This Love Hurts, Book 1

by W Winters

  It’s chilling, the fear that rolls down my spine knowing he’s watching me. Feeling him again. Is it fear, though? My heart beats wildly in response to the question, fighting and railing against the decision to act calm. I can’t let anyone know. I just need to get out of here... So we can be alone.

  My heart isn’t afraid, not like my logical side is. When the shadow is just barely seen, tall and foreboding, my stomach drops and my heart flips with recognition. It’s an undeniable feeling when you miss someone you know you shouldn’t. I try to focus on the sound of wheels squeaking against the linoleum floor and the noisy clang of metal from carts being lined up in order to help ground me.

  “Do you need any help?” The question comes from a young man in a red vest that barely hides the nondescript black logo on his white shirt beneath it. I recognize him; I’ve seen him a number of times in this grocery store. I’m certain he’s rung me up a handful of times since I returned here a month ago.

  How did I think I could move back, even if the house is on the outskirts in the middle of nowhere, and he wouldn’t find me? How could I be so foolish to think he wouldn’t come for me?

  A sinking feeling in my chest moves my hand there, and the paper list in my hand crinkles as I do. I’d forgotten all about it and as I gaze down at the blurred pen lines and wrinkled paper, I do my best to school my expression.

  “Oh, no,” I say and my throat is too tight as I speak. I close my eyes, forcing a simple smile to my lips and clear my throat. “I just realized something,” I answer, finally looking the young man in his deep brown eyes. “I have a call in ten minutes and I’m going to take it in my car then come back,” I lie, that smile staying in place although everything in my body wants me to run. Run from here, get far away from other people.

  The young man, who looks like he’s college age or maybe younger, offers me a friendly smile in return. “Understood,” he says with a nod and returns to lining up stacks of carts with the one I’ve just brought back up front.

  Even now, as I take each deliberate step through the glass double doors that slide open automatically as I approach and feel the cool breeze of early spring against my heated face, I try to rid myself of the memories that flash before my eyes.

  The bar. The drinks. The feel of a chilled glass of white wine mixed with the scent of whiskey from the man next to me. The court cases and late nights spent getting lost in bed with a man I knew I shouldn’t be with. The flirtation, rules being broken.

  My heels click as I remember losing my law license, as every dreadful moment returns with the stain of blood. So much blood. Acts of passion that couldn’t be taken back. The pain that’s already present mingles with so much more.

  Wrapping my arms around myself, I attempt to protect my body from the wind but it’s useless. The weather isn’t what batters me.

  The remembrance of his lips on mine and the searing heat of his light touch, force a gasp from me. It’s a short one full of longing, knowing those moments are now nothing more than lost ghosts of the person I was. Of the people we were before it all went to hell.

  All of the memories are a cocktail that infuses into my conscious thoughts as I listen to my keys clink while I unlock the door to my sedan with a low beep that fills the practically vacant lot. From the time I entered the grocery store to now, a mere fifteen minutes at that, the sun has decided to set, casting a shade of red across the dark tree line of thick forest beyond the store parking lot and stealing the light that was here only a moment ago.

  The leather seat groans and the door shuts with a loud thud. All I can do is sit here, my purse now on the console. My keys in my right hand, resting against my lap with the metal digging into my palm since I’m gripping them so tight. My breathing comes in faster and faster although I’m doing everything in my power to stay calm. He’ll be here soon.

  When I hear the click of the back door opening, the one behind my seat, I close my eyes. He didn’t make me wait long.

  He enters the car accompanied by a chill from the evening wind and the car rocks gently until he’s seated behind me and the door is shut. His scent fills my lungs first and as it does, I remember that I’ve been told that smell is the sense that holds the most memory. Maybe I read it somewhere, but I’ve never known something to be truer than that fact is now.

  When I open my eyes, his chilling gaze is on mine in the rearview mirror and my treacherous heart chokes me in an attempt to escape. It hovers at the base of my throat, pounding viciously in protest.

  I did always love him. There wasn’t a moment that I didn’t love him.

  He knows that. He has to know that I still love him; we just simply couldn’t be together. We decided. We decided together.

  “You said you’d let me go,” I whisper, speaking over my strangled breaths.

  My gaze never leaves his, even as tears prick my eyes. Not until he answers me.

  “I changed my mind.”

  Delilah

  Two years before

  * * *

  I’m not crazy, right?

  My phone buzzes with my sister’s text at the same time as another glass of chardonnay hits the small bar-height tabletop in front of me. The round table has a two-foot radius if that; it’s meant for two people max but my purse takes up half of it. Making the point quite clear: it’s my table.

  “Thanks,” I say and offer the waitress a smile from where I’m perched on the stool. With a small nod, the all-smiles, petite brunette in a short black dress keeps it moving. She’s cute, young, and damn fast on her feet. Plus, Sandy has a good memory. Taking a sip of the chardonnay, I know she told the bartender to make sure he poured my favorite brand. Sandy’s table is my go-to every Wednesday. Apps are half-priced so this place is packed on Wednesdays… but it’s packed with the right people. I plant my ass in this seat in the far corner of the bar where I can see everyone else, and Sandy keeps the glasses coming.

  As I told an old friend from law school once, this waitress is the only hero I need after a long day in court.

  The music is easy, the lights dim, and the lemon scent from whatever they use to polish all the dark wood in here is my heaven after spending every fucking day in hell. A.k.a. Judge Malden’s courtroom.

  I only get a single sip of the smooth wine before my phone buzzes again, vibrating against the menu beneath it that effectively takes up the other half of the table. With most of my light coming from the simple white candle on the table, I read the text, the bright light of my phone’s screen hurting my tired eyes for just a moment.

  They make me feel like I’m crazy.

  Swallowing the harsh truth, that our parents do that to me too sometimes, I answer my sister quickly. My dark red nails fly across the letters on my phone: It’s just the way they handle things. You aren’t crazy. It happened. They just want to pretend it didn’t.

  Returning to my wine, my gaze flutters from the filled glass to the front entrance as it opens. The two wooden doors with iron handles are wide, worn, and heavy.

  This place isn’t classy. It’s a pub, more or less. But the food is good and the drinks are even better. The latter is why this place is filled in the evenings and everyone comes here after work from a block down around the corner. I’ve made more deals in this very seat than I can count.

  Maybe I’m off the clock, but I never stop working. My job is my life.

  When my phone buzzes next, I take a moment to glance around the place before looking at the text message. The white wine slips past my lips, painted the same shade of red as my nails, as my gaze moves from Patterson in his dark gray suit and then to Miller and her subordinate. Patterson’s an older man who’s been divorced three times now because of his workaholic and alcoholic ways combined. All three of them are lawyers. Well, the third wants to be. I don’t know what the hell his name is, but she’s taken the young man under her wing. Another way of thinking about it is that she’s found someone tall, dark, and handsome, but dumb as rocks to do her filings.

  She
knows as well as all of us that he’s not going to cut it. I’d never trust anyone to come within an inch of my paperwork if they can’t pass the bar. A huff of disdain leaves me, but a friendly smile finds its way to my face as I lift my glass to her when her eyes reach mine.

  It’s short-lived and veiled mutual distaste for one another. She’s as cutthroat as I am, but with two decades’ more experience. Decades that also taught her she can take shortcuts and bend rules … bend not break, as she once said. One day, I’ll be one of the bigger names and I won’t do it the way she did.

  My phone buzzing in my hand is the perfect out to ignore her. Unless I’m trying a case against one of her defendants, there’s no reason to engage with Miss Miller. She’s the reason lawyers have a bad rap. I check my phone again to see a row of messages from Cadence. The summary of it isn’t anything I didn’t already know: she understands they pretend like it didn’t happen and like our childhood was full of white picket fences and tamed rosebushes. Our parents’ house may have both of those now, but that’s not how we grew up.

  Just ignore them, I offer her in a quickly typed message. Her response is even quicker, hitting my phone before I’m able to clutch the thin stem of my wineglass again.

  The front doors open, offering some light and distraction in my periphery, but I’m caught in her message.

  I love you, but I can’t just ignore it like you can.

  She’s so emotional. My sister is the child counselor at the middle school we both went to when we were kids. Of course she’s wound up over this, but this is old news. It’s past pain. I take a moment to think about how best to respond, knowing she’s hurting. She’s sensitive and she needs more support than I ever did in this aspect of life. She doesn’t get it though, and I don’t know that she wants to. I text her back regardless because she’s my sister, and I get it. I completely understand the struggle.

  You can’t change the past or the way our parents cope. I’m here for you. You aren’t crazy. It happened and if you want to talk about it, talk with me, not them.

  The exhaustion weighs down my expression, pulling at the corners of my lips. Hurriedly, I hide it all by throwing back the rest of my wine. Spinning the large glass with my pointer and thumb finger on the stem, I take in her messages that she’s okay and that she loves me.

  That’s all that matters, isn’t it? That we’re all okay now. That’s what matters. I wish she could see it like that, but she doesn’t. Maybe it’s because she sees them more than me. After all, I’m a state away and she only has a neighborhood separating them from her.

  As I’m typing out that I love her too, Sandy takes my empty glass and replaces it with another, this one filled nearly to the brim.

  “Long days deserve large glasses,” she says beneath her breath with a sympathetic tone and a knowing wink. The grin I give her is wider and more genuine than I’ve given anyone all week. My girl.

  My fingers toy with the stem absently as I stare at my phone, waiting to see if Cady has anything else to say. I don’t know what to tell her. I don’t ignore what happened or the fact that my parents pretend like everything’s fine. I wouldn’t even say that I’ve moved on. I’ve just simply moved forward. The past doesn’t haunt me anymore. She should let it go too.

  “White wine?” A deep voice from my left is followed by the sound of wooden legs grinding against the slate floor as he pulls out a stool and takes a seat. Agent Cody Walsh.

  I wish I could have contained the jump in my shoulders and the way my heart beats wildly at the sudden sound of him sneaking up on me.

  “Shit, sorry,” he says and his tone is light as I laugh, letting my body sway gently as I shake my head, peeking up at him through my thick lashes. I hope my lipstick is still in place. He told me once how the dark red looks good on my light brown skin. I don’t wear it just for him, but I can’t deny that I like it when he sees me in this particular shade. His gaze drifts to my lips then. That’s when the butterflies happen. My thirtieth birthday behind me and I still get butterflies.

  Shaking it off is easy for me, but stopping this smile from growing as this handsome man eyes me … well, that’s not so easy. Neither is stopping the heat of a blush from creeping up my cheeks all the way to my temple.

  “It’s fine,” I say as I wave him off and seek refuge in my glass of wine. Within seconds I’m in control, relaxed and myself again. I don’t know if he saw the heat I felt or if he thought it was just embarrassment, but Cody is a gentleman, so he doesn’t say either way.

  “I just wanted—” he starts, but Sandy interrupts, dropping a double Jack and Coke in front of him. “Thanks, Sandy,” he answers, his tone different. More professional maybe. My stomach doubles over in the best of ways and then that feeling travels lower as I wonder if he talks to me differently than he does to other women.

  When I’m consulting with his team, it’s men only. I rarely see him out of the office. Especially since they go out of town so much.

  There’s an obvious masculinity to the strong man in front of me. A hard edge that doesn’t seem to matter whenever he flashes me a charming smile. I’ve spent a number of nights with a toy between my legs, thinking about him. Watching him in interrogation rooms, observing the way he works and the manner in which others look up to him, does something to me. He’s only in his late thirties, maybe in his early forties, but the way he does just about everything has an air of authority that’s undeniable. Being a member of the FBI will do that to you I suppose.

  It’s sexy as hell. As he reaches for the glass, palming it with his large hand and takes a swig, I glance at the muscles in his forearms, out to play tonight since he’s rolled up his button-down’s sleeves. They sure as hell don’t hurt his sex god image I’ve conjured up in my head.

  I’ve been in this town in Pennsylvania since I left New York five years ago. Walsh happened to come here too from Virginia. The same case brought us here and we both stayed. Maybe it’s camaraderie from the now cold case or maybe it’s the mutual misery we’ve endured in this gray town riddled with corruption, but every time I see this man, I want to be under him more and more by the end of the night.

  “Just wanted to say,” he starts again, setting down his glass, the swirling amber liquid more Jack than Coke and he keeps his blue eyes focused on it rather than me for the half second. Reaching my gaze, he tells me, “I’m sorry you went through that hell yesterday.”

  Confusion hits me first. Then a blip of reality. Right. Of course he’s thinking about business and not fucking me into his mattress.

  “It was nothing.”

  “It wasn’t nothing. There was no reason for her to bring up that shit.” His tone is deathly low although there’s nothing but compassion there.

  “Her” meaning the reporter, a blonde with perfect hair who goes by Jill and works for the local eleven o’clock news. And “that shit” meaning the case that brought us both here five years ago.

  We were both in deep, both devastated when every lead gave us nothing and the one man we could track down ended up dead. There was nothing left that we could do. The murders stopped and the evidence didn’t lead to anyone still living.

  “It’s fine, Walsh,” I say, shutting down his anger with a flat tone of my own and reach for my wine again, but I don’t drink it. “She’s not a lawyer or a detective. She has no idea what she’s talking about.”

  “No,” he answers and waits for my gaze to meet his. My chest hollows but somehow feels full just the same when I see his steely blue eyes. “It’s not fine.” His last statement is almost a murmur. He’s the one who breaks our stare to look down into his full glass and then empty in a second when he throws it all back.

  I don’t look back at him, even though I can feel somebody’s eyes on me. Someone else is watching me. There’s a prick that travels up the base of my neck, making the small hairs there stand on edge. I can feel it. But not a soul is looking at me when I glance around the room. A shiver rolls down my spine.

  The chillin
g sensation doesn’t stop and I have to turn around toward the small window near our table to check there too, but no one’s there either.

  “I’m sorry, maybe I shouldn’t have brought it up.” Cody’s somber tone forces me to look back at him and I do what I haven’t done even once in the years I’ve known him; I lay my hand on his. The touch is hot, smoldering even, sending a tingle up my arm that jolts me. It’s only a fraction of a second before I realize what I’ve done and I quickly move to pat his hand, but from the look in his eyes I know that he knows a friendly pat wasn’t my intention.

  “It’s really,” I say then clear my throat and clasp my hands together in my lap before continuing. “It’s fine, I promise you. I can take her criticism when I know I did everything I could.”

  The first thing I learned in this field is the truest statement: everyone wants someone to blame. If Cody doesn’t catch the bad guy or if I don’t get him convicted … well, then it’s one of the two of us who gets blamed.

  Cody’s gaze drifts to my lips for just a moment; I know it’s brought on because I snag my bottom lip between my teeth and maybe he notices the lipstick.

  He clears his throat like I did and sits up straighter, the empty glass in his hand staying where it is since the place is busier now and Sandy is nowhere to be seen. With his broad shoulders squared, he looks straight ahead rather than at me when he speaks. “It’s not your fault we didn’t catch the bastard,” he murmurs and for a moment I question if he meant those words for me or himself.

  “You want another?” I offer him, not liking this conversation and wanting the easy air between us again.

  Tapping the base of the glass on the bar, Cody pauses and then glances up at me, a boyish smirk crossing his face. “Only if you have it with me.”