Falling Into Right

by Sharon Kay

  Chapter 4

  Shane steered his SUV down the two-lane highway that would take him from Hamilton to Sundown. Winding through the low rolling hills of southern Illinois, the route was probably scenic to some. But not him, and especially not today.

  What the fuck had just happened? Telling Becca that story about falling into the creek… Shane shook his head. Even Denver had regarded him with a quizzical eye when he got back into the car, as if to say “You blew it, didn’t you?”

  But the look of fierce determination on her face had snared him, along with the worry she couldn’t cover up. Who answered the door with their lawyer on speaker phone? If he had to guess, he would say only someone who’d been in enough trouble to need one.

  Or maybe she just knew one really well.

  Fields of green and gold flashed by his window, and Denver panted in the seat next to him. It didn’t really matter who Becca knew or why she had a lawyer at the ready. Going to her house hadn’t been the best idea he’d ever had. He doubted he’d see her again.

  It’s better that way.

  But she’d been damn cute. With her hair pulled up, her eyes had seemed even bigger. Wearing just those sweats and a T-shirt, and in her bare feet, she’d been the polar opposite of how dressed up she’d been in the courthouse. She had been going for a power-player effect earlier, but was petite and low-key at home, still with an unforgettable face and body.

  He’d have to work to forget those curves.

  Reaching the town limits of Sundown, population a whopping seven hundred and eighty-four, he passed the one gas station in town. Few blocks later, he turned down his street. The modest gray two-story wasn’t fancy, but Shane didn’t do fancy.

  Denver chuffed excitedly as they pulled into the driveway. “I know you’re hungry.” Shane grabbed his laptop from the console, and they headed inside.

  Denver beelined for the small kitchen and stared expectantly at the closed pantry door, tail thumping against the wall. Shane removed his utility belt and set it on the table then got his partner’s dinner ready.

  He paced to the window at the back of the house while Denver devoured his meal. The dog loved his work and his food—Shane wasn’t sure which came first. Give Denver a rawhide after dinner, and he’d be as happy as when he successfully tracked a scent.

  If only it was as easy for people to break down their day into the simple things. Why couldn’t life just be searching for criminals all day long, then chowing down a big meal and going to sleep? He guessed, for some, it was that black and white.

  Crunch, crunch. Did Denver remember the various guys he’d taken down over the years?

  Shane remembered them all. Memories crept in when he least wanted them, disrupting Shane’s focus. Hell, he never wanted them. But life didn’t ask which memories you wanted. It just threw them at you, some good, and some shitty. Some stuck with you forever, while others drifted down like paper debris after an explosion, shredded and ready to disintegrate.

  Shane shook his head. At least the dreams had stopped a few years ago. Only one random one snuck in now and then. And he gave a lot of credit for that to the furry cop behind him, happily demolishing the contents of a bowl of dry dog food. Denver was an excellent police dog, but he also grounded Shane better than anything.

  He headed upstairs to his bedroom for a change of clothes. In five minutes exactly, Denver would need a bathroom break. And after that, Shane was headed to another place that calmed him down.

  Shane pulled on faded jeans and a gray T-shirt then padded down the steps of his old house. Most of the homes in Sundown were old. There wasn’t much new construction happening, except for his sister and brother-in-law’s place a few miles away.

  Denver met him at the base of the steps, and they headed outside for their usual walk up and down the street. He snapped a leash on Denver, though he didn’t need one. But it was one of the town ordinances, so they followed it.

  The air still held a tinge of summer’s warmth, though the leaves had already started to turn. At each house they passed, people waved. Any kids that were outside playing ran over to see “the doggie.” The Jackson family was no exception, and their four children knew to be on Denver-watch after supper.

  “There they are!” one called

  One of the younger ones ran to the sidewalk. “Ossifer Mallow!”

  “Hi, kids.” Shane grinned and stopped. They were all blond and in constant motion. He could never keep their names straight.

  Denver sat still except for his tail thumping the sidewalk, loving the attention. The older two scratched his head while the younger two hugged him.

  “Can we give him a cookie?” the smallest girl asked.

  Denver’s ears perked at the word.

  Damn smart dog. “Nope, he had a big dinner. If I give him cookies, I gotta brush his teeth.”

  “I bwush my teef,” the smallest boy said, opening his mouth wide.

  “Good work.” Shane pretended to take a close look, though the kid had only a few teeth that Shane could see.

  Their mom, Julie, walked over. “All right, everyone give Denver a pat and then say goodbye.” She turned to Shane. “Sorry to monopolize you guys all the time, but they get so excited to see the dog.”

  “No problem. He likes it.” Shane waved to Julie’s husband, Mike, who was about to fire up the lawn mower.

  “Bye, Denver!” the kids called in unison, waving like a blond honor guard.

  Shane and Denver continued down the street two blocks until it dead-ended, then came back on the other side. He scanned the street out of habit. Denver sniffed everything out of the same habit.

  Back in his house, Shane hung up the lead. Denver padded to his favorite rug—an oval braided thing in the middle of the living room floor—and lay down. But when Shane tucked his wallet into his back pocket and grabbed the keys to his truck, Denver sat up.

  “Not tonight, boy. You stay.” Technically, the dog would be welcome where he was going, but it wouldn’t be the greatest idea for him.

  Shane walked out the back door of the house to the back portion of his driveway where his old, reliable gray Ford F-150 was parked. He hadn’t wanted to give it up when he’d gotten the county police SUV. And for anything non-official, he took his truck.

  He had just enough room to maneuver it around the SUV as he backed out of the long driveway. Steering out onto his street, he flipped on the country music station and took the next turn onto the highway.

  A rumble in his belly reminded him that he hadn’t eaten. Hell. He would stop for something later. He wasn’t in the mood to eat.

  A dozen miles down the road, he pulled off a familiar exit. The little two-lane road led to a town called Grayville, but his stop was before that. A low tan brick building came into view. Tony’s place.

  Tony Henderson ran the only gun shop in Redemption County. Signs in the windows read Ammo, Training Classes, and Self-Defense. Atop the building, in the center, was a big black sign with white block letters that simply read Guns.

  Shane noted one other truck in the lot beside Tony’s. Made sense, as the place was usually quiet on weeknights. He parked and went inside.

  Dark wood paneling on all four walls of the main room gave the place an outdated feel. Shane doubted the décor had been updated since the place opened fifty years ago. Pictures of guns decorated the walls, and on the wall behind the wooden counter was a photo of Charlton Heston and his words about prying a gun from his cold, dead hands. The photo had hung there since the guy had uttered the infamous phrase.

  Tony glanced up from his computer at the sound of the door. “Hey, Shane.”

  Shane crossed the room and shook his friend’s hand. “Hey.”

  “Browsing? Or want to use the range tonight?”

  “Range. And I’ll need to pick from your stock.” Sometimes Shane brought his own firearms, and some
times he tried out whatever new weapon Tony had.

  The shop’s firing range downstairs was bigger than most people realized. It was the perfect place for Shane to distill his world down to him, cold steel, and enemies.

  “You got it.” Tony took a key from his pocket and slid it over the counter toward Shane. “You know the drill.”

  “Thanks.” Shane grabbed the key and headed to a gap where the counter ended a few feet from the wall. As he reached the locked door, Tony unlocked it remotely, and Shane pushed through.

  His footsteps echoed off the cinderblock walls as he went down an ancient staircase. At the lower level, he stepped into a hall lit with bright fluorescent lights. On one wall was a door to a makeshift classroom and a locked door to a warehouse. Opposite those was a steel door to the range.

  Shane entered the range, not surprised to see he was the only occupant. Striding to a fireproof metal cabinet, he rolled his shoulders. He unlocked the metal doors and opened them wide. Inside were three or four dozen weapons, any kind a gun lover could want to try out.

  Shane had fired every single thing he could get his hands on over the years. Tonight, he felt like using something different than his service weapon. The Glock 19 was great for concealed carry, but right now… he selected a Sig Sauer P226. He slid on safety glasses, popped in ear plugs, and stalked to the nearest lane.

  With the target in his sights, he stilled his mind. The steel in his hand provided a cold and solid comfort. He fired again and again. Six bullet holes appeared in the blacked-out paper shadow of a man at the end of the lane. Shane brought the image forward to see the six wounds he would have inflicted, three of them fatal.

  He got ready to neutralize a new target. He aimed, and only now allowed the memories to flood back. How surreal they seemed now, those minutes before their lives changed forever…

  His buddies in desert fatigues, scanning the horizon as they drove into Kirkuk one infernally hot day. Stinging sand and dust. Blinding flashes of light. A roar that split the desert morning. The Jeep twenty feet below him as he was launched into the endless empty sky.

  Shane fired another round without pause. Innocent men, men who had lives and shit to look forward to, had died. One by one, their faces zipped through his mind.

  Another target, another round. Shane kept going until he had enough kill shots to take the edge off his restless mind.

  Nothing could change the past. The finality of it boiled inside him. But for some reason, he had survived. He used to ask himself why.

  He’d stopped bothering with that question. Now he resigned himself to work and being a reliable partner to his four-legged companion. And keeping his family, his hometown, and local government safe. If only because he didn’t know what else to do with the years he’d been gifted instead of his teammates. Purpose took a backseat to pushing through.

  Chapter 5

  A few nights later, upbeat country music jangled from the speakers in the restaurant as Becca walked in with her best friend, Marcy. Becca hadn’t been to the Sundown Bar and Grille in years. Not that she went out much at all.

  Being here was last on her list of things she’d like to do, but Marcy was an unstoppable force. She led the way past a sign that read Please Seat Yourself.

  The pink streaks in Marcy’s long blond hair never failed to turn heads. Tonight was no exception, and Becca held in a grin as she followed her friend to a table in the center of the dining room.

  “This will be good,” Marcy announced as she pulled out a chair. “Between the two of us, we’ll be able to see everyone here.”

  “I don’t need to see anyone except my BFF.” Becca blew her a kiss and sat down.

  “Well, here’s hoping you find someone else to look at beside me. Though I am cute.” Marcy draped her purse over the back of her chair. “I heard this place gets hoppin’ on Friday nights.”

  A platinum-haired waitress walked over. “Hi, my name’s Brenda. Can I get you anything to drink?”

  Marcy leaned her elbows on the table and stared at Becca. “Order something alcoholic, or I’ll do it for both of us. And it will be tequila shots.”

  Becca opened her mouth to protest… then thought, Why not? After the week she’d had, tequila would take some of the blahs away. “You know what? That sounds perfect.”

  Brenda smiled and put away her notepad. “You got it.”

  Marcy held up her hand across the table for a high five. “All right, girl. Let’s say goodbye to this week.”

  Becca smacked her friend’s hand. “Thank god it’s over.” She’d told Marcy all about her incident at the courthouse and tall, hot Shane Marlow coming to her house afterward.

  “The week wasn’t all bad,” Marcy reminded her in a sing-song voice. “I seriously want to see this cop. Maybe he’s really a stripper or something.”

  Becca’s cheeks heated. “Oh my god, no.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Ugh, I don’t. He didn’t stick around to tell me more of his life story.” Becca glanced around at the busy place. Most tables were occupied, so she and Marcy were lucky they found one. “He seemed very straight laced.”

  “Yeah, right.” Marcy rolled her eyes. “‘Straight laced’ don’t come to your house and tell you stories about falling in creeks.”

  The waitress returned with their shots, setting a glass down in front of each of them. “Thanks,” Becca murmured.

  “Would you like anything else?” Brenda asked. “We have the best wings in Redemption County.”

  “No wings, but I’ll have a burger,” Becca said.

  “I’ll take a chicken sandwich,” said Marcy.

  After the waitress left, Marcy picked up her glass and held it up. “How does that song go, the one by Cole Swindell? To one more week being over, or something like that.”

  “Oh yeah! I love that one. ‘Ain’t Worth the Whiskey.’” Becca grinned.

  “Well, we know who ain’t worth your whiskey. Or tequila or Jack or anything else that’s drinkable. He may be worth dog piss, but I don’t even know ’bout that.”

  Becca stifled a snort. Marcy and Kirk had never liked each other, and now her friend took every opportunity to remind Becca she was way better off without him.

  “And to hot cops everywhere. May they keep our bodies protected in every possible way.” Marcy tipped her glass back.

  Becca did the same and breathed through the burn of the liquor. “Shit,” she muttered through clenched teeth. Tequila was a taste she was still acquiring.

  Marcy grinned and set her glass down. “Just what you needed.”

  “Sure.” Becca took a drink of water.

  “The next one won’t even burn.”

  “If there is a next one.” Becca gulped more water. “I haven’t had a shot since Kirk and I broke up.”

  “And I know how long ago that was because I made you drink it,” Marcy said. “All right, it’s been a month. Time to find someone else.”

  “I don’t think I’m ready to really date. Maybe. I don’t know. I feel like such bad news.”

  “First of all, you’re smart and smoking hot. And by the way, thank you for wearing a shirt that shows your killer rack.”

  Becca gathered all her hair into a bunch at one shoulder and pushed it forward. The V-neck top felt risqué for her. She usually covered up, since on her body, anything cut lower than her collarbones threatened to show cleavage.

  “And second,” Marcy went on. “You don’t have to find a boyfriend. Just something casual. Hell, just a hook up.”

  Becca opened her mouth to protest, but at that moment, the waitress returned with their food. “Can I get you anything else?”

  “We’re good, thanks,” Becca said.

  “All righty. Well, just flag me down if you need me. We get busy on weekend nights.” She walked away.

  “There you go,”
Marcy said. “Busy. You can at least talk to someone. Besides me.”

  “Okay,” Becca said, partly to shut Marcy up and partly because… talking to someone wouldn’t be that bad, right? She wasn’t obligated to give out her number. She took a bite of her burger. “Mmm, this is delicious.”

  “This too,” Marcy said between bites of her chicken.

  The noise level in the room grew as more people came and went. Becca loved to eat, and so did Marcy, thank goodness. They both contently worked through their food until their plates were empty.

  “Dessert?” Becca asked as she leaned back in her chair.

  “Dessert will be more alcohol. That’s the sugar rush you’re gettin’ tonight.” Marcy twirled a lock of pink around one finger, then her hand and face froze and she stared over Becca’s shoulder. “Oh. My. God.”

  “What? Is it Kirk?” Foreboding bloomed in Becca’s chest. Even though they still talked occasionally, she sure didn’t want to see him. Not while she was trying to have fun. She started to turn around.

  “No. And don’t turn yet,” Marcy ordered. “Holy hotness. And… shit!”

  Becca set both hands on the table. “What is going on? Tell me or I’m looking!”

  “Totally hot guy just walked in. With a huge freaking dog. The police kind. German shepherd.”

  “What?” Becca gasped.

  “And I don’t remember seeing any signs that this is a dog-friendly restaurant. But they just walked right in like they do it all the time.”

  “Is he in his uniform?” Becca asked.

  “No,” Marcy murmured, tracking the stranger who Becca still hadn’t seen yet. “A T-shirt and jeans that… mmm.”

  “Oh my god. It can’t be him. What are the odds?”

  “You said he was from Sundown, right?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Unless there’s another hot guy with a German shepherd in this town, I’d say that’s him. And if there IS another hot guy with a dog, I call dibs.”

  “I need to see!”

  “Okay, go ahead. He just sat at the bar. He’s talking to the bartender… who’s really pretty.” Marcy frowned.