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I ran my fingers over her soft coat, finding something meditative in the motion, letting it calm my still frantic heartbeat as we left Miami behind us.
I didn’t often leave the city I called home.
Namely, of course, because I didn’t drive.
I mean, I could.
I had a driver’s license. At least, I was relatively sure it was still active. But I’d long since sold my car.
It seemed silly, when you lived in a walkable city, to pay for car insurance and maintenance. Especially when driving made you anxious as hell anyway.
Selling that car was actually what had paid for my camera that I used to take the pictures for my site.
It was the longest ride I’d taken in a car in a long time, but it felt like it passed in a blink by the time the driver was pulling up to the sidewalk.
“This is you, hon,” he said, waving toward the street.
“Oh, okay. Great,” I said, suddenly regretting getting in the cab, pointing him in this direction.
Why the hell would I have gone to Alaric’s home instead of the police station?
What had I been thinking?
I hadn’t.
That was the problem.
I’d kind of just gone with what Iwanted. Which, apparently, was Alaric. Instead of what was needed, what was smart, what a person in possible trouble actually did.
Go to the police.
Not the guy you were having steamy dreams about.
It was too late now, though.
“Keep the change,” I said after passing the driver a hundred.
“Nah, hon,” he started to object.
“No, really,” I said, starting to slide out of the backseat. “Thanks,” I called as I led Frida out, then slammed the door.
I watched the cab pull away until it was out of sight before looking down at a confused Frida.
“This was a very, very stupid mistake,” I told her, exhaling hard.
Why had I gotten out of that cab?
Instead of telling him to just drive me back, drive me to the police station?
My brain wasn’t working right. Clearly. That was the only explanation.
“Well, we’re here now,” I said, petting her head, then turning to look at the house we’d been dropped off at.
Alaric’s house was a sweet, old little bungalow with a lovely front porch, and a somewhat overgrown yard, and a mostly broken picket fence. I loved the cheery blue color the previous owners had painted it, but it was crying out for a fresh coat.
I didn’t see his motorcycle, but there was an oversized shed near the top of the driveway that could have served as storage for it.
“Well, here goes nothing, girl,” I said, taking her with me up the front path, almost knocking some loose penny bricks free as I stepped up them.
