Never Been Good

by Christi Barth

  Not that Sierra knew when Flynn’s real birthday was.

  Which was the problem. Her not knowing what was and wasn’t real about him. Especially the big factor of if he was really a bad guy, deep down. Someone that might too easily fall back into that way of life, and drag her with him.

  Did he even have the same birthday he’d grown up with? Or was that a lie, too?

  “Ms. Williams?” A woman with long blond hair came around from the back of her tiny house. She wore a teal unstructured tank over jeans with to-die-for flat teal sandals. Sierra would assume it was someone who was very, very lost—there being no road at the back of her house—except that she’d spoken her name.

  “You aren’t . . . you can’t be Marshal Evans?” Sierra whispered the name, in case she was wrong.

  “I am.” She stuck out a tanned arm and gave a firm handshake.

  A good quarter of Sierra’s nerves died down. Because this woman looked younger than Mollie. Like they were going to hang out on the grass and just soak up the sun. “You’re not dressed very, um, officially.”

  “I was led to believe that you wanted this visit to go unnoticed.” The marshal hooked a thumb over her shoulder toward the forest she’d come from. “I’m blending in.”

  “How did you get here?”

  “I parked about a quarter mile away, then cut through the trees. Again, keeping a low profile.”

  “That’s amazing.” It sounded like a little thing. But that level of attention to detail, the way she’d respected and followed Sierra’s wishes without any proof this meeting would be worth her while? That professionalism instantly calmed Sierra the rest of the way.

  Marshal Evans slid her backpack down one shoulder into her hand. “I’m no superhero. It’s not a hardship to rock a pair of shorts on a holiday weekend on the rarity of an Oregon full-sun day.”

  “Are you from here?” If Sierra could glean even a scrap of personal info on the marshal, it’d make it easier, more fair when she had to spill her deeply personal secret to the woman.

  “I go where the job takes me. Right now, that’s your porch. May I?” After Sierra nodded, the marshal climbed the stairs. She kept one hand on the wooden rail as they faced off. “I can tell you’re nervous.”

  “Not at all. Terrified, yes. Nervous, not so much, now that I’ve met you.”

  “There’s no reason to be scared. But I get that me saying that doesn’t make the clenched belly go away. We can stay out here and chat first, if that’s easier for you. But I don’t think skating through small talk will diminish your nerves. How about you just tell me what was the first reproduction painting of yours that Rick passed off as the real thing?”

  The answer popped right out, easier than spitting out a watermelon seed. “Daybreak, by Maxfield Parrish.”

  It was that simple. Because, as the words flooded out of her, Sierra realized she wanted to tell the story. She wanted someone to be outraged on her behalf. Like Flynn had been . . .

  No. Flynn wasn’t a part of her life, her narrative anymore. So maybe if her brain could stop circling back to him every three minutes, that’d be great, ‘kay?

  Sierra wanted to tell the story to someone who could make a difference. Who could stop Wayne. Stop Rick. Fear had kept her small, curled into an emotional and physical ball for all these months.

  Speaking up made Sierra feel ten feet tall.

  And Flynn was the one who’d given her the opportunity to do so. Damn it.

  After Sierra had run out of details and names and dates and yes, more than a few choice expletives, she sagged against the siding of her tiny house. Running a 5k sounded infinitely less exhausting than revealing her biggest secret to a woman with the power to toss her in jail for being an accessory—no matter how unwittingly.

  “Am I safe?” she finally asked in a low voice.

  “From Rick?” Delaney flipped shut the notebook she’d been scribbling in and shook her head. “No way of knowing until I verify his whereabouts. I’m going to put out a BOLO for him. Just to keep tabs and make sure he doesn’t bolt out of Milwaukee. We want to know exactly where to find him once we get some warrants and are ready to move on this art ring.”

  Wow. That sounded like it would come together fast. She’d only been talking for half an hour, and now there was suddenly a whole operation planned out in Delaney’s head. Sierra grabbed a brush from the edge of her easel. Running it back and forth through her fingers gave her something to do besides squeezing her hands together so hard her nails could draw blood.

  “No. Not from Rick. Am I safe from you, Marshal? Safe from prosecution?”

  Delaney’s honey-blond brows knitted together. “Why, yes. Your cooperation is conditional on total immunity. I was told that was nonnegotiable.”

  “Oh. Yes. Right.” It was one thing to hear Flynn say it. He’d said a lot of things since they met. Many—most—who knew—of which Sierra now guessed were straight-up lies. So yes, it was altogether a different and better thing to hear the marshal stipulate and agree to the terms.

  Putting a hand on Sierra’s shoulder, Delaney leaned in and asked, “You are okay with moving forward on this, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.” Firmly, resolutely, and with a nod so sharp her neck cracked, Sierra said, “Yes, I am.”

  Still pinning her with that blue gaze cooler and sharper than Antarctic icebergs, Delaney pressed once more. “Sierra, why’d you decide to come forward now? Did someone talk you into it? Did you hear a story from someone about how the Marshals Service can protect a witness?”

  Omigosh. She was being subtly interrogated. About Flynn. The pretty blonde with the super cut arms was trying to find out if Flynn had told Sierra about his other life. About the Maguire brothers being in WITSEC.

  This was her chance. If she admitted Flynn had told her the truth, his cover would be blown. They’d move him. Out of Bandon. Give him a new name and a new life somewhere else.

  Sierra wouldn’t have to look at him every day, wanting to touch him but not trusting him enough to do so. She could be free of the reminder of how gullible she’d been to fall yet again for a man who lied to her up one side and down the other. Free of criminals, even those with six degrees of separation. She could be rid of her second biggest mistake.

  But that would be horrible. For a whole slew of reasons.

  Rafe and Mollie would have to break up. Or did Mollie know the big secret? All three of the brothers would not only have to leave their current jobs—which Rafe and Flynn seemed to enjoy—but switch to new ones in no way connected. Yes, she’d spent quite a bit of the night Googling everything she’d never known that she’d want to know about WITSEC.

  Mostly, it would be horrible because Flynn wouldn’t be in her life anymore.

  After a light chuckle, Sierra said, “All I know about the marshals I learned from watching The Fugitive and The Untouchables.”

  “Even bald and at sixty, Sean Connery was smoking hot in that movie.” Delany fanned herself and fluttered her lashes.

  Sierra dug the toe of her sneaker into the tiny gap between the planks of the porch. “I came forward because a friend called me brave. He sees me quite differently than I see myself. I decided it was time for me to become the person he thinks I am. The person who could deserve a man as strong and caring and sweet as—”

  Her voice trailed off. Because she needed to gulp back the tears already thickening her throat. The ones running down her cheeks were a lost cause.

  She loved Flynn. Despite the lies. Despite how after he knew about her horrible mix-up with the criminal element, Flynn had continued to lie to her. To hide so many things about himself. Especially what he had to know was the most important—that he’d broken the law, too.

  The marshal rubbed a small circle on Sierra’s back. Tentatively. Like you’d pat a hissing cat you were worried might hork up a furball in your face. Touchy-feely clearly wasn’t her jam.

  “Are you okay? Do you need to take a break from the hard stuff and talk abou
t something else?”

  “The only other thing I want to talk about is ten times as hard.” She sniffed. Twice. Then worried that her mascara was streaking down her cheeks. Talk about a look even less serious than dotted sneakers.

  “I’m a good listener,” Delaney offered. “Not as a marshal—just as a friend. Because it seems like you need one right now.”

  That’s when it hit her. She could talk to the marshal. It’d be like confessing to a priest. Sort of. Delaney was required by law to keep her secrets, and would immediately be leaving town anyway.

  Sierra hitched herself up to sit on the railing. Let her feet dangle. “I’m attracted to a man who is all wrong for me.”

  Delaney sat on the corner opposite her. And gave an exaggerated wince. “Ah, the classic bad boy. Those are hard to resist.”

  “I fell for him thinking he was a moody, quiet bad boy. But now I think he might be actually bad. Reformed, but without any guarantee it’ll stick. Especially because he just hurt me pretty badly. As I’m sure you guess from the whole Rick story, I’ve got some baggage. Scars on my heart. Why should I metaphorically open my shirt, hand over a knife, and give this guy a chance to stab me some more?”

  Yup. That rant about summed it up. Sierra was just plain scared.

  Delaney’s nose crinkled. Her mouth twitched to the side as if she was deciding between two responses and had no idea which one to spit out. She rubbed at the thin bracelet on her left wrist. A silver key and a heart-shaped lock dangled from it. “Can I tell you something? A little nugget of wisdom I’ve gleaned not just from dating, but from the complicated work life I’ve got going?”

  Oh, thank goodness. Because she really and truly had no idea what to do about Flynn. Flynn-the-freaking-ex-mobster. Except, Sierra reminded herself, that wasn’t Flynn. Flynn was the man who opened the door for her and gave her foot rubs. The ex-mobster was someone else. Someone she didn’t know.

  The real questions was whether or not Flynn saw himself as two different people. The old bad guy, and the new-and-improved good guy. Should it make a difference that he’d sort of fallen into it? That he’d balanced on the legal side of the fence—albeit while knowing full well what was going on with the rest of his organization?

  Didn’t knowing about the criminal activities and yet not reporting them make him complicit?

  On the other hand . . . she’d never picked up the phone and reported Rick or Wayne to the police. She’d skipped that obligation out of pure selfishness, to keep herself safe. Flynn had the added responsibility of keeping his secret to keep Kellan safe.

  So no, Sierra didn’t have a leg to stand on in the Self-Righteously Aggrieved Territory. It just left her as Empress of Cowardly and Petrified Land.

  A growing headache throbbed behind her right eye. “Of course. I’ll take any advice you want to toss my way. I’ll even pay you for it, with a sketch, if you want.”

  “Thanks, but this’ll be free. I’m not supposed to accept presents from witnesses.” A tiny smile lifted the corners of Delaney’s lips as she played with the intricate key. “Bad boys aren’t always as bad as they seem on the outside. In fact, they can be pretty darned wonderful on the inside.”

  Sierra recognized that type of smile. The googly eyes. The unfocused gaze. It was an over-the-moon-for-a-guy smile. Clearly this so-called advice was colored by a serious case of lust. No wonder it was weak. “That’s not advice. Advice is a black-and-white line between the right choice and the wrong one.”

  Delaney steepled her hands in front of her nose. Sucked in a long, deep breath. Then, as if imparting the secret of the universe, she said in a near-whisper, “Life isn’t black-and-white.”

  Seriously? What was next—a marine biologist stopping by to tell them that water wasn’t wet?

  “That’s an odd thing for a law enforcement official to say.”

  Her hands dropped back to her sides. Her face fell, too. “Trust me—I’m getting slapped with the confusing dichotomy of that with growing regularity. It’s very difficult to balance your heart—and your hormones—against what you think is right.”

  “Adulting is so darned hard.” Sierra wrapped her arm around the post and leaned against it. Wishing it was Flynn. How pathetic was it when even a splintery support for the roof made her miss him? “I don’t know what to think. All I’m doing is feeling. And all I’m feeling is miserable.”

  “When you’re with your bad boy who’s all wrong for you?”

  Sticking out her tongue, Sierra replied, “No. I’m miserable because I broke up with him.”

  “Would you feel better if he was here, right now, holding your hand?”

  Yes. A thousand times yes. But would she wonder about every gesture, every word he uttered? Wonder what was true? Wonder if he’d hurt her again?

  “I’d feel better if I had a drink of water,” she said lightly and brightly. Aka it probably came out sounding more high-pitched and fake than the time she’d told her last good foster mom that her hot dish casserole was delicious, and didn’t cop to it being a flavorless, gluey disaster. “Come on inside.”

  If the marshal saw through her less-than-subtle topic change, she didn’t say anything. Until she got two steps through the door. Then gasped and muttered, “Wow.”

  Sierra turned with a glass in each hand. Charcoal sketches covered the couch, the table, and the stairs. “Oh, I’m sorry. My place isn’t usually this much of a mess. I was, um, sprint sketching against a stopwatch, so I just kept flinging papers everywhere as I finished.”

  “You timed yourself drawing these?”

  She filled the glasses, hoping Delaney wouldn’t mind tap water with no ice. Her tiny house didn’t have room for a freezer. “A friend suggested that I do sketches for people on the boardwalk. And I definitely need money. But if I’m going to do it, I need to be able to finish in less than ten minutes. Today was a test to see if I could.”

  “You did all these in ten minutes?” Delaney stooped to pick up a sketch of Elena, all sex and attitude. Then Norah, shoving at her hair with her prosthesis. Mick with his grump face on underneath the USMC cap he always wore. Carlos, grinning like a fool as he totaled the nightly receipts.

  “Most were faster. I’m headed down there this afternoon to see how it goes. I just have to figure out how much to charge.”

  “I’ll give you fifty dollars.”

  Um, wow. “You don’t even know these people.”

  “I don’t want one of them. I want you to draw the person I’m going to describe to you.” Delaney snapped her fingers, then pointed at Sierra. “Can you draw Wayne? Something we can run through facial recognition, add to the BOLO?”

  “I don’t have to.” Sierra took the stairs two at a time. When she came back down, it was brandishing a handful of papers. “I did these the day I ran away. While everything was fresh in my mind. Wayne, his house, Mrs. Newberry, Rick, the nameless muscle-guy who stayed in the room with Wayne. I’ve got it all.”

  Shuffling through them, Delaney’s mouth dropped open. “These are terrific.”

  “I had a lot of alone time, being on the run. Gave me the opportunity to polish each one.” Sierra grabbed her pad. It sounded crazy. But fifty dollars was more than enough to make her not question it. “Let me set the timer.”

  “No need. I just want the finished product. However long it takes.” Delaney stacked the sketches and sat on the couch. Then she started reeling off characteristics.

  Sierra sat cross-legged on the floor and just listened for a bit. Then she held up a hand, stopping the flow of information, and started to draw. They went back and forth like that enough times that Sierra lost count.

  Finally, Delaney leaned forward and just stared at the paper. “That’s good.”

  “Great. I captured the spirit of your imaginary friend,” she joked.

  Delaney went outside, retrieved her pack, and pulled out her wallet. She handed Sierra a small laminated photo from it. “That’s who you drew. My father.”

  It loo
ked . . . well, not exact, by any means. But Sierra would give herself a pat on the back for getting darned close. Close enough that the resemblance was super obvious. “If you have a photo, why’d you put me through that little exercise?”

  “You’re fast. You’re intuitive. I think you have the makings of a good law enforcement sketch artist.”

  Random. But just the idea sent a thrill of excitement racing up her spine. “For the police, you mean?”

  “The police, the Marshals, the FBI, you name it.” Delaney carefully tucked the photo back away. Then she propped her elbows on her knees. “There isn’t formal training for this job. You just need to have the skills. It would only be sporadic. You’d need to travel up to Eugene and Portland, for sure. But it’d be a way of using that education you gave up, and a way of helping us put criminals away. Plus, not to be too blunt, but it looks like you’d welcome the cash.”

  Talk about a way to make her feel strong again. Using her talent for good. That would go a long way to restoring her karmic balance over all the replica paintings she’d done that had been sold as originals.

  “It sounds amazing. But I don’t have a car. I can’t afford one.”

  “Well, you wouldn’t start right away. We’d want to get this mess with Wayne out of the way first. I’m fairly certain, with a victim this wealthy, that there’s a reward you’ll be able to collect for providing information on the crime. Then we could provide transport, put you up in Eugene for a week while you train with one of our artists.”

  “I’d really like to do that.” Sierra bit her lip. She didn’t want to come off as dismissive or ungrateful of the massive opportunity Delaney had just handed her. And yet she’d never be able to live with herself if she didn’t at least try to get her planned future back. True strength was about reaching, striving for something with no guarantees.

  Her mouth suddenly felt dry. Her skin too tight. What . . . what if she applied that reasoning to the situation with Flynn? The rest of her life hadn’t come with a guarantee. Why on earth did she assume that falling in love would?