Chapter 21
ELLA
The sound of her acrylic nails tapping on the granite kitchen island is about to drive me to the brink of utter insanity. How the universe thinks the two of us fit together like mother and daughter is beyond me.
“How could you embarrass me like that, Ella? You made me seem like a complete imbecile. A mother who doesn’t even know her own child.”
Well, you don’t know me. What do you expect me to say?
“And then to tell a lie on top of it all,” she continues.
“It’s not a lie. I do have a boyfriend, Mom.” I stuff my laptop in my backpack and zip it.
“How can you have a boyfriend? You always said you were too busy to date.”
“No, I said I was too busy to date the boys you tried to fix me up with. Including Hudson.”
She fans herself with her hand and straightens a pillow on the couch. “I just don’t know what’s gotten into you lately. What will your father say? We don’t even know this boy, where he’s from, his pedigree…”
Well, his detailed pedigree may be found at the county jail, depending on the day you look.
“He’s good to me. Really good. Isn’t that what’s important?” I fling my backpack over my shoulder and grab my purse. “Mom, I’m heading out.”
“Where are you off to now?”
“I’m going to see Detective Marcum. I’m going to check on things.”
And then, she remembers she has a daughter who’s missing. She wipes at her eyes and sniffles. “Oh, my sweet Caroline. I’ve been praying for her so hard as of late. I just feel her presence reaching out to me.” Straightening the diamond tennis bracelet on her wrist, she nods in my direction before walking down the hall. “Be careful, my darling. I don’t know what I would do if something happened to you too.”
I do. Collect the insurance money and take a relaxing trip to Fiji.
***
After covering every square inch of Colson’s desk in yellow sticky notes, I plop down in front of Marcum, flinging my feet up on the chair next to me.
Detective Leary groans, cursing under his breath. “Son of a bitch, why does this copy machine mess up every single thing I copy.” Grabbing a large stack of papers, he stalks out of the room.
As he’s passing me, I smile up at him. “Ever heard of user error?”
He smirks, flicking me on the earlobe.
Marcum studies the yellow blob that is now Colson’s desk. “You know he’s gonna blame me for this? Say I have no control over you.”
“I am quite the unruly girl.” I hold out my hands, awaiting the stack of evidence pictures.
They seem different now. Every image holds a different meaning. Deeper. Hidden. I’m trying to piece together Carrie’s secret life. Secrets she kept from me. Secrets I should have known.
Marcum leans back in his chair and flicks his ink pen against his chin. “You seem different. What’s up with you lately?”
“Nothing. What are you talking about?”
He shrugs, being nonchalant. He’s playing detective with me now. Waiting on me to make the first move.
I’m learning more from him than I am the crime shows I keep watching.
I then realize something. If Carrie kept her pills in the tin mint container—like Catie—why wasn’t one in her purse. It wasn’t in the evidence log, and it wasn’t in the purse itself. Not in the car, either.
Someone must’ve taken it.
A random junkie? Trash? Trey? The supplier?
The person who took my sister?
***
I snuggle deeper in the blanket, mesmerized by the show on my laptop. Ry’s been working tonight, engrossed in the homework on his own laptop. The firepit crackles, drawing his attention. Stoking the fire, he stands and stretches his arms high above his head. The hem of his long-sleeve black T-shirt rides up, giving me a small glimpse of his boxer briefs. He touches something on the left side of his chest, studying his T-shirt. Grabbing a lantern, he walks away, toward his truck. “I’ll be right back.”
I sit up and watch. What’s he doing? He just got us fresh drinks a little bit ago. I follow him, carefully watching my step in the dark. Quietly, I tiptoe across the dead leaves and crunchy gravel. Ry’s standing in the open doorway of his truck, pulling a fresh T-shirt out of one of his duffle bags. Grabbing his collar, he yanks his shirt over his head, gifting me the sight of his bare back. A large lump forms in the back of my throat. His broad shoulders look even better than I imagined. Every small movement has the firm lines of his lower back flexing, begging to be touched.
And then he spins around.
He freezes when he sees me. He stands there, watching me watch him.
Desire floods my heart, flows into my stomach, and sinks down into my groin. Tingles build between my legs, and I rub my thighs together, begging the tension to release. These feelings. I want these feelings more and more, every day. Touching myself, thinking of Ry. I haven’t been able to bring myself to orgasm yet, but I want to. I want to, so badly. And trust me, I’ve been trying—a lot.
The muscles of his waist taper into a V, riding low beneath the waistband of his jeans. A six pack of abs ripple across his midsection. His pectorals jump under the perusal of my eyes, bringing a peak to his brown nipples.
But something else catches my attention. A small crease of blood on his upper left chest.
Worry replaces lust, and I race to him. “Ry, you’re hurt.”
I tenderly reach out, touching the skin around the two-inch long cut. Immediately, his skin breaks out in goose bumps and breath hisses between his teeth. He does the same thing when I slide my hands underneath his shirt when we’re making out. Feeling his body is one thing. And seeing it is something completely different. Combine the two into one, and my mind can’t even form the words to describe the level of perfection.
The cut is long, but not deep. More of a scrape than anything else. “What happened?”
“Bent over the hood of an old car today. It scratched me. It’s nothing. I was just changing because my shirt had some blood on it.”
Without thinking, my fingertips circle around his chest. You’d think I’d never seen a guy’s chest before. Not like this I haven’t. Never a guy like this. Never a guy this handsome. Never a guy I call my own. I graze his right nipple, and his hand clamps down on my wrist.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
His grip prevents me from rubbing my hand down his rippling abs like I want to, but it doesn’t prevent me from flattening my palm against his chest and feeling his thundering heartbeat. It must match my own. He bends closer to me, sliding his hand up the side of my hip.
I moan. I need him to kiss me. So, I moan.
In one microsecond, he releases my hand, grabs my butt, and lifts me up into his arms. Obviously, I’ve never been carried by a guy before, but I instinctively wrap my legs around his waist and smash my lips to his. Kicking the truck door closed with his foot, he maneuvers to the back, lowering the tailgate with one hand. The back of the truck has quickly become one of our favorite kissing spots in the past few weeks. I sit on the tailgate, and he stands in front of me between my legs. This time is no different.
Except this time Ry doesn’t have his shirt on.
And I’m running my hands over every square inch of naked real estate he’s given me.
His hands tangle in my hair, pulling my neck back, showering me in kisses and licks and nibbles.
And… something else is different this time.
Ry’s hands are always on my face, on my back, in my hair, or on my thighs above my knees. Occasionally, he’ll rub my hips, caressing the curve of my body around to my ass. But tonight, his left hand leaves my face, traces my collarbone, and falls to my right breast.
Oh. My. Gosh.
He gently rubs his hand over my fleshy mound. My nipple strains against the fabric of my bra and shirt, becoming painfully tender and swollen. Eventually, his light strokes become soft massages as he explores me, explores both of my breasts. Learning my size, my heaviness. Learning the touches and caresses that make me arch my back and moan even more.
The hard ridge of his erection rubs against the inside of my thigh, and I think that may be the sexiest thing I’ve ever felt in my entire life. Ry always has an erection when we’re kissing, and it always drives me crazy.
Pushing him back, I grab the hem of my shirt, wanting—needing—it off my body. Needing to feel his skin on my skin. But Ry pulls away, gently wrapping his fingers over mine and pulling my shirt back down.
As always, we find ourselves panting and grunting, racing to catch our breath. I stare into his eyes. I see the same desire I have. The same want. The same need. “Why did you stop me?”
“There’s no rush, Lulu. We have time. Time to take it slow.”
Swallowing, I nod. It’s not the first time that’s happened. It happened once when I tried to take his shirt off, and it happened once when I pulled his hands up to my ass, wanting him to grab me, to touch me.
I can’t help but think it has something to do with my age.
Well, he better prepare himself. Because two days from now, that’ll be a moot point. He’ll need another excuse.