Istand on the sidewalk of Vipers, watching the taillights of a brand new gold-flecked Mercedes, shocked and speechless. I just saw Savannah Fontane for the first time in ten years.
Savannah Fontane.
The only girl I’ve ever lied to.
The only girl I let break my heart.
The only girl I’ve ever loved.
And what did I say? “Ryan. No one calls me Ry anymore.”
Wow.The douchebags of Ravenshoe have a new leader.
The past ten years have been testing, but I still expected a better response than anger. Anger is a quick, futile reaction a lesser man gives when they can't work through their emotions. I'm not a lesser man. I've grown a lot since I last saw Savannah. I attended counseling to work through the issues my parents’ volatile relationship caused. I speak at domestic violence support groups a minimum once a month. I even donated my share of my father's inheritance to a domestic violence shelter in Hopeton.
I'm not a lesser man.
There is just something about Savannah that causes my composure to slip. Time has been kind to Savannah—very,verykind. Her dimples are more defined since her cheeks are a little rounder. The dowdy, oversized hoodie she was wearing couldn't hide the generous swell of her breasts, and even the low hang of her head couldn't conceal her alluring green irises from my avid stare. She is more gorgeous now than she’s ever been—unfortunately.
Don’t get me wrong. I’d never wish an ugly, debilitating disease on anyone, but maybe, just maybe her absence wouldn’t sting as much if one glance at her beautiful face didn’t have my cock pressing against my trouser seam.
Ten years she’s been gone, yet my body still reacts as if she owns it.
Ten, long miserable motherfucking years, and I want to forget why I’m angry at her.
Maybe I’m not mad at her? Perhaps I’m angry at myself?
If ten years can’t work her out of my system, how many more do I have left to suffer? Murderers serve less time than I have. Can’t I catch a break?
Grumbling at the fucked-up world I live in, I make my way to my patrol car parked at the back of the dimly lit parking lot. I’m so stunned by the events of my night, my steps are slow and sluggish. The beginning of my night played out exactly as I expected: Damon wants money. The last part. . . fuck, I never saw that coming.
Savannah is back.
Finally.
Out of all the places I anticipated seeing her again, I never thought it would occur at a strip club. Don’t get me wrong, Vipers has had a dramatic facelift since the days my dad disgraced it with his presence, but it is still way below the standards a woman with qualities like Savannah’s.
Perhaps that is why I was shocked into rudeness? Savannah was only a girl the last time I saw her. Now, she is a woman—one hundred percent.My cock is still throbbing against my zipper from recalling her scent. Although it was a little muskier than usual, her familiar rose aroma was in abundance.
Shaking my head at my body’s ludicrous response to her closeness, I throw open my driver’s side door and slide inside the warm cab. Just like Savannah is no longer a girl, I’m not a teen either. My body shouldnot have responded the way it did. I’m a grown man, for fuck’s sake; I don’t get raging boners at stripper establishments. I am a well-respected and dedicated member of law enforcement. I am not a teen praying to have his dick sucked. I don’t care how pillowy her lips looked with her vibrant red lipstick, I’m not interested in having Savannah Fontane suck my cock.
I sure as hell hope that sounded confident to you, as it was nothing but a string of lies to my ears.
Peeved, I jab my key into the ignition. I tell myself on repeat that Savannah and anyone associated with her are not my business. She is not my girl. She is not my worry. She is not even my friend.
Does my brain listen? No, it doesn’t.
I’m punching the Mercedes’ license plate into the dashboard of my patrol vehicle without a second thought. I’m not planning to track Savannah down. I just want to know where she’s been hiding the last few years.
The new equipment Isaac donated to the force six months ago brings up a match nearly instantaneously. The Mercedes’ owner has no prior convictions, and his registration and insurance is up to date—unfortunately.The address on his record is for a new estate on the south side of Ravenshoe—the pretty, more affluent side of town.
A whizz of air parts my nostrils. Now I know why I haven’t spotted Savannah. It’s not often I get called to those parts of town.
With my heart thudding against my chest, I hover my index finger over the address highlighted in blue. One hit, and I can see firsthand where Savannah has been “slumming it.”
It’s not stalking; it is my moral obligation to the public. If the Mercedes’ owner is a take-your-woman-to-a-strip-club type of guy, who’s to say he isn’t a menace to society? I’ll be doing the public a favor by taking a closer look at him.
Right?
