Carolina Blues

by Virginia Kantra

  “Probably busted. I dropped it. When . . .” She ran out of air and flapped her hand toward the back door.

  Understanding twisted him up. When the sirens went off.

  Her breathing was easier now. Jack straightened, reaching out his hand to help her to her feet.

  Her fingers were like ice. She gripped him—I’ve got you, it’s okay—and lurched to her feet.

  “Oops.” She staggered.

  He steadied her with an arm around her waist and then gave in to temptation and pulled her close. Instead of resisting, instead of fighting to get away, she pressed her face against his chest and held on as if she wanted him there, as if she needed his strength and reassurance. As if he were worth holding on to.

  She was still recovering from a panic attack, he told himself. Her pulse was too rapid, her breathing choppy. He was support, nothing more.

  But it felt so good to be wanted like that, to be held like that. She was warm and soft against him, her skin hot and sweet. She made a little sound, burrowing against him, pulling him around her like a blanket, and he went hard.

  Taking advantage. Hell. He loosened his hold, easing himself away before she noticed his dick trying to get in on the action, pressing for her attention. This isn’t about you, you bastard. “You want to test it?”

  She raised her head, her eyes dazed and dark. “What?”

  Test me, his body begged.

  He cleared his throat. “The laptop. You want to check if it’s still working?”

  She blinked like a woman waking up after sex. “Oh. Okay.”

  She stooped unsteadily to pick it up, flashing the tattoo before she straightened. A crack zagged across a corner of the case. The DVD drive stuck out slightly.

  She took a deep breath.

  “I’m sorry,” Jack said. Not that he’d done anything to apologize for. But he’d been married ten years. You couldn’t go wrong with I’m sorry.

  She shook her head impatiently. “It’s fine. Everything’s backed up to the cloud. Not that it was worth much anyway.”

  It. The laptop? Or her work?

  She tapped the power button. The laptop ticked like the timer on an explosive device before the screen flickered to life. “It works,” Lauren said hopefully.

  Something—a fan?—clunked and whirred. Not a good sound.

  “Turn it off,” Jack said. “Save the battery.”

  She nodded and closed the lid. Her head bent. Her fingers tightened on the plastic.

  That small, betraying gesture ripped him up inside, made him want to go forth and slay dragons. Or hit something. Anything besides dealing with actual tears, actual feelings.

  “Sorry.” She straightened her shoulders. “I’m really glad you’re here. I’m not usually like this.”

  She was talking. Not crying. That was good. “You’re doing great.”

  She gave him a disbelieving look and he bit back a grin. She was coming back.

  “How often does this happen?” he asked.

  “Me breaking into places where I work?”

  But he wouldn’t be put off by her wry tone. She was coming back. But wherever she’d been, in her thoughts, in her head, was a dark place. “The PTSD.”

  She opened her mouth. Shut it. “That’s not . . . It’s not the same. I’m not a Marine.”

  “But you have flashbacks,” he guessed.

  Her breath hitched. “Not as often as I used to.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “It was just a panic attack,” she said. “I’m not . . . I’m fine.”

  He wondered if she’d been saying that for so long she actually believed it. Or if she was only concerned with what other people believed. “You got something you can take for them?”

  The doctors in Afghanistan were always pushing pills. To sleep, to stay awake, to relieve pain or push the demons away.

  She shook her head. “They never last long,” she reassured him. “I’ll be better in a minute.”

  She was the shrink. She should know. But her hands on the laptop trembled.

  He leaned against the counter, crossing his arms against his chest so he wouldn’t grab her and upset her careful equilibrium. “Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

  * * *

  LAUREN CLOSED HER eyes against temptation. She was aching and shaking inside, and he looked so good, he sounded so calm, so confident and controlled. She wanted to lean on him, to sink into him. To burrow into his chest and absorb him through her pores, make him part of her. Hers. I’m not going anywhere.

  She shut the laptop with a little snap. He didn’t mean the words that way. She forced a playful note in her voice. “No hot date tonight?”

  He shook his head once, side to side. “You shouldn’t be alone. Have dinner with me.”

  Oh. Heat swept through her again, burning her up from the inside.

  Her mind whirled. He was asking her out? Now, when she was sweaty and nauseous. Why was he asking her now? Her armpits stank. All she needed to cap off her evening—and his—was to puke all over him at some restaurant. “I’m hardly dressed to go out.”

  His eyebrows lifted, very slightly, and she flushed. Because the truth was nobody dressed up on Dare Island. Not even to go out. She simply wasn’t confident that she could handle food right now.

  Or noise.

  Or people.

  She just wanted to be alone. Except that wasn’t true, either. She stared at him helplessly, her insides churning. Rescue me.

  Those dark, dark eyes watched her. “We could go to my place. I’ll make dinner.”

  Shock and pleasure zinged through her. Okay, she knew what that meant. She didn’t have to be alone. She could go home with him and have sex. Yes, said her body. Her brain spun like the little blue circle on her computer screen, struggling to keep up. She looked at him from under her lashes, hungry for his strength, stealing glances like he would catch her and make her give them back. “You cook?”

  A corner of his mouth curled. “Well enough.”

  “Okay.” Come on, Lauren, you can do better than that. Deep breath. Smile. “Are you going to make red sauce?”

  “Not this time.”

  Implying there might be a next time. The thought made her giddy.

  Or maybe that was the residual effect of her panic attack.

  She wanted this, she thought as they went outside. Wanted Jack, filling her up, taking her hard, making her whole and complete.

  It wasn’t like he wasn’t getting something out of the deal, too, she told herself as she locked up, as he placed a quick call to the security company. At least . . .

  She slid him another glance as he got into the vehicle beside her. That had definitely been his erection, pressed up against her. Twice. Once when they’d kissed at the inn, and just now, after he helped her off the floor. So he must want her, too, she thought hopefully. Even if he hadn’t called.

  She settled into the passenger side, reaching for the seat belt. Something scrabbled in the back of the SUV like a rat in a Dumpster.

  “Ohmygod.” She jerked and grabbed at the dashboard. “What was that?”

  Jack’s lips twitched. “Dora Abram’s intruder.”

  “What?”

  He gestured with his head. “Behind you.”

  Cautiously, she turned. The top of the Fletchers’ big animal trap stuck up from the cargo space. The backseat in between prevented her from seeing inside.

  “If that’s a snake, I’m out of here,” she said.

  Definitely a smile this time. “It’s a cat. The island has a big feral population.”

  She relaxed back into her seat. A cat was a million times better than a snake. “We have the same problem on campus when the students go home for the summer. They don’t think about what it means to a pet to be forced outside and left behind.�
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  “I don’t think this one was a pet. The locals say the island cats have been around since the early shipwreck days. Like the island ponies. They’re wild animals, not house pets.”

  She turned again, but she still couldn’t see inside the cage. “What will happen to it?”

  “Tomorrow a volunteer will take it off island to the humane society. They have some kind of spay-and-release program for adults. This one’s young enough, though, it’ll probably be adopted.”

  Her instinct—to do something, to help—stirred. “What about tonight?”

  His shoulders rolled in a shrug. “I’ll take care of it.”

  Warmth glowed in her midsection, broke on her face in a smile. “You are such a nice guy.”

  He grimaced. “Not really. There’s no animal control officer on the island. I’m just dealing with a problem.”

  Right. Guys did not appreciate being called nice. Nice guys did not get the girl. Nice guys finished last.

  And maybe he really saw his actions that way. Maybe he was so used to doing the right thing that it wasn’t a big deal to him. But she didn’t know a lot of guys who would put themselves out like that, who would choose the right thing, the compassionate thing, over whatever was convenient.

  He was kind of amazing, actually.

  “Uh-huh. Just doing your job,” she teased.

  His eyes narrowed. “Where are you going with this?”

  She wasn’t sure. She’d been so glad to see him when he walked into the bakery. She was so grateful she didn’t have to be alone. But this wasn’t all about her. Or it shouldn’t be. She didn’t want to burden him with obligations. With expectations.

  She took a breath. Released it. “I’m just wondering if you brought me home out of a sense of duty or because you felt sorry for me.”

  “Jesus.”

  “I don’t mind,” she assured him hastily. She’d had no objection to being his rebound relationship. Why not his pity fuck?

  Meg’s voice played in her head. As long as you know going in that that’s what it is.

  A muscle flexed in his jaw. “I asked you to dinner,” he said very deliberately, “because you shouldn’t be alone.”

  “It’s okay. I get it.”

  He shot her a hot, dark look. “No, you don’t. You shouldn’t be alone. And I want your company.”

  That was nice of him to say.

  “I want your company, too. Thank you for inviting me.” She smiled crookedly. “Us.”

  “Lauren.” His voice rubbed over her, making all the little hairs on the back of her neck stand up in warning or pleasure.

  “What?”

  “You’re not some stray I’m bringing home for the night.”

  She made herself smile. “As long as you’re not dropping me off at the shelter tomorrow to get spayed.”

  Unexpectedly, his hand left the wheel and covered both of hers, pleated together in her lap. Such a simple, human touch, warm and reassuring. His kindness made tears burn at the back of her eyes.

  “Stop worrying,” he said.

  “Okay,” she said promptly.

  And worried for the rest of the drive.

  * * *

  THE GNARLED OAKS and stubbly lawns had given way to dense vegetation, thickets of dark shrubs that followed the shape of the sandhills on either side of the road. A bat cut across the sky, a fluttering triangle against the fading light. Ahead, a heavy metal chain blocked their way. A sign dug into the soft sand read, CONSTRUCTION ONLY. DO NOT ENTER.

  Jack got out of the vehicle.

  She should have offered to do that for him, Lauren realized as he unlocked the chain, drove forward, and then fastened it behind them again.

  “I guess you don’t worry about trespassing,” she said as he slid back behind the wheel.

  His teeth showed briefly in a smile. “I live here. Sam Grady—that’s Meg’s fiancé, old Grady’s son—is developing this whole area. Having a cop around discourages theft from the construction site.”

  They emerged from a tunnel of twisted trees to open sky and grassy hillocks rolling down to a long wooden wharf, obviously new, its planks even and unweathered. The patchwork waters of Pamlico Sound, green and blue and brown, shone like beaten copper, the gleaming surface broken only by a jetty of tumbled rock and the thin, dark line of the mainland in the distance. A world away. A few fishing boats, bristling with antennas and fishing rods, floated like pelicans on the water.

  There was only one building. A big one, shingled like most of the island homes, but shaped like a warehouse. Lauren raised her brows. “You live . . . here?”

  “No, that’s the new fish house for the watermen’s association Matt Fletcher’s heading up.” Jack parked the police cruiser in the broad, pebbled strip bordering the wharf. He nodded through the windshield. “I live there.”

  She leaned forward, squinting against the golden glare of the sun. Painted on the blunt back end of the nearest fishing boat was the name Rossi’s Wreck.

  Her heart lifted like a seagull, in pure delight. “You live on a boat?”

  He walked around the front of the cruiser. “For now.”

  She could not wait for him to open her door. She stumbled out onto the gravel, pushing her hair back with her hand. “That is so cool.” The breeze off the water stirred the lines, striking the bridge of the boat with a faint ting ting. She turned to him, beaming. “Did you buy it when you moved down here?”

  He shook his head. “My pop and my uncles liked to fish down the Jersey shore. They went in on the boat together about twelve years ago. We used to go out together weekends.”

  She had never had an extended family to do things with. Or any family at all. Her mother was too lost in grief and her television programs, and Noah was too young, and Lauren was too busy trying to keep things together, making sure the bills got paid and dinner got made, and Noah did his homework. Maybe if Dad hadn’t died . . .

  She pushed the thought away, out of habit and self-defense. “It sounds very manly. You all must have been very—”

  “Drunk?”

  She laughed. “Close,” she said. “Your family must be very close.”

  He looked away, his lips tightening. “Yeah.”

  She’d said something wrong. But she didn’t know what. “What happened?” she asked softly.

  “Hurricane Sandy. The boat survived the storm okay, but my uncles were getting tired of the insurance and upkeep.” Jack shrugged. “So I bought it from them in a shrewd business move. When I moved down here, the boat was ready housing.”

  She hadn’t been asking about Rossi’s Wreck. But maybe the boat represented a tie to the family he’d left behind. “What do you do if there’s another hurricane?”

  Those dark eyes crinkled. “Pray.”

  She laughed again. He took his job so seriously that his humor was a pleasant surprise, like biting into a hard candy and finding the soft liquid center. The thought distracted her. She’d like to bite into him. Her breathing quickened.

  “. . . help with evacuations,” he was saying. “Bunk down at the school if I have to.”

  He was still talking about hurricanes. And she was helpless, caught in a sudden storm of longing and desire.

  She watched him open the back of the SUV and lift out the animal cage, muscles sliding under his shirt, his back smooth and powerful, his movements efficient and controlled. A kitten huddled in a corner of the trap, a thin, striped shadow with enormous eyes.

  “Oh, it’s a baby,” she said, her voice melting. “It’s so cute.”

  Jack glanced down, a grin tugging his mouth. “Looks like a rat. It probably bites.”

  You and me both, kitty. She felt a blush rising and looked away.

  Water slapped the pilings. The smells of fish and fuel and algae rose from the dark gap separating the boat from the do
ck. The cat mewed once, piteously, as Jack stepped down into the boat and then turned to offer Lauren a hand. His palm was broad and firm, his wrist thickly muscled. She felt her balance dissolve in another wave of lust and gripped his hand tightly.

  “Easy, tiger,” Jack murmured. “I’ve got you.”

  Was he talking to her? Lauren wondered, amused. Or the cat?

  He helped her aboard and set the cage in the shelter of the bridge. “You want something to drink?”

  “Thank you.” She balanced in the middle of the small, square space, unsure of her footing. She knew what to do when she brought a guy to her place. Make him a meal and then either find him some pillows and the remote or take him to bed. But with Jack, she was all at sea. Literally. “What can I do to help?”

  “Not much room in the galley. Have a seat. I’ll be right back.”

  He ducked into the cabin, leaving the door open. She could hear him moving as she perched on the edge of a padded bench, taking her bearings. The skinny gray kitten watched anxiously from the shadow of the cabin wall.

  “Do you have something I can give the cat?” she called through the open door.

  “I’ll take care of it.” Jack’s voice was patient. Amused. “You like fish?”

  “Sure. I used to live on tuna fish.” Cats ate tuna, right? “Well, that and ramen noodles.”

  “No tuna. Bluefish or Spanish mackerel.”

  “I’ve never had either one. I’m from Chicago, remember?”

  “Chicago’s on a lake.”

  “Sure. Ask me about whitefish. Or smelt. Oh, hey, wait. Did you catch the fish yourself?”

  “Not today. It’s in the freezer.”

  “You did catch it. That’s so cool.”

  “Until you fry it,” he said. “Then it’s hot.”

  Wow. Chief Law-and-Order Rossi had actually made another joke. And he was cooking her dinner. She wasn’t sure which impressed her more.

  She’d never bought into traditional dating models, the exchange of dinner-and-a-movie for sex. But something about Jack preparing her food satisfied her on a deep, biological level. Like he’d bagged a woolly mammoth and dragged it back to the cave. Her DNA wanted to have his babies.