Sure enough, the second she leaves, Amelia comes back. “Do you ladies need anything else?”
“Just the check.” I hold out Mama’s card.
“Actually…” She pauses. “Your bill’s been taken care of already.”
“Oh, wow!” I love these random acts of kindness, but they rarely ever happen to me. “That’s awesome. Can… can we take care of someone else’s bill? You know, to pay it forward.”
FOUR
ELLIS
Whenever I get too ampedup—I run.
Stressed—I run.
Angry, frustrated, scared, sad, you name it—I run.
These days, I’m all of the above, and right about now, the sound of my shoes slapping against the pavement in time with the music blaring through my earbuds is the only thing keeping me sane.
It’s been a more than a year since I walked away from the Lake Fortune Police Department. Sixty some odd weeks since I watched the life drain out of my best friend’s monster of a father. Nearly five hundred days since I lied and told my former employer that his death was a suicide.
There’s not a damn thing I’d do differently either. Hell, Rand honestly deserved far worse than he got. And yet, the events of that night fucking haunt me.
The helplessness I felt. Since then, I’m just… drifting. No direction, no purpose, and it sucks becauseI want purpose. I want to help people. To protect them. To make the world a better place.
During my last therapy session, Beck asked if I regretted stepping back from the line of duty, and the answer isunequivocally, no. I don’t regret it. I want to help people without all the red tape. I just don’t know how.
And so, I run.
Usually I’m a trail guy, but today I’m running through town. Sometimes I forget how quaint it is, with the historic brick buildings, blooming flowers, and cobbled sidewalks.
I’m about five miles in when a familiar head of brown hair catches my eye. I’m tempted to turn the other way and pretend I don’t see her. But her mother steps out behind her and spots me immediately.
“Oh, Ellis, honey!”
That has me stopping in my tracks.
“Mom,” Scarlet hisses, glaring at what can only be described as the future version of Scarlet. Their similarities are uncanny, well, looks-wise that is. Where Stacey is soft and sweet, Scarlet is harsh and bitter.
It's a shame she didn’t get her mom’s personality. Maybe then I could tolerate more than five minutes in her presence.
“Good morning, ladies,” I murmur, lifting my shirt and shamelessly flashing my abs as I wipe the sweat from my face.
“We were just talking about you.” Stacey says, blatantly checking me out over the top of her sunglasses. Scarlet, on the other hand, is busy trying to convince herself I don’t exist.
“Oh, were you now?” I ask, my curiosity piqued.
“Nope. She’s mistaken.” Scarlet looks like she wishes the sidewalk would open up and swallow her whole. “We absolutely werenottalking about you.”
I lift my brows in amusement, wondering exactly what was said.
“Ignore her.” Stacey’s tone is the perfect mix of scolding and indulgent. “I was just telling Scarlet?—”
“She was just telling me bye. Love you, Mama. Text me when you get home so I know you made it safe.”
Stacey huffs and rolls her eyes, her amusement and love for her daughter clear. “Love you, too, Sweetpea. Ellis, why don’t you be a dear and walk Scarlet to her car?”
“Pretty sure I can get there on my own. I’m literally half a block away.” She has her hands of her hips, all attitude. She kind of reminds me of a rain-soaked kitten—pissed off and pitiful all at once.
