by Aleah Barley
“I was supposed to be.”
“Damn.” So it wasn’t just arson. It was attempted murder.
Someone wanted Honey dead.
Standing in her backyard, less than ten feet from the husk of her house, she was a sitting duck for any villain who decided to come looking for her in order to finish what they’d started the night before. He had a dozen questions he wanted to ask her about the fire, but first he needed to make sure she was safe.
“Let’s get out of the open, sweetheart.”
Nothing happened. “I’ll take you out to breakfast,” he added.
Breakfast seemed to be the magic word, because her head started nodding against his chest.
“I could use some coffee.” She stepped backward, tightening her grip on the backpack she was carrying. The bag was heavy, weighed down by contents that shifted and bulged when she moved.
There was definitely something in the crawl space under the house—or there had been until a few minutes ago. Now it was in the bag.
Prying might give him some answers—a hint as to what was going on—but it would also make Honey pull away, and he couldn’t risk that. He turned her, slipped one arm around her waist, and began to lead her back toward the parked cars.
He’d take care of this. What kind of police officer would he be if he couldn’t figure out who had set fire to one house? What kind of man would he be if he couldn’t keep Honey safe?
“Where do you want to go?”
…
Slumped in the passenger seat of the Super Bee, Honey took one deep breath after another. Her grandfather’s words rang in her mind. The only protection you’ll ever have is your wits.
Still, she felt calmer with Jack sitting beside her. Her wits might be powerful protection, but it sure felt nice to be able to count on his broad shoulders and strong right hook.
Jack’s hand dropped down to rest on her knee, the move familiar, possessive, and surprisingly reassuring.
“Don’t worry, Honey. Everything’s going to be all right,” he promised. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”
He took his hand off her leg long enough to pull the car out of the driveway and throw it into gear. Then his long fingers were back, squeezing her knee, working their way slowly up her thigh.
“Everything’s going to be all right,” he repeated.
No amount of kind words could stop the hair on the back of her neck from standing up. “Jack,” she said, a short gasp. “Jack—”
“What is it, Honey?” He drew each word out, like he was talking to a child. “You want me to turn on the radio?”
They pulled out of the small side street onto a major thoroughfare. Four lanes in each direction, heading toward the freeway.
“Something’s wrong. Something…” Staring out the window, straight into the side mirror, Honey took a deep breath.
The wrongness was only a feeling, an itch at the base of her spine, until she saw a car switching lanes behind them. A boxy sedan in a nondescript color somewhere between beige and green. Aftermarket headlights made it look heavy, ominous. Fog lights that had cut through the darkness the night before like a knife.
“There.” Honey twisted in her seat to point at the car. “That’s the guy who burned down my house.”
He sucked in a sharp gust of air. “What are you talking about?”
“That car. It was outside my house last night. Jack, please—” He had to believe her. They were in danger. “It followed me last night.”
“You can’t know that for sure,” he said. “There have to be a hundred cars like that in this city. Maybe a thousand.” But a second later, he yanked the steering wheel to one side. Making a sharp right without signaling, he sent the Super Bee off down a side street. Two blocks of calm, quiet, and then the sedan turned onto the street behind them.
“It’s a coincidence,” he said.
Neither of them believed it.
Another turn.
“Wait.” In the mirror, Honey could see the boxy sedan idling at the corner. “They’re slowing down.”
“They’re giving us time to pull ahead.” Jack kept one eye on the rearview mirror. “That’s a good thing. The driver doesn’t know he’s been spotted.”
“Put your foot on the gas.” They needed speed. The sedan was getting closer with every passing second. A lead foot on the gas pedal was the only thing that could save them.
Last night, she’d darted through traffic for forty-five minutes before finally losing the sedan on a freeway entry ramp. Luckily, the Super Bee was faster than her old truck.
“Come on, Jack,” Her teeth were clenched. “That thing’s a boat. You can outrun it any day of the—”
“I’m not outrunning anyone.” Another quick turn. “Not in a residential neighborhood.”
It was Saturday at eleven in the morning. No one was on the streets. They were all sleeping in.
The only person whose safety she was worried about was her own. “Oh, sweet lord, why did I let you drive? Pull over, we’re switching seats.”
“Over my dead body. This is my car. I’m driving.” Jack leaned forward slightly. “I can lose him on Eucalyptus. This guy’s a good driver, but he doesn’t know the neighborhood.”
“He’s not the only one who doesn’t know the neighborhood.”
She twisted around to look at the sedan and thought of something else. Nothing said they had to run away. If they faced the sedan’s driver now, they’d have the element of surprise.
“Let’s get this over with. Turn around.”
“Like hell.”
“I thought you were going to help me.”
“I am helping you.”
“Then why aren’t you listening to me?” Her voice broke on the last word.
“All right, Honey.” Jack took a deep breath. “What do you think we should do?”
Turn around.
A short confrontation and a quick ending. The sedan’s ominous occupants against Jack’s gun. It could all be over in a matter of moments.
Rough justice. Her blood sang at the thought.
Of course, it could always go the other way. There was no telling how the sedan’s driver was armed. A man who could burn a house down, putting nearby homes and families in danger…he could do anything. He could do anything to Jack.
“Run.” Honey licked her lips. “Not Eucalyptus. Take Porter.”
Porter was narrow, a small alley between two larger roads. It was also a straight shot to the Santa Monica pass. Five minutes, and they could be home free.
“Fine.” Jack bit his lip. Porter was still six blocks away, but now the houses were whipping by, one grassy front lawn after another. He reached up to adjust his rearview window for a better view of the following car.
Two quick turns, and they were accelerating down Porter.
Thunk.
The sedan rammed into the back of the Super Bee loud enough to make Honey jump.
Jack hurried to shift, taking them up a gear.
“I guess they figured out our plan.” He goosed the gas pedal, and the car let out a low roar.
Another collision. This time harder, faster.
“They’re going to run us into a wall,” Jack growled.
“Not a chance.”
Honey’s head was spinning, first with terror and then with dozens of ideas. It was all happening too fast. She took a deep breath, forcing air into her lungs.
This wasn’t right.
The Super Bee was a classic. Looks, muscle, and speed. The bad guys shouldn’t be able to catch up. This was a race between modern fiberglass and heavy steel, and—
That was it. Steel.
“Stop.” Her hand snapped out, grabbing Jack’s bicep. “The next time they try to ram us, you need to stop.”
“You want to let them ram my car?”
“I don’t care what kind of aftermarket engine they’ve got in that car, it’s still a piece of crud. A sedan like that, probably made in the late eighties, early ni
neties. The front bumper’s all Styrofoam and plastic.”
Honey tugged at her seat belt, double-checking to make sure it was fastened securely. This was going to work. Definitely.
Probably.
“This car is made out of steel. The best Detroit has to offer. We stop short, and they’re going to ram straight into us. That car will split in two.”
“Yeah, but what’s it going to do to my car?”
“Not much. If we’re damaged at all, it will be a dented bumper.”
Jack’s body was tense. His teeth dug into his bottom lip. Being chased through the streets of Los Angeles by bad guys, that was fine. It was the thought that his precious car might get hurt that had him hyperventilating.
“I’ll fix it myself,” she said. Behind them, the sedan sped up, preparing to ram them again. Honey squeezed Jack’s arm tighter. “I promise.”
The Super Bee’s breaks squealed, bringing them to a sudden stop.
A second passed.
Two.
Then the collision.
Crash. Bam. Bang.
Paint against paint. Metal on plastic. The force sent the Super Bee hurtling forward. Glass rained down around them, the noise of it hitting the top of the car like hail on a cold day. The seat belt dug into Honey’s body hard enough to bruise.
“Damn it,” Jack groaned. “Honey.” His head slumped forward, his chin resting heavily on his chest. “Are you all right?”
“I’m okay.”
The Super Bee hadn’t crumpled, but the crash had been worse than Honey expected. Turning in her seat, she could hear screams over the ringing in her ears. Crying.
Sobs coming out of her own mouth.
The sedan’s front bumper had torn off entirely. The windshield was gone. The doors had crumpled.
Honey’s head was pounding. Her muscles ached.
The world spun awkwardly for a long moment.
It must have been longer than she thought, because when she came back to herself, she could hear sirens out the car’s open window.
Things had gotten very serious, very fast.
Her entire life, she’d never once called the police. Not as a criminal. Not even as a law-abiding citizen. Calling the police meant putting herself out there, putting herself in danger. It would draw attention to her actions and to her neighborhood.
She wiped away her tears. “What are you going to tell them?”
“The truth.” Jack cleaned his face on the edge of his sleeve, frowning.
He shook his head. “I can’t tell them the truth, can I? Not without admitting you stole my gun. My badge. Is that three strikes?” His nostrils flared. “It doesn’t matter, even if I don’t tell them. They’ll want to know why you didn’t make a statement last night. Things will get really complicated really fast. You could end up going to jail for a very long time.”
Honey’s stomach turned.
Outside, it was a beautiful day. The sun hung high in the sky, bright gold against a cerulean sky. Inside, she felt tired, hurt, and sick. Jack was the most honest man she knew. A shining knight on a white horse. A genuine hero. And he was willing to lie to the police for her.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“You better be. You know what’ll happen if Internal Affairs finds out about this? They won’t stop at suspension. I’ll be finished. Forever. I’ll be lucky if I’m fired. They might stick me on a traffic detail for the rest of my life.”
Jack climbed out of the car, swearing under his breath as his shoulder slammed against the top of the car door.
“I’m so sorry,” she repeated, if only to herself.
Chapter Six
In the daylight, Jack’s apartment was bright and cheerful.
Honey hated it.
Why did he get to live in a pretty place when her house looked like charcoal? She was a good person. Most of the time.
She went to church. Occasionally.
She deserved something good to happen in her life, not a damn fire.
Her head throbbed. Frayed nerves made it hard to think. Someone was trying to kill her. She took a deep breath, struggling to stay focused on what was going on in front of her.
With a sigh, she ate a cookie. Chocolate chip. Dry. Brittle.
If she was going to spend any real time at Jack’s, she’d have to make a grocery run. She’d been through his kitchen—twice—and the results were distressing. All he had was fair-trade coffee and organic fruit. She was going through junk food withdrawal.
“Stop that.” A big hand grabbed at the box she was holding. “You’re going to ruin your appetite.”
“I still can’t believe you cook.”
It had been her idea to go back to Jack’s apartment when they finished giving their statements to the police. Apparently, a badge was good for more than asking questions. It had also been a “get out of trouble fast” pass with the uniformed officers who’d responded to the car accident. There’d barely been enough time for Honey to retrieve her bag and Jack’s phone from the Super Bee before one of the patrolmen gave them a ride home.
After the morning’s excitement, she’d figured all she needed was a cup of coffee and a handful of cookies—good cookies—and she’d be back on top. Jack was the one who’d insisted on cooking.
It wasn’t fair. Good looks, great apartment, and the ability to bring her breakfast in bed. All those times she’d thought about him as the perfect man, she’d been joking. Mostly. But it wasn’t a joke. He really was perfect.
“I think I hate you,” Honey said.
“It’s not like I’m making crème brûlée. I’m reheating waffles, frying some bacon, and poaching a couple of eggs.”
That was true. With a little time and a lot of effort, she could make a better breakfast, but she hadn’t been on a grocery run in weeks, and what was left of her raw supplies was a pile of sludge. Besides, her bacon never lasted until breakfast. No matter how hard she tried to maintain her self-control, she always ended up eating it while watching the eleven o’clock news.
“We could get married. I could live here, and you could cook.”
Jack stilled, his entire body frozen in place by her words.
Fine. She knew they weren’t going to get married. He didn’t like her, and she was trying to avoid death by fireball. The idea had been insane, an off-handed comment intended to provoke a laugh, but that didn’t mean he had to look like he’d seen a ghost.
After a long moment, he finally let out a breath. “Aren’t you getting ahead of yourself, Honey?”
“Right, you don’t even like me.”
“Oh, I like you.” Jack’s grin was cocky. Self-satisfied.
He went back to cooking, using a spatula to remove bacon from the sizzling frying pan and placing it carefully on the plate he’d already prepared with two layers of paper towels. Even that small action was enough to make muscles shift, drawing her attention to the way his shirt pulled across his biceps.
“I really like you,” he said. “But there’s still the little question of how we’d be in bed.”
She put down the cookies and leaned forward to snag a piece of bacon. The long strip of meat was juicy. It burnt the tips of her fingers. She took a quick bite, downing it hungrily.
Heaven.
She licked her fingers clean. “Maybe we’d be better off as friends. I’m not very good at sex.”
Jack dropped his spatula. “Excuse me?”
“I’m not very good at sex. At least, that’s what my ex said.” He’d said a lot of things during their last fight. Some of them were even true.
The rest of the bacon sat on the plate, glistening, begging her to eat it. A quick reach, and another piece was in her hands. This time she ate it a little slower, nibbling daintily. “I’m frigid.” She held her breath, daring him to correct her.
“Trust me, sweetheart. You’re not frigid.” He turned off the stove’s burners and began to arrange the food on plates. Piling it on in a show of excess. “No one who kisses the way you do co
uld be frigid.”
Her mouth was watering, but it wasn’t for waffles, or even bacon. Not when Jack was staring at her with lust in his eyes.
His tongue darted out to moisten lips she knew were firm and luscious, capable of making her forget all her problems.
He was a double fudge sundae with whipped cream, chocolate sauce, and cookie crumbles. Beautiful. Rich. Bad for her.
That didn’t stop her from wanting to take a big, gooey bite.
Heat rushed through her body. Hoo boy.
Lust made her forget about the bumps and bruises she’d earned earlier in the day. Her face got warm. Her toes started tingling. Pressure grew deep in her belly. She didn’t feel frigid. Not at the moment.
“Sex is disappointing.” That much was true. “All that heaving and moaning without getting anyplace. I’d rather have a fast car and an open highway.”
She was leaning against the kitchen counter, the butcher-block work surface digging into her back. Only a few feet separated them.
Jack had a devilish glint in his eye. “Sometimes it pays to take things slow.”
With his long legs, it took him only a single step to close the gap between them. This time, his kiss wasn’t just wild and passionate. It was purposeful. A sure sign of things to come.
His hand moved to her hip, fingers pushing up her T-shirt to touch bare skin, his thumb dipping beneath the waistband of her shorts.
This wasn’t the morning’s sleepy confusion, small motions amplified by proximity, curiosity, and Honey’s desperate need to feel something. This was something else entirely. Slow. Thought out.
Jack Ogden wanted her, and she’d be damned if she didn’t want him back in a way that she couldn’t begin to understand.
He moved with painful patience. His kisses tasted like the orange juice and coffee he’d been drinking a moment earlier. One arm wrapped around her back to support her while the other reached up under her shirt. His breath caught in his throat when he discovered she wasn’t wearing a bra. The pads of his fingers were rough against her delicate skin.
“Damn.” He tugged the T-shirt off over her head in one quick motion.
When he kissed her again, she could feel his lips tilting upward into a full smile, and then his mouth began to move down her neck, across her collarbone, until his breath was hot against her breasts.
