Chapter 2
Hayes
Someone is pranking me—laughing at my expense. That’s my only explanation for the ache in my nose and the little she-devil in the back of my car.
There’s one thing this town is good at—gossip. I’ve learned if you keep your ear to the ground and sit back and listen, people reveal more than they want you to know, but I knew nothing of this. Not one person let it slip that MJ was coming back home. Which begs the question—why? Why didn’t I hear about this?
Whatever the answer, I’m blaming my broken nose—and the predicament I’m in now—solely on the shoulders of this town. They let me down.
The problem is that the pain in my nose tickles compared to the shock of looking into those ice-blue eyes again and remembering every ounce of pain in them six years ago. Those eyes have been the star of my nightmares since the day she left.
We were broken then—still are, seeing as she’s sitting in the back of my cruiser after breaking my nose.
Chancing a glance in my rearview mirror, I find her staring out the window. Her brows are pulled together, and there’s a pout on her lips. There’s a pinch under my ribs, and I pull my eyes back to the road.
She hasn’t changed—still the same spitfire with brilliant red hair and a spark in her eyes that threatens to melt the iciness of their color.
I shouldn’t have made the bet. I should have uncuffed her, finished changing the tire, and sent her on her way, but that would have been contrary to who we’ve always been to one another.
We are jagged pieces of broken glass, digging deeper into the wounds we’ve created. My reaction was not something I could control—not with her.
It’s been six years since we’ve talked. We are strangers now. She made sure of that, but even now, sparks ignite in the air when I look up again and find her staring back at me.
She glares at me—declaring war with just one look. Gray eyes against blue—fighting for the victory of dominance. My heartbeat picks up—maybe I’m having a heart attack.
The silence thrums around us. I should get back to the station—put us both out of our misery, but the throbbing in my nose is causing my brain to short-circuit.
The cruiser begins to slow when I lift my foot off the pedal.
She’s giving me a heart attack, so it won’t hurt her to sweat a little bit.
“Why are we slowing down, Hayes?”
“Speed-limit change,” I say, lifting one finger off the wheel and pointing ahead.
“Yeah—to forty-five. We are going fifteen miles per hour. What are you playing at?”
There’s irritation in her voice, and a sadistic part of me likes it. If I were a betting man, I’d gamble it all on the chance that if I were to turn around, MJ’s face would be flushed from trying to keep that temper of hers reigned in, her teeth digging into the plushness of her bottom lip.
In five, four, three, two—nope, can’t do it. My knuckles tighten on the steering wheel as I stare straight ahead. One glimpse of her like that will bring me to my knees, and I can’t afford that—not with her.
I slow the car a little more, torturing her by ignoring her question and myself with the idea of how beautiful she looks.
I’m propelling this situation further into the abyss—driving it right off a cliff, but it’s like watching a car crash. I can see it coming, but I’m powerless to stop it.
A car passes me on my left, and I recognize Mrs. Jones, the town’s biggest busybody.
And now—that metaphorical car is on fire.
The news that I have MJ in the back of my cruiser will be all over town in a matter of seconds. Someone needs to take social media from the elderly women in our town. They are menaces to our society.
Choosing to embrace the chaos, I flip on the radio and whistle along.
MJ takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. Under her breath, I hear her start to count. “One. Two. Three. Four.”
I know better than to ask. The thing to do is to ignore her—she’s goading me, but when she reaches fifty, my curiosity wins.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Counting the ways I can strangle you,” she says blankly.
I flick her a smile through the mirror and slow the car to the point that snails are probably passing us.
“MJ,” I say. “It’s such a beautiful day. The sun is bright—and listen, do you hear the birds chirping? People never slow down and enjoy the moment. I think this is one I should enjoy.”
My smile turns sinister. Heat floods her cheeks, matching the color of her auburn hair. A sneer tips up one side of her lips and wrinkles her nose. There’s fire in the icy blue of her eyes, but the thing with MJ is, I’ve always willingly thrown myself into the fire—letting the flames burn out the guilt of bad decisions.
As I drive to the police station, I realize I’m still a glutton for punishment, falling into the same traps that led to heartbreak for both of us.
“Hayes, just get to the station so you can start apologizing.”
______________________
Fifteen minutes later, we are pulling into the station, and if looks could kill, I would have been dead ten minutes ago.
It’s a five-minute drive from where MJ’s car sits on the side of the road to the station—pretty much anywhere you want to go in town is a five-minute drive. It took some effort to stretch out the drive. I had to take every back road in the county. Dust covers every square inch of my squad car now, but the way heat flames into MJ’s cheeks is sweet, sweet payback for my nose.
Pulling into a parking spot, I leave the engine running as I swivel to get a better look at MJ.
Daggers fly from her eyes, but I throw on a casual smile, not letting her see how much she gets to me. “One last chance to back out. You’re going to lose this bet. You might as well give up now.”
Her eyes narrow, and I know that her stubbornness won’t let her back out—not now, at least.
“You’ve got a little blood there on your nose, Hayes,” she says, wiggling her nose. The glimmer in her eye is pure trouble. “Maybe you should worry about the fact that you have to tell people that you were beaten up by a girl instead of worrying about me.”
I know she’s lying because the bleeding stopped before I put her in the car, but I swipe under my nose out of paranoia anyway. The girl knows how to get under my skin—a skill she likely gleaned from her momma.
My smile stays frozen, but my brows narrow as I glare at her—a look that makes most criminals cower, but MJ merely laughs. It’s light and airy and does something to my chest that I refuse to analyze. Instead, I jump out of the car to avoid it, taking my time as I walk to the passenger side to open the door.
Pulling on the handle, I lean down to help MJ out of the car, crowding her.
“Okay, Princess. Time for you to lose a bet.”
She’s wearing a sports tank top, so my hand slides against the bare skin of her arm as I guide her out of the car, and for a millisecond, it’s all I can concentrate on—the roughness of my hand against the smoothness of her arm. My thumb glides against the outside of her arm—an involuntary motion—and her breath hitches.
The noise stirs something in me that’s been dead for six years, but it has to stay that way. So I crush it down, refusing to let it see the light of day.
Once she’s standing, I let go of her arm and step back, needing to put space between us.
“Oh, Hayes,” she says, batting her eyelashes. “I bet you sweet talk all the ladies. Tell me, are they all handcuffed, so they have to talk to you?”
Irritation flits through my veins, causing a slight disruption to the blood flow into my brain because, before I can stop myself, I say, “No, MJ, some girls like to stick around. They don’t run at the first sign of trouble.”
I regret the dig as soon as it’s out of my mouth—even more so when a mask slams down over her features. She turns her back to me, blocking me out.
“Listen, I’m sorry—”
She cuts me off, “Come on. Let’s get inside so you can take these handcuffs off me already.”
Looking down, I wince when I see the red marks on her wrists where she’s fidgeted in the cuffs.
I could claim that my actions when she hit me were a reaction to the situation—a response to my training—but I would be lying. It was a reaction to her.
That hit scrambled my brain. I’m slightly proud and a little more terrified of her now.
Letting my hand hover over the small of her back and careful not to touch her again, I guide her to the steps of the precinct. The building is older than I am, but the brick steps and ivy growing up the sides ironically make it one of the most charming buildings in town.
Once we reach the top of the steps, I step in front of her and hold the door open, waving her inside. She studiously ignores me as she steps through the door into the coolness of the air conditioner.
Five people are standing at the front desk, mouths agape as they stare at us. One face stands out amongst the crowd, and he’s the only one not staring at us in shock.
Campbell Richards was the only other friend I had in high school outside of Langston.
Wearing a smug grin and mirth lighting up his eyes, he tilts his head slightly towards MJ as if I don’t see her standing right there. When I roll my eyes, he bounces his eyebrows and points at his nose—asking for the story behind the bruise that is quickly seeping into my eyes, but I pretend to be obtuse, shrugging my shoulders in response.
Campbell is about to make some other obscene gesture, but I glare at him, shutting down his antics before MJ catches on.
I’m resigned to the fact that it won’t be the last I hear about it, though.
Turning my back on the five faces whose stares have not left us since we walked in, I guide MJ to my desk.
“You can sit here while I make that phone call. Before I do, let me get those handcuffs off.”
She turns around, and I make quick work of them, careful not to touch her. She rubs her wrists as soon as they are off, and guilt floods my chest.
“MJ, I’m—”
Throwing me a look that could freeze beer, she says, “Stop calling me that.”
I let a lazy smile slip onto my lips, even though inside, it’s like she’s taken a knife to my chest.
“Not going to happen, Sweetheart,” I say, chucking my knuckle under her chin. The zap of electricity that shoots down my hand is pure torture.
She jerks her chin so my fingers are suspended in front of her.
“Just make the call,” she snaps.
She’s right. It’s time to end this—to stop extending this brand of torture. Pulling out the chair from behind my desk, I sit and pick up the phone. It rings once, and then there’s a voice on the other side.
“Abigail? This is Hayes down at the station. I have MJ here—”