my house.
She was still staring at the covered window, lost in thought. Weeks ago, I might have prodded her to talk, but it would get me nowhere. Scarlett needed to do things on her own timeline, no matter how fast or slow. And I had the patience to hang back, to be there when she was ready.
So I focused on the television, letting her have the moment. And when her fork scraped the bowl, I knew whatever mental tunnel she’d traversed, she was on the other side now.
She sighed as she chewed a bite, a habit I’d noticed earlier this week. I thought all her meals were delicious, especially since I hadn’t had to cook for myself, but when Scarlett didn’t like something she’d made, she’d sigh as she chewed.
I doubted we’d be having stir fry again. That or she’d lay off the hot sauce.
“What?” she asked, her mouth full.
“Nothing.” I shook my head, tearing my eyes away from her mouth. From those soft lips and that luscious pout.
Oh, hell. Each day it was becoming more difficult to stop myself from staring at Scarlett. Somewhere between carting her out of the grocery store and coming home to a feng shui’d house, Scarlett had become more than the woman I was trying to protect.
What exactly, I wasn’t going to contemplate. Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
Still, there was no denying we’d come a long way from the cookie aisle.
“Scarlett?”
“Yeah?”
I shifted to face her. “I should have told you last week, but I’m sorry for hauling you out of the grocery store like I did.”
“Oh, um . . . it’s okay.”
“No, it’s not.” The last thing I wanted was for her to think of me like her father. “I apologize.”
“It’s fine.”
“I’m still sorry.”
She gave me a small smile. “Do you want to know something strange? I think I needed it. I don’t want to ever be hit again, but I went for so long with someone else telling me exactly where to go and what to do, when those shackles came off, I went too far.
When I was at the Warrior clubhouse, I did everything I wasn’t supposed to do. ”
I held my breath, waiting for more. I didn’t want to think about what she’d done there. Who she’d done it with. Mental images of a motorcycle club’s wild parties were not something I wanted tied to Scarlett. But I stayed quiet. If she wanted—if she needed—to talk it through, I’d listen.
“I’m not proud of it,” she said, shaking her head. “I partied. Hard. I drank too much. There were nights when I’d black out and wake up having no clue what I’d done the night before. It’s humiliating.”
“It’s normal. The first few months of my freshman year in college were a blur.” I’d spent my own drunken nights trying to drown the grief from my mother’s death, until Dad had gotten my first round of grades and smacked me upside the head.
“I stopped. I made myself stop. It took me too long to get out of there but when I left, I was done. With Jeremiah and all the rest. When I pulled up to Presley’s house, my God, I was so relieved. I thought to myself, This is it. Day one of a new life. And then it fell apart too.”
My heart clenched at the pain in her voice. The lost hope.
“The day you found me at the store, I was lost. I walked all those blocks in the snow, knowing I had nowhere to go, but I was too mad to stop. I knew what I was doing was reckless, but I just . . . I didn’t care.
Every emotion was scratching at the surface, and then you showed up and I needed to fight with you.
I needed to let some of it out. And I needed you to put me in my place.
I was spiraling and you made it stop. You were steady. ”
The air was sucked from my lungs. Scarlett stared at me with so much gratitude and so much regret, it broke my heart.
She was the girl who’d followed the rules and still hadn’t won.
Then she’d rebelled, fighting to make her own way, just to be slammed down again.
She stared at me like I was the hero. But I’d bet every possession in this house that even if I hadn’t shown up at the store that day, Scarlett would have been fine.
She was a survivor.
Before I could think of what to say, to tell her that I admired her strength, she stood from the chair, taking her bowl to the sink and signaling the conversation was over.
I stood and followed.
“Dinner was great,” I said.
She scoffed. “Not my best.”
“I liked it. Thank you.” I set my bowl on the counter. “You don’t have to cook for me.”
“Actually, I like it.” She shrugged. “My mom always cooked. Every meal. She’d pack a lunch for Dad and Presley and me. After Pres left, Mom was . . . she wasn’t able to cook for a while.”
Because her father had probably beat the shit out of her.
“I took over for her and really enjoyed it. Cooking is kind of a connection to her.”
“You said you haven’t spoken to her.”
Scarlett nodded. “She doesn’t even have my phone number. She thought it would be better that way.”
It probably was for the best. Scarlett didn’t need me to tell her that what had happened in her childhood was fucked up. But she did need some time to come to terms with it. To decide where to go next without the influence of guilt where her mother was concerned.
“Here.” I stepped close, nudging her out of the way. Dragging in the faint scent of orange—or what is grapefruit?—that clung to her hair. “I’ll do the dishes.”
“Okay.” She backed away, then retreated to the living room. Except she didn’t take her seat. She picked up the remote, shut off the television and disappeared to her room.
Damn. My time with Scarlett was over for the day. She hadn’t even opened her boxes.
And I hadn’t given her my gift.
I finished in the kitchen and went to the garage, flipping on the lights.
There were three stalls. The far one had my aluminum boat. The raft that I took on river floats used to take up the middle, but since it was at the rental house, I parked my truck there instead, giving me more space.
Plastic tubs were stacked against the wall. A tool chest on wheels sat in the corner. A stack of cardboard boxes was overdue for the recycling bin. By tomorrow evening, Scarlett would have moved anything she could lift.
The woman was turning my world inside out. And I really didn’t mind.
I collected the small box from the passenger seat in my truck and brought it inside, taking it straight to her room and knocking.
The bed rustled before she opened the door. “Hey.”
“Here.” I handed her the box.
“What is it?”
“A sound machine. I had to stop by the hardware store today. They had these on a display. You said you wanted to fall asleep to the sound of ocean waves and it’s supposed to have a setting.”
Scarlett’s lips parted as she stared at the box.
“You don’t have to hide in here,” I said.
“I, um . . . didn’t want to impose.”
“Let’s watch something. Together. Unless you’re sick of TV.”
She shook her head. “I haven’t been watching it much this week.”
“Too busy moving my shit around.”
“It—”
I pressed a finger to her lips. “—flows, right?”
She gave me the slightest of nods before her blue gaze dropped, slow and heavy, down my face to my lips.
The air around us crackled. The temperature spiked. The heat from her lips seared my finger but I couldn’t pull my finger away. A jolt raced up my arm and I was about to replace my finger with my mouth when Scarlett gulped and stepped away.
Fuck. Me. I took a step away, letting my hand fall to my side and shaking the electricity out of my fingertip.
Scarlett’s cheeks flushed as she raised the box between us. “Thank you for this.”
“You’re welcome.” I jerked my chin toward the living room. “I’m going to watch something. You’re welcome to join me.”
“I think I’m going to turn in.” The corner of her mouth turned up. “Good night, Luke.”
“Good night, Scarlett.”
The click of her door followed me down the hallway. I reached the center of the living room and stopped, replaying the last minute. Luke, you fucking idiot.
Either I’d made Scarlett uncomfortable. Or she’d felt that jolt too.
Maybe we’d been dancing around it all week, but there was chemistry here. A whole lot of complicated chemistry.
She was under my protection. Her ex had just killed himself. And I’d dated her sister.
Complicated was too tame a word.
Maybe it was strange that I’d dated her twin, but it didn’t feel that way. They might have similar—identical—features, but they were different women.
When I looked at Scarlett, I didn’t see Presley. Scarlett’s beauty, her personality, was unique to her alone.
Her nose was straight and regal. Her top lip had this slight dip in the center, and the bottom lip had the perfect pout. Her hair hung in long, golden, shiny panels I ached to slide between my fingers. And those eyes. Scarlett could undo me with those blue eyes.
She had delicate and soft features. But knowing she was the furthest thing from fragile made her all the more appealing.
I cast my glance to her closed door. It didn’t matter how beautiful she was, inside and out.
Scarlett was forbidden.
I shut off the lights and went upstairs, putting my floor and her ceiling between us. Trying something with Scarlett while she was here would be a mistake.
And damn it, if I couldn’t do the right thing, who would?