She thought of the Latino ex-gang member she’d helped. She’d been perfectly willing to help that kid, but…he’d been a kid, whereas this man was older. Old enough to know better.
Crap.
George let her head fall on her arms. She wanted him to be a good guy. Was that too much to ask? That the man she couldn’t stop thinking about be a nice person, instead of a stone-cold killer?
Because this attraction, this stupid attraction, would have almost been acceptable if he’d been a good person, instead of a man who’d done time, quite possibly for murder, and who’d chosen to advertise it on his skin. And some of the tattoos were recent, if she wasn’t mistaken.
Yes, but now he wants it gone.
She rubbed her belly—the name she’d gotten inked there and again on her arm in her youth. A lifetime ago, when she’d made her mistake—mistakes. Bad boys, fast cars, fumbling in backseats.
Everybody deserves a second chance.
She rubbed, remembering. She’d had a bad phase after losing her parents—more confused than rebellious. There had been a pregnancy, an abortion, and years of doubt.
Yes, all of that should be a lesson to George, who’d gone the bad-boy route once before. And that hadn’t gotten her anywhere. Thankfully, she’d met Tom and…well, the rest was history, wasn’t it? Just history.
She sighed, coming back full circle. Ah, stupidity—the prerogative of youth.
So, Andrew Blane was erasing a lifetime of transgressions, possibly youthful mistakes. Who the hell was she to judge?
* * *
It wasn’t until Clay’d stripped down to underwear that he realized he’d forgotten to buy Vaseline. And seeing as his knuckles and eyes burned like shit, he figured he’d better head back out to find some.
He dressed, went back out to his new truck, and drove through town, surprised, on this Fourth of July, to see the lights on in Blackwood’s only grocery store—a dinky-looking place called Blackwood Grocery.
He parked and watched through narrowed eyes as people went about their business. Naglestown, Maryland—the Sultans’ fiefdom—was just a small town too…on the map, at least. But unlike this place, there’d been no antique stores, no cozy cafés, and you sure as hell wouldn’t find it in a guidebook. This little town, however, had one of those proud Welcome to Blackwood signs, complete with bright flowers and a stone accent wall, inviting you into one of America’s most picturesque villages.
Village. Ha. Like one of the books Grandma used to read to him and Carly as kids, with mice and gardens and porcupines in frilly aprons or whatever. But Clay knew, in absolute certainty, that what happened behind closed doors, even in places like this, was just as bad as what happened anywhere else. Sometimes small towns covered up big, bad goings-on. Naglestown had just been more obvious about it—the biker gang so ingrained that they hardly bothered to cover their tracks.
The local cops so entrenched in the MC’s racket, they were as bad as the bikers themselves.
As the doors slid open, all heads turned his way, and he was thankful for the aviators and ball cap, along with his long sleeves. What folks could see of his skin was minimal, and odd though he may appear in his Unabomber garb, there was no way any of it was coming off—even indoors. As unidentifiable as possible; that was the goal. Don’t give them anything to remember you by.
As if the sheriff would forget a single goddamn detail. Like, say, the 5–0 etched into my face.
Eyes followed him to the pharmacy aisle, where he startled an old lady and her little white dog, whose barks followed him long after he’d found razors and Vaseline. Fucking Vaseline, like that didn’t look bad. As he headed down to the end of the store, his eyes caught on a display dedicated to local produce, and he salivated—literally.
By the time he arrived at the checkout, he’d gathered chips and dip, apples, peaches.
“Evenin’, sir,” the cashier said.
“Evening.”
“How you doin’ today?”
“Uh…” Clay glanced around. What was this, 1954? How long had it been since he’d been asked that? “Good, thanks.”
“Great! Hopin’ for a storm later this week. Need somethin’ to break this heat wave. Always sorry when folks come to visit us, and all anyone can do is stay in the A/C. Y’know?”
“Yeah.”
“That’ll be fifteen dollars even. Cash or credit?”
“Cash,” he finally answered, handing over a couple of twenties, the bills slightly damp against his palm.
“It’s only fifteen, sir.” The woman smiled at him, and Clay wondered if she was flirting. No. He didn’t think so. Just being friendly. She handed him his change and a paper bag filled with his purchases.
