by Reid, Penny
I had a southern accent, so did Simone’s momma, Daisy, and her grandfather, the judge. But Simone didn’t have an accent—not ever—nor had her daddy, her sister, nor her brother. They’d always sounded like Yankees.
Darrell tipped his head in her direction, unfazed by the oddness of her enunciation. “Hello, Miss Simone.”
That’s what he’d called her when we were kids, when he’d drop in unexpectedly and she’d been over at my house. He always said it with an air of amusement and mock respect. It hadn’t charmed her then.
But now, she laughed lightly, the sound causing my frown to deepen.
“Well, Mr. Winston, look at you. Long time no see,” she said, drawing even with my father.
My notice flicked over Simone without really seeing her, more concerned with watching the scene unfold than the details. She held out her hand for a shake. He reached for it. Instead of shaking it, he held her fingers between his palms, like her hand was a precious thing.
“I was just saying to my son”—his voice adopted a gentle, intimate quality, one that had me balling my hands into fists—“I can’t believe how much you’ve grown. How old are you now?”
“Same age as Roscoe.” Her answer carried a smile.
Simone pulled out of his grip and turned to me. She moved close, closer, acting reluctant to approach.
But I hadn’t looked at her.
I kept my eyes fixed on my father, not missing the way his gaze lowered to her legs. It rose leisurely, conducting a deliberate, admiring perusal of her backside. I fought the urge to blacken both of his eyes as she stepped forward into my space.
I understood why patricide was illegal. That said, given who my father was and how he was presently ogling Simone, I also understood why it happened. These were my thoughts when she slipped her arms around my torso, catching me off guard.
On autopilot, I wrapped my arms around her while I held my anger closer, telling myself that my father’s presence—and my enduring hatred for him—would be enough to keep this quick embrace from becoming a plague, like so many other moments involving this woman.
I knew noticing her couldn’t be helped. I’d lived my adult life greedy for her even as I’d avoided all mentions and news of her person. There was nothing I could do about committing at least parts of this quick moment to memory, despite my best intentions.
Except, it didn’t end up being a quick hug.
Simone inhaled a sharp breath as our bodies met, and that caused my focus to waver. She then held me for several beats, her arms growing tight, disrupting my thoughts from the violent intent coursing through me.
I blinked. My attention shifted.
She smells like midnight jasmine.
Now, there’s no such thing as midnight jasmine, but there is such a thing as the fragrance of jasmine in the middle of the night, and that’s what she smelled like.
Closing my eyes until they were scrunched tight, I did my best to grasp at the anger.
I would not remember what it felt like to have her in my arms. I would not remember how she pressed close, how she fit, how she was both soft and firm. I would not remember how warm she was or how her cheek and lips felt next to the skin of my neck.
I will not.
Dammit.
I was so screwed.
Chapter Two
“Between memory and reality there are awkward discrepancies...”
Eileen Chang
*Simone*
Holy cow.
Holy. Cow.
In fact, holy mother of all bovines, I was hugging Roscoe Winston. After ten years of virtually no contact, how nuts was that?
Even nuttier, his jerk father was there, apparently watching us hug.
Darrell Winston, the guy nobody could find, the guy who randomly skipped out on his parole for kidnapping his adult children just three months prior to completion of his sentence just, you know, hanging out in the parking lot of my mother’s doughnut shop, shooting the shit with his youngest son like half of the FBI field office wasn’t desperately trying to track him down.
I couldn’t believe my luck and I couldn’t wait to call it in.
Really, I couldn’t wait.
I would definitely be calling it in.
Definitely.
I snuggled closer to Roscoe.
Right after this hug is over.
#Priorities.
I hadn’t meant to hug him. Hugging hadn’t been on my radar when I’d spotted Roscoe talking to an older man outside the window of the diner. I wasn’t usually much of a hugger. I was more of a high-fiver, or a fist-bumper, or a single-head-nod-and-tight-smile-giver.
My attention had been focused almost entirely on the older man when I left the diner, a hunch pulling me outside. Not Roscoe.
Okay, maybe a little bit Roscoe.
It had been one heck of an unlikely hunch, and I’d been right. The older man was Mr. Winston, second in command of the Iron Wraiths motorcycle club, the only known confidant of our number one suspect, and a super-duper outlaw. If I could call this rare sighting into the office quickly—and we were able to apprehend Winston quietly—I’d be Agent Nelson’s favorite person for at least six months.
Except now, I was randomly hugging Roscoe, my ex-best friend from childhood. So I couldn’t call in Mr. Winston’s sudden appearance, and I had no idea how I’d arrived at this moment, in Roscoe’s strong arms, pressed against Roscoe’s strong chest, smelling him.
Hold up, why was I smelling him?
He smells good. Just go with it.
This Roscoe smelled different—a lot better than that other Roscoe, who developed the faint musk a la teenage boy around twelve. You know what I mean, corn chips and the pungent, tangy aroma of sock sweat.
My older brother had introduced our family to the smell when I was ten and I’d been a little afraid of becoming a teenager because of it. Y’all can chill though, because not all teenagers reek of swamp foot. Only boys.
I snuggled closer, irritated with myself because I didn’t want to let go.
Helpless to this sudden inexplicable hugging urge, I endeavored to retrace my steps, figure out how this had happened.
I’d shaken hands with his slimy biker father, I’d looked at Roscoe, and then . . .
And then I’d experienced feelings.
Oh for fuck’s sake.
I’m not opposed to feelings, in general. I’m sure feelings are great for other people, and I’m happy for those other people and their feelings. I hope they lived a nice life together.
Don’t get me wrong, I have feelings. I just choose not to be preoccupied by, ensnared by, or guided by them. That’s not what feelings are for. If I wanted to be guided, I would open Google Maps or consult a Sherpa.
Therefore, I was most definitely opposed to ungainly, sudden feelings that distracted me from my job. Yet, here I was, experiencing ungainly, sudden feelings. And hugging.
Nostalgia. That’s what this is.
How many times had we hugged growing up? So many I’d lost count. Not that it occurred to me to count. If I’d known then that our hugging days would come to an end so unexpectedly, I might’ve counted. But I didn’t know, so I hadn’t counted the hugs.
Instead, I’d counted on him, always being there, always having my back.
Yeeeeeah, no. That had been a mistake.
But time, as they say, heals all wounds that aren’t affected by sepsis or gangrene. I’d stopped thinking and wondering about Roscoe Winston a long, long time ago.
Plus, in his defense, we’d been kids. Just sixteen. Roscoe hadn’t poisoned the well when he ditched me for the cool crowd. He hadn’t spread rumors or lies. We were friends on a Friday, and by Monday he’d disappeared.
He’d lost interest. We’d grown apart. Whatever. It happens. Over it.
Speaking of being over stuff, Roscoe was all over me. His arms were heavy around my back and torso, the good kind of heavy. Substantial, strong. His hold tightened and I snuggled even closer, pressing my nose
against his neck, emotion-inertia taking the wheel.
But I couldn’t get over how strange and normal this felt. It was like going back in time, but not. He was familiar and comforting, and oddly . . .
Exciting? New? Tantalizing?
No. Not Tantalizing. Tantalizing is an unnerving word. No one should use the word tantalizing. It was almost as bad as titillating.
Abruptly, I sensed a shift in him, a restlessness. He tensed, and I realized we’d been hugging for a long time. Too long. Roscoe’s hands slid from my back to my shoulders, and I released him—a rush of rare embarrassment and confusion heating my neck and cheeks—just as he set me gently away.
He didn’t let me go far, tucking me under his arm in a movement that felt protective, both of us facing his father.
On reflex, I looked up, completely perplexed by my impulsive actions, discombobulated to the max, and watched this new Roscoe as he glared at his father.
“You should leave,” he said. Coldly.
Whoa.
Oh yeah, this Roscoe was much, much different. I couldn’t imagine old Roscoe speaking to his father this way. My mind sped to keep up and I pushed aside my embarrassment for the moment, attempting to reconcile past Roscoe with this present version.
Mr. Winston didn’t flinch, nor did he look surprised. Instead, he stared at his son calmly, a faint smile on his lips.
“I have a better idea.” The older man scratched his jaw, his gaze coming to me. “We’ll go inside and catch up. How’s that momma of yours, Miss Simone?”
“My mom?” I pressed my fingers against my chest. “Oh, she’s—”
“Darrell.” Roscoe’s voice dropped lower, and with it the temperature outside seemed to plummet. “I don’t know what you’re playing at here, but I’m not interested.”
“Darrell?” his father asked, lips twisting to the side as he examined his youngest son. “Since when do you call your daddy by his Christian name?”
“There’s nothing Christian about you.”
Whoa!
Buuuurn.
Winston straightened at his son’s flat tone, or maybe it was the eyeball daggers Roscoe was pointing in the old man’s direction.
Whatever it was, Mr. Winston seemed to decide something, nodding, his tone hard and bitter as he said, “I see your brother Billy poisoned you against me, like he did your sister, like he did with Jethro.”
Roscoe scoffed, and seemed as though he wanted to respond, but Winston cut him off. “Or was it Cletus?” he asked with an acrimonious snort. “That boy never did have the sense of a blank sheet of paper, the half-wit.”
I nearly choked, because that statement was patently false. Cletus Winston was almost as brilliant as me.
“You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” Roscoe shifted forward, like he planned to get in his father’s face. I used my arm around his waist to keep him next to me. This new Roscoe might’ve been tougher than the boy I’d known, but—unless he was now a martial arts expert—I was pretty sure his father could still beat the crap out of him.
I’d read enough about Darrell Winston to know the man was a dirty fighter, always had been, and had no compunctions about beating his kids and wife. If Darrell beat on Roscoe, then I’d have to beat on Mr. Winston, and. . . well you know.
Awkward.
Thank goodness, Roscoe allowed me to keep him in place, but he did taunt, “You don’t know us. And we don’t want to know you.”
I glanced between the two men. Instinct and misplaced loyalty wanted me to cheer for my ex-BFF, but duty and logic knew that was a bad idea. I needed to do the opposite. I needed Mr. Winston to stay. Mr. Darrell Winston was wanted, and not just for skipping out on his parole.
Clearing my throat, I squeezed Roscoe’s torso, and doing my best to sound completely free of ulterior motives, I asked, “Maybe y’all could come in and have some pie?”
“We?” Darrell paid no mind to my suggestion. Or maybe he heard me, but wasn’t interested in pie so much as poking at his son with a verbal stick, his eyes flashing dangerously. “You speak for everyone now?”
“Yeah.” Roscoe didn’t hesitate. “I do.”
This wasn’t going well.
I blamed the weird hug.
I opened my mouth to try again but didn’t get a chance. Roscoe, his arm now along my back, his hand hot and firm at my waist, propelled us forward. He steered us toward the diner, leaving his father standing in the lot.
Glancing over my shoulder, I watched Darrell Winston, hoping for my sake—and sorta not hoping for Roscoe’s—that he would follow. The biker stared at the gravel near his boots, still as a statue, yet seemed to grow smaller the further we walked away, and not just because of the distance.
His eyes lifted and settled on Roscoe’s back. The older man’s shoulders slumped, his chest rose and fell quickly, and his features were . . .
He looked upset.
Not angry.
Upset.
Huh. Interesting.
Unable to walk normally and peer behind me any longer, I faced forward, a hand dipping into my back pocket for my phone. Roscoe let me go as we approached the diner door, holding it open while he glared in the direction of his father.
I walked in first, hurriedly unlocking my phone, navigating to my messages, and sending a text to Agent Nelson with just three words: Darrell Winston @Daisy’s.
She was at the safe house where Lundqvist and I were set to convene at midnight. This meant—assuming Winston didn’t leave immediately—she had a fifty-fifty chance of apprehending him.
Man, why didn’t I text her before going outside? That was sloppy, unlike me.
I heard Roscoe’s footsteps close behind at first. They shuffled to a stop just as I walked past the counter.
Finishing my text, I tucked my phone in my pocket and twisted to see if he was still following. He wasn’t. He’d turned his back on the diner and was facing the wall of windows by the door. His arms were crossed and he was watching his father who was—thank goodness—still there.
Keeping one eye on Roscoe’s stoic back and one eye on Darrell loitering in the lot, I quickly checked in with the two customers at the counter. Once I was certain they were happy, I peeked at my phone while meandering closer to Roscoe.
Nelson: On our way.
Payton: Hurry. He’s in the east lot.
My heart did a little skip, excitement and pre-adrenaline putting a spring in my step, one I worked to squash as I approached my ex-friend. Putting my phone away, I stopped at his shoulder and glanced at him.
Scratch that, I glanced up at him, because this new Roscoe was tall. Really, really tall.
I blinked at his profile, my heart doing a different little skip—like a thud, an inconvenient hard beat—at this fully formed realization of his tallness.
Okay. Don’t hate on me, but tall men are my thing. Every girl has a thing, whether it be abs or beards or hands or jaws or eyes or muscular thighs or soft middles or red hair or hairy chests. You can’t help your thing, it just is.
Love it. Own it. Thing it.
That said, I didn’t have time for indulging, loving, or owning my thing right now—and especially not with Roscoe Winston of all people—so I pushed the realization away. Instead, I concentrated on the way new Roscoe’s jaw ticked, visible beneath his close-cut beard.
He was upset. But unlike his father, he was angry-upset.
“Hey,” I said, hesitated, and placed a hand on his arm. I figured a hand-on-arm touch paled in comparison to the weirdly long hug I’d given—and he’d accepted wordlessly—just moments ago.
Roscoe didn’t look at me.
I took a half step closer. “Are you okay?”
He nodded in a way that looked absentminded, still not looking at me, jaw continuing to flex and release. He was grinding his teeth. He used to grind his teeth when he was angry with me, when he sulked and refused to speak, shrugging in response to every question I asked.
It used to drive me up the
wall. I would sing catchy show tunes or jingles—the kind that got stuck in your head—until he laughed or relented and told me why he was angry.
An unbidden smile tugged at one side of my mouth. I’d forgotten about that. Or rather, I hadn’t forgotten. I just hadn’t thought about it—or him—for a really, really long time.
I can’t believe he’s here.
There was that dratted nostalgia again.
The sound of a loud engine starting yanked my attention to the parking lot and my heart plummeted. Darrell Winston was leaving.
Shit.
Shit shit shit shit shitter shiticker shite shoot shat shit.
Shit.
For just a split second, I entertained the thought of running out to the lot and arresting him myself. If it had been just the two customers in the diner, I might have. But with Roscoe there, I couldn’t.
Huffing my frustration, I tracked the target as he pulled up his kickstand and sped out of the lot on his bike, heading north.
Once more retrieving my phone, I turned slightly away from Roscoe and typed out a quick message to Nelson, updating the perp’s status, his direction, what he was wearing, the make and model of his bike, and anything else I could quickly type that might be of value.
If only I’d . . .
But there was nothing I could’ve done. I was undercover. Unlike most undercover agents, I had a real-life reason to be on my assigned stakeout, and a believable backstory because it was mostly true. I was playing a version of myself. One who’d just quit her job at the Justice Department, after graduating with her master of forensic science in forensic chemistry from The George Washington University two years ago, and was currently trying to figure out what to do with her life.
So, a flaky, fictional version of myself. Only my parents knew I was actually working for the bureau, and I definitely couldn’t tell them why.
I knew I couldn’t be the one to arrest him, but I was still frustrated. If I hadn’t been in such a hurry to rush outside, if I’d texted Nelson prior to leaving the diner, if I hadn’t hugged Roscoe, if those inconvenient feelings hadn’t flared, then maybe I would’ve been able to lure Mr. Winston into the diner. I would’ve kept him well supplied in food and drinks and whatever it took to keep bad biker dudes in one place.
