A Real Live Hero

by Kimberly Van Meter

  She felt him chuckle and she smiled. “Good, because I don’t want to move yet, either,” he admitted, tightening his hold on her.

  “Why were you drinking at the bar tonight?” she asked, hoping it wasn’t her that had sent him straight to the bottle. She’d hate to think she was fodder for the chorus of a melancholy country song.

  He exhaled a heavy sigh. “My parents.”

  “What’s wrong with your parents?”

  “I didn’t want to believe it but...my mom’s a hoarder. Pretty bad actually. I don’t know what to do other than calling Social Services.”

  “What does Miranda or Wade have to say about it?”

  “Miranda was the one who told me about it in the first place and Wade doesn’t know. I haven’t told him yet.”

  “Maybe Wade should come home to help you deal with it.”

  “Yeah, that’s what Miranda said, too.”

  “You’re worried about your mom, aren’t you?”

  He nodded. “She looked old. I’ve never seen her age so quickly. And after I saw her living conditions, I knew why. It made me sick to my stomach.”

  “What about your dad?”

  Trace made a sound of disgust. “He’s no help. He’s just watching her bury herself as long as it doesn’t interfere with his pot planting. That man’s not the man I grew up with, that’s for sure.”

  Sadness for Trace and his family filled her chest. At one time, the Sinclair family had been like her own—more so, seeing as her family had been so dysfunctional. She didn’t feel it was her place to offer advice nor did she think Trace would welcome it, so she remained silent and instead pressed a quick kiss to his bare chest. “I’m sorry, Trace,” she said quietly.

  “Yeah...me, too,” Trace said, his voice heavy with more than drink and sexual satisfaction. “Let’s go to the bed,” he suggested.

  “Oh, are you ready for sleep?” she asked, surprised. Maybe the alcohol had sapped his stamina. She tried not to be disappointed, but then Trace surprised her by scooping her into his arms.

  “I never said I wanted to sleep,” he said, thrilling her with the sensual suggestion in his tone. “I just thought you might like the bed more than the sofa when I bend you over.”

  “Oh!” She gasped and buried her burning face against his chest, yet she was secretly delighted. She loved his dirty mouth. But she loved what he did with that dirty mouth even better...

  As far as that little voice at the back of her brain whispering that she was making a huge mistake? She answered with, “Go big, or go home.”

  And then she told that little voice to shut the hell up.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  AWKWARD BE THY NAME was the morning after a hookup that never should’ve happened. Trace remembered everything—three shots and half a beer wasn’t enough to obliterate his memory—although as he stared at the ceiling, wondering what the hell was wrong with him, he wished it were.

  Delainey stirred beside him and he tried not to think about her naked body beneath the blankets and how they’d blown through an entire minipack of condoms. At least he was proud to say he’d left a good impression if this was the last time they ever knocked boots again. Yeah, that’s what’s important right now.

  He scrubbed his face with his hands and climbed from the bed. The sunrise hadn’t touched the horizon yet, which was a surprise given how little sleep they’d gotten. He pulled on jeans and an Alaskan Aces sweatshirt before padding silently from the bedroom to start a pot of coffee. A few moments later, Delainey appeared, looking delectably tousled, wearing his old bathrobe, with a blearily grateful expression the moment he placed a hot mug into her hand. He remembered how Delainey was a zombie before her morning coffee. Did it bother him that he remembered so many tiny details about her when he ought to have discarded them as useless information? A little. But then, he was also glad to have remembered certain things in the bedroom.

  He waited until they’d both enjoyed a few bracing sips of coffee before launching into the most obvious question in the room. “What are we doing?” he asked.

  She closed her eyes and shook her head. “I don’t want to talk about that right now. I’m exhausted and I have a full day on the schedule. Can we table this conversation until later?” she asked.

  “Later when?” Another eight years from now? “Seems to me we’ve stirred a hornet’s nest. I never imagined we’d ever be naked in the same zip code again, if you know what I mean, and frankly I’m not even sure how it happened. I could blame it on the whiskey, which is the easy answer, but I’m man enough to admit that I know there’s more to it. So, I have to ask, what are we doing and are we going to keep doing it?”

  She opened her eyes, irritated and frustrated. “I don’t know,” she answered. “All I know is that I have a crew of eight coming in today and I still have auditions to hold for the reenactment. There are a million different details to handle before we can start shooting, and I don’t have time to hash out the emotional aspect of our hookups. Maybe it’s just rebound sex or reunion sex, or whatever they call it when exes hook up. It was fun—I enjoyed it immensely—but I really don’t want to sit here and dissect the why and how. Okay?”

  “You’re such a grouch in the morning,” he muttered, fighting the absurd urge to laugh. Talk about déjà vu. He should’ve known better to come at her with a serious question before she’d morphed into a human through the power of intense caffeine. “I have to shower. Are you going to join me?” he asked, moving toward the bedroom.

  “Yes,” Delainey answered grumpily. “Just stop talking.”

  He laughed. “You are the only person on this planet who would ever accuse me of talking too much. Hurry up and drink your coffee. We have just enough time for a quickie before heading to the office.” Coffee and sex...he didn’t know a better way to start the day. He supposed the questions—and their answers—could wait.

  * * *

  DELAINEY GASPED AGAINST the shower wall, still trying to catch her breath. If Trace’s arms weren’t wrapped around her torso, she might slide to the ground. He flipped her around and buried his tongue in her mouth as deeply as his length had impaled her only moments earlier, and she melted against him. After a long, deep kiss, they broke apart and she said with a breathy moan, “Good God, I’ll never be the same,” as she slowly recovered. Trace’s powerfully built body glistened in the steam and moisture as he slowly let her go once she could stand on her own. “Why are you so amazing? You big jerk,” she added weakly, hating that he could turn her to Jell-O with a single touch. “You know it’s not fair to do those things to me.”

  “A man’s got to have his advantages when it comes to women,” he said, smoothing a hank of wet hair from her face, his expression inscrutable.

  “Yeah? And why is that?”

  “Because women are much smarter than men. We have to level the playing field somehow.”

  She grinned. “Well, that’s true,” she said, grabbing the soap and beginning to lather it along the hard planes of his body. Her fingers glided across every muscled valley and corded length of skin, openly delighting at the feel beneath her palm. “I find it fascinating how much you’ve changed and yet stayed the same. Your body is as I remember it, only harder and more mature, and your face somehow became even more handsome, which isn’t fair, of course, but your eyes are different.”

  “Different how?” he asked, plainly enjoying her touch on his skin. She smiled a tiny smile at how his penis had begun to plump again. She thrilled that her touch had that effect on him, and she rewarded him by gripping the shaft with her soap-slicked hands. He sucked in a tight breath and his voice was strained as he warned, “Be careful or we’ll never make it out of the house today.”

  For a moment she contemplated how lovely it would be to spend the entire day holed up naked with Trace Sinclair, but then she remember
ed her many obligations and reluctantly let go of him to return to less sensual cleaning tasks. “Your eyes used to be soft and warm. Now your gaze is hard and filled with scrutiny, except when you’re aroused.... Then they’re fathomless.”

  “Fathomless? How so?” he asked, regarding her with interest.

  “I used to be able to read your thoughts because whatever you were thinking was reflected in your eyes. It’s not like that anymore,” she answered softly, running her soapy hands gently over his chest. “You hide your thoughts behind a wall because you don’t trust me anymore. Do you trust anyone?”

  “No,” he admitted. “But that’s not your fault entirely. A lot has changed. It’s only natural that I would change, as well.”

  She didn’t have to say Simone’s name to know she was the root. Poor Simone. A brilliant life cut short by circumstance. “I could see if my network might be interested in Simone’s story...maybe get some more eyes on the case. Maybe her killer could finally be brought to justice.”

  “Don’t go there,” Trace warned, his voice hardening until he added with a softer, “Please” to lessen the sting. He drew a deep breath and she murmured an apology.

  “I was just thinking out loud...thought maybe it might help. I’m sorry.”

  “I know. No more talk of Simone, okay?” he asked, forcing a small smile. “It’s a tough subject.”

  She nodded and felt wretched for being so thoughtless. But Trace seemed intent on erasing all remnants of bad feelings as he removed the soap from her hand to return the favor, starting with her breasts.

  “I think they’re clean,” she teased after it seemed he’d spent an inordinate amount of time in that one area. She smiled when he pulled her close and their soaped bodies slid against one another, rubbing in all the right places. She glanced up at him with a coy expression. “Now, if we’re not careful, we’ll get dirty all over again.”

  “Yeah, I was thinking the very same thing,” he said in a low tone that sent shivers ricocheting down her back. “The difference between you and me is that I don’t mind getting dirty. In fact...it’s one of my favorite things to do.”

  And then he claimed her mouth again, and she knew they weren’t leaving that shower anytime soon. In fact, they might run out of hot water before that happened.

  “Only one more time,” she gasped as he lowered to his knees to press his hot mouth to her feminine core. “Only... Oh!”

  And then she forgot what she was talking about.

  * * *

  ZED SETTLED INTO his favorite chair and tossed the wad of cash from his last “friend” who had come by for a “visit” and pulled a ready-rolled joint from his personal stash. Normally, he rewarded himself after a good visit from loyal friends with some private time with his cache of pot, but this time as he lit up he wasn’t celebrating. He was trying to escape the memory of his son’s disappointment. At one time, he and Trace had been so close. He’d taught Trace everything he knew about tracking that he’d learned from the natives, and he’d been proud to pass it on to his children. Of his kids, Trace and Miranda had exhibited the most talent for the lost art; Simone and Wade had found the teaching tedious and a waste of time. It seemed a lifetime ago that he’d been of use to teach them anything.

  One summer day, when the sky had been the bluest and the grass had smelled sweeter than honey, Zed and his kids had tromped into their back forty, armed with supplies in their packs and an adventure on their minds. Trace and Miranda had eagerly walked beside him, chattering about their discoveries, each clamoring for his approval, while Wade and Simone had hung back, both taking their sweet time and complaining about the miles they were going to log before they reached their campsite.

  “Dad, this is dumb,” Simone had exclaimed with a pout. Her cute face puckered into a sour expression. “Sara invited me to a sleepover tonight and I really wanted to go. Now, instead, I’m looking for bear poop and staring at broken leaves.”

  Miranda and Trace had scowled at their little sister’s complaints and Miranda had said, “You just wanted to go to Sara’s so you could flirt with her older brother, who is way too old for you anyway.”

  “Shut up,” Simone had shot back, but Zed could tell by the way her mouth had tightened that Miranda had hit the nail on the head. Good Lord, he was going to have a time with that girl, he’d thought. Too pretty for her own good was what he’d thought. And he’d been right.

  They’d spent the weekend tracking a bear for a few miles until they’d finally spotted him in a clearing. They’d stayed downwind so as not to spook him, but he wanted his kids to know how to navigate the forest and to know what lurked in the shadows simply by the clues they left behind. He hadn’t thought to teach them about the threats that walked on two legs.

  They’d ended the weekend hunting down a deer for Jennelle to cook up, and even though Simone had hated it, she did her share in skinning the animal and cutting up the meat to bring home. He’d been proud of his princess for rolling up her sleeves and getting the work done when he’d been sure she was going to shriek and protest. Sometimes Simone had shown that she was more than just a pretty face.

  Had her killer been drawn to her beautiful face? Had that been her downfall? Too many times he’d wondered if there was anything he could’ve done differently in her childhood that might’ve saved her from dying at the hands of a murderer. Maybe he should’ve been more insistent that she pay attention to the tracking tools he was trying to teach. Maybe if she’d known how to navigate the forest by her wits, she wouldn’t have frozen to death in the very woods she’d hiked as a child.

  Eight years was an eternity when navigating through the bleak landscape of regret. He drew on his joint, the faint crackle of burning paper the only sound in the room, and held the smoke in his chest until it burned his lungs. He exhaled slowly and closed his eyes, absently spitting a stem from his mouth as he waited for the sweet oblivion to take him to a better place.

  But his mind was stronger than the smoke, it seemed, because he couldn’t escape the condemnation in his son’s eyes nor the memory of Simone’s smile. Worse, he knew his son was right and he’d never see his pretty baby again.

  How could he tell his son he was aware of what was happening but was helpless to stop it?

  Jennelle was killing herself in that house. And he didn’t have the balls to do a thing about it. In his imagination, he saw himself marching in there and pulling her bodily from that prison and telling her that things were going to be different from now on. He was going to quit selling pot and go back to carving, just as Jennelle and his kids wanted him to. But as he mustered up the energy to make it happen, he remembered that it didn’t matter if he stopped selling pot. His daughter was still dead; his kids never visited; and his wife was slowly losing her mind from unchecked grief.

  The reality of his life wasn’t a Hallmark card. There were no happy endings and nothing would change, even if he wanted desperately to try to fix what had been irrevocably broken.

  And suddenly, faced with that knowledge, the will to change evaporated like the smoke that he’d come to cherish so much.

  In the end, there was simply no point—so why bother?

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  DELAINEY SCRIBBLED LIKE MAD, jotting down the script for the reenactment while her crew got settled in the two-bedroom house Otter had provided. Thankfully, the house was already fully furnished, which was one less headache for Delainey to worry about, though she could already hear the squabbling over who was going to get the beds and who was getting the floor and sofa.

  “Listen, the accommodations aren’t deluxe, but it’s better than the alternative, which was sleeping outside,” she reminded them when the complaints came to her.

  “This is what happens when you’re not in the union,” grumbled Trevor Gann, the camera operator. “This would never fly. I’m not sleeping on the floo
r,” he announced, returning to the master bedroom to stake his claim. Trevor was a good cameraman but a bit of a pain. However, it was a short shoot so she wasn’t too worried about handling his little outbursts of petulance. At least that was her hope.

  It was an all-male crew, which alleviated her other worry about housing men and women in the same place without proper privacy. Now, they could all bunk together and pretend they were at camp.

  “How are we supposed to start shooting if you haven’t completed the script yet?” Trevor asked, returning to the kitchen, where Delainey was seated. She didn’t look up as she answered.

  “It’s an easy script. A reenactment isn’t too complicated. Besides, let me worry about the shooting schedule, okay? Your job is to worry about capturing the footage.” She smiled and he got the point, but she could hear him grumbling under his breath. She sighed and returned to her scribbling, all the while checking her phone for an update on the auditions from her production assistant. She trusted Brett could handle the auditions, and frankly it was the least of her worries. The members of the crew, accustomed to sunny California and only rare location shoots, were not properly outfitted for an Alaskan outing. In short, they were going to freeze their L.A.–acclimated asses off.

  Her phone went off and a text message came through from Brett with two photo attachments of little girls. Brett wanted her opinion on which looked the part. She gave the girls a quick once-over and then texted back, “Doesn’t matter what she looks like—make sure she can act!” She wondered if she’d overestimated Brett’s abilities. Well, there wasn’t anything she could do about it now. She read over her script notes and nodded to herself. She’d give her notes to Brett when he returned so he could transcribe the scribbled mess into a script form and then run off copies. In the meantime, she and Trace had to scout the location. More alone time with Trace. She hated that she looked forward to that most of all because it was a bad sign. She couldn’t afford to get attached, not again. It’d been hard enough to leave in the first place. She didn’t think she could handle doing it again. Plus, if she played with Trace’s heart a second time, well, she didn’t like to think what Trace would do.