He kept a wary eye on the rearview as the man disappeared behind him and slid into his cruiser.
Hopefully, the ID would check out, and everything would be fine. If it didn’t…no point worrying until the worst happened. And nobody knew about the Andrew Blane identity. Not his boss or Tyler. Nobody.
A few minutes later, the sheriff returned and handed everything back to Clay.
“Check out?”
“Yes, sir.” The man turned as if to walk to his vehicle and then turned back, eyes narrowed with a tight smile on his lips. “Welcome to Blackwood, Mr. Blane.”
Clay watched the cruiser pull a U-turn and take off in the other direction before he started his new truck and slowly drove into the quaint downtown area.
Already on the cops’ radar. Great. Why the hell did I choose this place?
Okay, so maybe he’d head to Miami or Atlanta or someplace where he wouldn’t stand out like such a sore thumb. He could get his ink taken care of there, prep for court, and lay low until he had to testify.
As he drove through town, the skin clinic appeared on his right, and just as he passed it, Dr. Georgette Hadley got out of her car, dressed in a light, flowery dress instead of the jeans she’d worn the evening before, and he couldn’t help but slow down to watch her. Her legs were sexy, curvaceous, strong-looking, and…man, they were pale almost to the point of translucence, lending a fragile quality to her that he hadn’t noticed behind her serious doctor facade. He knew he should keep going—not stare at her like some kind of creeper—but the way she moved kept drawing his eyes.
In the rearview mirror, he watched her walk from her hippy car to the clinic, unlock it, and enter, her skirt swirling as she pulled the door closed behind her, exposing a swath of clear, white thigh—before he rounded the bend and lost sight of her.
Fuck, that thigh. Not a mark on it. No ink, no scars, track marks, or bruises. He didn’t think he’d seen such a pure stretch of body in… He blinked at the ghost of the doctor’s reflection in the mirror and focused on the road. Ever.
After that, Clay drove on to his motel and holed up, ready for a long, vodka-infused night inside, all thoughts of small-town cops and curious locals wiped away by that one, vulnerable peek of the doctor’s soft-looking thigh.
* * *
Back at the office, close and still and sweltering, George booted up her computer. Only rather than catching up on patient files as she normally would on a night like this, she walked back to exam room 2, reached into the garbage can, and pulled out a sheaf of paperwork—torn in two, but still completely legible.
I want to help him, she thought. He needs help.
Guiltily, she scanned the sheets, only to come up empty. Nothing. They told her nothing.
Name: Andrew Blane
Address: None
Phone: None
Homeless? Was he homeless?
But he’d stood so straight. Smelled so…good. Really good. Not like a man who didn’t wash.
When he’d pleaded with her, even then, he’d been strong. He didn’t have that hopelessness to him that she associated with people who didn’t have a place to call their own. Although, what did she know about homelessness? He could be a nomad, for all she knew. Plus, there was that wad of cash he’d tried to give her, which spoke of an unsettled existence. Who used cash anymore?
So, not homeless, she concluded, turning back to the otherwise blank page. Just squirrelly. He had reason to be, considering the way he looked. What on earth made a person get tattooed like that? 5–0 on his face? Announcing what? That he was law enforcement? But he didn’t look it. In fact, he looked the furthest from law enforcement she could imagine, especially with the other things inked onto him. The spiderweb and the clock.
She’d removed enough spiderwebs, pro bono, to know what those tattoos meant—the man had done time. A felon. Possibly—probably?—a murderer.
She reached for her mug of tea, took a gulp before setting it down, remembering the largest tattoo, the one on his back. Some kind of crest, like you’d see on a dollar bill or a modern-day coat of arms.
She typed triangle, arrows, eagle, river, skull tattoo, and the letters SMC.
The results, once she’d sifted through them, were disheartening, but no real surprise. Photos of an outlaw motorcycle gang out of Maryland. The Sultans MC.
Arrests, images of outlaw bikers. More arrests. Drugs, guns. Racketeering. Arrests earlier in the year, again in Maryland. Men in black leather vests with patches on the back. She clicked on that one, then magnified it until the image was clear—and there it was. Exactly the same as the tattoo on Andrew Blane’s back.
Quickly, she shut down the page and rolled back a foot or two from the reception desk. She’d worked with gang tattoos before. Ink on men who wanted to get out. She’d also helped ex-cons who had chosen to erase their old lives—erase their mistakes. She’d done a few of those pro bono, because everybody deserved a second chance.
But did this man? Did he truly deserve a second chance if he was as bad as these people appeared to be?
