Hunt the Dawn

by Abbie Roads

  “You left?” Disappointment scented the air.

  “If you wanted me to stay, you shouldn’t have hired an interpreter.”

  “I didn’t.” Gill leaned forward in his seat, the scent of his lie absent from the air.

  “One was there. For me.”

  “Who the fuck hired one? I didn’t. You didn’t. No one but Eric and I know about your hearing problems.” Gill’s eyes shifted toward the ceiling—blaming her. “She’s involved. Her prints aren’t in the system so I don’t have anything to go on yet.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I scanned her fingerprint while she was sleeping.”

  Lathan’s blood churned and doubled in volume, filling every organ with excruciating pressure. Gill had touched her while she lay helpless and vulnerable. “You touched her? While she was asleep?” The words clawed through him, burning his throat with a rush of acid rage.

  Gill shoved back his chair, toppling it over as he stood. “What’s wrong with you? Why are you acting like a jealous asshole? You just met her.”

  “No one touches her.” No one touches her. No one touches her. The words vibrated through him, thrumming a deep tempo with each thump of his heart.

  “I was taking a goddamned fingerprint, not molesting her. If she says otherwise, she’s a liar.” Gill was face-to-face with him. A hurricane of burning cinnamon-scented rage swirled around them.

  From across the living room, Lathan saw her standing at the bottom of the stairs, sleepy confusion and concern marring the soft planes of her face. They must’ve been loud. Woken her up.

  The fury he’d felt no more than two seconds ago vanished. Gone. What was wrong with him? He’d been on the verge of giving Gill a fist of five. Gill—his best and longest and only friend.

  He’d changed. Turned homicidally protective of her right not to be touched by anyone. Seeing Junior’s SM, witnessing her trying to save herself, watching her pain, and knowing how the SM probably ended. He would never let another person harm her. She deserved a life of sunshine, rainbows, and happiness.

  “Everything’s all right.” Lathan tried to sound reassuring.

  She glanced at Gill, then at him, her eyes wary, full of the knowledge that they’d almost gotten into a fistfight. Over her.

  He started toward her. Gill shifted, blocking his way. “I’m only looking out for you.”

  Lathan rammed into Gill’s shoulder, practically plowing through him. Gill was probably contemplating jumping him from behind, but knew better. That would’ve qualified as an unforgiveable sin in their friendship.

  “I’m sorry we woke you. Go back to bed. You’ve got lots of sleeping to do before you need to wake up.”

  A pretty pink color spotted her cheeks. “Come up with me.”

  Her words painted a masterpiece in his mind. He imagined lying in bed with her again, holding her, stroking her bare skin, kissing her. God. Kissing her. His gut trembled. His fucking dick twitched and started to get hard.

  She grabbed his hand and tried to tow him toward the stairs. He followed her for a few steps, then finally remembered how to cogitate. The eye. The murder in West Virginia. The square mile of tension between him and Gill that needed to be resolved.

  “I’ll be up soon. Gill and I need to talk.”

  She stopped tugging his hand, but she smelled faintly of garlic. She was worried about him. Him. No one worried about him. Except Gill.

  “Then I’ll stay down here with you.”

  Should he feel flattered or offended? Flattered she wanted to be near him. Offended she didn’t think he could handle himself against Gill.

  “Do what you want, but if you stay, Gill’s going to question you.” He leaned in close and tried to whisper, “Don’t worry about me. I can paint the shutters with his face if I need to.”

  She smiled, the scar on the side of her mouth hitching up higher than the other side, giving her a slightly goofy grin that was utterly adorable. “I know. But he’s your friend, and you shouldn’t be fighting about me. I’ll answer his questions, but he ain’t gonna like the answers.” Her midnight-blue eyes twinkled with amusement. “I don’t really like the answers either, but they’re the only set of truth I’ve got.” She dropped his hand and walked to the kitchen. At the kitchen table, she sat with her back straight, her head held high.

  Damn. He liked her.

  By the time he followed her, Gill had her name written across the top of his legal pad. Evanee Brown.

  Evanee. No wonder he couldn’t lip-read her name. Those damned f’s and v’s.

  * * *

  Evanee emerged from the land of dreamless sleep and knew exactly where she was. Alone. In Lathan’s bed. When she woke at Morty’s there was always a moment of confusion when her brain struggled to remember where she was and how she’d gotten there.

  Outside, the sky was an indeterminable shade between white and gloomy that perfectly matched her mood. She didn’t need to look at a clock to know it was well past time for her to be at work.

  She’d made a stupid decision. One that just might’ve incinerated her source of income. Without so much as a phone call, she’d missed work. Ernie usually looked at such an offense as inexcusable. Many a waitress at Sweet Buns had been booted out the back door for less.

  She needed to call Ernie and explain. She’d say she was sick—she had vomited. Then she’d apologize. Then grovel. And if that failed, she’d beg and plead and humiliate herself to get her job back. She needed that job. Needed the money. Because she needed to get out of Sundew before Junior caught up with her again.

  Ken Doll had kept her up most of the night asking, then re-asking the same questions over and over. He’d tried to trip her up, tried putting words in her mouth, tried to get her to confess to something, anything other than the story she’d told him. The upside: It wasn’t hard to piss him off. She’d just told him the truth, and truth was always stronger than a lie. It wasn’t her fault the truth didn’t make any sense.

  She got out of bed and went in search of Lathan. She found him in the kitchen. His broad shoulders stretched the material of his T-shirt, highlighting each ripple of muscle as he moved. Damn, he was a big guy.

  He quietly worked over something on the counter. A golden-brown loaf of homemade bread was neatly sliced and waiting next to him. Her stomach whined a high-pitched sound that dropped to a low, ominous gurgle. She giggled, but the sound died when his dog—easily the scariest animal she’d ever seen—sat up from lounging on a dog bed the size of a twin mattress. She hurried to Lathan. If the beast was going to attack, the safest place was right next to its master, the one person she knew would protect her.

  “Should I be scared of him?”

  Lathan didn’t answer. He just kept working over the counter.

  “What’s wrong?” She placed her hand on his arm.

  He startled. A violent jerking of muscle that threw her hand off his skin. He whirled, arm raised. Fist tight. Elbow pulled back, ready to release in a direct line toward her face. His eyes, nearly the same color as the sad winter sky, didn’t see her, but looked through time to some terrifying event in his past.

  She froze. He wouldn’t hurt her. Not after everything he’d done to keep her safe from Junior. Even from his friend.

  Recognition brightened in his expression. He stumbled back from her, running into the fridge with his shoulder and hip. Terror poisoned his eyes for only the briefest of moments. He spun, fist driving through the air, its momentum stopped by the refrigerator. Metal crunched, plastic snapped, and something inside fell, clanging against the door on its descent.

  Back heaving up and down, hands shaking at his sides, head bowed, he spoke. “Don’t ever sneak up on me.” The strange accent in his voice was more pronounced.

  She knew—she didn’t know how she knew, but she knew—something had happened to him. Something bad. Something
he still feared. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” She felt like she’d stepped on a puppy’s tail.

  Low in his throat, he groaned a disconsolate sound filled with pain.

  Witnessing his misery gouged at her heart.

  “Don’t.” The word was loud, abrupt as a gunshot. “Don’t you dare fucking pity me.” He sounded like he was talking through clenched teeth.

  “I—” She started to deny it.

  “Don’t bother to lie. I can fucking smell your pity.” His voice shook with emotion—anger or anguish. She couldn’t be sure which. “Fear me. Hate me. But don’t pity me. Never pity.” He sidestepped her without facing her and went into a small room off the kitchen.

  Almost instantly he returned.

  “I’ll take you home.” His gaze focused on the floor, he avoided looking at her and held out her clean clothes.

  “I don’t want to go home.” Heat burst across her face. She shouldn’t have said that out loud.

  He set her clothes on the table and headed for the door. “I’ll get the bike.” The door slammed behind him.

  In less than three minutes, she was on his motorcycle, wind slicing across her legs, burning and freezing her skin at the same time. He’d given her a heavy jacket to wear before she’d climbed on, but she had no protection for her legs. She squeezed her eyes closed and spent the ride wishing she’d stayed upstairs—hidden from the world, from horny truckers, and especially from Junior.

  The bike slowed, then stopped. Lathan cut the engine. She clung to him without opening her eyes—her last ode to denial. The soft whoosh of a single car passing alerted her that she wasn’t at Morty’s.

  Her eyes popped open. Gray-painted garage. Two oversized bays protected by giant metal-and-glass doors. Tow truck parked next to the building. In neat letters across the front, Robert Malone, Junior. Mechanic and Towing Service.

  She read the sign again, certain something inside her brain had malfunctioned. But the words said the same thing. Lathan had brought her to Junior. Her heart squeezed into a tightly packed snowball full of shards of ice.

  Lathan was probably friends with Junior. How could she have forgotten for one moment that everyone in Sundew loved Junior? Everything that had happened was probably a scripted and choreographed play produced by Junior’s sick imagination. Maybe they’d drugged her, made her think she was crazy, then made her think she was safe—fucking her mind worse than Junior ever could her body.

  An invisible icicle pierced her soul. She wanted to fall down on the ground, scream, and cry, but that would have to come later.

  Fight, flight, or freeze? Flight—escape. From both of them. She shoved hard at Lathan’s back and leaped off the bike.

  “Honey. It’s okay. I won’t let him hurt you. I promise.” The sincerity in his voice stopped her from reaching for her shoes to pry them off her feet—to run.

  She half expected to see Junior’s evil in his expression, but his face was all innocent freckles overlaid with a scary, beautiful tattoo.

  “Why’d you bring me here?” Her voice trembled with hope.

  “I told you I’d help you get your things back.”

  He had. Last night. In their quick departure, she’d forgotten.

  “I always keep my word.” He climbed off the bike and reached a gloved hand out to her. “I should’ve told you. Reminded you.”

  Junior emerged from the shop, wiping his hands on a towel dangling from the pocket of his coveralls. Why didn’t anyone in Sundew, Ohio, ever wonder why Junior hadn’t followed in his daddy’s footsteps? Everyone would be surprised to learn that he couldn’t pass the psychological exam to get into the police academy.

  Lathan stepped in front of her, but reached behind with one hand. She grabbed on to him, lacing her fingers with his, and knew he’d keep his word. He wouldn’t let Junior hurt her.

  Part of her felt ashamed and weak for not standing up to Junior herself. Another part worried she wasn’t strong enough to handle him—mentally or physically. And another part was relieved she didn’t have to face him alone.

  “Get her keys, her money, her apron.” Lathan’s voice was a command.

  “Darlin’” Junior’s voice sung out in a way that hit her right in the stomach. “I told you I’d be seeing you. And I just spoke to your momma. She’s dying to talk to you.” His words were a dirty finger jamming into an open wound.

  Everyone in Sundew knew Rosemary Malone cared more about her stepson than her own children.

  “You talk to me now. Get her stuff.” Lathan’s tone was in the homicidal range.

  “There wasn’t anything in the car.” Without seeing the smirk on his face, she could hear it in his inflection.

  Lathan spoke over his shoulder. “Stay here.” He dropped her hand and started toward Junior. Maybe she should be worried about him. Junior could be unpredictable, but he was no stronger than a pencil-necked geek compared to Lathan.

  Junior retreated a step and then withdrew a large wrench from his coveralls.

  “Your toy doesn’t scare me.” Lathan didn’t falter, didn’t stop.

  Junior swung the weapon, aiming for Lathan’s left cheek. Lathan caught Junior’s wrist and then drove him back against the wall of the shop. Junior’s body whonked against the concrete. Lathan angled himself, using his far-superior weight and height to pin Junior against the wall. He braced his forearm underneath Junior’s throat.

  A small smile tasting of revenge tugged at her lips. How many times had she been trapped like that under Junior? Too many to count. And seeing Lathan pin him so easily was satis-fucking-fying… If she had some pom-poms, she’d shout a cheer. Go Lathan. Go. Go. Go. Lathan.

  “You’re dead. You have no idea how dead you are. You’re going to jail. Prison.”

  Revenge started to taste bitter. Junior wasn’t a threat to Lathan, but his dad was even more demented than Junior. Like father. Like son.

  “Lathan, maybe you should—”

  “Where’s her stuff?” Lathan shouted the words, his voice so loud she cringed.

  “I don’t have it.” Junior choked out, his face turning a magenta shade of anger and oxygen deprivation. “What are you doing?”

  Everything was silent for a beat.

  “Evanee.” Lathan spoke her name without glancing away from Junior. “Your stuff is in the red toolbox next to the workbench. Top drawer.”

  “How did you—?” Junior’s voice grunted to a stop when Lathan shoved his arm tighter against Junior’s throat.

  “Evanee. Go get it. Now.”

  She sprinted inside Junior’s shop, her four-inch heels barely slowing her down. She found the toolbox. Ripped open the top drawer.

  Inside there were no tools, no greasy rags, nothing to indicate it was a mechanic’s toolbox. Instead, she found her apron folded into a neat square of cloth. Money missing—of course. Next to her apron was her key ring, minus her car key, and next to that a photo of the last happy day of her life. Mom and Rob’s wedding.

  It was Junior’s photo, not hers. She would never own something that represented the beginning of so much pain.

  The twenty-year-old picture had a sepia tinge to it, but the memory in her head wasn’t dulled in the least. Evanee remembered every detail of that day.

  She had felt like a fairy princess in her frilly pink dress. She remembered twirling around and around and around, loving the way the long skirt billowed in the air. She had loved how her new big brother, Junior, had always been there to catch her before she fell to the ground and dirtied her dress.

  Rob in his dress uniform had looked dashing as a king. And Mom was a queen in her flowing ivory wedding dress. On that day, Evanee had loved Rob and loved Junior. They were going to give her something she’d never had before. A family. Rob was going to be her and Thomas’s dad, and Junior was going to be their big brother.

&nbs
p; In the picture, Mom and Rob stood, radiant smiles on both of their faces, Rob’s arm resting protectively over Mom’s shoulders. In front of Rob and Mom, nine-year-old Junior stood with his arm around the five-year-old version of Evanee. She’d grown up with a larger print of that photo hanging on the living room wall. She’d always wondered why this particular picture mattered so much, especially since Thomas—her baby brother—wasn’t even in it. It wasn’t until this moment that she noticed how Junior had his arm around her in the same way Rob had his arm around Mom. She and Junior looked like a miniature version of Rob and Mom.

  There was something about that picture. Something about Junior and her. A thought hovered around the edges of Evanee’s mind, pushing, pulsating, prodding against the resistance of her consciousness.

  “Evanee?” Lathan’s voice brought her back to the current situation.

  She grabbed her apron, her key ring, shoved them in the jacket pocket, and ran outside.

  When Lathan saw her, he let go of Junior. Sagging to his knees, Junior sucked air and coughed.

  “What happened?” Lathan was next to her, his gaze darting between her and Junior.

  She shook her head, but he waited. “Nothing.” An old picture spooked me didn’t seem like a logical explanation.

  Lathan watched Junior until they were on the bike and driving out of the parking lot.

  At first, the angry growl of the engine soothed her, but then the realization she didn’t want to face exploded in her mind like a firecracker on a quiet night.

  A coldness that had nothing to do with the temperature settled over her. That night, the night of the wedding, was the first time Junior messed with her.

  * * *

  Lathan knew something was wrong the moment she emerged from Junior’s shop. She looked like she was running across the high wire of sanity and a windstorm had just kicked up.

  She hugged him tight as a drowning man would a life ring.

  Only one more block and he’d pull into RaeBeck’s Grocery. Lots of lights to see her words. Lots of people to witness if Junior followed them.