His expression didn’t change. That annoyed me. I wanted to evoke some kind of emotion in him. Especially rage, anger. Not the boring smiles Deacon gave me, as distracting as they were.
“You weren’t at home,” he replied. “Figured this would be the one place in town you’d be.” He glanced up at the bar, then back at me. “You’re still meant to be on crutches.”
“I’m fine,” I snapped.
“You’re stubborn, there’s a difference,” he replied.
I folded my arms. “Did you really come into town to try and shame my drinking habits and lack of crutches, because I’m certain that neither of those things are any of your business.”
“Agreed,” he replied.
I waited for more. For him to give something else that constituted a reason for him to be standing in doorways, plotting to break my nose with his chest.
Nothing.
I was not playing this game.
So, I moved toward my car. I didn’t get far.
“You’re not drivin’.”
I turned, my brow already raised, my eyes already narrowed. “Excuse me?”
He didn’t answer, just walked forward and snatched the keys that were dangling from my fingers. I didn’t have the presence of mind to decide to stab him in the eye with them first. The urge was there.
“I’m responsible for you. Driving with what I’m guessing is more than three whiskys on you, since I can smell it on your breath.” He made sure to pause, to hold my attention, to capture my eyes with his gaze. “And baby, I’m not saying I don’t like the smell of whisky on your breath, I just don’t like the thought of you wrapping yourself around a power pole ’cause your reaction time is delayed and your ankle isn’t up to drivin’ a stick.”
He was right. My reaction time was delayed, because I didn’t stab him in the eye. And handling a stick with an ankle I could barely walk on was no picnic. No way would I tell him that.
I was getting serious déjà vu rushing to catch up with him and retrieve my keys. I didn’t catch him until he’d stopped outside a black truck.
“This isn’t my car.”
“Can’t be that concussed.”
I gritted my teeth. “You need to give me my keys back. This is theft, I’ll report it.”
His glasses pointed in my direction. “Go ahead. Mick is an underpaid, overweight cop that calls the shots in this town and is lookin’ to cruise to retirement without issues. Despite his laziness, he’s a good man, who will be forced to ask you why you wanted your keys when your blood alcohol is over the legal limit.” He opened his door. “Get in the truck, walk home, or I’m sure Deacon would be happy to take you home.”
I bristled at his tone. Or lack of one. He sounded completely disinterested either way. Apart from his faint interest at my nipples for half a second a week ago, he didn’t show the same attraction the aforementioned Deacon did. It would’ve been the easiest option to march right back to that bar, slam another two whisky’s and take Deacon up on his offer.
Getting laid might even inspire me. It hadn’t before, but that said more about the quality of sex that I was getting than anything. Although I had the best vibrator in the business and even after multiple orgasms, all I wanted was carbs, horror movies and wine— not a laptop with an empty screen.
There was a first time for everything.
Deacon was easy. Interesting, maybe even weird. But not weird or interesting enough to inspire me. The easy choice never did.
So, I sent Saint one last glare before rounding the truck and hoisting myself in.
He didn’t say anything.
I didn’t either, though I had many choice words to sling in his direction. Instead, I concentrated on inspecting the interior of his truck. It was an older model. In good condition, clean to the point of obsessive. Not even a rogue candy bar wrapper or beer can. Then again, looking at his biceps and stomach, he wasn’t pounding many beers or eating candy bars.
I considered him more of a whisky man. Maybe I just wanted something similar between us that wasn’t our darkness.
“Why do you feel responsible for me?” I blurted, forgetting the vow of furious silence I had promised myself I would keep. I was not one to break promises to myself, especially when men were concerned. More accurately, men who had the idea they could control me.
Though, it didn’t even seem like he was trying to control me. He gave me choices. Escapes. And if I read the situation right—which I knew I was—then he wanted me to take those escapes. I was not his prisoner. Somehow, he was mine.
I liked that. Relished that. But I was greedy. I wanted more. I wanted the reasons. The words.
He didn’t answer for a long while. “Because I made a choice, not to walk past you lying there. Made a choice to step in front of fate, destiny, whatever and I changed the course of your life. Extended it. I’m not a man of honor, so it’s not about that. But even I have to have a code to live by.”
He didn’t make eye contact with me. That irked me. I didn’t care that he was driving, that he would put us both in danger in order to give me the eye contact I craved.
“You have a code?” I repeated, making sure to make my disbelief show. “No. That’s not it.”
“And you think you know me well enough to make that call?” he asked, vague irritation in his voice.
That was satisfying.
“Yeah, I know you well enough to make that call,” I replied.
He stared at the road. “Well, you’ll figure you’re wrong sooner or later. Sometimes, Magnolia, life isn’t a fucking a story. Not like one of your books. Sometimes things just are the way they are. No embellishment. No bullshit.”
He surprised me enough to keep me silent for the ride home. He had read my books? At the very least, he knew I was an author. What kind of author. But that wasn’t a revelation. Anyone with an internet connection could find that out.
“Out,” he commanded.
I jerked slightly at the tone. The violence in it.
We were at my place. He was staring straight forward and the truck was still running. He made no move to get out, or ask me if I needed help.
I liked that. He was kicking me out of his truck without a second thought.
I opened the door and looked toward the house. “You’re right, Saint,” I said, not looking at him. “Sometimes people are simple. No bullshit. But trust me, baby. You’re not simple.”
Then I got out of the truck, going to great pains to not stumble, to not limp or look back when I walked to the door.
Chapter 9
“She had a man. One that stalked through the woods at the night. Coming to her. He didn’t care about her. No, he cared for no one. He could’ve been a problem if he cared. He could’ve killed me as easy as breathing. But he left her. Defenseless. Waiting for me.”
“Ah, I was worried you weren’t going to make it in for your early afternoon whisky,” Deacon said, putting his book—my book—down when I sat on what was now considered “my” seat. He was already pouring by the time I put my purse down on the stool beside me.
“I’m a writer with a deadline, no book, and thousands of missed calls from her agent. What makes you think I’m not making it into her local dive bar to day drink?” I snapped.