Trusting His Instincts, page 5
“Two brothers. Why?” He follows me to the next aisle, puffing out his chest like he’s ready for a fight. “You got something to say?”
Shit.
The last thing I want is a brawl with a guy who thinks women were put on this earth for his amusement. I should find another hardware store, but the owners, Bert and Martha, have been in business since I lived here with Frank, and he always said they were good people.
“Pretty sure you’ve got a line forming at the register, Mitch. Might want to go check on that.”
He turns, swears under his breath, and rushes up the aisle.
Unfortunately, when I finish shopping, he’s the only one working checkout. By the time I pay for all the shit I need to fix Raelynn’s heater, I want to punch the guy in the face. But that would make me memorable—and probably get me arrested—so I keep my mouth shut and hurry out to my car with a bag in each hand and the spool of wire tucked under my arm.
Tires squeal as I close the trunk, and I turn toward the sound.
A black blur speeds toward me. “Look out!” someone shouts.
I scramble over the back of the car. My foot slips, sending me crashing to the ground. Throbbing pain radiates from the back of my head. Metal screeches. The old Honda shudders. An engine roars, then fades, leaving a silence so consuming, it’s like the whole world suddenly…stopped.
Until Bert shouts, “Call 911, Martha!”
“No!” I shake my head—big mistake—and try to get up. I don’t make it, collapsing against the car behind me. My whole body trembles.
He didn’t slow down. Didn’t stop.
Thin fingers wrap around my bicep. “Come on, son. Let’s get you back inside.” Bert tugs on my arm. “You can lean on me.”
Spots swim in front of my eyes for a second. Fuck. Do I have a concussion? My hip aches, and the world isn’t entirely level anymore. Or steady.
“Martha, where the hell are you?” Bert calls. “This boy needs an ambulance.”
“No ambulance,” I protest. “I’m fine.”
Martha pats the pockets of her Gray’s Hardware apron as she crosses the parking lot. “You are not fine, young man. You’re bleeding!”
I reach up, finding a cut on my temple sticky with blood. “Did you see the other car?” My trunk looks like a wrecking ball slammed into it. But I’m alive, and all I want is to get the hell out of here.
“It was black,” Bert says.
Martha jabs him in the shoulder. “You need your eyes checked. It was green.”
“You lost your glasses a week ago. It was black!” The two bicker over the color, which direction the car went, and whether I have a concussion for so long, I start limping away.
My hands are still shaking, but I unlock the door and start the engine before they notice. One of the tires wobbles a little, but I manage to back out of the space without the rear bumper falling off.
Bert calls after me. Hitting the gas harder than I should, I peel out of the lot.
“It was an accident. That’s all.” I say it a dozen times, but that doesn’t make it true.
No one knows who you are. You’ve been careful. The driver was texting. Or drunk. That’s the only explanation.
But is it? Was it really an accident? Or did someone try to hit me?
By the time I get close to home, my heart has stopped hammering against my ribs. Years of Frank’s training help me focus.
Check for a tail, get somewhere safe, and then decide what to do.
Rather than park on the street, I pull into an underground parking garage half a mile from my studio. I can’t afford the twenty-dollar-a-day rate for long, but with its crumpled rear end, my car is way too noticeable now.
I’m still a little dizzy, but I limp around five different blocks, checking behind me at every turn until I’m sure I’m not being followed. One of the first things Frank taught me was to always pay attention to my surroundings. Just in case.
After a hot shower, I crack a beer and open my ancient laptop. It’s slow as fuck, but half an hour of searching the internet and I’m satisfied Nash Grace is still as off the grid as he can be.
But what about Nathan Rossi?
Holding my breath, I type the name I was born with and click Search.
Half a dozen results pop up. An article in the Chicago Tribune about my junior high track team going to the state championships. Another one when we dominated, and I came home with a handful of medals.
And four separate links to obituaries. I’ve read them so many times, I could probably recreate them from memory—and every word is a lie.
Angelo Rossi was killed on March 30th, when the car he was driving veered off the road and hit a power pole. Also in the car were his wife, Stella, and their two children, Nathan, age twelve, and Mae, age six.
The forty-two-year-old real estate agent…
I slam the laptop shut and reach for my backpack. Bandit’s floppy ears are looking the worse for wear, and every time I pick him up, I worry his days are numbered. But I need to feel close to Mae. To try to remember my mom’s smile. Or my dad’s laugh.
My phone rings, and I jerk up. I fell asleep holding Bandit. His side is damp from my tears. Setting him next to me, I flip open the ancient device. “Hello?”
“Hey. It’s Raelynn. Are we still on for tomorrow?” Her honeyed voice chases the grief into the dark corners of my mind. “If not—”
“I’ll be there first thing. I should have called you earlier. I meant to, but…something came up.” I card my fingers through my hair until I hit the swelling behind my ear. “Shit.”
“Nash? Is everythin’ all right?”
“Fine.” The answer comes too quickly. Too sharply. “Sorry. The roof job today was a real headache.” The lie comes easily after all these years, but this time, the guilt hits hard. “I was about to turn in. Is 9:00 a.m. too early for me to show up tomorrow?”
“That’ll be just fine. You sure you’re…?” She pauses, and I’m hanging on her quiet little inhale, desperate for her next words—whatever they are. “Have a good night, Nash. I’ll see you in the mornin’.”
The call drops, and I’m left wondering how the hell I’m already in too deep. We’ve known each other for three days, and every time I’m around her—or even hear her voice—I want more. It shouldn’t matter that I never date. That I haven’t hooked up with anyone in years. My dick doesn’t get to call the shots.
My hand skims the bulge in my sweatpants, and I groan. Maybe a cold shower will help.
But as soon as I strip out of my clothes in the bathroom, I know I’m fucked. Palming my length, I picture Raelynn’s smile. I can practically feel her pressed against me.
“Nash…”
I tighten my grip, my other hand braced against the shower door. In my fantasy, she’s naked under me, her skin flushed, her hair tangled and spread over the pillow. Thrusting faster, I lean down so my lips are against her ear. “What do you want, sweetness?”
“You,” she gasps. “Only you, Nash.”
With a shout, I lose control, my release hitting the back of the shower and sending me to my knees.
“Enough.” I struggle to my feet and turn on the spray. The frigid water does its job, washing away the mess and calming me so I don’t think about Raelynn again until I crawl into bed.
If only it could stop her from invading my dreams.
Chapter Six
Raelynn
Doc Reynolds digs his fingers into my shoulder. For a split second, my vision goes white. I try to focus on his wrinkled brow, clenching my jaw.
“When you told me about the bike accident, I expected to find you in a lot more pain,” Reynolds says. “You didn’t do any additional damage that I can see. I’ll tell Ryker you’re cleared to resume training, but you have to promise me you’ll take it slow for the first couple of workouts.”
“I promise. Thanks, Doc.” Snagging my sweatshirt from the back of the chair, I slip it over my head. The slight twinge doesn’t bother me. On Sunday, I’ll be back on that climbing wall without a two-minute head start.
I’ll never beat West. Or Ryker. The man’s so tall, he can sprint faster than all of us—even after the Taliban broke fifty-four of his bones and left him with arthritis and permanent nerve damage.
But Graham is fair game. So’s Tank. He’s not used to these intense workouts. I’ll leave him in the dust.
“I mean it, Raelynn.” He zips up his bag—the damn thing looks like it’s straight out of the 1950s—and squares his shoulders. He carries himself with the authority of a man who’s served, but Ryker warned me not to ask him any questions. Part of the deal he made with Reynolds years ago. “You were lucky in Utah, and you’ve healed well. But in my experience, luck eventually runs out.”
His brown eyes are bloodshot, the bags underneath them darker than I remember. Ignoring Ryker’s orders ain’t smart, but I don’t care. The man is hurting. “You okay, Doc?”
He composes himself with a single, hard blink, and it’s like a mask slides back into place. “I shouldn’t have said anything. You just remind me of someone I used to know. Take care, Raelynn.”
A stiff breeze ruffles my hair as I walk him out to the porch.
“A little advice,” he says, pausing at the bottom of the steps. “If you’re going to stay in Seattle long term, get a car. Just because you can bike everywhere, doesn’t mean you should.”
I frown, though I know he’s right. Ryker’s said the same damn thing to me a hundred times.
“I pay you enough you can buy a car, probie.”
“Thanks, Doc. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I hope I don’t see you again for a long time.”
He chuckles as he crosses the street to his shiny silver SUV. With his brusque bedside manner and complete loyalty to Ryker, I doubt I’ll ever find out who I remind him of. Or why the memory made him so sad.
Nash’s beat-up Honda turns the corner, instantly brightening my mood. Until he pulls into the driveway. The trunk of his car has a dent in it the size of hell’s half acre.
“What happened?” It rained again last night, and icy water soaks into my wool socks as I jog over to him, but I don’t care. This is why he sounded off on the phone last night. Bad roofing job, my ass.
Dark circles brace his eyes. He hasn’t shaved, and when he shuts the door, he winces.
“Are you hurt?” I reach for his arm, but he stiffens.
“I wasn’t in the car,” he says, the rough edge to his voice sending my mood plummeting. “I’m fine.”
“Bullshit.” I give him the once over, zeroing in on the slight angle to his shoulders and the way he’s favoring his left leg. “Don’t lie to me, Mr. Fix-it.”
I’m tempted to call Doc Reynolds back. He can’t be more than a couple blocks away, but then I’d have to explain a doctor making house calls and never asking about insurance.
With a sigh, Nash leans over to grab a toolbox and his backpack from the passenger seat. “Some asshole came flying through the parking lot at the hardware store. I had to jump out of the way and fell. It’s nothing.”
“Jump out of the way? Shit.” I point to the large dent. “That could have been you!”
“It wasn’t,” he snaps. But two seconds later, he shakes his head. “Sorry. I’m being an ass. I didn’t sleep well last night. If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to get started.”
I shouldn’t care so much. I barely know him. But Nash came to my rescue when I needed it. I’d like to return the favor. If he’ll let me.
Biting my tongue before I tell him what I really do for a living, I nod at the house. “Come on, then. I just made a fresh pot of coffee. You look like you could use some. After that, I’ll leave you be.”
Relief softens his features, even brings a smile to his lips. “Thanks.”
I toss a glance over my shoulder as I lead him inside. The limp is subtle, like he’s trying to hide it, but the lines of pain tightening around his eyes give him away.
“What did the police say?” Kicking off my wet socks, I make a beeline for the kitchen.
“Nothing.” If his tone didn’t tell me everything I needed to know, the way he’s staring down at his boots would. He didn’t call them.
Coffee pot in hand, I give him my best Texas side-eye. “Someone almost runs you down and pancakes your car, but you just shrug it off like it never happened? I didn’t take you for an idjit.”
His toolbox hits the ancient linoleum with a loud thud. I set the pot down as Nash throws his shoulders back and stalks over to me. “Drop it, Raelynn. It was an accident. I didn’t see the driver or get the license number. I’m fine. My car’s…fine. If you really do think I’m an idiot, then I’ll leave. But you owe me forty-three bucks for the parts.”
I tilt my head up to meet his gaze and almost take a step back. There’s a darkness churning in his eyes that should frighten me. But I can hold my own in any fight, and I sure as shit ain’t backing down in my own damn house.
“Where’d it happen? Which hardware store?” I jam my hands on my hips, daring him not to answer.
“It doesn’t matter because I’m not reporting it.”
He moves to sidestep me, but I grab his left hand. His palm is scraped, and when I skim my fingers down to his wrist, I find a bruise darkening the skin. “So, this is nothing? You’re limping. Did you hit your head too?”
He stiffens when I touch his temple. Two inches back, there’s a knot three fingers wide. “For fuck’s sake. You could have a concussion!”
“I’m done with this conversation.” Nash takes a step back, grabs his toolbox, and backs toward the door. “I should go.”
If I push him any harder, he’ll bolt and I’ll never see him again. Or have a working heater. “Wait. Cold front’s comin’ in next week. Will you stay? I’ll drop it.”
He touches the thick scar over his left brow and sighs. “I don’t like the idea of you living here without heat. So, yeah. I will.”
I scoot around him, fully intending to flee to my bedroom, but pause after a beat. “Help yourself to coffee. I’ll be upstairs if you need…anything.”
Nash
It’s a good three hours before the basement door opens and Raelynn calls down the stairs, “I made lunch. Come up if you’re hungry.”
I shouldn’t. She’ll want to talk. Or worse. She’ll remind me why I can’t file a police report or go to a hospital or call my non-existent insurance company. But it’s fucking freezing down here, and if nothing else, I could do with a fresh cup of coffee and a few minutes of daylight.
I laid awake half the night replaying the hit-and-run. The driver was wearing sunglasses. It was a black car. A sedan, I think. It’s all a blur outside of those sunglasses.
The scent of something rich and spicy leads me into the kitchen.
“Chili,” Raelynn says, handing me a steaming bowl. “Jalapeños and cheese are in the fridge.”
I follow her lead, piling on the sliced peppers and shredded cheddar. “This smells great.”
“My mama’s recipe.” She shrugs, fills both of our coffee cups, and gestures to the living room. “Got the fire goin’. Reckon you need to warm up a bit.”
“These old basements never get much above sixty. I should have brought my coat.” I follow and take a seat next to her on the faded blue sofa.
Sun streams through the windows, and with the logs burning in the hearth—and a bowl of chili in my hands—the room feels so much more inviting than it did the other night. Awkwardness sets in, the silence broken only by the scrape of spoons and the crackle of the flames.
“I overreacted,” I say, desperate to fix whatever I broke between us this morning. “I didn’t call the police because what would I tell them? I didn’t get the guy’s license number or see his face. My car’s fifteen years old. It’s not worth fixing. If I filed a claim, insurance would just total it. I can’t afford to buy a new one.”
She sets her bowl on the side table and turns, bending one leg so she’s facing me. The early afternoon light turns her eyes the deepest shade of blue, and I can’t look away.
“I don’t mean to get all up in your business. You came to my rescue the other night, and I…shit. This,” she gestures between us, “ain’t somethin’ I’m good at.”
“This?”
With a sigh, she starts fiddling with the hem of her sweatshirt. “I can talk a blue streak about nothin’, but I’m shit at makin’…friends. Hell, I haven’t told anyone but my doctor about the other night. Sooner or later, West is gonna notice I’m not bikin’ to the dojo, but he won’t say anythin’, and neither will I.”
All those feelings I buried last night come rushing back. I shrug, giving her a small smile. “I move around too much to make friends. Can’t really get to know people when you never stay in one place for more than six months.”
“So why don’t you put down roots? Seattle’s as good a place as any.”
The hint of longing in her voice surprises me. Is she just making conversation? Or does she want me to stick around? There’s a spark between us I can’t deny—despite how little I actually know about her. Does she feel it too?
I don’t have an answer. Not an honest one, anyway. “I’ve thought about it. I loved living here when I was a kid. But Seattle is too damn expensive for me to stay long term. Picking up odd jobs here and there is good enough to pay my grocery bill, but not to afford rent in this town. If it weren’t for Adam letting me live above the shop for free, I’d have left weeks ago.”
Raelynn frowns, and damn if I don’t want to take it all back and find a way to stay.
She rubs her shoulder, and I wonder if it’s still hurting her. “I’ve lived in this house for six months. Rehung those French doors, painted the kitchen and dining room, and replaced the bathroom sink. But every day, I find something else that’s broken or worn out. If you have some extra time on your hands…I can fill it. And pad your bank account a little.”
My mouth goes dry, shock staling my words until she says my name. “Nash? Does fifty bucks an hour sound like a fair rate?”
