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“Virginia, I haven’t spent time in Bluelick since I was twelve. I have no fucking clue who’s feuding with whom, or who’s got an ax to grind with my family. All I know about the local situation is”—he broke off and visibly racked his brain for an example—“some bimbo is running for mayor.”
Trent had the good grace to feign a cough, but Crocker burst out laughing.
She glared at Shaun. “I’m the bimbo.”
…
Told you you’re a fucking idiot. Shaun pressed the gas pedal to the floor and steered the Wrangler up Riverview Road, but no matter how hard he pushed the engine, he couldn’t outrun the voice in his head. The woman he’d developed an unwilling fascination for, the one with whom he’d spent the most consuming, mind-blowing night in God-only-knew-how-long, wanted to oust his father from office, send his half-brother to juvie, and, about now, tear his balls off.
Irony lifted the corners of his mouth into a tight smile. Last night she’d warned him they were making a mistake, but neither of them had appreciated what an understatement the prediction would turn out to be.
Not much he could do about that particular situation, but he could try to address tonight’s first unpleasant surprise. Unlike the deputies, he didn’t need probable cause to question Justin about his whereabouts this evening. He turned into the circular driveway and
parked by the front door, frowning as he noted the house lit up like a stadium, but no other cars in the drive.
The home boasted a three-car garage, so the lack of a red mustang in the driveway didn’t mean Justin wasn’t around. Ingrained training had him leveraging the element of surprise. He twisted the front door handle. It gave. He walked into the empty entryway in time to see Brandi pause on the way down the big, central staircase and press a hand to her gravity-defying chest. A chest nearly on full display thanks to the thin, white robe she wore.
“Jesus, you scared the shit out of me.”
Yeah, he got that a lot. Years spent moving quietly made the habit hard to break. “Sorry. Is Justin home?”
She shook her head, sending her white-blonde hair behind her shoulders, and continued down the stairs. “No.”
“Do you happen to know where he is?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care.” Her light brown eyes turned calculating and she smiled as she closed in on him.
Nice. “How about my father?” He held his ground, but deliberately stressed the word father.
She shook her head again. “Nope. He’s in some cow-seal thingie tonight. Won’t be home for another hour at least.” She dragged her finger down the center of his chest.
He backed up and swallowed the bitter lump of disgust rising in his throat. “A cow-seal thingie?”
She shrugged a shoulder, utterly careless of the effect the move had on the front of her robe. “That’s what he said.”
“That doesn’t make any… Wait a minute…a council meeting?”
“Um…” Her brows knitted. “Yeah. Maybe that’s what he said.” Her expression cleared and she sidled nearer. “Anyway, I’m bored and”—she threw a pout his way—“lonely. Come watch TV with me. There’s a big, comfy sofa downstairs.”
Not in this lifetime. He backed toward the door. “Sorry, Brandi. I’ve got stuff to take care of. You’ll have to entertain yourself. Tell Tom I need to talk to him.”
After “cow-seal thingie” he doubted her ability to relay the simplest message. He got into the Jeep and made a mental note to call his father tomorrow.
No wonder you’re a fucking idiot. It’s in your blood. Of course, with wife number three Tom had plainly sunk to a new low on the fucking idiot scale. He thought of Brandi and shook his head. To hell with blood. He was breaking the cycle, and swore a silent oath never to let his dick take charge of his life the way Tom always had. But as he drove past the closed salon, a certain pissed-off redhead filled his mind, and his dick refused to honor the oath.
He drove to the cabin, dug a brush and a can of leftover white trim paint out of the storage shed, and headed back to the salon. As he layered a couple coats of white over the crude spray-paint, he tried to talk some sense into his insubordinate body parts.
Give it a rest. She doesn’t want anything to do with you now that she knows who you are, and the last thing you need is to get tangled up with your family’s most outspoken opponent.
The wall was an easy fix. Him? Not so much. He loaded the supplies into the back of the Jeep, loaded himself into the front, and started the engine. Sleep was a thousand miles away and a drive sounded better than sitting alone in a dark house. The doctor he’d seen before leaving the Navy had assured him time, distance, and immersion into civilian life would eventually ease the sleep problems, and recommended medication and therapy to help bridge the journey. She’d called the insomnia and nightmares part of a transition cycle. Shaun called it yet another reason to listen to his inner voice.
Six a.m. the next morning, riding on fumes, Shaun made a left turn into the driveway behind the Gas ’n Go and slammed on his brakes to avoid hitting a blur of blue and white cutting across the alley. The blur stopped in front of his bumper, turned to him, and their eyes locked.
Sweet Virginia, out for a morning run. Sweaty, out-of-breath, wide-eyed Virginia, looking like she didn’t know whether to give him a piece of her mind or pretend he didn’t exist. Their final exchange last night after the deputies had left replayed in his memory.
You deliberately didn’t give me your last name because you knew I wouldn’t have touched you if I’d known who you were.
Sweetheart, you’re fooling yourself if you really believe knowing my name would have changed any aspect of last night.
