by Devney Perry
Even after a hot shower, the manicure and a sleepless night, I couldn’t make sense of how it had happened. One moment, I was standing there, reveling in the honesty of his words when he said I couldn’t trust him. I went soft at the vulnerability in his voice when he asked that we work together. When his mouth touched mine, all rational thought vanished.
Damn, what was I thinking? There was no question that Dash seduced me. And the fool I was, I’d let him. The sex, I would have been able to make sense of quickly. It was just sex. Two people coming together to scratch an itch. The tension between us was combustible, and it had only been a matter of time before we broke. The sex was not the problem.
The problem was, Dash had cast me away, and I’d never felt quite so used.
Flip the lock on your way out.
Ouch.
Hence the reason I’d gone straight for my tub of fingernail polishes at midnight.
In the dim light of my bedroom, the red I’d chosen had looked darker. Now that I was sitting in broad daylight, the color was a match for the car Dash had fucked me on last night.
Hot-sex red.
When I got home tonight, I was throwing the nearly new bottle away.
I should go inside. Twenty minutes had passed since I’d driven to the school and I wanted to get inside before the office closed for the day. School was out for the summer and according to their website, office hours ended at three. I only had fifteen minutes left, but here I was, stuck staring at my nails.
My sex nails.
It was hazy, but I was pretty sure I’d scratched Dash a time or two during our escapade. Bastard. I wish I’d drawn blood.
It bothered me beyond end that I felt slimy. Dash was a villain in every way, but had that stopped me from foolishly hoping he was more? Nope. I was ashamed of myself. Not for the sex.
For the hope.
I was no stranger to casual sex. Once, I’d gotten involved with a man from work, a junior producer who’d been as handsome as he was cocky. The two of us had started sleeping together, and weeks later, as we lay naked in bed, he asked if I’d put in a word for him with the executive producer. He was after a promotion and thought sleeping with the female anchor might improve his chances. The idiot actually thought I had some sway. He didn’t realize I was merely a puppet for the network, a pretty face to deliver bad news with a smile.
I’d felt used then, but it was nothing compared to the way I felt now.
Maybe today was extreme because I’d let go of all my inhibitions. I’d given my body over entirely to Dash, letting him bring me to the edge and push me over. Maybe it stung more today because I’d never had such all-consuming sex before.
It had been raw and rough and eviscerating. From now until the end of my life, last night’s orgasm would be the yardstick for all future comparisons.
Stupid, Bryce. So fucking stupid.
In all fairness, Dash had warned me not to trust him. The tenderness between my legs was a throbbing reminder of my mistake.
I never should have gone to the garage. I never should have believed Dash wanted a truce. When Draven hadn’t been there last night, I should have turned tail and run.
Except I’d underestimated Dash and his ability to charm. My eagerness had been my weakness and Dash had exploited it with precision. He’d even made me doubt that Draven was guilty of Amina’s murder.
Draven was guilty. Wasn’t he? The man couldn’t be innocent, right? Unless this was all a setup.
The doubts had been rattling around the corners of my mind all day. Damn it, Dash.
I took out the yellow notepad from my purse and plucked a pen from the cup holder. Flipping it to a free page, I wrote one word in big capital letters.
MOTIVE
What was Draven’s reason for killing? We could place him at the scene of the crime. He’d had sex with Amina before she’d been stabbed. Chief Wagner was being extremely tight-lipped about the details of the case, but he had told me they’d found a murder weapon at the scene—a black hunting knife.
That was means and opportunity. But what was Draven’s motive? Why would he kill Amina Daylee, a woman he’d gone to high school with and, from what I could tell, hadn’t seen much of since?
Was it a crime of passion? Maybe Draven had used Amina like Dash had used me. But instead of leaving through the side door like I had, Amina had gotten angry. Maybe she’d ignited his rage and he’d killed her in the heat of the moment.
As tempting as it was to go with that theory, it didn’t jive.
I hadn’t spent much time around Draven, but I did have carnal knowledge of his son. Dash had the talent to rile me up. We stabbed at one another’s buttons and flared each other’s tempers. But he wasn’t a hothead. Dash was calculated and precise, traits he’d likely learned from his father.
My eyes went back to the word on my notepad, spinning it around, looking at it sideways, backward and upside down.
What was Draven’s motive?
I’d hoped to ask him last night. Instead I’d let Dash get me naked in the garage. Truce, my ass.
He’d seemed sincere. There was no way he’d faked that level of satisfaction with the sex. So why dismiss me? Surely he knew that would be counterproductive to the alleged truce.
One thing was certain—Kingston Slater confounded me. Using him to glean Draven’s motive wasn’t an option now.
So I’d have to find another way.
There’d been two people in that motel room when Amina had been murdered: the killer and Amina herself. She was the key. If Draven was innocent, then her past might lead me to the truth.
I donned a smile for the first time all day, slung my purse over my shoulder and headed for the school. Inside, the lobby was empty and quiet. My shoes echoed as I walked to the office, waving at the secretary stationed up front—Samantha, according to the nameplate on her desk. “Hello.”
“Hi. How can I help you?” she asked.
“I’m Bryce Ryan.” I extended my hand over the counter. “I work at the newspaper and I was hoping you could help me.”
“I’ll try.” Her cheerful smile eased my nerves.
The secretary at my high school had been more terrifying than the principal, but based on the number of thank-you cards pinned to a corkboard on the wall beside her chair, I was guessing the students here adored Samantha.
“I’m looking for any information I can find on a former student.”
Samantha’s face fell. “Shoot. The principal is gone and she’s who you’d have to talk to about student records. She knows all the rules about granting permission and all that.”
“Dang.” I drummed my hot-sex red nails on the counter. “Will she be in tomorrow?”
“No, sorry. She’s gone for two weeks on vacation. We try to take advantage during the summer.”
“I can imagine you’ve all earned it.” I scanned the hallway past the office. It was empty, all of the classrooms closed with the exception of one. The door beneath the Library placard was open. I pointed to the door. “I don’t suppose you have any old yearbooks in the library I could look at?”
Samantha glanced at the clock. “There might be, but I’d have to look. And I was hoping to get out of here early today to get to the salon for a hair appointment. I’m the only one here. Would you mind coming back tomorrow? I can dig them up for you.”
Shit. I’d wasted too much time in the parking lot staring at my nails and thinking about Dash.
Infuriating, womanizing, sex-magician Dash.
“Sure.” I nodded, forcing a wider smile. “Thank you.”
Samantha waved. “See you tomorrow then.”
“Tomorrow.” Except I really didn’t want to wait until tomorrow.
With one more longing look at the library, I turned and retreated to the front doors. On my left was a wide entrance to the bathrooms, boys on one side and girls on the other.
An idea hit and my steps slowed.
The bathroom.
Behind me, Samantha was out
of her chair, pulling a tote bag from a cabinet in the office. Her back was to me.
Screw it. I ducked into the girls’ room and slipped into the second stall.
Was I really doing this? I didn’t answer that question for myself. Instead I held my breath and didn’t move other than to blink. Maybe my ambition for the story had gotten out of hand. Maybe I was delirious from lack of sleep. Maybe I was desperate not to return to my car where I’d undoubtedly think of Dash. Whatever the reason, it was a stupid idea.
But I stood there, unmoving and taking shallow breaths.
Worst case, Samantha would find me and I’d lie about an overactive bladder. Best case, she’d walk out the door and I’d be locked inside the high school alone. Okay, that wasn’t great, but I’d find a way out eventually. Maybe.
Hiding in bathrooms had worked for me at the police station. I might as well roll with it.
The sound of flip-flops echoed from the hallway outside. I remained frozen in my stall, my heart racing and palms sweating. When the light that seeped into the bathroom from the lobby went out, my shoulders fell and I blew out a breath.
I waited another five minutes before making a move. Then I tiptoed my way out of the bathroom.
“My car.” I slapped my palm to my forehead. If Samantha noticed it in the lot, she might come back. But she hadn’t so far, so maybe I was safe. I spun in a slow circle, spotting small black orbs in the upper corners of the lobby. Should I wave at the cameras? Give them a smile?
My commitment to the act was solid, so I walked to the front door, pretending to open it. Then I faked a dramatic sigh, pulling at the strands of my hair. I was kidding no one here, but it made me feel better. With a fast turn, I marched through the lobby, looking down all the hallways and mouthing a silent Hello? It felt as awkward as I assumed it looked—an actress I was not.
Pretense over, I went right for the library. The room was dark, the only light coming from the windows along the wall. It was bright enough that I wouldn’t bump into a bookshelf but not enough to do any serious exploring, so I dug my phone from my purse and flipped on the flashlight.
“Yearbooks,” I muttered, scanning shelves as I inched deeper into the room. “Where are the yearbooks?”
I passed shelf after shelf of nonfiction books, followed by a few rows of young adult fiction. Five rows along the back wall held an ancient Encyclopedia Britannica. My parents had bought a set of those when I was a kid twenty-something years ago and these looked to be about that old.
It was a waste of perfectly good library space, in my opinion. Wouldn’t those rows be better suited, for let’s say, yearbooks?
“Damn it.” Time to give up and attempt to get myself out of this building. Samantha was expecting me tomorrow, so I’d wait. It’s what I probably should have done in the first place.
I rounded the last corner of the room, passing the librarian’s desk. Behind it, the shelves were white, whereas the others in the room were wood. With a quick whip of my flashlight, I expected to find dictionaries and thesauruses. I did a double take when my light landed on tall, thin books, most with foil-pressed letters on the spines. All with a year and Clifton Forge High.
“Bingo.” My smile felt borderline insane.
I rushed to the shelves, my purse getting tossed to the floor as I dropped to my knees. I scanned the rows of yearbooks for the years when Amina would have been in school. I dragged a six-year span off the shelves and got comfortable on the carpet.
The year Amina would have been a freshman had no pictures of her, so I moved on to her sophomore year and found her immediately. My light shone on her dim school photo, picking out shoulder-length blond hair. True to the style at the time, it was feathered away from her face.
I touched the page. Amina had been beautiful. Her smile was natural and bright, even in black and white. On the page, hers was the best photo by far. Somehow, she didn’t have the awkwardness her classmates couldn’t hide.
My heart pinched. She was gone now, her light smothered by a vicious murderer. It wasn’t fair. Unless she proved to be a horrible person, I was making it my personal mission to memorialize Amina Daylee in my newspaper. It wasn’t much, but it was something I could do for the young woman in the photo.
And something I could do for her daughter.
I flipped the page, searching the photos carefully, hoping to find pictures of her involved with clubs or sports or—
“Breaking and entering? Didn’t expect that from you.”
I shrieked as the deep voice carried through the room. Every muscle in my body tightened, holding stiff, as Dash emerged from the dark corner where he’d been lurking.
“Asshole.” I slapped a hand over my heart. It pounded so hard and fast that I felt its beat in the split ends of my hair. “You scared the shit out of me.”
“Sorry.” He held up his hands, though his smirk betrayed his apology.
“No, you’re not,” I muttered. “God, I don’t like you.”
He stalked my way, those long legs eating up the distance between us. Dash moved like he wasn’t scared of getting caught, the thud of his boots loud in the muted space. He took up a spot next to me on the floor, his thigh nearly touching my own.
“What are you doing here?” I inched away. “How did you get in?”
“Used a window in the girls’ locker room in the gym.” He wagged his eyebrows. “I used to sneak in there a lot in high school.”
“No surprise.” I frowned, ignoring the pang of jealousy.
Those high school girls had probably loved Dash. No doubt he’d had some tattoos back then and ridden into the parking lot on a Harley. He’d probably fucked the head cheerleader in the girls’ locker room while her boyfriend, the hottest kid on the football team, was on the other side of the wall in the boys’.
“Why are you here?” I asked.
“Followed you.”
“Of course you did.” I rolled my eyes. Given his knowledge of my routine, the man must have been following me for weeks.
He leaned closer to eye the yearbook I’d been studying. I scooched away another inch, then I gathered up the yearbooks in front of me and placed them to my other side, using my body as a blockade. These were my yearbooks, not his. But before I could grab the last, he snatched it away.
The only way I was going to get there was by reaching into his lap. My brain screamed danger zone and I shied away even farther.
“What are we looking for?” he asked, picking up his yearbook and thumbing through the first couple of pages.
“Pictures of you,” I deadpanned. “To frame and put on my nightstand.”
“Really?”
“No.”
He chuckled, flipping through more pages. “Glad to see sex hasn’t dulled your spirit.”
“On the contrary, I hate you even more now.”
“Ouch.” He clutched at his heart. “Harsh.”
“No harsher than you sending me on my way last night like I was a five-dollar hooker.” I flipped through my own book, the pages turning too fast to really see what was on them. But I kept my eyes glued to the page so he wouldn’t see how much he’d hurt me.
“Bryce.” His hand came to my arm, stilling my movements. I stared at his long fingers on my wrist but refused to look at his face. “I’m a dick. The whole thing . . . it caught me off guard. And then you acted like you couldn’t get away from me fast enough. I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine.” I shook off his hold. “It was only sex.”
“Only sex? Woman, that was out-of-this-world fucking.”
I shrugged, not trusting myself with words. I mean . . . he wasn’t wrong. And I should have hated him after last night.
It irritated me to no end that I didn’t.
Returning to the yearbook, I found the section for club photos. I studied the small faces in the abundance of group photos, doing my best to ignore the intoxicating scent coming from Dash’s T-shirt. Whatever laundry soap he used, it added a fresh smell to his naturally
rich aroma. The combination was tempting. Even after last night, this man still tempted.
Damn him.
I raised my flashlight to the page, squinting at the tiny photos until I spotted Amina’s face in the sophomore class’s group photo. Her hair had grown since the previous picture, but the smile and carefree look remained.
“That’s her?”
His breath ghosted across my cheek and my face turned up to his profile. Dash was an inch away, right within kissing distance. I leaned away, not trusting myself in his proximity.
“That’s her.” I twisted to give him my shoulder and force him away.
He went back to his own yearbook but didn’t move away. The heat from his arm radiated against me, distracting me from the photos. Focus, Bryce. I narrowed my eyes at the yearbook. Focus.
I was here to find information on Amina. Dash was a nuisance and nothing more. Except for the fact that he was responsible for the dull ache in my center.
The sound of flipping pages was the only noise in the room. Dash turned his pages in rhythm with my own, until he stilled.
“What?” I leaned over to look at the page he had open.
“Nothing.” He turned the page. “Just saw a picture of my old neighbor. He hasn’t aged well.”
“Oh.” I went back to my book, scooting even farther away.
Dash flew through the rest of his yearbook, setting it on the floor when he was done. Then he reached for the shelf behind us and pulled out a different book. This one newer and thicker.
“What are you doing?”
He grinned and thumbed through the pages until he found what he was looking for. Then, with the book split open, he handed it over. “That’s me my senior year.”
I found Dash quickly on the colorful page. He looked younger—and cockier, if that was even possible. I hated myself for it, but teenage Kingston Slater was total jailbait.
His jaw was more defined now, his shoulders broader. Dash’s eyes had more crinkles at the sides when he grinned. Lost in his young face, comparing its differences to the man I’d been with last night, I jumped at a rustle of pages and the whoosh of a book slamming closed. I tore my eyes from the photo just as Dash stood from the floor in a flash, the yearbook he’d been looking at left discarded on the floor.
