Last night, he’d been the first man to treat me like I was special and actually beautiful. Now, he’s treating me like a fucking freak, like a monster, just like the other assholes do. Goddamn him for making me think he was different. That he saw me differently.
His glare is so searing, it’s a wonder it hasn’t incinerated my flesh. After what seems like an eternity, he lowers his gun and shoves it in his holster. He pulls something from his pocket and holds up a piece of cardstock pinched between two of his fingers.
My business card.
“Somebody gave me this. Said if I wanted to know about my sister’s death, I needed to head here.”
A fissure of alarm races through me, and I stare at him like he’s fucking crazy. Because, right now, I’m convinced he is.
My fingers twitch, but it’s still no use with how he’s pinned my hands awkwardly above my head. “Get the fuck off my property.” I raise my leg, attempting to kick at him somehow, but he’s too quick and slams his entire body against mine once again.
“Why would somebody tell me this?” His tone is so icy, it threatens to turn this place into Antarctica.
“I don’t really give a fuck. All I know is, a normal person wouldn’t just come at me like a fucking psycho with accusations and a damn gun.” I grit my teeth. “I won’t say it again. Get. The fuck. Off my property.”
“You’re not really in the position to be makin’ demands.”
Goddamn him. I struggle against his hold, wishing like hell I could stop everything and shove him back in his car, drive him back to his motel, and drop him there before I leave and start time again.
It pisses me off that he doesn’t show any real sign of exertion against my struggles aside from the irritation flaring in his gaze.
His voice is a low rumble. “You’re gonna hurt yourself if you keep that up.”
“Says the asshole who just had a gun shoved beneath my chin,” I fire back.
His mouth parts, no doubt to spout off something else that’ll piss me off even more, when a familiar vehicle pulls into the driveway and starts heading toward us.
Fuck me. Just what I need. As if dealing with him isn’t bad enough.
If looks could kill, Daniel Madrano would be experiencing rigor mortis by now from my expression. He doesn’t register its effect aside from the tiny flicker in his stubbled jaw before he tosses a glance at the approaching vehicle.
Shoulders visibly tensing at the prominent emblem on the side of the car, his razor-sharp stare veers back to me, his tone sharp and intimidating.
“You expectin’ company?”
“Oh, of course.” My tone bleeds sarcasm, and that muscle in his jaw flickers wildly. “The sheriff comes over for tea and gossip on Saturday mornings. It’s totally our thing.” With a fake smile, I bat my eyelashes. “It’s also how I stay out of jail for prostituting myself on the street corner.”
He reluctantly eases his grip, and I rip my hands from his hold. The vehicle stops behind Daniel’s car, and the sheriff emerges slowly. That’s because last night was all-you-can-eat ribs in the next town over and he never misses out on that.
He ambles toward us, his gaze sweeping over Daniel’s car, noticing its less-than-stellar condition.
As usual, once the sheriff’s eyes flick in my direction, he quickly averts his gaze. I suppose for him my scars are on par with staring directly at the midday sun. “Mornin’, Mac.”
“Morning, Sheriff.”
Sheriff Buckley hooks his thumbs through his belt loops. He might think this makes him look tough, but it’s hard to take him seriously when his belly extends well past his belt buckle. Stretched taut, his shirt buttons threaten to burst free at any moment.
His eyes volley between Daniel and me as he works the toothpick in between his teeth. His bushy mustache quivers with each movement like a furry caterpillar.
“Got a call with some info sayin’ there was a shootin’ this mornin’ down at The Pelican Inn.”
Focusing on Daniel, he narrows his eyes into slits. The sheriff might think this is intimidating, but it really looks as if he’s struggling to focus on an optometrist’s vision test. “Any reason why somebody’d wanna take shots at you, boy?”
Daniel remains stoic, maintaining eye contact with the sheriff, his tone flat. “No reason comes to mind.”
Sheriff Buckley lets out a, “Hmm,” before giving Daniel a scrutinizing once-over. “Heard you didn’t engage in the shootin’.”
He works his toothpick to the left side. “Don’t mean I trust you. Just means you’re off the hook for now. But”—he points two fingers at his own eyes before directing them at Daniel—“I got my eyes on you, boy, so don’t think of leavin’ town just yet.”
Daniel holds the man’s stare calmly. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” It doesn’t take a genius to know what he’s silently saying. That was definitely a Fuck off.
The sheriff’s expression hardens, likely disappointed that his intimidation tactics failed on Daniel, before he heads back to his vehicle.
He stops at his open door and casts one more squinty-eyed look at Daniel. “Better watch your step, boy, and hope you haven’t brought none of that riffraff of yours to my town.”
With that, he nods at me and offers a simple, “Mac.”
I offer the same in return. “Sheriff.”
It isn’t until Sheriff Buckley’s car disappears from sight that Daniel mutters, “I’m in motherfuckin’ Deliverance.”
A small laugh escapes me before I can tamp it down. “Welcome to Mandarin Springs.”
The blanket of tension that’s hung over the garage bay since he arrived decreases slightly. He tips his head to the side, regarding me with a fraction less animosity than moments before.
“Why would somebody tell me to come here for answers about my sister?”
I release a long breath. “Hell if I know.” I eye him sharply. “But if you think you can barge in here and pull a gun on me, and I’ll accept it—”
“The fuck would you’ve done if you were me?” Hostility oozes from his pores, but frustration stampedes to the forefront when he rakes a rough hand through his hair.
Eyes, dark and insolent, pin me in place. “You gonna say you wouldn’t have done the same fuckin’ thing?”
I plant my hands on my hips and stare at him haughtily. “I don’t make a habit of going around and threatening people, Danny.”
Fury threatens to choke me. I don’t know what makes me say it, but I do, and I don’t give a shit if it wounds his fragile male ego. Because I am supremely pissed right now.
“Most of all, I certainly don’t shove a goddamn gun beneath their chin after a night of mediocre fucking.” My tone turns snarky. “You might be in a big, bad gang up in Jacksonville, but you obviously know fuck all about how small towns work.
“Because, in less than ten seconds of you walking into the Freebird last night, you would’ve learned if I was a fucking bunny boiler who’d have somebody try to kill you.”
Oppressively tense silence descends over us, and I force myself not to look away from his unforgiving gaze. His lips thin with annoyance. “Nothin’ about it was mediocre.”