“No! Jesus, I told you a hundred times, I didn’t kill that piece of shit.”
I replace the letter in my pocket. “Do you own a firearm?”
He hesitates. Wets his lips and looks around.
That’s a yes, but he’s reluctant to share.
The cops must have asked him this question, right?
Why does it seem like the first time he’s answering this question?
“Look, I don’t have the authority to fine you for not having permits. Just tell me how many.” I click open my pen. “And what models.”
I already have information on his registered weapons, but what he’s actually holding could differ. Drastically. There’s always something extra hiding somewhere.
Sighing, he rubs at his eye sockets. “Couple of thirty-five millimeters for hunting. A Glock for protection. Nothing crazy.”
He’s not looking me in the eye. “And which one doesn’t have a permit?”
A bead of sweat rolls down the side of his face. “The Glock,” he sighs.
“Mind if I take a look at it?”
“I loaned it out to a buddy,” he says. Too quickly?
Even though Forrester is acting shady, there is something that doesn’t place him at the scene for me. He doesn’t have an alibi—claims to have been home alone. But there is something cold and precise about a bullet in the center of a man’s head that doesn’t speak to this man’s temperament. There are two dozen pictures framed on the walls depicting his hunting accomplishments and in every single one of them, he’s surrounded by friends, antlers in one hand, a can of beer in the other. When he beat up Oscar Stanley, he had an audience, too. His daughter and all of her friends.
Forrester wouldn’t be satisfied with a quiet, solitary killing. For my money, it doesn’t fit, even if I can’t quite cross his name off the list yet.
We go over his story one more time, me searching for those subtle changes that can often break a case open, but he’s firm on details and getting impatient with me in his kitchen. It’s late afternoon by the time I get on my bike and head back to my motel on the Cape. With evening turning the highway into a sea of headlights, I try and fail not to think of a certain brunette with green eyes. Not a simple feat when her frilly red panties are burning a hole in my pocket.
Walking into my rented room a while later, I take them out, laying them flat on the nightstand. Smoothing the see-through panels that run vertical at the hips. Just a peek of skin.
Does that mean she’s a tease in the sack?
Yeah.
Yeah, I bet she’d work me up good before letting me drag these off. Fill her up tight.
What the hell am I doing carrying around her underwear?
These urges Taylor has woken up inside of me in such a short space of time…they’re not typical for me by any means. I’m not the jealous type, but I didn’t like the asshole assistant smiling at her. I’ve never been possessive, but when she was underneath me…I could feel her wanting to be dominated. She liked my hand on her throat. She liked being pinned. And the way she turned to me for reassurance after all of it? I have no experience with soothing women. That idea would have been laughable as recently as this morning. Still, I somehow knew exactly what to do. For Taylor. Like we communicated without saying a word.
Meanwhile I couldn’t even communicate with actual words in my first disastrous marriage? Jesus. Nah, I must have imagined those tugs of intuition with Taylor.
No way I’d be good for her. I’d be in it for the fucking. She’s the kind of woman who emotionally invests in everything. Crying over pandas and shit. Christ. Thinking about her in red lace panties is the last thing I should be doing, because I’m not just fantasizing. Not just thinking of how good the sex would be.
I’m thinking of her…
Smiling up at me.
Telling me how good I’m making it for her.
I’m thinking of her fingers in my hair and all over my back.
I’m thinking of…the trust in her eyes.
“Nope. No, no, no.” I swipe the panties off the nightstand and shove them back into my pocket. “Going to return them. You are giving them back.”
So she can wear them for another man?
Suddenly, my jaw feels like it’s about to snap.
Which is why when my phone rings, I am too distracted to look at the caller ID. I simply thumb the green button and bark, “This is Sumner. What do you want?”
“Hello, Myles Sumner.” Taylor’s exhale in my ear turns a slow crank in my belly. “Shouldn’t a bounty hunter have an intimidating nickname? Like Hellhound or Lone Wolf?”
“Only if they’re an overinflated asshole.” Hearing her voice in the middle of the mental tug-of-war she inspired isn’t doing great things for my patience. But I’m not impatient with her. I’m annoyed at myself for being so damn relieved to hear from her. “Why are you calling me, half pint? I’m busy.”