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It’s just odd, like he’s treading all over my personal space while still standing so far away.
I might still be feeling off-kilter after getting myself so messed up with Lucas. Or maybe I’m having trouble adapting to small-town hospitality.
I should be less judgy. If I could actually relax, then maybe—
A scraping noise just outside my window stops me mid-thought.
It’s faint, just a scuffing sound like a foot dragging through fresh-cut grass.
My heart compacts into a withered pea.
Only to explode up my throat in a throat-ripping scream the second I glance up.
There’s someone in my window!
The same silhouette from the night at The Rookery.
Tall, lean, hunched, shadowed, his features indistinguishable.
Sweat beads like ice all over my body. I clutch at my calves, staring at that dark, unmoving shape.
He stays where he is for several halting seconds.
He must know I can see him—he has to be looking right back at me—making sure I know he’s there, making me feel the threat.
Then he turns and walks away, heading toward the back of the house, moving in that same shuffling, slouched lope like he’s trying to mask his stride.
Trying to make sure I don’t recognize him.
Roger?
Anger surges through my fear, unlocking my limbs.
I rocket off the bed, nearly tripping over my bare feet as I tumble to the floor.
I race out of the bedroom, down the hall, toward the back door.
The muted chirp of crickets turns from a whisper to a shrill cry as I fling the back door open on my tiny deck, banging it against the wall.
Desperate, panting, I scan around, searching the darkness.
My feet move faster than my brain, tumbling me down through the grass. The blades tickle the soles of my feet as I dart around the side of the house and find—
You guessed it.
Nothing.
No one.
Not even a whisper of the trees beyond the fence this time.
I’m flipping alone.
Except for one thing that numbs me like frostbite.
A very fresh, very bright, very wet red X painted on the blue siding below my window.
And this time, I don’t think that crimson is paint at all.
12
Seeing Red (Lucas)
Every time my phone lights up with Delilah’s number, she’s already on my mind.
I’ve been a goddamned wreck all day.
Completely spaced, zoning out on my patrol, unfocused during meetings with my crew, during everything.
I just can’t stop flashing back to that wildfire—reliving that sweet, sweet moment when this bristling thing between us went off like an armed grenade.
Fuck me, when did I turn into nothing but a horny-ass goat?
I drop my face into my hand, then think better of it and replace my hand with my beer, slouching deep into the rocking chair on my front porch.
The late summer heat is baking today.
I was supposed to pick up an extra shift tonight—we still like to have at least one officer on night duty even if things are quiet. It’s usually peaceful enough, staying camped out with dispatch and trying not to fall asleep over a book or three.
But the captain took one look at me after I dragged myself in from a shift posted in the town square and told me in no uncertain terms to go the fuck home and get some rest.
No argument there.
Grant was right.
Uneventful night or not, I’d be fucking useless if something did crop up.
Hell, I’m useless as a knitted condom right now, spinning around in too many circles. Whacked out of my gourd with those buttery moans I forced out of her with every thrust.
Also, I’m still damn worried about Delilah.
I don’t think I hurt her.
I’m pretty sure we were on the same page, and she was right there with me in the storm, begging for it as much as I did in the heat of the moment. But there’s always that horrible instant when your body speaks louder than your brain, and after, when what you did truly sinks in.
When it hits, I can’t deny shit.
Not that I’d been trying all that hard, mostly just keeping it to myself. But there’s no hiding it any longer.
I’m tripping all over myself, falling face-first into that New York cactus.
I’d like to tell her that in person. Wish like hell I’d had the stones to ask her out on a real date, making sure she’s comfortable with me before we boned.
Making sure she truly felt the same way before I slammed her sweet ass over a desk in the wildest, hardest romp of my life.
That’s on me.
No ifs, ands, or buts.
I was the asshole who thought kissing her to stop her from jabbing me with those spikes was the most brilliant idea in the world.
Now, I’m wondering if it’s the dumbest fool thing I’ve ever done in my life.
Yes, she kissed me right back, nearly tore my frigging pants off.
But the look on her face, when she asked me to leave, that was something else.
