Chapter 15 Night Out #3
“I think you probably should,” BJ said dryly, before turning his attention back to me. “Are you sure you don’t want me to walk you out?”
“I’m more than sure. See you later.” I waved and walked off, stepping out into the dark.
*
The dim glow of the streetlights fanned out, casting deep shadows in the hollow alleyways between the buildings.
The breeze hit like a cold slap, biting through the fabric of my top.
I shivered, rubbing my arms. I should have brought a jacket.
I’d felt reasonably sober inside, although in retrospect my bold move with Ethan was undoubtedly boosted by alcohol.
There was no way I would’ve done it stone-cold sober.
I began to feel lightheaded, and my vision wasn’t quite focused.
Maybe the rounds Karson had sent over were full-strength, not half?
As I neared my car, I looked down at the paver lines.
If I could follow them in a straight line, I’d be alright to drive.
It was what the cops did to test people, so I deduced it was a reasonable thing for me to do.
I looked to make sure no one was watching—the streets were empty.
I held my arms out to the side and concentrated like I was walking a beam in the gym.
My legs landed along the lines as they should for the first two steps.
I smiled; I was fine. The third step, however, landed to the right side of the line.
I cursed and tried again, with the same result.
It would have to be a cab home tonight. There was a rank outside the local supermarket a few blocks away.
“You are not driving.” A deep voice laced with annoyance jolted through my back.
I gasped, jumping and whirling back. My foot landed awkwardly and I lost my balance, so I took a couple of quick steps to steady myself as I noticed who the voice belonged to—Karson. I didn’t hear him walk up behind me. He moved like a ghost.
Irritation replaced the fear. “I’m fine to drive.”
His gaze drilled into me like a hot brand, making me want to shrink. “You are not fine to drive.”
I lifted my chin. “I think I’ll be the judge of that.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I’ll call Matt then, shall I? I assume you know who Matt is?”
Matt would come and it would be an embarrassing few minutes of trying to prove I could walk in a straight line. He had me beat, and I hated being beaten. “Fine, I’ll grab a cab,” I said huffily, striding off toward the rank.
His steps fell in line with mine. “Amelia, stop. I will give you a lift home.” The only other person who’d ever called me Amelia was my mother.
The way he curled his tongue around my name with his hint of an accent was music to my ears.
Like the tune of a song I wanted to hear again.
Could I be any more pathetic? I must be drunk.
“I’m fine to catch a cab.”
“You could walk all the way to the cab rank only to find no cabs there for at least another hour or so. We only have two that run here on a Saturday night. No doubt they’re busy, and it’s cold tonight.”
As if he’d conjured up his own wind, a strong, chilly gust hit. Brittle leaves flurried in circles across the road. I shivered as the cold ripped through to my bones, hugging my arms in tight around my waist. I was not used to this kind of chill. At least not in the middle of summer.
“Let me drive you home. I do not bite.” There was a twinkle in his eye that suggested he might like to, making something tingle right through my body.
I strained toward the taxi rank, hoping to see the familiar glow of the little sign that sat on top of the car. The rank was empty. I could sit in the blustery cold for over an hour, or I could accept the ride. Freezing to death wouldn’t be a pleasant way to die.
“Fine, I would appreciate that. Thank you,” I conceded, somewhat sullen.
He smiled. No flashing of teeth, just a gentle tug, but he had the kind of smile that lit up the dark. The kind of smile that made you want to smile in return, but I didn’t.
“This way.” He turned us back toward the bar.
I peeked up at him from under my lashes as we walked.
He was tall, maybe six-foot-five or six, I guessed.
He had a strong, angular face. His nose was straight and in proportion.
His brows were low and thick, but not too low, not too thick.
Lush, dark hair tousled forward onto his forehead.
His face was perfection. He was a walking temple of testosterone.
My ovaries fluttered, my eggs rushed out of the gates ready to party, and screamed, “Pick me, pick me!” like teenagers at a Bieber concert.
“How are you finding Church Heights, Amelia?” he asked, and his voice was like chocolate for my ears. But not ordinary chocolate—the rare, exquisite, “need to eat the whole block at once” kind of chocolate.
“It’s nice. I love the mountains.”
“What brings you here? Why does a young woman come alone all the way to Church Heights?” His gaze probed my face.
“I just needed a change,” I said, conscious of the weight of his gaze.
“A change from what?”
I searched for the right words as we turned left up a long alley.
The floor was made of uneven cobblestone paving, commonplace in most old cities I’d seen in Europe, and as old as the buildings which surrounded it.
The alley abounded with shadows. Only one solitary lamp threw its orange glow in silent defiance to the ground, and the darkness surrounded it like a pack of wolves.
My body stiffened, and my heart skipped a beat and then took off. I slowed my pace.
Karson stopped. He tilted his head, his brow furrowed. “We can take the long way if you like and go around the block?”
“No, it’s fine, I just need my eyes to adjust to the darkness.”
He let out an audible breath as if he was relieved. “Of course.”
Guilt tugged in my stomach. He had probably heard about the town gossip. Being accused of murder would be an awful burden to carry.
“May I?” He held out his arm for me to link mine through. It was an old-fashioned gentlemanly behavior, and I found it oddly charming.
As soon as my arm hooked his, it was as if someone had placed an electrical current between us. It tingled up my arm and shot down into my stomach, and lower.
Jesus, Amy, really?!
I swear I felt him jolt, but when I snuck a peek up at him, his face was blank.
He pulled his arm from mine as we reached a garage door.
“My car is in here.” With the click of a button, the door shuddered, murmuring as it wound its way up.
I hovered at the entry. A black Mercedes-Benz gleamed against the darkness of the room.
It struck me then I was about to climb into a car with a man who might be a killer, and no one had any idea I was with him.
Karson opened the car door and looked at me expectantly as light spilled across the garage.
It was stupid, really stupid to trust someone I barely knew.
I gulped down air and forced my legs to move, trying not to stare at the darkest corners, sliding onto a black leather seat.
Karson clicked the door shut behind me. It had that new-car smell.
The scent of leather and something sweeter, a hint of honey and musk and something fresh like a forest after a spring rain.
The scent of Karson. I took a deep breath in.
The car was the most luxurious vehicle I’d ever been in.
I think it was safe to assume he most definitely wasn’t poor.
He glided into the driver’s seat. The engine purred as we drove out of the garage, into the alley, and left onto the street behind. Towards the direction of home.
“How do you know where I live?” I asked, perplexed.
“Shelley, and you did not answer my question. Who do you need a change from?” he persisted.
“It’s no one important.” I hoped my blunt answer would give him the hint that I didn’t want to talk about it. It didn’t.
“To bring you all the way up here, it’s important,” he pushed. “Who are you running from?”
He was looking intently at me, with his perfect face and compelling eyes, and it was clear he expected an answer.
He seemed as if he was the type of man who was used to getting exactly what he wanted, when he wanted it.
I swallowed, unsure how to explain why, like a crazy person, I’d driven for six days and ended up in the middle of nowhere.
I thought briefly about lying, but I was a bad liar and knew he’d see straight through me.
I turned my head to look at the road. “What makes you think I’m running from anything?”
“When I first saw you in the bar, you looked like a wounded butterfly. Delicate, beautiful, and broken.”
He thinks I’m beautiful. For a fleeting moment the word warmed something inside, slipping around the jagged frozen edges of my heart. It was quickly smothered by the last word—broken.
I stifled a groan. Was my pain really that obvious? No wonder Shelley didn’t want to hire me.
“My boyfriend,” I answered.
“Did he hurt you?” he growled out, his voice like gravel and fire. The air thickened with threat.
“No, not like that. Not physically anyway,” I rushed to explain, not wanting him to get the wrong idea about Tom. Despite everything, a part of me still wanted to defend him. “He was the perfect boyfriend—kind, considerate, funny. Until I found him in bed with my best friend.”
The memories struck in fragments. Kissing on the deck. Walking along the beach hand in hand, talking about the life we planned together. His soft moan and hooded eyes as he slipped inside me. My mind flipped scripts.
His lips on hers.
Her nails digging into his back.
The thrust of his hips as he fucked my best friend.
The ice cracked, and my eyes burned. I wondered if there was ever going to be a time I could think of him without feeling emotional. Perhaps when you were broken, things fell out easier—tears, light, sanity. I looked back out the side window, blinking the blur away.
“He broke your heart?”