My only alternative was to stop at the sheriff’s station, which I assumed was manned all the time, but the last thing I needed was trouble. It was bad enough I was where I wasn’t supposed to be. On top of that, I’d been on the back of a rented Harley. My parents would never understand.
Inside the diner, which was straight out of a ’50s sitcom, was a woman who dashed behind the counter the minute she saw me.
Blood dripped from my fingertips to the wet concrete walk where it mixed with the puddled water and disappeared.
Fisted up, I pounded on the front door. “I know you’re in there. Let me in.” Endless minutes passed by with no response. “I’m hurt, and I need to make a phone call.” I reached into my cargo pants for my phone and pressed the spider-webbed screen to the glass. “See, my phone is broken.”
A mass of blonde hair peeked around the corner of the counter for a second time. “Go away.”
Although the voice was strong, there was a tinge of fear to it like she thought I was there to hurt her. If she’d only just come to the door, she’d see I was in no condition to hurt anyone. I was the one hurt. One glance at my asphalt-skinned arm made it burn even more. Why was that?
“Come on. I’m hurt, I’m bleeding, and I need some help.”
“I’ll call the police!” she yelled.
Forehead pressed to the cold glass door, I pleaded, “Please don’t. I crashed my motorcycle into a tree down the road. I just need to wash this wound and call for a ride. That’s all. I really need your help.”
She tiptoed toward the door. When the lock turned, I stumbled back. Standing on the other side of the glass door was a beautiful blonde. In one hand, she held a phone; in the other, a knife. Not even a sharp knife, but a butter knife.
I pushed past the door and stood on the black and white checked floor dripping blood and water all over the entry. Her nametag mocked me with its smiley face stickers surrounding her name. “Hannah. If you’re going to stab me, just do it now, and put me out of my misery.”
Her eyes widened and her shoulders stiffened at the mention of her name. She brandished the dull knife in front of her like a sword. “This is for my protection.” She waved it around like a magic wand. The only thing missing was a spell.
“What are you going to do with a butter knife? Death by jelly?” I dropped my chin and saw the blood pooling on the floor beside me. “I’m more likely to bleed out waiting for you to help me than succumb to a death by buttering.”
“How do you know my name?” Her voice hovered above a whisper.
I nodded toward her chest.
“Right.” Her fingers brushed over the raised letters on her nametag. “What happened to you?” She inched her way to the counter, never turning her back to me.
“Crashed a motorcycle into the tree. You’ve got some shitty roads in this town.” Once we got to the counter, I slid onto the round seat at the end. “Hit a puddle of water, and that’s all she wrote.”
Hannah reached under the counter. At this point, I wasn’t sure what she’d bring out next. Butcher knife? Rolling pin? Cheese grater? She plopped a first-aid kit on the counter, and I relaxed.
“Decided I’m not here to rape you and pillage the place?” Her face turned white when I mentioned rape. My stomach clenched. I reached out to touch her hand, to let her know that my intentions were good, but she pulled back. “I’m not going to hurt you, sweetheart. Do I look like the dangerous type?”
She stared at me for a long minute. “You’d be surprised what dangerous looks like these days.”
I reached into my back pocket and pulled out my wallet. “My name is Dex Riley. My father is Rip Riley.” I watched her face for recognition, but there wasn’t any. The woman had to live under a rock to not know my family name. Riley Realty was the third-largest land brokerage firm in the country. We did everything from property sales to community development.
“You’re not from here.” She pulled a dry towel from a cabinet and held it under running water at a nearby sink.
“No, I’m from Golden.” That was usually home, but the past few nights I’d been staying at a hotel in Boulder, visiting with my dad during the day and trying to clear my head at night.
She pressed the terry cloth against my skin.
An uncontrolled hiss pressed through my lips. “Shit, that hurts.”
She dabbed at the wound, trying to get the tiny bits of dirt and rock loose. “If you think it hurts now … wait until tomorrow.” Her soft fingers probed around the worst part of the wound. “You could use a few stitches.”
“I’m not going to the doctor,” I snapped.
“Don’t kill the messenger.” She opened the cap to some kind of clear ointment that, when applied, soothed the hot fire burning below the surface of my torn-up skin. “I’m just giving you my professional opinion.”
“You run a clinic in the back next to the ovens?” I wasn’t trying to be an asshole, but my whole body ached. Worse than that, my pride ached.
With a yank, she pulled my arm toward her and began wrapping my wound from elbow to wrist in white gauze. “I wasn’t always a waitress.”
“So it would seem.” I looked at her handiwork and nodded. She’d wrapped my injury like a professional—tight and tidy. “Thanks for fixing me up.” I looked past her to the counter where three pies sat. I hadn’t eaten for hours. “I’ll take a piece of cherry pie,” I said.
She slammed the first-aid kit shut. “We’re closed.”
My head fell back, and I groaned. “Really?” I pushed myself to my feet and walked behind the counter. With the knife she’d threatened me with earlier, I cut two pieces of pie and slid them onto clean plates that sat nearby. “Have some pie with me, Hannah. Let me use your phone, and then I’ll be on my way.” I patted the stool next to me, and to my surprise, she sat down.
“Most guys I know who ride motorcycles don’t ride them in the rain.” She forked a piece of pie and pressed it between her lips. Lips that were naturally full and lush.
“I could tell you I’m not like most guys, but that would probably be a lie. The truth is, I’m not that experienced with motorcycles.” I reached for the half-empty coffeepot she’d left on the counter. She reached for two cups, and I poured us some lukewarm coffee. “It wasn’t raining when I left Boulder.”
She narrowed her eyes at me. “You said you were from Golden.”
I pressed my index finger to the knife I’d used to cut the pie and slid it across the counter to her. “For your protection.” I smiled my most charming smile, but she continued to give me an untrusting glare. “I had business in Boulder.” The truth was my dad was in the hospital for chemotherapy. “I got restless and rented the damn bike. Drove up here because I might be doing some business in Fury. Wanted to see what it was like.”
She played with her pie. “What business would you have in the booming metropolis of Fury?”
“Two brothers contacted my family’s firm and asked about finding a broker to start the redevelopment of a neighborhood here.”
She sat up straight. “The only brothers I know in Fury are Ryker and Silas.”
“Yeah, I think that’s them. You know them?”
“Yes, they’re good guys.” She lifted from her seat and cleared off the dishes in front of us. I waited for her to point me to the door and tell me to leave, but she didn’t. “Did you say you needed a phone?” Out of her pocket, she pulled an old flip phone and handed it to me.
“Very retro,” I commented.
“Very inexpensive,” she tossed back. I liked this girl. She was cautious but friendly. She was scared, and yet she offered me help. Yes, I could already tell that Hannah was a genuinely good person. I didn’t meet a lot of them in my circle.
I texted my father’s driver and told him where to find me. I called my broken phone from Hannah’s so I’d have her number when it was replaced. Then I handed her back her old-school phone.
My wet clothes stuck to my pruned skin, but at least I was warm. Worst
case was Hannah would boot me from the diner, and I’d have an hour or so to wait for John to arrive.
“Where’s the mop?” I asked.
She tilted her head. “What? Why?”
I looked behind me at the trail of water and blood I’d left in my wake. “I’m not going to leave you with a mess.”
“You’re in no shape to mop a floor.”
I stared down at my bandaged arm. “I’m in better shape now than I was twenty minutes ago. The least I can do is clean up after myself.”
She shrugged and walked away. Minutes later a steaming mop bucket pushed through the swinging doors that led from the kitchen.
“You mop, and I’ll make fresh coffee. Do you want decaf or regular?”
Something told me I wasn’t going to get much sleep as it was. “Fully loaded, please.”
Fifteen minutes later, the floors were cleaned, and Hannah’s side work, as she called it, was completed. We sat in a booth in the front of the restaurant, sipped coffee, and talked.
“If you weren’t always a waitress, what were you?”
She leaned back and stretched her legs out on the booth bench across from me. “I was studying to be a social worker, but you know…life happens.”
“Social workers have to learn first aid?”
She laughed, and it was a beautiful sound. Light and airy and sweet like pink cotton candy. “No, my mom was a nurse, and I learned first aid from her.”
She put emphasis on the word was, which intrigued me. “Is she still working? At what hospital?” Maybe she was at Boulder General and I’d run into her while visiting Dad.
Hannah’s shoulders slumped. It looked like her life wasn’t all smiley faces after all.
“It’s a long story. Maybe another day.” She sipped her coffee and stared blankly across the diner. “What about your family?”
I looked out the window. The rain had stopped, and only a light mist came down. “Another long story better saved for another day.”
In the distance, headlights broke through the haze. As they neared, I recognized the black town car as John’s.
“Your ride?”
“Yep.” I laid a twenty on the table and scooted out of the booth. “Hannah, thank you so much for being such a nice person.”
“It was nice to meet you, Dex.” She followed me to the door. “Take care of your arm.”
“Will do.” Something made me want to bend over and kiss her cheek or pull her in for a hug. Something made me want to wrap this girl up in my arms and take her home, but all I did was turn toward her and smile. “Are you going to be okay closing up by yourself? I could wait for you.”
She unlocked the door and stepped aside so I could exit. “I’ll be fine.” She looked over her shoulder toward the kitchen. “I’ve got a butter knife.”
Chapter 3
Hannah
I looked left and right, scouring the dark for Cameron. It was a hard habit to break.
I felt around the inside of my purse for the house key. Despite the glow of the television showing through the lace curtains, no one would come to my aid if I screamed. Mom would be too out of it to get up and investigate.
The news played loudly in the background, muffling the creak of the rusty hinges. I rushed inside and locked the door behind me. The best part of my day was when I was safe in the house.
Sprawled out on the worn sofa was Mom. At least this time a bottle didn’t hang from her fingers, and her clothes appeared clean. On the flip side, her pain-pill bottle lay on its side, empty.
It totally pissed her off that I hid her prescription and left only two pills a day, but in some sick way, I was proud that she was down to two. A year ago she was hustling anyone she could to get her fix. She teetered between booze and drugs, depending on which was easier to get. It was sad to see how far she’d fallen.
I pulled the pink and green crocheted blanket over her thin shoulders and tucked it under her chin. Once I shut the television off, I schlepped toward my room. My ass dragged like a lead weight behind me. It had been a long day. In fact, all the days seemed to blur together. The wheel of life kept rotating, and I continued to run just fast enough to keep up but never get ahead.
A firm toss landed my purse in the corner. I set my phone on the nightstand and plopped onto my bed. The same bed I’d had in high school. The same bed Mom’s asshole boyfriend had climbed into and changed everything.
All it took was a blood-curdling scream. The minute that man touched me, Mom ran to me with a loaded gun. She aimed and pulled the trigger. One scream, one bullet, three lives ruined.
My shoes clunked to the floor when I toed them loose. I curled into a ball on top of the pink comforter. Things could have been worse, I supposed. We had survived. At least we were all alive, including the asshole, but that event had started a downward spiral that seemed to be an endless funnel that sucked in the Banning women. Bad men. Bad choices. Bad luck.
I rolled off the bed, onto my sore feet, and readied myself for sleep. But when I climbed under the covers and closed my eyes, I didn’t see Mom’s asshole boyfriend or Cameron Longfellow lurking in the shadows of my almost dreams. Staring back at me were the bottomless blue eyes of Dex Riley, and for the first time in a long time, I felt better because I’d helped someone who appreciated it. I’d reached past my comfort zone, allowed myself to be vulnerable, and survived. Helping people had always been my goal, and tonight I’d reclaimed a piece of myself.
Mom was in the kitchen fussing with the coffeepot when I walked in. She pounded on the start button and waited. Nothing. “Damnit.” She opened the lid and glanced inside the water reservoir, then slammed it shut. “If I can’t have a damn drink, I need a cup of coffee.”
“You need help?” I pushed off the doorjamb and approached her. It wasn’t often Mom had the energy to do much. Today was a major event.
I lifted the unplugged cord so she could see why the coffeepot wasn’t working. “Electricity helps.” I shoved the three-pronged plug into the wall and pressed the power button. “How ya feelin’ this morning?” I’d been slowly weaning her off opioids for over a year, and of the two pills a day I left her, one of them was an over-the-counter painkiller that looked remarkably similar to the Oxy she managed to get. Little by little, she was coming back to me. Too bad the first thing to arrive was her temper.
“I feel like shit,” she grumbled.
“Good, at least you feel something.” I reached past her and pulled the tea bags from the cupboard. The selection was slim because the budget didn’t allow for much more than Lipton, but I’d snagged a mint tea packet from the diner just in case I ever had something to celebrate. It was my version of champagne, and the fact that Mom was up and about was a good enough reason to drink it.
“I’ll tell you what I feel, young lady.” She leaned on the counter and pressed her palm to her head. “I feel like my skull is going to explode from lack of stimulants and my stomach might collapse from lack of food.”
“I can fix both.” Inside the refrigerator was a tray of cinnamon rolls. Tim always let me bring the day-olds home. These were three-day-old pastries, but a dab of butter and twenty seconds in the microwave would bring them back to life.
“That’s what you’re good at. You’re a fixer.”
I rolled my eyes, which years ago would have gotten me a slap up the side of the head; now, Mom hardly cared. “I’m a real success, Mom. I can heat up a donated roll and plug in a pot of coffee.”
Mom’s expression wasn’t as vacant as usual. Even the blue of her irises was brighter. “I’m not talking about coffee and buns, Hannah.” She dumped several tablespoons of sugar into the bottom of her cup and waited for the last of the water to sputter into the pot. “I’m talking about how you try to fix everything and everyone.” She cupped my cheek. The heat of her palm had me leaning into her touch. I never knew when Mom would go off the rails again, so I had to take her love when I could get it.
“I refuse to give up on you, Mom.” I reached
under the sink and pressed my hand into the hole in the wall. She often hid alcohol next to the plumbing.
“There’s nothing there.” Her voice was clipped.
“Good. We’re making progress.” She didn’t like me searching, but I had to. It was a matter of survival—hers. I’d managed to find her hiding spots so far. In our little two-bedroom shithole, there weren’t many places she could hide stuff, but addicts were clever. I’d found bottles inside the toilet tank. Pills buried in the pots of dead plants. Once I’d found a bag of fermented fruit shoved in a boot in her closet.
Right now she was sober and lucid, but I’d learned to question the quiet before the storm.
“How’s work?” Mom poured her coffee while I dunked a tea bag in hot water. I could get two cups of it before it was tasteless.
“It’s okay.” With a plate of gooey cinnamon rolls and my cup of tea, I led her to the scarred wooden table in the corner. “Some guy showed up last night after he crashed his bike into a tree.” I kept my voice even, denying the tension the incident caused. Mom didn’t know about the beating I’d taken from Cameron Longfellow. She didn’t know about his group of victims showing up to the courthouse. She didn’t know about my nightmares. For all intents and purposes, Mom was clueless.
“Those damn motorcycle gangs. Always trouble.” It was a risky subject because Mom’s old boyfriend Allen Hatch was a biker. Not any biker, but the leader of a gang. When Mom shot him, no one paid attention to my claim that he’d sexually assaulted me. Nope, everyone was afraid of him, even the judge. When I testified, no one believed me. The truth was, they were too afraid not to believe him.
Mom got charged with a firearms violation and endangering a minor. Stacey and I went into the system until I turned eighteen. I went straight to college while my mom went straight to a personal hell. A good beating in the women’s correctional facility started her addiction. Her pain at failing her girls and losing her job as an RN ate at her until she drank it away. Then came the stroke, which left her with a literal weak side.
Delivering Decker Page 2
