Bad Girl by Night (38 page)

Every time she thought about that, she nearly couldn’t breathe. Because now she knew she’d lost him
forever
. This thing was really ending, absolutely, without doubt. Deep inside, all summer, she’d feared his dissatisfaction with his job would make him leave, and now it had happened. Maybe breaking up with her had helped that decision, too. But the reason didn’t matter—what mattered was that she’d never see him again.

Shit—she’d just dug the plane’s blade too deeply into the wood. She stopped to look, ran her finger over the groove. She could sand the error away when she was done.

In the week since she’d seen Jake, she’d thought a lot about all he’d said, and she’d done a little more reading on sexual abuse. And now she almost saw his point of view, or at least understood it. But she still truly thought he was wrong.
Maybe
what she’d done on the boat
wasn’t
entirely healthy for someone just coming to grips with her past abuse. But she’d been just as responsible for the decision as him. And it had felt
good
. Even afterward. She wasn’t convinced that something that had made her feel so confident and empowered, so comfortable with her own desires, was
bad
for her, either.

And it was odd—before Jake, her longing to be with men had drawn her on her forays to Traverse City. And
with
Jake, the idea of being with other guys and him at the same time had aroused them both deeply. But after Jake . . . Carly couldn’t even imagine being with a man who wasn’t him. She couldn’t imagine
wanting
another man. She couldn’t imagine ever feeling so accepted and understood and loved by anyone else. She knew nothing she would ever experience from this point forward even stood a chance of being as good, as powerful, as profound as what she’d shared with Jake.

And damn it—she was mad at him. So mad that no words could describe it. For being stubborn. And for not believing her. For not believing she was strong enough to deal with her issues effectively. And for . . . for giving her his love, making her trust in it so much, and then snatching it away.

She was better off now than before she’d met him—she knew that. But there was a part of her that wished she’d never known a love so grand if it was going to be taken away from her so fast. Before, she hadn’t known what she was missing—now she did. And already, she felt herself sinking back into old, familiar habits. The last few days, she’d once again ceased caring very much about how she looked, just grabbing an old T-shirt and a ratty pair of jeans from the closet. This morning she hadn’t even brushed her hair—she’d just shoved on an old ball cap to hide it from view. Maybe she’d snap out of that soon. But then again, maybe she wouldn’t. Right now, life was just about functioning—it was pretty much all she could do to get up in the morning, open the shop, make things from wood.

And somehow making these silly heart-shaped boxes seemed harder than it had just a week ago. The simple straight edges of the old designs felt so much easier, cleaner. Maybe she’d make this her last heart box for a while—no matter
how
well they were selling.

She stopped then, let out a sigh, tried to focus on perfecting that damn curve.

Chuck had been the great lost love of her youth. And it had taken
years
to get over him. But Jake would be the great lost love of her
life
. And she knew inherently that she wouldn’t
ever
get over it. Over the things they’d shared. Over all he’d given her: the truth about herself, the sex, the laughter, the passion, the recovery, the love.

Just then, she dug the plane into the heart so deep that the wood cracked, right down the center of the heart. “Damn it!” she yelled, banging the old tool down on her workbench. Then she rose to her feet, picked up the heart-shaped lid, and slammed it down on the corner of her work table as hard as she could—over and over—until finally it splintered and shattered apart completely, jagged pieces and shards flying, most landing on the floor near her feet.

She stood staring down at the ruined wood then, her chest heaving, heart pounding.

Finally, she glanced at the window to ensure no one had been passing by to witness her outburst. But she’d seen the cat go darting from the front windowsill toward the back storage room when the heart had exploded into bits, so now she went to find him.

She spotted big, fluffy Oliver in a corner, perched atop a tall pile of oak beams. She called up softly to him. “Come here, Oliver. Here, kitty kitty.”

The cat didn’t move, and her heart ached. It shouldn’t seem so important, but in that moment it did. “Please, Ollie, come to Mommy. I’m sorry I scared you. I just want to hold you a minute.”

Oh God. Even her cat hated her.

Okay, that was stupid—the cat didn’t hate her.

But she just needed him right now. Because she needed that comfort, that thing pets gave so freely to their owners. Unconditional love.

And it struck her then how rare that felt—love that came truly without conditions. Would the people in her life still love her if they knew the whole truth about her? Perhaps, but would they love her the
same
? Wouldn’t her traditional, pure-at-heart friends at least feel differently about her? Wouldn’t her mother be horrified? It dawned on her just now that maybe Jake was the only person she’d ever known who loved her in spite of—and maybe even more
because of—
the ways she’d explored her sexual nature. When he’d broken up with her, yeah, she’d felt as if maybe he was judging her—but now she knew that had only been
her
old emotions rearing up in the heat of the moment.

So no wonder she wanted Oliver so badly right now. Her cat was her only true source of unconditional love at the moment. How sad was that?

After a minute, Oliver finally made his way down from the pile of wood, and when he got within Carly’s reach, she drew the big, hefty furball into her arms. Hugging and petting him until he began to purr, she soaked in the comfort it provided—and wished it were enough to heal her defeated soul.

 

 

J
ake was going through the motions. It was his last day as a Turnbridge police officer.

And whatever he was feeling about that . . . well, he was trying to just turn it off. Yeah, he was figuring out now that he’d gotten a little attached to the people here. He’d been sincerely touched when Frank Schubert had made a big deal out of giving him his lunch on the house today and saying how much they were gonna miss him around town. And he’d wondered why Tommy was walking around the station acting pissy this morning—until finally his friend had stopped at his desk and said, “So you’re really doing this, huh? You’re really leaving?”

He’d already explained to Tommy most of the reasons why, just softpedaling the one that had to do with Carly. And he’d concluded with, “It just makes sense to me.”

“Well, it doesn’t make any damn sense to
me
,” his friend said.

And Jake had actually felt a little bad—he cared about Tommy, too. “Look, it’s not like you’re never gonna see me again, dude,” he’d reminded him. Tommy had consented to look after Jake’s house until it sold. And he was helping him make the official move tomorrow, along with Ethan, who was driving down from Charlevoix. “We’ll keep in touch.”

“Won’t be the same,” Tommy said. “This place’ll go back to being an old folks’ home.”

Jake just laughed. The other cops in the department weren’t exactly senior citizens, but it was true—other than one young kid in his early twenties, most of the Turnbridge officers were older, and for the first time, Jake realized his arrival had probably added more to Tommy’s life than he’d realized.

Now, as he patrolled the streets on an autumn afternoon, he noticed the small trees lining Main turning a warm red-gold from the change in the weather. People on the sidewalk whom he’d come to know lifted their hands in a wave as he drove slowly past. Hell, even Barlow Jones gave him a nod from behind the wheel of his big old Cadillac.

So yeah, maybe he’d miss it here a little more than he’d expected.

But none of that was a good enough reason to change his mind.

He’d just glanced toward the front window of Winterberry’s, nabbing a shadowy glimpse of Carly that made his throat catch—when a voice came over his police radio: Patsy from local dispatch, where things worked a little more casually than they did in a big city.

“Just got a call from a little boy, Justin Webb, on his cell phone. Says he’s hiding behind a tree along Red Mill Road. Apparently a fella in an old station wagon tried to give him a ride. Justin refused—he was just heading up to the fishing pond about a mile from his house—but now he says this fella keeps driving up and down the same stretch over and over, like he’s looking for him. Justin tried to call home, but thinks his mom is working outside and didn’t hear the phone. He sounds real scared. Not sure if there’s anything to it, but Jake, Tommy, can one of you respond?”

With all his senses suddenly on red alert, Jake yanked up the receiver and said, “I’m on Main, just about a mile from Red Mill—I’m on my way.” Then he switched on his blue lights and pressed on the gas, his heart pumping a mile a minute.

Everything else in his brain turned off instantly as he maneuvered quickly but safely through the scant Main Street traffic, flooring it as soon as he hit more open road. He threw gravel with the turn onto Red Mill and pressed on the gas again. He already knew where the Webb house was, and thanks to Tommy’s thorough introductory tours, he even knew the pond down the road where locals went to fish.

He’d just passed the small body of water when a beat-up ancient blue station wagon came into view up ahead. He radioed both Patsy and Tommy, who was the only other officer on duty on a quiet weekday afternoon. “Got the wagon in my sights. Coming up on it from behind.”

Over the radio, Tom replied, “I’m a few miles behind ya, but on my way, bud.”

Jake slowed only slightly as he approached the vehicle’s rear, waiting for the cruiser’s lights to catch the guy’s attention. The old car pulled immediately toward one side of the road—likely thinking Jake was only trying to pass.

Jake stopped behind him, got out, and walked toward the driver’s-side door, his senses remaining on alert—his work in Detroit had instilled the good habit of always being ready for anything.

Before Jake spoke, a guy who looked to be in his fifties with longish, gray hair turned to peer up at him, asking innocently, “Is there a problem, Officer?”

And that voice—there was something about that voice. As Jake met the other man’s green eyes, all the blood drained from his face. Because even more than twenty-five years later, he’d know the guy anywhere. It was Larry Downy, the man who had molested him when he was seven.

F
or a second Jake froze in place. He felt all of seven years old again. Innocent. Victimized. Other than Downy’s dark hair going gray and his face sporting the lines of age, he hadn’t changed at all.

He even wore his hair the same way and had kept the same outof-style mustache. Or . . . maybe Jake had just gotten lucky—maybe the guy cycled through changes in his looks to appear different to his various victims and just happened to be back to the one Jake recognized so damn easily.

“Officer?” Larry Downy asked.

And that was when Jake’s shock transformed into pure, unadulterated fury.

Without a word, he ripped open the car door and yanked Downy out, slamming his body face-first against the station wagon. With lightning-fast moves, he secured the man’s wrists behind him and slapped on the cuffs, all while Downy muttered, “Wh-what’s going on? What’s this about? I haven’t done nothin’.”

God, that voice again. Something in it was slimy, shifty. Or maybe it just sounded that way to Jake, given what had happened the last time he’d heard it.

Jake snarled in the bastard’s ear, “Not so tough with somebody your own size, are ya?”

“Wh-what?” The man looked over his shoulder, those memorable green eyes wide. “What are you talkin’ about?”

Jake met his gaze, and hoped like hell the stark anger on his face put the fear of God into the man before him. He leaned near and said in a low, menacing voice, “I know you, Larry-fucking-Downy. I know exactly who the hell you are.”

Downy blinked. “Well,
I
don’t know
you
.”

Jake kept his gaze wide on his captive, and because it instantly felt very important to identify himself, he said through clenched teeth, “That’s because I was seven fucking years old the last time I saw you.
Seven
, you sick son of a bitch.”

That was when the asshole finally began to catch on—and, starting to look alarmed, he shook his head. “You must be thinkin’ of somebody else.”

“No,” Jake said definitively, rage vibrating through every word. “We both know what you did—what you
do
—to little kids. What you tried to do to a little kid
today
.”

“Like I said, I don’t know what—”

“Shut up!” Jake yelled, then pulled back his fist and punched Larry Downy in the back.

The man cried out, buckling against the car, then went quiet.

Yet Jake’s wrath was only just beginning to come out, and now it couldn’t be stopped. Without warning, he spun Downy around and landed a right to his jaw.
“No more!”
Jake told him.
“No more kids get hurt by you!”
Then he delivered a left to the man’s gut.
“No more lives get messed up!”
Grabbing the guy’s shoulders, he slammed him back into the car once again, wanting to kill him, truly wanting to remove him from this earth, and trying his damnedest to get hold of himself so that
he
wouldn’t be the one going to jail.

Now Larry Downy’s eyes were wide, angry, even as his head tilted back, his face looking haggard from the pain Jake had just inflicted. “You don’t have nothin’ on me, pardner. I didn’t hurt any kid today. I just offered him a ride, that’s all. You got nothin’ on me—but I got somethin’ on you, and it’s called police brutality!”