Mosquito Chase (4 page)

There was only one explanation for what happened last night: a sadistic form of revenge. The bar gods seemed to have finally had enough of my one-night stands. I never promised them a forever. I never promised them a tomorrow, yet somehow, I was the bad guy. What was wrong with having some good old-fashioned casual sex? I sighed and propped myself up against the wall leading down the hallway. I stared at the closed door, willing it to open and damning it shut forever. I was supposed to be sleeping off my threesome at this time of the morning, not waiting for a pregnant woman to wake up. And it wasn’t just any pregnant woman, it was Angela
fucking
Butler. I didn’t want her in my house. She’d caused too much shit for my brother and his friends. I didn’t want the drama that seemed to follow her around wherever she went. There was too much history lingering over her since high school. And me, the apparent bad guy, not only allowed her into his house, but also into his spare room. She said she’d witnessed a murder. That intrigued me. It couldn’t have been local; Angela Butler hadn’t been in town for a while. For the first time, I started to wonder where she’d been, what she’d been doing that led her back here with a story so interesting it left me no choice but to allow her to stay in the spare room.

I sipped my coffee trying to add the pieces together, but there were so many holes in the plot I could barely scrape together a theory. I started thinking about her eyes. They were the same blue as they’d been years ago, but the crystal that once shimmered behind them had dimmed and grown lackluster. I hated to admit that I had always been attracted to her eyes, they were unreal, so blue that everyone swore they were contacts. But I had known her since she was in first grade, knew that her eyes had always been that way. Thoughts of the way she’d been so many years ago fluttered across my mind. She’d been beautiful back then, but too young for me and too involved with everyone else. She was still beautiful now; her hypnotic eyes fully blossomed into adulthood. I suddenly remembered one other time I’d seen her eyes grow as dull as they’d looked last night. Uneasiness settled in my chest. Guilt. That same guilt I had time and time again over the years. I closed my eyes tight and shook my head, trying to shake this heavy feeling coming over me. I opened them with realization. The dullness of her eyes, the shape of her belly, and her lack of anywhere else to go began to fit together. The murder she claimed to have witnessed must have been her unborn child’s father.

Another sip of coffee, followed by a waiting period; I really wanted that door to open. I turned back to the kitchen, grabbed the small frying pan from the stove, and raised it above the sink.
Time to wake up, house guest.
I opened my hand and dropped it hard. It clunked and clattered throughout the quiet house. I stepped out of the kitchen and resumed my position against the wall.

From beyond the door I could hear her stumbling about, muttering a few choice four-letter words. The knob rattled, yanked open. Her eyes met mine. I cocked a satisfied eyebrow, observing the way she stood like a mannequin in the doorway. She pointed toward the bathroom and mumbled something incoherent. I sipped my coffee again, my eyes drawn away from hers, past the long t-shirt, to focus on her creamy white legs, highlighted with pink panties that barely covered half of her ass. It mentally disgusted me and physically intrigued me at the same time.

I pulled the mug from my lips as the bathroom door closed, blocking my view. I took a seat in the leather chair as the fire warmed the morning. I was on call at the station today, which meant I’d more than likely be going out later. In a small town with a skeleton crew police force, I would definitely be heading in later. Bare feet padded against the hardwood as she ran from the bathroom to the spare room. The door shut behind her as a few more choice four-letter words came down the hall. The door swooshed open just before she walked into the room. I turned my head to look.

“I miss coffee.” She sighed and sat, the leather sofa squeaking against her pants. I studied her for a moment as she stared into the fire, resting her hands over her stomach. I rolled my eyes. I hated being nice.

“How do you take your coffee? I only drink decaf.”

She cocked her eyebrow, wary of my friendliness and a little shocked to discover I drank decaf.

“Black.”

I stood up and walked past her into the kitchen. “Nothing in it at all?”

“Coffee is already complex. No need to complicate it any more than necessary.”

I reached up into the cabinet above the coffee maker and grabbed a mug. I poured the dark roasted decaf into hers before topping off my own. I would continue to play nice, at least until she satisfied my curiosity and told me what I wanted to know. One doesn’t get information from women by being hostile.

“Did you sleep well?” I walked back into the living room. Her eyes widened as she took in the kindness of my question. I held out the handle of the mug toward her so she wouldn’t burn her fingers.

“I slept okay.”

I nodded and sat, blowing at the steam rising up from my cup. She stared back, not as uncomfortable as she’d been last night. Her body seemed relaxed, her tension evaporated. She ran to me for safety. I would protect her. It was my job, though I still had no clue what I was protecting her from.

“Do you want to start at the beginning?” I asked, raising my mug for a sip and trying to remain friendly in order to keep our line of communication flowing. With Angela Butler, nothing was ever certain.

“Where exactly would the beginning be?” Her eyes darted along the floor.

“How about where you’ve been since you left Olde Town?”

“Alaska for a few months. Before that, Atlanta.”

It was like pulling teeth. I finally took a sip and placed my mug down on the end table. “What were you doing in Atlanta?”

“I finished school and got my Bachelor’s degree.” She took a small sip of her coffee.

“Did you work?”

Her movement stilled as she replied, “Yes…”

“Doing…?”

She huffed, putting down her coffee on the end table. “I was a stripper.”

I fell back into my chair, unable to contain my grin. “That does not surprise me.”

Her nostrils flared. “Just because you’re a cop doesn’t mean you have to be an asshole.”

“Not all cops are assholes.”

“The one I’m looking at is.”

I sighed. This wasn’t helping me in collecting information. I shifted in my seat and said, “I apologize for the comment. So you were a stripper in Atlanta? Would this be where you witnessed a murder?”

Her eyes hollowed, and I had a strong suspicion that all of my assumptions were right. She’d lost someone she loved. And me, being the asshole, just ridiculed her occupation. That stupid guilt consumed my chest again.
This guilt shit is getting old fast.

“Yes,” she said at last.

“Someone close to you?”

She looked down, holding her belly.

“Can you explain what happened, Angie?”

Her eyes darted up to me. I knew her preferred name, but like everyone else, I didn’t use it. She needed a friend it seemed, and even though I hated her, it seemed like I was all she had for the moment. I really wasn’t an asshole, or at least that’s what I told myself.

She cleared her throat. Her lips moved slowly as she stared at the fire, trying to find the words. “I was engaged. His name was Simon O’Reilly. He was from Ireland. I met him when I was passing through Atlanta on my way to Las Vegas.” Her eyes focused back on the fire. A smile twitched at the corner of her lips as she twisted a small diamond ring on her finger. “I didn’t believe he was really Irish at first. His accent was so off, but he had said it was from being in Atlanta for so long.” She shook her head and closed her eyes. A shaky breath escaped as she gently rubbed her stomach. “Atlanta seemed like a good place to sit for a while and figure out what I really wanted.”

“Did y’all start a relationship quickly?”

She nodded. “When I found out he owned a strip club, it kind of shook me a bit.”

I scooted up in my chair, knowing the information was coming. “He owned a strip club?”

“It was apparently passed down from his uncle or something like that. He never elaborated and I never asked. It didn’t concern me
how
he owned a strip club, just that he
did
own a strip club.”

“But you worked at this club?”

“I did after a while. I was struggling with school and work as a waitress.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I didn’t dance right away. Mainly just tended the bar and waited tables when I started.”

“What made you want to?” This had less to do with the murder and more to do with my own curiosity.

“Some guy kept offering me money to strip. When he laid down a thousand bucks the first time, I hopped up on the stage. Got three months’ rent paid by the end of that one dance. I asked Simon what he thought about me stripping. He said he was okay with it, but only on the weekends. We moved in together soon after. Got engaged. And then … and …” She tucked her quivering bottom lip into her bite and closed her eyes. She exhaled and shook her head. “They said he owed them money.”

“Who are they?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can you describe them?”

“I only saw the back of one guy, but I can clearly identify the other. The guy who … who shot…” She buried her face in her hands. I moved from my chair to the sofa next to her.

“Angie.” She looked up at me. I hesitated and awkwardly placed my hand on her shoulder. “Just focus on the men for now. Tell me what you heard.”

She exhaled and pushed my hand away as she said, “The man with the gun … he was tall and lanky, with horrible scars and pock-marks covering his cheeks. The other man was a bit shorter but much larger. They were both taller than Simon. The second guy had a slicked back ponytail.” She shook her head and continued, “They said something about money and product, I didn’t understand it all really, but I heard the name
Mateo
.”

“Mateo?”

She nodded.

“Why were you in Alaska?”

“I fled Atlanta and tried to hide out. Simon and I had talked about going there.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I felt like I owed it to us.”

“Why did you leave?”

“Maybe it was paranoia. I’m not sure really. I was comfortable there for a few months, and then I just felt like I was being constantly watched. So, I packed up my bags and headed down south. I was aiming for Florida, but home sounded better.”

She was holding it together by a thread. I could endure a ceasefire for a little longer.

“Can I fix you some breakfast? We can try to piece together the rest later.”

She wiped her eyes and narrowed her stare. “Look, just because I’m broken down doesn’t change the fact that I don’t like you. You and your buddy Steven really fucked up my life here. I had nowhere else to go. I’ll be out of here today. I just needed help.”

The name alone snapped me out of the crazy notion that I could actually be kind to her. I stood up, towering over her. “Let’s get a few things straight. Number one, I am not, nor will I ever be,
Steven
. Number two, you are
not
going anywhere.”

She hopped to her feet, put her fists on her hips, and glared at me. “Oh, like hell I’m gonna stay here.”

I stepped toward her, mere inches away from her nose. The air billowed from her flaring nostrils as I narrowed my stare. “I will slash your tires if that’s what it takes. The drug dealers who killed your boyfriend are after you. You’re pregnant with a dead man’s child. Your ass is staying here, and I’m staying with you. Got it?”

Her eyes widened as she nodded. I walked around her into the open kitchen and grabbed the frying pan from the sink. I threw it on the stove and barked, “Now, how do you like your eggs?”

I stared at the mangled, pale-yellow blob on my plate. I didn’t tell him what I wanted, so he made scrambled eggs. I raised my eyes up to stare at him across the table as he scrolled through his phone and shoveled down his eggs. I should have said benedict or at least sunny side up. I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms. A square wooden table separated us, awkward tension filling the space in between. He was intentionally keeping his eyes glued to his phone, which was fine with me. I studied the way his jaw clenched and tensed with every bite; stubble covered his face, softening occasionally with the faint indention of dimples. His mouth opened as he forked one whole egg into his mouth. He shifted his phone, his bicep flexed. My eyes were drawn to the hint of that indiscernible tattoo peeking out from his grey
Police
t-shirt. It looked like a cone of some sort, which struck me as strange and got me wondering about its significance.