“You mentioned a boyfriend you had in college. Any chance he’s the guy doing this?”
I think back to my ex, Rhys. Our relationship hadn’t ended on good terms. He was an incredibly needy and demanding boyfriend, and when I broke it off shortly after Cooper’s death, he didn’t handle it well. He got emotionally desperate and started to do a bunch of crazy shit, like ringing me in the middle of the night, crying and pleading, or showing up at my work to confront me about some wild scenario he’d created in his mind. His parents eventually took him out of college and moved him back East where they lived, to get him some help.
That was four years ago, and I haven’t heard anything from him since.
I tell Jack about Rhys.
“I think we need to find out where your ex-boyfriend is,” he says. He disappears inside and returns a few minutes later with his laptop. Handing it to me, he adds, “We need to find out what he’s been up to for the past few years. Look him up and see what you can find.”
I type in Rhys Peyton-Rutherford into Google and net quite a few results. But they’re all for the same reason.
“Prominent local businessman’s son dies in a car wreck,” one of the headlines says. I click on it. Immediately, Rhys’s face comes into view. It’s his high school yearbook photograph. Beside it is a black and white image of a wrecked car. It had slid down a steep ravine and was crumpled against a tree. According to the news article, Rhys died a year ago after his car lost control and crashed, killing him instantly.
Regret pours through me.
I didn’t know.
It had been a dark time in my life, so I’ve never wanted to think about it. About him. I left him in the past, tucked quietly away inside the deep recess of my brain, not knowing he was dead. Damn. I had wanted him to get help and find peace, but now he’s gone.
“Well, that eliminates him as a suspect,” Jack says. “Can you think of anyone else?”
“I can’t think of anyone,” I say.
Trying, I can’t keep the hopelessness out of my voice and hate that I can’t. I’m not a weak person. I’m strong. Practical. Levelheaded. But The Poet and his crazy messages have me wanting to cry at the drop of a goddamn hat.
Jack crouches down in front of me and puts a hand on my knee. It’s warm and gentle, just like his eyes as he says, “We’ll find out who’s doing this to you, wildflower. You have my word. Until then, you’ll stay with me. I’ll speak to the club tomorrow, and we’ll begin looking into this. You’ll have the support of the entire club behind you. And you know Paw is basically a bloodhound. There’s nothing he can’t find out.”
Glancing at Jack, our eyes linger, and something crackles in the balmy air around us. My smile fades as an urge to kiss him sweeps through me like a sudden summer shower. My gaze drops to his lips and an aching need takes up in my chest. Despite the circumstances, I feel my attraction toward Jack growing.
Lifting my eyes, I draw in a deep breath. He’s looking at me. And even though I can’t read his expression, it’s dark and beautiful, and little fires ignite all over me.
But he breaks the spell when he rises to his feet. “You need to get some rest. Things will seem a lot better in the morning.”
He’s right. I’m tired. Right through to my goddamn bones.
I follow him inside, but even then, my eyes sweep over the big form of his muscular body, and my heart startles with a wicked appreciation.
When we say good night, he disappears into his bedroom and closes the door behind him, and I feel an urge to open it and crawl into the warm bed beside him, just so I can feel his strength and safety beside me and those strong arms tucking me into his protective embrace.
Instead, I go to Cooper’s old room and close the door quietly behind me. I slip into bed and try to sleep, but despite my fatigue, I know sleep isn’t going to come easy. My mind is a whirl with emotion as I stare at the fan lazily cutting into the heavy night air.
I don’t know what time I fall asleep or if I really sleep at all. All I know is that the fog in my head has lifted and clarity has sunk in.
I want Jack.
I want him in every way possible.
JACK
The following morning, I wake with a raging hard-on and a belly full of guilt.
Lying in bed, I’m at war with myself.
Straight up, I’m hard because of her. I know it but refuse to admit it, so I start lying to myself. I tell myself that me being hard as fuck has nothing to do with seeing her sitting on my porch in the middle of the night, near-naked in her tank top and tiny panties. It has nothing to do with the feel of her warm skin beneath my palms when I’d placed a reassuring hand on her leg. Or the dream I’d had about her last night where I’d gotten to touch those plush pink lips with mine.