Independence Day dawned hot and humid, like every other day in recent memory. And like every other morning, George rose, showered, and went down to the kitchen, where Leonard tried his best to herd her toward the food bowl. She doled out a quarter cup of pellets with a metallic rattle, set a pan of water to boil, slid her feet into her rubber boots, and tromped straight out back to the henhouse. Feathers flew at her arrival—her ladies just as excited to see her as the cat had been. Feed and caresses dispensed in a flurry of clucking, she returned to the house just in time to drop two fresh eggs into the water and slice a miniature battalion of perfectly straight soldiers to dip into the yolks in the three minutes it took to soft boil them.
These rituals were the bones of George’s life. No, perhaps not the bones, but the ligaments, holding the bones of work and sleep together.
Today, sparks of something else peppered what would otherwise have been a normal morning. A heaviness in her belly, a shortness of breath. It felt like excitement, but she couldn’t pinpoint its origin.
Since it was Saturday, she packed up a basket with eggs, veggies from her garden, and quiches she’d baked earlier in the week. After a quick stop at the gas station, George made her way to her parents-in-law’s home—a brick rancher in one of Blackwood’s older, leafier neighborhoods.
The door opened before she’d made it to the stoop.
“Georgette, darling!” Bonnie Hadley was not her mother, strictly speaking, but the closest she still had to one. As usual, the woman hugged her hard, and George soaked it up.
“How are you, Bonnie?”
“Good, good!”
“And Jim?”
“Oh, you know, he’s the same.”
“But not worse?”
“No, darling, not worse. He’s in the back, weeding.”
“Uh-oh.”
“We’re doing okay today. I managed to stop him from pulling out most of my hostas.”
“Phew. Lucky.” George walked straight to the kitchen—eyes avoiding the school portraits and family pictures on the walls. What was essentially a shrine to their son—her wedding photo at the center of it. “I made a bunch of quiches to freeze this week and thought you might like some,” she said, forcing her voice to be breezy and light.
“Oh, you didn’t have to do that.”
“They’re left over from a dinner party,” she lied. George hadn’t seen the inside of a dinner party in a decade. “And the trout’s from the fish man at the market. Here, I’ll put this stuff away.”
“Nonsense,” said Bonnie. “Leave that. I can do that anytime. Come out back and say hello to Jim. He’ll be so glad to see you.” That, George knew, probably wasn’t true. The last few Saturdays, he hadn’t known who she was. George gulped back a wave of sadness and pushed her way back out into the blinding sunlight, wishing herself somewhere else.
“Jim,” said Bonnie, her voice loud and artificially bright. “It’s Georgette, here to visit!”
“Mmm?” came her father-in-law’s voice from somewhere beyond the edge of the blue-painted deck. The women exchanged a look and descended the stairs to find the tall man digging a hole in the dirt, up against the house. His white button-down shirt was filthy, as was his face, and George had to swallow hard to keep the melancholy at bay. Tears, she knew from experience, served no purpose but to sow more tears. If she started now, she’d never stop. Best to just get things done here and head back home. Or to work. Work would be perfect.
“Hello, Jim!”
He paused, glanced at his wife for confirmation, and then rose, his smile unsure.
“Oh, oh. Hello, hello,” he said. “Hello, hello.”
After an awkward moment where no one spoke, George said, “I’ll just…get the gas from my car and mow the lawn now, Jim. If that’s okay with you.”
He gave a vague sort of nod, so she gassed up the mower, got it going on the third try, and started cutting the grass.
A couple rows in, the hum of the motor dulled her conscious thoughts, and George let her mind wander. Flashes of memory—bronze skin, black lines, burn marks, vestiges of pain scattered across a body so beautiful she could cry. An unexpected shiver of excitement, another flash of sharply pebbled nipples, her own hardening sympathetically, warmth in her abdomen a pleasant weight and then… Oh crap. She was wet. Actually wet, thinking about the stranger—her patient, for God’s sake.
George stilled, lifted her shirt, and mopped her brow, shutting her eyes hard and pulling in a ragged breath. Stop it. He needs help, not…whatever the hell this is.
For the next hour, she battled her stubborn subconscious, shutting it down every time it fed her another drop of him, another memory, a smell, a shiver.
An hour later, sweaty and grass-covered in the frigid living room, George accepted the usual lemonade and sat beside her mother-in-law on the sofa, feeling caught and guilty in the worst possible way.
“You sure you don’t want me to fire up the grill?” George said. “It’s the Fourth of July, after all. We should celebra—”
“No, no. It’s too much for Jim. Besides, didn’t you say you’d been invited to a party this afternoon?”
Oh, right. A party. A fresh wave of dread rolled up, and George wondered, not for the first time, how upset Uma would be if she canceled. “You’re right,” she said, voice small.
“So, how are…things?” the older woman asked, keeping it vague, but her eyes so bright and excited, she could only be referring to one thing.
George swallowed. None of this was normal. It wasn’t normal to be a widow at her age. It wasn’t normal to be caretaker for your in-laws—though she’d never begrudge them that responsibility—and it most certainly wasn’t normal to use your dead husband’s sperm to try to get pregnant. “Good. Good. The hormones seem to have…kicked in.”
“Yes?”
“I’m feeling…something.”
“So, you’ll be…” Ovulating was the word Bonnie wouldn’t say. And neither would George—not with her mother-in-law. She glanced at the door. How soon could she get out of here?
“Soon, I think, Bonnie. Soon.”
“That’s… It’s wonderful, George. You truly deserve this. You’ve wanted a baby for so long and—”
“Yes. Yes, I have. Thank you, Bonnie. Thank you for supporting me.”
“Of course, dear. Of course.” Bonnie’s eyes filled with tears.
Though George wanted to look away, she forced herself to reach out and put her hand over the other woman’s frail, knobby one, the papery skin dry to the touch. How many times had she held this hand? Certainly more often than she’d held her husband’s. “Have you been using the cream I brought you last week? You really should—”
“Oh, do you know, I forgot about it? I’ll have to go find where I’ve put it. I don’t want you to think that I—”
“It’s okay, Bonnie. It’s okay,” George said, clasping the woman’s hand more tightly and wondering how soon she could escape.
* * *
Clay’s eyes flew open, but he couldn’t move. Fear choked him. No air. Arms like lead. They’d found him. Ape’s needle to his eyeball, his ax cleaving his head. Oh, fuck, he was bleeding out.
His mouth opened, gaped like a fish out of water, and finally, finally, found air. With it came the flood of memories. The pain, scorching, fire, Breadthwaite—Bread—pulling him out. The rest of the team getting inside late—too fucking late. White bed, voices, fuzzy, heavy pain, blinding flashes, muddled memories. His sister, Carly, too. Clean, fresh Carly, not the bruised, battered body he’d identified in the morgue. No, wait. Not Carly. Carly was gone. Other faces. Questions, pain, always the pain.
His moan was the sound that brought him back, his eyes slitted to see a cracked ceiling, a landscape on the wall, faded and blue.
Mountains.
Virginia. Blackwood, Virginia. Where the skin doctor was.
The motel. He was in the motel. White-and-peach bedspread on the floor beneath him, blinds closed, curtains pulled, A/C set to frigid. Against his face rested an empty fifth of vodka.
Last night, like every other night since that day, Clay had succumbed, not to sleep, but rather to a self-inflicted, booze-induced near coma, which didn’t qualify as sleep no matter how long his eyes stayed closed. It left him tired and dizzy and nauseous, with a head the size of Maryland, but at least it gave him those few hours of oblivion.
Painfully, he creaked to standing, each joint making itself known in ways it hadn’t before the shooting. He got up, popped the usual six ibuprofen, his hands tight, and moved to the bathroom, blinking at the heaviness of his eyes. It wasn’t until he caught sight of his puffy, red face in the mirror that he remembered why his eyes hurt so bad.
After a shower, he hit the road, crawling through downtown Blackwood, which appeared to be celebrating Independence Day in style, and finally hit the open road.
In his Toyota. Yeah, not the quite the hum of a Harley.
He drove three hours to the coast, where he scoured craigslist and made some phone calls and bought a truck, dented and dusty with a sprinkling of rust. He hoped to God the thing took him back to Blackwood, but it was safer to do this here or in West Virginia, and he figured he’d stand out less at the beach.
After parking in a spot with an ocean view, he powered up his phone and hit Tyler’s name, noticing the holes in the upholstery and the missing radio knobs. Local color.
“Hey,” he said when his friend answered.
“Clay? Where the fuck are you, man?” Tyler asked. “I been calling you like crazy. Jayda’s asking me if you’re coming today, and I don’t even know. What the hell’s going on?”
“I refused protection, Tyler. Left town.”
“Seriously? You can’t do that, man! They found your house! Got your damned bike! You’ve got to—”
“How’d they find me, Ty? No one else will say.”
“I don’t know, man. Weird shit’s been going down.”
“Boss tried to force me into protection, but that’s not happening. Second best choice, she said, is I get the hell outta town until trial. Got a shit-ton of PTO. It’s an extended vacation. Away.”
“So, where you headed?” his best friend asked. The man who’d been his lifeline for two long years undercover. The last man he’d spoken to before getting shot. The only person he trusted his life with—except maybe Bread, who’d gotten him out of the burning clubhouse.
After a long sigh, Clay said, “Can’t say.”
“The fuck?”
“Look, I trust you. It’s the phones and the… Yeah. Not telling anyone.”
“You tell the boss?”
“Not even the boss.”
“She is gonna kill you.”
“Yeah, well, she’ll get over it. She’s the one who told me to disappear.” He let out a pained groan. “This shit is bad. If they know where I live, man, who’s to say they can’t find everyone else who worked on the case? No way I’m putting you and Jayda and the kids in danger, okay? I’d rather listen to the boss—”
“For once,” interrupted Tyler.
“Yeah.” Clay grinned. “For once.”
“So, it’s R & R for you, and what? Catch some waves at the beach or…”
“Just leaving town, bro.” After a pause, he went on. “Found a dermatologist here who’ll take care of these tats. Boss wants me to lay low? Fine. I’ll goddamn disappear. Go so far off the grid it’ll be like I never existed.”
“But you’re coming back for court, right?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Clay heard a female voice in the background and could picture Tyler’s wife, Jayda, asking him something or calling him in to lunch. Man, things had changed since they’d gotten married and had kids. Different, but good for Tyler. Probably. Family life just didn’t hold much appeal for Clay: the house and mess and all the other stuff.
“Any word from Bread?” he asked, knowing Breadthwaite had opted to go into witness protection, rather than hunker down on his own. Yeah, well, Bread didn’t have three bullet holes in his hide, so their trust issues might not be exactly on par.
“He’s gone. Flew out yesterday with a couple of marshals and a bunch of fucking suits from Justice,” Tyler said, and Clay gave a sigh of relief.
“Jesus. But good. Good.” Bread was one of those dudes you just had to like. A hippy in real life who’d done a kick-ass job of passing as a biker—a good man to have on your team. The best.
Clay eyed the slow-moving beach traffic nervously.
“Get yourself into protection, like Bread, ma—”
“You think they don’t have rats at DOJ, Ty? I gotta go.”
“Right, well, enjoy it for me. Laid out next to the water, drink in hand. On your own. Man, that sounds like the life. Maybe I’ll come find you, bring the boat, and we can—”
“Jayda’d cut off your balls,” Clay said, picturing the throw down between Tyler and his wife. “Then she’d come after me.”
“Yeah,” Tyler said, only it didn’t sound quite as light as it was probably meant to. Clay didn’t want to know about whatever trouble was in Tyler’s paradise right now.
“I gotta go, man. Give my love to Jayda and the kids.”
“Will do, Clay. Will do,” Tyler said, then quickly followed up. “But keep me—”
“Thanks, Ty,” he said, ending the call and placing another.
“McGovern,” came his boss’s gravelly response. Always on, nights and weekends, holidays. He’d never heard her be anything but curt and professional.
“Navarro here, ma’am.”
“Navarro.” In typical McGovern fashion, she gave nothing. Not an extra word.
“Just checking in.”
“Good. From where?”
“I’d…” He paused, unsure how to go about saying it. How did you tell your boss you didn’t trust anyone, not even her? “I’d prefer not to say.”
“Wh—Hold on.” He heard a muffled sound, then voices, followed by what was probably the door closing. Probably at home with family on this sunny Fourth of July, like everyone else in the whole goddamn nation. “Where are you, Navarro?”
“With all due respect, ma’am, I’d rather not—”
“Cut the crap. I told you to take time off, lay low for a while, not to drop off the face of the earth. What am I supposed to say to DOJ when they need you to—”
“I’ll check in every week or two. This case matters to me, you know that. But my life matters even more.”
“That’s not gonna—” She paused, cleared her throat, and appeared to change tacks. “You checking in with the shrink?”
“I’ll be fine, Boss.”
“Don’t mess around with PTSD, Navarro. Dr. Levitz said you need meds, therapy, and—”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’re a—” She gave a harrumph, then a resigned sigh. “I understand it’s been rough, Navarro. Recovery and trying to get back into the swing of things. But you’re not undercover anymore. You’ve got to stop acting like one of those bikers and be an agent again. Just tell me where you are, and I’ll—”
“Sorry, Boss,” Clay said before ending the call and pulling the battery out of his phone.
There, ties cut. Clean slate.
Sort of.
* * *
George took in a big, fat breath, pasted a smile on her face, and dropped the knocker on the door. The sound was full and warm, like the woman who welcomed her with a smile.
“You came!” Uma Crane said, throwing her arms around George in a way George both loved and didn’t quite feel comfortable with.
“I came!” she couldn’t help but blurt out with a laugh. Uma was… She pulled back, admiring the woman’s smile, her face round and glowing and so clearly happy. Her arms, nearly clear of ink, were pale for midsummer. “Thanks for inviting me.”
“I was sure you wouldn’t come.”
“It’s not like you gave me a choice this time, Uma,” George said, smiling.
“No. Three times, you’ve refused me. No way you were getting away with this one.”
“Yeah. I kind of got that.”
From the back of the house, a child’s voice whooped and someone laughed. Down the hall, a large figure emerged, massive and intimidating, and George’s breath caught in her throat—until she recognized the man. Ive. Ive Shifflett, Uma’s boyfriend.
Not Andrew Blane, her new project. George wasn’t sure if the big breath she expelled was relief or disappointment, although it felt more like the latter.
“You remember Ive, right?”
“Yes, of course. Hi there. Good to see you again,” she said, letting her hand be engulfed in the big man’s.
“Doc.”
“It’s George. Please call me George.”
“Right. George.”
“Come on in.” Uma grabbed her arm. “Let’s get you set up with a drink and introduce you around.”
She followed the couple into the house, taking it all in and girding herself. A party. So very different from the way she managed to deal with people at work. Social situations did her in. The constant smiling, the small talk, the personal side of things was exhausting. She was so painfully bad at it. When Tom had been alive, he’d been her buffer, the social one, the guy who knew how to charm, but now…
After a quick round of introductions, George settled into a corner of the kitchen, bottle of beer in hand, and watched.
As they prepared things for the barbecue, her eyes kept returning to Uma and her man. Ive Shifflett smiled at his girlfriend, and anything that may have seemed scary in him disappeared, leaving George to gape for just a second at this man’s surprisingly sweet, handsome boyishness. He slid one big arm around Uma’s shoulder. She leaned into him, looking… Oh, what a transformation. The woman looked content. Unlike the first time she’d come into George’s office, almost a year ago, when she’d been so…hunted.
Hunted and frightened and clearly in the throes of something terrible. What chilled George now, as she recalled it, was the uncanny similarity to Andrew Blane’s demeanor yesterday. That was it, wasn’t it? That was why, when it came down to it, George hadn’t kicked him out or run screaming from his presence.
Right. She was fixating on him because he’d looked hunted. Not at all because of how he’d affected her.
My God, she had to stop thinking about him. All morning, she’d dwelled on the man. What was wrong with her?
A woman sidled up, beer in hand, and leaned against the wall beside George. “Don’t they just make you sick?” she said quietly.
“Hmm?” George said, eyeing the scattered freckles over the newcomer’s sun-browned nose. She’d have to watch that.
The woman smiled and lifted her chin at Uma and Ive canoodling on the other side of the room.
“Oh. Yes.”
“I’m Jessie Shifflett, sister to Ive, the massive lovesick puppy over there. I hear you’re the woman with the magic wand.”
“Magic wa… Oh. The laser.” The description surprised a chuckle out of George, who reached out and shook Jessie’s hand. “George Hadley. Good to meet you.”
“Well, George Hadley, you’re a miracle worker. Also hear you do a ridiculous amount of pro bono work for people around here.”
“Oh, I’m…” She wasn’t quite sure how to handle a comment like that. Praise wasn’t really her thing. “Thank you?”
Jessie laughed, the sound easy, casual in a way George admired. “Seriously, though. I hear you’re just about the nicest person on the planet. I should be thanking you.” The woman indicated the couple again, and her smile softened. “For that.”
“Not sure I can take credit for what’s happening over there. But…” George narrowed her eyes at the other woman. “I feel like we’ve met before.”
“We have. I work out right next to your office. At the MMA school. Teach there too. Monday nights.” Of course. George recognized her now. She’d seen her arrive at the gym in the evenings, usually around the time she was closing up the clinic. “You should drop in sometime. Check out my women’s self-defense class.”
“Oh, right. Uma mentioned it. I keep meaning to stop by.” Which was a lie. George didn’t need self-defense. She wasn’t scared of people. No, the dangers in life were invisible, microscopic things that snuck up on you before you knew it, killing indiscriminately.
“You should,” Jessie went on. “Come on Monday. Lots of great gals.” George tried to picture it—herself in a room full of women—and couldn’t manage. Jessie leaned in, smiling, and said, “If you’re really good, we let you beat up on a couple of guys. Including my brother and…hmm. Where’s Steve?” She looked around, apparently didn’t see the man she was looking for, and grabbed George by the arm. “Come on outside. I’ll introduce you to the others. You should know Steve, after all. He owns the MMA school. Good neighbor to have, actually. Never have to worry about anyone bugging you as long as he’s in business right there.”
Outside, less than a dozen people hung around the grill, drinking, chatting, and playing badminton. George eyed them warily, wishing she could leave, itching to head back to the office. She usually stuck out like a sore thumb at things like this—the stiff, pale-skinned woman who had no clue how to mingle.
Jessie, it turned out, was the perfect icebreaker, if somewhat embarrassing.
“You single, Doc?” she asked over her shoulder as they went down the back porch steps.
“Uh…yes?”
They approached a group of adults, and Jessie’s smile turned mischievous. “Excellent. Someone to take the pressure off.”
“What are you—”
“Hey, everybody. Meet George Hadley. Owns the skin clinic over on Main Street.” Hands reached out, names were given, and George shook blindly. “She’s single too, so you can set your friends up with her now instead of harassing me all the time.”
“Oh, I’m not—”
Cutting her off with a wave, Jessie winked and led her a bit farther away, to where a black man with salt-and-pepper hair led a couple of kids in a game of badminton.
“Steve! Want you to meet your neighbor.”
The man looked up and smiled with a wave before whacking the birdie hard at the biggest of the kids. “I’ve seen you. You’re the doc next door.”
“Yes. George Hadley. And you’re the sheriff.”
“Yes, indeed. Good to meet you, ma’am,” he said, and George got the strangest twinge of déjà vu. First Andrew Blane and now this man, making her feel so official.
“Please call me George.”
“Well, please call me Steve,” he said, finally leaving the game long enough to come over and shake her hand. “Glad to finally meet you. We’ve been wondering when you’d come over and see us.”
They had? “Oh. Business is—”
“He’s just bugging you,” said Jessie, who must have felt George’s discomfort.
“You got that big place on Jason Lane, right?”
“Um…” How did he know that?
Jessie leaned in again. “Cops. They know everything.”
George breathed again. “Yes. That’s my house.”
“I just rented a place on Jason Lane,” Jessie went on happily.
“Yeah?”
“End of the cul-de-sac.”
“Oh. I’m in the farmhouse.”
“Hey! Right down the road! Awesome!”
“Like Dr. Doolittle over there,” Steve said. “One hell of a setup you got. Like a jungle.”
“Um. Thank you?”
“Yes, you should take it as a compliment,” said Jessie, leaning in to swat the man on the shoulder. “Right, Steve?”
“Definitely. Compliment. Being a widower means you can say whatever you want.”
Funny how being a widow had never brought that out in her.
Jessie shot Steve a look. “Shouldn’t you be working tonight? Independence Day and all?”
“Yep. Down a couple of deputies right now and can’t find a replacement to save my life,” replied Steve with a weary sigh and a glance at his watch. “Gotta take off.”
After the sheriff left, George’s eyes swept around the party, the people laughing and playing, lazing around and talking so naturally. First Uma and Ive’s closeness, so intimate she’d felt almost dirty watching, and now these uncomplicated-seeming relationships, people looking so companionable and natural together. A chest-squeezing burst of envy surprised her with its strength. This, exactly this, was why she never went anywhere. She’d forgotten, after so long, how very much it hurt to see so much happiness in one place.
She turned to Jessie. “I…I’ve got to go.”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for showing me around. Would you mind giving the uh…the lovebirds my regards? Or regrets or whatever?”
“Regards. Sure.”
George extricated herself from the party and headed back into town, to the clinic. To escape, get some work done, maybe some research. She wouldn’t admit to herself that what drove her was an unhealthy curiosity about a six-foot-something man whose sordid story was etched into his skin.
* * *
Clay noticed the tail as soon as he pulled back into town. He couldn’t believe it, actually, had been so sure his new old truck would offer him a sort of force field in a community like this one. Virginia plates and all.
Apparently he’d been wrong, because as soon as he hit Blackwood city limits, he acquired a police escort.
There was nothing wrong with the truck. He’d made sure of that before taking it off the dude’s hands. And there shouldn’t have been anything wrong with his credentials, but that was something he hadn’t wanted to risk—a bumbling country cop plugging him into the system was the last thing he needed at this point. Fuck. The sooner he got rid of Ape’s goddamned gift, the better. He glanced in the mirror, wondering if he wouldn’t have been better off in some anonymous urban setting like Richmond or DC, after all.
No, they knew him there.
As if on cue, the blue lights went on behind him, and the siren bleeped once, twice. Okay, good, at least they were keeping it subtle. He hadn’t thought about the possibility of this happening, hadn’t considered how he’d play it, but he’d been around law enforcement long enough to know how to avoid setting off the worst alarm bells, so he pulled over, rolled down the window, got out his wallet, and waited.
“Afternoon.” The man approached cautiously from behind, kept his distance, clearly eyeing him through his mirrored sunglasses—precisely the same ones Clay wore, although this man was small, wiry, and African American.
“Afternoon, sir.” Well, Clay knew how to play the game too, if he had to. He didn’t want to antagonize, but neither was he going to give the cop the upper hand. He kept his aviators on, wishing he’d asked the doctor for some kind of bandaging. Now would be a great time to hide the 5–0 on his eyes and the DEAD MAN on his knuckles, with their sickly smiling skull.
“License and registration, please.”
Clay lifted his wallet slowly, keeping both hands in sight—palms up in an effort to hide the ink—pulled out Andrew Blane’s license, handed it to the man, and reached for the newly signed title.
“You got insurance for this vehicle?”
“Yes, sir.”
As Clay handed it all over, he pretended not to see the man examining the back of his cab.
“Didn’t you have a different vehicle yesterday, son?”
Son? Jesus, I’m not in Kansas anymore, am I?
“Yes indeed.” He craned his neck just enough to read the name tag pinned to the man’s uniform. “Sheriff Mullen.”
“You just purchased this truck, Mr.…Blane?”
“Just today, Sheriff.”
“Any reason you decided to trade the old one in?”
“It was a rental, sir.”
“What’s your business here in Blackwood?”
“My business?”
“Yes. How long do you plan on staying in our town?”
What was this, the fucking Wild West? “I’m not entirely sure about that, Sheriff. Might be a few months, I suppose.” He looked over his shoulder, then back at the cop. “What was it you pulled me over for, exactly?”
“Flickering taillight.” The man backed up a step, looked the truck over, and returned to the window, looking cocky for such a small guy. This must be the kind of bullshit they used to rid their town of undesirable visitors such as himself.
“Could you remove your sunglasses, please, sir?”
Fuck.
Forcing himself not to hesitate, Clay pulled the shades down, baring his ink to the lawman and sitting through his slow perusal.
“Hmm. You hold tight. Be a few minutes.”
He kept a wary eye on the rearview as the man disappeared behind him and slid into his cruiser.
Hopefully, the ID would check out, and everything would be fine. If it didn’t…no point worrying until the worst happened. And nobody knew about the Andrew Blane identity. Not his boss or Tyler. Nobody.
A few minutes later, the sheriff returned and handed everything back to Clay.
“Check out?”
“Yes, sir.” The man turned as if to walk to his vehicle and then turned back, eyes narrowed with a tight smile on his lips. “Welcome to Blackwood, Mr. Blane.”
Clay watched the cruiser pull a U-turn and take off in the other direction before he started his new truck and slowly drove into the quaint downtown area.
Already on the cops’ radar. Great. Why the hell did I choose this place?
Okay, so maybe he’d head to Miami or Atlanta or someplace where he wouldn’t stand out like such a sore thumb. He could get his ink taken care of there, prep for court, and lay low until he had to testify.
As he drove through town, the skin clinic appeared on his right, and just as he passed it, Dr. Georgette Hadley got out of her car, dressed in a light, flowery dress instead of the jeans she’d worn the evening before, and he couldn’t help but slow down to watch her. Her legs were sexy, curvaceous, strong-looking, and…man, they were pale almost to the point of translucence, lending a fragile quality to her that he hadn’t noticed behind her serious doctor facade. He knew he should keep going—not stare at her like some kind of creeper—but the way she moved kept drawing his eyes.
In the rearview mirror, he watched her walk from her hippy car to the clinic, unlock it, and enter, her skirt swirling as she pulled the door closed behind her, exposing a swath of clear, white thigh—before he rounded the bend and lost sight of her.
Fuck, that thigh. Not a mark on it. No ink, no scars, track marks, or bruises. He didn’t think he’d seen such a pure stretch of body in… He blinked at the ghost of the doctor’s reflection in the mirror and focused on the road. Ever.
After that, Clay drove on to his motel and holed up, ready for a long, vodka-infused night inside, all thoughts of small-town cops and curious locals wiped away by that one, vulnerable peek of the doctor’s soft-looking thigh.
* * *
Back at the office, close and still and sweltering, George booted up her computer. Only rather than catching up on patient files as she normally would on a night like this, she walked back to exam room 2, reached into the garbage can, and pulled out a sheaf of paperwork—torn in two, but still completely legible.
I want to help him, she thought. He needs help.
Guiltily, she scanned the sheets, only to come up empty. Nothing. They told her nothing.
Name: Andrew Blane
Address: None
Phone: None
Homeless? Was he homeless?
But he’d stood so straight. Smelled so…good. Really good. Not like a man who didn’t wash.
When he’d pleaded with her, even then, he’d been strong. He didn’t have that hopelessness to him that she associated with people who didn’t have a place to call their own. Although, what did she know about homelessness? He could be a nomad, for all she knew. Plus, there was that wad of cash he’d tried to give her, which spoke of an unsettled existence. Who used cash anymore?
So, not homeless, she concluded, turning back to the otherwise blank page. Just squirrelly. He had reason to be, considering the way he looked. What on earth made a person get tattooed like that? 5–0 on his face? Announcing what? That he was law enforcement? But he didn’t look it. In fact, he looked the furthest from law enforcement she could imagine, especially with the other things inked onto him. The spiderweb and the clock.
She’d removed enough spiderwebs, pro bono, to know what those tattoos meant—the man had done time. A felon. Possibly—probably?—a murderer.
She reached for her mug of tea, took a gulp before setting it down, remembering the largest tattoo, the one on his back. Some kind of crest, like you’d see on a dollar bill or a modern-day coat of arms.
She typed triangle, arrows, eagle, river, skull tattoo, and the letters SMC.
The results, once she’d sifted through them, were disheartening, but no real surprise. Photos of an outlaw motorcycle gang out of Maryland. The Sultans MC.
Arrests, images of outlaw bikers. More arrests. Drugs, guns. Racketeering. Arrests earlier in the year, again in Maryland. Men in black leather vests with patches on the back. She clicked on that one, then magnified it until the image was clear—and there it was. Exactly the same as the tattoo on Andrew Blane’s back.
Quickly, she shut down the page and rolled back a foot or two from the reception desk. She’d worked with gang tattoos before. Ink on men who wanted to get out. She’d also helped ex-cons who had chosen to erase their old lives—erase their mistakes. She’d done a few of those pro bono, because everybody deserved a second chance.
But did this man? Did he truly deserve a second chance if he was as bad as these people appeared to be?
She thought of the Latino ex-gang member she’d helped. She’d been perfectly willing to help that kid, but…he’d been a kid, whereas this man was older. Old enough to know better.
Crap.
George let her head fall on her arms. She wanted him to be a good guy. Was that too much to ask? That the man she couldn’t stop thinking about be a nice person, instead of a stone-cold killer?
Because this attraction, this stupid attraction, would have almost been acceptable if he’d been a good person, instead of a man who’d done time, quite possibly for murder, and who’d chosen to advertise it on his skin. And some of the tattoos were recent, if she wasn’t mistaken.
Yes, but now he wants it gone.
She rubbed her belly—the name she’d gotten inked there and again on her arm in her youth. A lifetime ago, when she’d made her mistake—mistakes. Bad boys, fast cars, fumbling in backseats.
Everybody deserves a second chance.
She rubbed, remembering. She’d had a bad phase after losing her parents—more confused than rebellious. There had been a pregnancy, an abortion, and years of doubt.
Yes, all of that should be a lesson to George, who’d gone the bad-boy route once before. And that hadn’t gotten her anywhere. Thankfully, she’d met Tom and…well, the rest was history, wasn’t it? Just history.
She sighed, coming back full circle. Ah, stupidity—the prerogative of youth.
So, Andrew Blane was erasing a lifetime of transgressions, possibly youthful mistakes. Who the hell was she to judge?
* * *
It wasn’t until Clay’d stripped down to underwear that he realized he’d forgotten to buy Vaseline. And seeing as his knuckles and eyes burned like shit, he figured he’d better head back out to find some.
He dressed, went back out to his new truck, and drove through town, surprised, on this Fourth of July, to see the lights on in Blackwood’s only grocery store—a dinky-looking place called Blackwood Grocery.
He parked and watched through narrowed eyes as people went about their business. Naglestown, Maryland—the Sultans’ fiefdom—was just a small town too…on the map, at least. But unlike this place, there’d been no antique stores, no cozy cafés, and you sure as hell wouldn’t find it in a guidebook. This little town, however, had one of those proud Welcome to Blackwood signs, complete with bright flowers and a stone accent wall, inviting you into one of America’s most picturesque villages.
Village. Ha. Like one of the books Grandma used to read to him and Carly as kids, with mice and gardens and porcupines in frilly aprons or whatever. But Clay knew, in absolute certainty, that what happened behind closed doors, even in places like this, was just as bad as what happened anywhere else. Sometimes small towns covered up big, bad goings-on. Naglestown had just been more obvious about it—the biker gang so ingrained that they hardly bothered to cover their tracks.
The local cops so entrenched in the MC’s racket, they were as bad as the bikers themselves.
As the doors slid open, all heads turned his way, and he was thankful for the aviators and ball cap, along with his long sleeves. What folks could see of his skin was minimal, and odd though he may appear in his Unabomber garb, there was no way any of it was coming off—even indoors. As unidentifiable as possible; that was the goal. Don’t give them anything to remember you by.
As if the sheriff would forget a single goddamn detail. Like, say, the 5–0 etched into my face.
Eyes followed him to the pharmacy aisle, where he startled an old lady and her little white dog, whose barks followed him long after he’d found razors and Vaseline. Fucking Vaseline, like that didn’t look bad. As he headed down to the end of the store, his eyes caught on a display dedicated to local produce, and he salivated—literally.
By the time he arrived at the checkout, he’d gathered chips and dip, apples, peaches.
“Evenin’, sir,” the cashier said.
“Evening.”
“How you doin’ today?”
“Uh…” Clay glanced around. What was this, 1954? How long had it been since he’d been asked that? “Good, thanks.”
“Great! Hopin’ for a storm later this week. Need somethin’ to break this heat wave. Always sorry when folks come to visit us, and all anyone can do is stay in the A/C. Y’know?”
“Yeah.”
“That’ll be fifteen dollars even. Cash or credit?”
“Cash,” he finally answered, handing over a couple of twenties, the bills slightly damp against his palm.
“It’s only fifteen, sir.” The woman smiled at him, and Clay wondered if she was flirting. No. He didn’t think so. Just being friendly. She handed him his change and a paper bag filled with his purchases.
“Can you tell me where I can buy clothes? You know, like T-shirts and stuff.”
“Oh, you’ll have to drive into C’ville for that, sir.”
He nodded his thanks and lifted a hand as she called, “Happy Independence Day!” to his retreating back. “And welcome to Blackwood!”
God, he needed exercise or he’d go crazy in this place. Maybe he’d go for a run when he got back to his room.
Back in his truck, he started up the engine and drove down Main Street with a sense of relief, so out of place here, it was like having a target etched onto his back instead of the Sultans’ emblem.
* * *
A glance at the clock showed George that she’d spent more time investigating her patient than she should have—especially since she shouldn’t have done it at all. Slow and stupid from the heat, she stood up, shut everything down, and headed outside.
It was nearly dark and Blackwood crackled with energy—muggy and sultry with air that felt like it hadn’t moved in months, but tonight an extra jolt of electricity seemed to spice it up. The few steps to her car, so familiar, were done thoughtlessly, no attention paid to her surroundings, to a voice a bit farther down the road, yelling something. The sound didn’t sink in until she’d opened the door and realized it was a woman, her voice shrill and then sharply cut off with what might have been a slap.
There, across the street, silhouettes closer now, running, a scuffle, one person down.
“Hey!” George yelled, protective instincts kicking in. “What’s going on?”
A shriek, a thud.
She dropped everything and ran.
Weird, in those moments, how things sped up and froze all at once. She was aware of furtive movement and an unnatural stillness, the buzzing of the streetlight above, the crunch of grit under her sandals.
The couple on the sidewalk was closer now, things still murky, but it was a man, definitely a man. Attacking a woman?
“Hey!” George yelled, slapping at his arms.
I’ll run and get my phone was George’s last thought before the man struck her, right in the stomach, doubling her over and stealing every last bit of breath from her body.
“The fuck off me, bitch!”
My phone, George thought with a glance back at her car, and then thwack. She was down. Suddenly, the blond woman was up, yelling and hitting her—the woman who’d sounded so scared… And another man appeared from out of nowhere.
Ungffff. A kick to her leg. The woman, she thought.
“Fuck you!” yelled the woman. “Hittin’ my man.”
There were three of them. Two men and one woman. George caught flashes of bodies and faces, more screaming, directed at her this time. Harsh words interspersed with flashes of bare legs, shorts, sneakers, explosions of color overhead.
Young. No wrinkles. More words hurled at her. Another glimpse. A face covered in lesions. George curled in on herself.
Drugs, her mind supplied, slow but catching up. These people were on drugs.
Adrenaline and fear went into overdrive. Too late. She writhed on the ground, holding her tender belly, strangely aware of the gritty surface of the gutter beneath her, the odd grain of sand shining brightly despite the late hour. All she could do was protect her face and her abdomen. Who’d feed Leonard if she didn’t make it home? Who would put the chickens to bed? Trying not to think of the baby she’d never have if she died right here, she groaned. Not from the dull ache in her womb, but from regret.
Something changed in the air then. She felt it, even folded in on herself. Somebody grunted—an unpleasant sound. With an effort, George maneuvered herself into a tighter ball against the curb and lifted her head. What little breath she’d managed to gather escaped in a whoosh.
It was Andrew Blane. She’d conjured him, probably, and here he was, saving the day with a strangely quiet, grim, hard-edged concentration. One of her attackers was already halfway to the ground, the woman running away, fast, by the time George cleared the fog from her eyes. As she watched, Andrew dealt with the third person in a move that was quick and violent. Efficient—no, surgical was a better word for the punch to the neck, the echoing kick low on the man’s leg. Oh Lord, but it looked barbaric, frightening for the speed and ease with which it was delivered.
A final blow to one of the kids’ faces had blood spattering in a tall, almost graceful arc, and George couldn’t stop the scared whimper she let out.
When he turned to her, her savior’s breathing looked normal. How could he be that way after the bloody havoc he’d just wreaked? She thought, for a crazed moment, that he was some kind of spy—a Jason Bourne type, an unfeeling psychopath, whose only external mode of expression was through the writing on his skin.
But then he looked at her, and she knew, with absolutely certainty, that he wasn’t some instrument of aggression. He might move like a man who knew how to hurt another human being, but when his eyes met hers, she saw that the one who was hurting was him. And how messed up was it that all she wanted to do was make him feel better?