Divorced, Desperate and Dead (Divorced and Desperate Book 5) (16 page)

He stopped at his car, debated hanging up, and then decided what the hell.

Phone still to his ear, he opened his car and climbed in. The afternoon heat seemed trapped in the vehicle.

He pushed his keys in the ignition, his mind on so many things that he’d stopped listening to the ring. Her voice came on the line. Soft, almost lyrical. The line beeped for him to leave a message.

He hesitated, completely unsure what to say, and then he just started talking. “Chloe, this is Cary. Cary Stevens. You . . . came up to my room. My hospital room. I was . . . naked.” He closed his eyes, wanting to kick himself for saying that. “Not that me being naked has anything to do with . . . Shit. Can you call me back ASAP, please?”

He hung up and dropped his phone in the passenger seat. Then he just sat there, replaying his message in his head and wondering why the hell he’d said any of that. She was going to think he was a nut case.

His phone rang. Was it her?

He took a deep breath, and felt a thrill run down his backbone and grabbed his phone.

“Shit,” he muttered, seeing Kelly’s number.

He took the call.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Are you doing okay?” she asked.

“I’m fine.”

“Resting?”

“Just sitting here,” he said.

“Okay, if you need me, call me, okay?”

“I will, but I’m sure I won’t.”

He started to hang up when he heard her say, “I love you.”

“I know. I love you, too.”

“We need to say it more often. The time while you were in the coma, all I could think was that I hadn’t told you that in weeks.”

“Yeah, but even when you don’t say it, I know it.”

“You can be sweet sometimes, can’t you?”

“No, I’m just acting,” he said and ran his hand over the steering wheel.

“You wanna know something sad?”

“No. Why would I want to know something sad?”

“Pooch misses you. He keeps running from room to room, looking for you. He wouldn’t even take the bacon treat I gave him.”

“Tell him I’m not that lovable.” He saw a car pulling down the street and didn’t want his sister to know he wasn’t cozied up on the sofa. “Look, I gotta go. We’ll talk later.” He dropped his phone again.

He sat in his car for a few seconds, listening to the motor purr, debating if he shouldn’t just . . . The hell with it. He was going to Chloe’s place.

Snatching his phone, he found where he’d saved her address. Ignoring the throbbing in his leg, and the thought that he very well might be making a bigger ass out of himself than he had on the phone, he drove off.

Friday’s seven o’clock traffic moved at a crawl. Then he got stuck behind a pink Cadillac driving thirty miles below the speed limit.

“Damn it, if you want to go that slow, just walk,” he seethed when he finally drove past the car.

As he moved in front of the Cadillac, the truck in front of him started to slow down. He put his foot on the brake and glanced in his rearview mirror. And there, staring back at him in the pink Cadillac was Beatrice Bacon. Or at least a woman who looked like her. Her head barely cleared the dash of the car. She held on to the steering wheel with one hand, and was sticking the other hand out of her window, shooting him the bird.

His gaze stayed locked on the rearview mirror. Too long. He couldn’t have been going five miles an hour, but he rear-ended the red Dodge truck in front of him.

“Damn it!” he seethed, and when the truck pulled over, he did the same.

When he looked back, the pink Cadillac was gone.

Gone.

How the hell did that happen?

Friggin’ hell. Maybe he was a nut case.

He grabbed his badge and his insurance papers from his glove compartment and made sure his gun wasn’t exposed. Then, just in case Chloe returned his call, he took his phone, too.

The guy’s truck didn’t have a scratch on it. Cary couldn’t say the same for his Camaro. The guy’s trailer hitch made a nice little dent in his car.

Fifteen
minutes later, he gripped the wheel and drove a little more cautiously, constantly on the lookout for a pink Cadillac, and headed toward Chloe’s apartment.

It took ten minutes to get there. Another five to find the right building. He sat in his car, eyeing the big red brick apartment structure. Was she at home? It was Friday night. She might be out on a . . . No, she wasn’t dating. And for some reason, he liked knowing that.

But she might be enjoying a night with Bob. An unexpected smiled pulled at his lip. And that’s when he realized that coming here might not be all about protecting her. He wanted to see her, damn it. Wanted to tell her she had to get back to writing.

Right or wrong, he just needed to talk to her.  Talk to her like they’d talked in his crazy dream.

He got one leg out of his car and remembered that she was just the type of woman he swore to avoid. The kind he couldn’t love and leave.

Coward
. Beatrice’s voice echoed in his head. He let out a deep gulp of air and pulled his leg back in. He should at least try to call her again before barging in.

He hit redial. She didn’t answer.

He didn’t leave another message. The first one was bad enough.

He looked up at the apartment building again. Then he glanced back at his phone and went in search of Danny’s name.  For an update on the case, not anything more.

Although, if he was concerned about getting too close to a woman, it would definitely be Danny who he’d call.

But he wasn’t concerned. He wasn’t.

• • •

“You did say Italian was okay, right?” Danny asked, slipping his hand on her waist.

“Yeah, it’s fine.” Chloe moved up, away from his hand, and dropped into the chair. Mr. Blond and Gorgeous sat in the chair across from her, but something about his expression said he’d been aware that she’d been avoiding his touch.

The short ride over here hadn’t seemed so short due to the awkward silence. So she’d asked him about the case. The smooth, charming look on his expression faded and went into one of frustration as he basically told her they hadn’t found the guy yet.  But they would. Had to. The guy had shot his partner.

“And you. I mean, he hit you,” he added as if embarrassed.

She’d grinned, letting him off the hook, not at all offended that she wasn’t at the top of list. She’d been too busy trying to figure out how to ask about his partner.

Now, as she picked up the menu, her phone rang . . . again. She’d turned it down, but it could still be heard singing from her purse. On the ride over here, she’d checked it after the first call—just to be sure it wasn’t her mom or grandmother—family did come first. But Anonymous Caller lit up her screen, so she’d anonymously ignored it. She had enough on her plate and didn’t want someone trying to sell her a burial plot or a new credit card.

“If you need to get that . . .” Danny said, nodding at her purse.

“No, that would be rude.” She plastered a smile on her face and glanced over the menu at him.

He smiled back. The awkwardness bloomed again.

“So, how long have you known Sheri?” he asked.

Finally, a subject she felt comfortable talking about. “Forever. We met in second grade. The teacher told us the church was getting a new Preacher, and how he had a girl our age who was going to be in our class. We were all expecting this preacher’s daughter to be an angel.”

“And she wasn’t?” he asked, his eyes bright with interest.

Chloe laughed. “She is not what you would call an angel. And here I thought you knew Sheri.”

“I do,” he said. “I mean, I don’t know her really well. We’ve talked at a couple of parties the last few months. I just wouldn’t go so far as to say she wasn’t angel material. She seemed . . . nice enough.”

Chloe heard something in his remark, something that hinted that Sheri’s infatuation with Dan wasn’t one-sided.

“Let me just say that her personality wasn’t as meek as one would consider an angel. The first day of school, she cold-cocked Bradley Butler for trying to look up her dress. And she did it again when he tried to look up mine. That’s how we became friends.”

Dan laughed. “I can almost see her in second grade, but as crazy as it is, I still imagine her with those pink streaks in her hair. Which I hate to say it, are a bit much.”

Chloe grinned and set her menu on the table. “You know what the pink streaks are about, don’t you?”

“No. . . What?”

“Her mom got breast cancer about a year ago. Sheri wanted to shave her head when her mother lost her hair, but her mom wouldn’t let her, so instead, Sheri added the pink streaks and told her mom that until she was cancer-free, she was going to keep them.” Chloe sighed. “So I guess you can say that while she might not be meek like an angel, she has a heart of gold. As long as you don’t try to look up her dress.”

Dan leaned back in his chair. “Damn, I feel sort of bad. I was teasing her about her hair at Lacy and Chase’s last barbeque.”

“Don’t worry. I don’t think that bothered her. She likes you.”

“Really?” he asked in a tone that spoke of male eagerness. Spoke so loud, that apparently even he noticed it. “I mean, I didn’t mean . . . I know she’s engaged.”

Chloe laughed. “Don’t worry.” If anything, Chloe was sort of relieved knowing he wasn’t going to be devastated when she didn’t accept a second date.

“So, what are you having?” he said looking back at his menu.

“I’m thinking chicken marsala,” she said.

A ring sounded. This time it wasn’t her phone, but his.

“If you need to get that, go ahead,” she said.

He hesitated one second. “No, as you said, it would be rude. But if you don’t mind, I’ll just check who it is.” He pulled his phone from his pocket, looked tempted to answer it, and then said, “I’ll call him back.” He sat the phone on the table.

“Seriously, if you need—”

“No, it’s just my partner. I’ll check in with him later. Which reminds me, the waiter hasn’t taken our order yet.”

He looked up as if trying to catch a waiter’s eyes. Chloe hadn’t wanted to ask, but since he’d brought Cary up. “How is he?” She even picked up the menu hoping to appear only mildly interested.

“The waiter?” he asked, having focused on the young man wearing a white apron.

“No, your partner. He was shot, right?”

“Oh, yes. He’s doing fine. Got out of the hospital yesterday.”

“Good,” she said, now slightly more curious than embarrassed if Cary had said anything about her visit. But how did she go about asking?
Did he mention I popped into his hospital room and saw him naked and hit him where it hurts a couple of times?
“By the way . . . I was at—”

“I’m sorry it took some time to get to you,” the waiter interrupted. “What can I get you two love birds to drink?”

Right then, her phone started to ring again.

• • •

“It’s me again. Cary Stevens,” Cary said into his phone leaving another message for Chloe. “I really need to speak with you. And I’m worried my last message didn’t sound . . . logical. Call me. Please.”

He dropped his phone in the passenger seat and decided to just go knock on her door. Pulling himself out of his car hurt a little, but not enough to stop him. The sun was halfway sunk into the west and a dusty darkness clung to the last of daylight. He got three steps from his car when he looked up and saw . . .

“Shit.” He blinked to make sure he was seeing correctly in the dusk. Nothing changed. Walking away from Chloe’s apartment building was J.D. Andrews.

Cary pulled out his gun and started running. Only to realize running hurt.

“Police. Stop right there!”

The kid swung around.

Cary, expecting to see a gun in the kid’s hand, stopped moving and tightened his finger on the trigger. The kid had almost killed him once. Not again.

Chapter Seventeen

Cary’s breath caught and released the trigger a fraction of a second before shooting when he didn’t see a gun in the kid’s hands.

J.D. yelled out something. Cary couldn’t be sure what it was, but it sounded like he said he was sorry.

Sorry for what? Shooting him?

“Stop,” Cary yelled again, even though the kid hadn’t moved.  A terrible thought hit. Had J.D. already gotten to Chloe? Was that what he was apologizing for?

The kid was a good 200 feet from him, and Cary knew if the kid ran, the chances of catching him with his bum leg were near impossible.

He took another eight steps, his gun still aimed, his leg throbbing from trying not to limp. Trying not to look weak.

J.D. just stood there, his eyes locked with Cary’s, looking way too young, and yet resigned—almost as if waiting to see if Cary would shoot him.

“Get on the ground,” Cary yelled. “On the ground, now!”

The kid didn’t do as ordered. He just continued to stare.

“I said—”

The kid finally turned and took off. Not extra fast either. Not dodging between cars. He stayed in the open, almost giving Cary the chance to shoot.

“I said stop,” Cary yelled and pointed his Glock. But that haunted look in the kid’s eyes flashed in his mind. No way in hell could he shoot an unarmed kid. Not even when the kid had sent him to the afterlife just a few days earlier.

Before Cary got close enough to do any good, the kid hopped into his black pickup and took off.

“Damn it,” he growled, and took aim to shoot at the tires. But he heard voices and didn’t want to chance hurting someone else.

Then, remembering the kid saying he was sorry, a knot pulled at his gut. Had he hurt Chloe? He took off, forgetting his leg, and praying he wasn’t too late. As he took the stairs up to the second story, all he could think about was being with her in her bed—sharing secrets and laughing.

• • •

Chloe took another sip of her wine and pushed her plate aside. The chicken marsala was good, but not great. She hadn’t asked Dan if Cary had mentioned her. Why did it matter if he did or not? He said he didn’t remember her, and even if he lied, if he wanted to talk to her, he could find her.

And he hadn’t.