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With a sob, she stood there, hugging herself. The door opened and she cried out, taking a small step back.
But the elderly gentleman, who walked in using a cane, just held up his free hand.
“Easy, Lara.”
“Old Al?”
“Yep.”
She practically flew toward him. At the last moment, she managed to stop herself from bowling him over. She hugged him gently, and he tapped his free hand on her back.
“There, there, girl. You’re okay. Don’t know what this world is coming to when someone can just break into a young girl’s bedroom.”
She drew back and wiped at her tears.
“Shit, he really destroyed this place. Oh no!”
“What?” she asked.
“He didn’t steal Mr. Wiggly, did he? Eh, don’t matter if he did. It doesn’t work.”
“Old Al!” She lightly whacked his arm. “You’re terrible.”
He made her smile, though.
And when she sat in the motel office to give her statement, he sat with her, holding her hand.
“Ms. Matheson?” one of the older policemen asked. He looked tired and worn-out. As though he’d seen too much and there was nothing that could surprise him. “Unfortunately, the intruder got away, but Mr. Small, the owner, gave us a description of the man. He said the guy was over six feet, dressed in a suit, and had short dark hair. That sound familiar?”
“I don’t . . . I don’t know.”
“Have you had any issues with anyone in town?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so . . . oh, wait! There was the guy who nearly ran me over.”
“What?” he asked, actually looking startled. Perhaps something could surprise him.
“It was my fault. I stepped out onto the road. But he was furious about it. And he was wearing a suit. But I’ve got no evidence to say it was him.”
“Could have been,” Old Al said. “But this guy thought you’d turned him in.”
“I didn’t. It was my fault.”
“Anything else about him? Did anyone else see him?” the officer asked, looking from her to Old Al.
“No. I don’t think so.”
“All right. Is there somewhere you can stay tonight? Maybe another room here?”
She swallowed heavily, feeling nauseous at the thought. “I don’t . . . I can’t . . .”
“You can come stay with me, girlie.”
She took a deep breath. “Thanks, Old Al. But I don’t think I can stay here.”
A knock on the door made her startle. The cop gave her a look. “You okay?”
“I . . . am I? I don’t think so.” She stared down at her trembling hands as the officer opened the door.
“Lara? Baby, you okay?”
She glanced up so fast she nearly got whiplash, watching as Butch walked into the room. He wore a tight shirt and dark jeans. His eyes went to hers, taking her in before he walked over and crouched in front of her.
“Shit, baby. What happened?”
“I take it you’re a friend of Ms. Matheson’s?” the cop said dryly.
“Yeah, I’m a friend of hers. What the fuck happened?”
The cop narrowed his eyes at Butch, but her tattooed cowboy didn’t flinch. She wondered what it would be like to be so certain of yourself that no one intimidated you.
She’d never had that.
“Someone broke into my motel room while I was sleeping,” she said quietly. “I ran into the b-bathroom, and he tried to get in there too before the motel owner interrupted him. Then the police arrived.” She twisted her fingers together until pain shot up her hands.
“Jesus, who?” he asked, taking her hands in his and holding them gently.
“Some little punk-ass jerk,” Old Al said.
Butch stared over at him with raised eyebrows.
Old Al smiled. “I’m her next-door neighbor. I’ve been meaning to talk to you, I want to know your intentions toward my girl here.” He started cackling. “Like I don’t already know.”
She sighed. “Don’t listen to him. He’s a degenerate.”
“And proud of it, girlie.”
“Old Al, you should go back to bed.” He looked exhausted.
“Can’t leave you here on your own, girlie.”
“She’s not on her own. I’m here,” Butch said.
“You’ll take care of my girl?”
“Yes.”
“All right, then.” Old Al stood shakily. “I’ll make my way back to my bed. This girlie has given me so much excitement lately. My body nearly can’t handle it.” He stopped by Butch. “You take care of my girl. Or you’ll answer to me.”
“Old Al,” she groaned. “You know it’s not like that.”
Old Al just chuckled and shook his head as he left.
“Sorry, he’s a bit . . . eccentric.” That was one word for him, anyway.
“So you really don’t know who broke in?” Butch asked.
“I don’t know. It could have been the guy from the other day who nearly ran me over. But I didn’t get a look at whoever broke in tonight.”
He turned to the cop who was doing something on his phone. “My brother, Tanner Malone, saw him the other day if you need a description or statement.”
