He was plenty nice to Darren, surprisingly nice considering, and when Bailey’s mom had returned from grabbing a bite in the cafeteria, she was kind as well. It was awkward as hell, and when Daniel had lectured him about just how he expected Darren to treat his daughter when she finally got out of prison, Darren had wanted to run. He knew coming home and taking the attending position here would come with memories, ghosts in the closet, and even the occasional run-in with people he might not be ready to see, but this was . . . well, shocking.
Daniel had ended his lecture by apologizing again. “I really am sorry, Darren.”
Daniel did leave the hospital again. The very next day he passed away, and the funeral home collected him a couple hours later. Like most things in life anymore, Darren didn’t have a clue how to feel about it. He imagined Bailey getting the news. He wondered who they’d send. Perhaps one of the staff counselors or social workers. Or would her mother simply call the prison and ask to speak to her daughter. Maybe they’d grant her a special phone privilege reserved for situations such as these. What the hell did he know about prison life?
He saw her crying. He imagined the pain he felt losing Jess, and then he applied it to Bailey. She was going to suffer. He knew that, and he knew what it felt like. It was going to be severe, and she was going to be alone. If ever there was a time when fate was getting its comeuppance it was now . . . but it didn’t feel nearly as good as he thought it would. He really thought he wanted her to suffer, and when he imagined it, there was a sickening feel of pleasure to it, but it was painful too. He felt the pain he thought he wanted to bestow on her, but imagining her suffering hurt him too—even as he felt the grotesque satisfaction. It all left him feeling guilty, monstrous, and completely broken. He couldn’t even enjoy his retribution.
That night he dreamed of her. Actually, he dreamed of the time she’d comforted him when Scott had died, but this time it was reversed. They were in his bed, and his arms were around her. He was stroking her back, shushing her quietly with his lips to her ear, and she was crying quietly, letting her tears drop to his chest. He squeezed her tighter, held her closer, and he vowed to never let her go. He was going to protect her from every ounce of pain the world might throw at her, and when he said it, he meant it.
He woke with a start and quickly reached for the light on his nightstand. He was gasping, trying to slow his heart rate. He looked around the dimly lit room of his small Savoy apartment. He’d just broken ground on his new house, and there was no turning back now. He’d only accepted the position in Savoy a few months ago, and in that time, he’d witnessed the passing of Bailey’s father already. He was going to face her someday. He didn’t know when, but it would happen. It wasn’t an easy decision, moving back to Savoy. Building a home was like saying, Yeah, I’m local, and I’m not going anywhere, but now . . . he was starting to realize what that really meant. There were just so many ghosts in this place.
She’d no doubt gotten the news by now, and that meant she was in hell dealing with the loss of her father. He stared at the ceiling above him, imagining it again and still feeling conflicted about whether he could enjoy such pain. He didn’t want to be the type of monster who could enjoy another’s anguish, but losing his sister had taught him he was capable of being pretty damn cruel when he was hurting.
He fell asleep again with images of her crying in his mind. They were his images, but he knew it was all true. She was in pain, and it left him feeling the stabs of it as though it was his own pain, but he could feel the pleasure of it too.
Chapter Twenty-One
Now
He looked entirely too good in running shorts and no shirt. He’d ditched the shirt after mile one, and it was nothing but a distant memory wadded up in his hand as he led her through the winding, hilly terrain surrounding the lake. Macy was leading the charge, circling back around, and making them both look lazier than slugs. She barked, bounced, and then bounded off into the woods.
Bailey was struggling to keep up, and she’d fallen behind him. She wasn’t complaining. The behind-him scenery was just lovely, and she could almost pretend she had a place in this man’s life at the moment. He wasn’t glaring at her, saying rude things to her, and he’d almost smiled at her when he’d seen her lacing up her old running shoes—the very ones she’d had when they used to run together in college.
“Recognize those. Might be time to invest in a new pair, especially once you’ve been out on these paths a time or two. No nice, level, paved running trails here.” And there it was. The smirk that was almost a smile. She smiled, even if he didn’t or wouldn’t or couldn’t. Her lips pulled up, and while she didn’t bare her teeth to him, it was a real smile. Perhaps he’d catch on.
Now he was making her work her ass off to keep up with him. They took a breather when they reached a high bluff overlooking the lake far below. It certainly wasn’t the largest lake in the Ozarks—not by a long shot—but it was beautiful and clean. The Army Corps of Engineers didn’t allow for building on the lake, and it kept the waters crystalline clear. That was not to say it wasn’t populated, and homes could be seen speckled around the lake, sitting a ways off the shore and buried in the thick trees. The lake was maybe a mile at its widest and twenty-five or so miles long, winding and curving its way through the hills.
“I need to rest. Please.” She was panting and gasping pathetically as she came to a stop on the rock outcropping.
He stopped, and his hands moved instantly to the top of his head as his chest rose and fell. His T-shirt was still wadded in his hand, and after he’d caught his breath, he walked up behind her on the large rock she was standing on. It occurred to her that if she fell off, she’d be a goner down the long, rocky incline that slopped steeply, nearly vertically, away from them. The fact that her biggest enemy in the world was standing right behind her didn’t escape her attention, either. But he didn’t push her.
He reached for her waist, clasping his hand on her side, and pulling her closer to him and away from the edge. “Makes me nervous when you stand so close to the edge. Eight-year-old girl went over just last year when she was goofing around with her brother. Hardest case I’ve had to deal with. She didn’t make it. Massive brain injury.”
She turned toward him, standing directly in front of him. He looked down at her, but he didn’t back away. He stayed close to her body. She was sweating—her face, her neck, her chest. She’d worn short running shorts, and a fitted tank top, but it was hot as hell out, and there was no escaping the sweat. He lifted his T-shirt to her neck, patting along her skin down to her chest. Her nipples were hardening by the second. He’d already called her out on her ability to nip out even when it was hot, and she wasn’t sure her nerves could handle another call out on the subject. But he remained quiet. That was not to say his attention didn’t stray to her breasts.
She shivered and her skin popped with impossible goose bumps as he openly looked at her. When he licked his lips and his nostrils flared, her barely contained nerves started dancing a jig, and she swallowed over a lump in her throat. She could only stare at the middle of his chest. Of course, given the incredible definition of his pecs and abdominal muscles, the sight did nothing for her nerves but elevate the jig to a schizophrenic seizure of emotion.
She watched his hand as he reached to her, letting the back of his middle finger brush down across the peaked nub of her nipple through her tank top. She gasped, and her eyes flashed to his as his attention snapped to her as well. His lips parted just slightly, and he hummed a nearly inaudible warm groan.