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There are so many unanswered questions and all I can do is gun the gas to get answers.
My gut twists as I pull into the lot of the Lights Out motel, feeling the familiar beat of battle. I retrieve my Glock from the glove box and shove the gun into my hip harness while doing a quick assessment of the motel. Gravel parking lot right off the highway. An L-shaped strip of rooms that open to the outside. A gaudy pink neon sign above the office blinks out a VACANCY refrain.
A few feet away, the curtains of a darkened motel room flutter, and then the door opens.
My palms go slick on the steering wheel.
Dakota.
She stands under the eave of the motel, head down, arms wrapped around herself and the oversized hoodie she wears.
Waiting for me.
Heart pounding, I grab the first aid kit and hop out of the truck. My boots stomp gravel. I head toward her like I’m being pulled. Instinct. A primal, powerful urge I’ve only allowed myself to feel for one woman.
In three long strides, I’m in front of her. “Dakota?”
Without hesitation, she walks right into my arms. “You came,” she says, sighing into my chest.
“You called.” I exhale, tension leaving my body as I wrap my arms around her.
Another sigh and she’s melting into me. Something hard knocks me in the ribs as her hands of velvet wind their way up my jacket and hook under my arms. Delicate, skilled hands. Hands that played pinball with expert precision that entire summer, and hands that changed my bandages when I was too damn stubborn to do it himself. Hands that palmed my broad chest as she rode me like a fucking mustang.
Her scent aggravates my senses. Milk and honey, like freshly baked bread. Unable to help it, I tuck her face against my collarbone. Her face fits perfectly between my jaw and chin.
It takes everything out of me to release her, but I need to see her. Gripping her gently by the arms, I pull back.
The second she tilts her gorgeous face up to mine; I forget everything I’ve been trained to do. Keep calm. Stay steady.
In the fluorescent light of the motel, I see a bruised cheekbone. Black eye. A busted lip.
Rage courses through me, swift, blinding. “Who did this, Dakota?” I demand, fighting to keep my voice controlled even as my breath comes out in ragged pants. “Who. The fuck. Did this?”
Her eyes flutter closed. “Davis, don’t—”
“Cupcake, I’m gonna need you to shut that pretty mouth and let me hold you.” It’s instinct to call her by her nickname. To tuck that hair behind her ear and pull her into my arms to calm my racing heart.
“Cupcake,” she breathes, clinging to me like I’m her lifeline, when all this time she’s been mine. Her voice turns watery. “I haven’t heard that in so long.”
As I hold her, trembling in my arms, I calculate it. Drive Dakota back to Resurrection. Get in my truck and find the motherfucker that did this. Kick in his door. Rip out his fucking throat.
That’s when the same hard something hits me in the ribs again.
I glance down to see a light-yellow cast poking out of the sleeve of her black sweatshirt. “Your arm.”
Her eyes drop. “It’s a clean break.”
A clean break. There’s so much wrong with that sentence I don’t even know where to start.
With a soft nudge, I steer her toward the room, not wanting her out in the open until I find out what the hell’s going on. “Let’s go inside.”
The room’s threadbare, the kind of room I’d expect in a cheap motel. Drab, dim, pea-green walls, floral bedspread. On a corner chair is a small backpack like the kind we’d carry on overnight missions. I’d recognize a bug-out bag anywhere.
What. The. Fuck.
After locking the door, I turn on the light. As I shut the curtains, Dakota sits on the edge of the bed. She looks small and fragile. Soft and recently showered.
I set my gun on the nightstand. Her eyes fall on it, but she says nothing.
