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“Right.” She bit her lip. “My name is Peyton. I’m friends with Nolan—until earlier today we attended the same college. I, um, suddenly find myself in a fucking heap of trouble. Nolan mentioned that you were a military badass back in the day and that you have connections, so I thought that maybe you could…offer some assistance?”
Despite everything she said, my mind focused on one thing only. “You know Nolan?” I loved my kid dearly, but he was a bit of an introvert and always studying, and the fact that he knew a woman like her was shocking, to be honest.
“Yep,” she said, her blue gaze darting all around the porch and over her shoulder. “We’re…friends.”
“That sounds like a lie.” I lowered my gun to my side. “You want my help? Tell me the truth. All of it.” My chest heaved as I took in the stunner without the obstacle of my gun or anything else.
“Nolan and I dated for a little bit, but it didn’t work out. We’re better as friends, which we have been ever since.” She startled at the sound of a car in the distance, peeking over her left shoulder and then her right with wide, paranoid eyes. “That’s it. That’s the truth. But some shit went down tonight, and you are who I thought of, or at least what Nolan told me anyway.” Her gaze was terrified and insistent at once.
“What’s going on?”
The gorgeous redhead looked around once again before she leveled me with her deep blue gaze. “I’m kind of freaked out and I feel really exposed, so please invite me in, or tell me to fuck off so I can go hide in my car.”
She was spunky, I’d give her that much. But she looked scared as fuck, so I stepped back and waved her inside, keeping my distance because a man could never be too fucking careful. She was too tempting, too hot, and that splash of vulnerability was irresistible. “You’ve been drinking.” It wasn’t a question so much as a statement of fact.
She laughed bitterly. “No shit. I graduated today and I was out celebrating with my friends, including Nolan. I came home afterwards and found my apartment covered in blood and my roommate with her throat slit in the living room. Blood was everywhere, it was all over the apartment, and I stepped in it. I mean, it was every-fucking-where and the smell?” She gagged, and I found a trash can for her to puke in.
“Here, use this.”
She nodded and doubled over, emptying her guts—which smelled mostly of booze—into the plastic lined bin. “Oh fuck, I’m sorry. Shit. It’s just thinking about Chloe,” she began, and puked again. “Shit. Thank you, Mr. Lombardi.”
Nothing in the whole goddamn world could make me feel older. “Rocky. Call me Rocky, Peyton.”
She nodded, still doubled over the trash can, though it appeared she had nothing else to give. I rubbed soothing circles in her back before she looked up with a half-smile. “Thanks, Rocky.”
That smile. That moment. It was when I knew I should have pulled back and sent her on her way, because my fingertips pulsed with electricity and her silky soft skin sent a ripple of heat through my body. I jerked my hand back and then settled it on her once again, determined that she wouldn’t have an effect on me. But it was still there, the buzz, the heady lightness that I couldn’t quite name. “You’re all right,” I said in a low, soothing tone.
“I’m really not,” she said on a body-wracking sob. “She was murdered inside our apartment, brutally, and that’s awful enough, horrible in its own fucking right. But now some fuck-face detective is trying to imply I had something to do with it.”
“Do you?”
Her lips curled defiantly, and she put the trash can down with an annoyed thump. “No. I didn’t like her, but we tolerated each other for the sake of cheap-ish rent. It wasn’t all that serious, but cops are cops, ya know?”
More than she realized. “You ask for a lawyer?”
“No,” she sighed, her shoulders slumping, and I directed us across the room towards some seats. “I don’t have lawyer money, but I refused to let that prick bully me. I answered the questions until I didn’t, but that’s not why I’m here.” Her gaze fixed on my face again, serious and inquiring.
My brows furrowed but I nodded. “Okay. Why are you here?” I motioned for her to take a seat at the informal dining room table, and I took the seat at the head of the table, directly to her right.
“I was leaving to go to my best friend’s house when I got a message that was fucking unsettling.”
I bit back a smile at her blunt assessment. “Can I see the message?”
Peyton shoved the phone at me without looking at the screen, as if the message itself could hurt her.
The message was a clear threat. I shot off a quick text to Diesel and Slate to see if they could figure anything out. “Any idea who would send a message like that to you?”
She shook her head. “No. Honestly, I have no fucking clue. I work and go to class and hang out with my best friend. I don’t have lots of men or lots of friends, so what in the actual fuck is that about?”
She was getting riled up, panicked and angry, and I needed her to calm down. I placed one hand on each shoulder and squeezed. “Peyton. Calm down.”
She sucked in an outraged breath and glared at me. “Don’t tell me to calm down, not when I’ve had the night from fucking hell.”
A snort escaped me. “Okay, fair.” I stood and went to the bar, which was just my kitchen counter, and poured us both two generous fingers of Maker’s Mark.
“Still, calm the fuck down, sweetheart. You’re not helping yourself if you spiral.” I pressed the glass into her hand and waited until she finished the glass. “Good girl.”
She sighed and checked her shaking hands with a half-smile. “Thanks. That helped.”
