Page 105 of Chasing Sparks

“Why you?”

“No idea, but she’s hysterical. I’m going to get her and bring her wherever she needs to go.”

“I don’t like this, Ash. Last time you got mixed up with this woman, you damn near got killed.”

“Not getting mixed up with her. Just giving her a lift.”

I can tell by the set of my brother’s jaw that he’s not convinced, but he also knows better than to push the issue. Smart man.

“Be careful,” he mutters as I walk out the door.

Trust me, brother. With this woman, careful is my middle name.

Lucille sure can pick ‘em. I drive into the parking lot ofThe Camelot Innjust as the sun is setting, noting how the derelicts and drug addicts are just starting to stir, searching for their nightly fix.

The seediest motel for three counties—renowned for all manner of debauchery—and this is where my ex-girlfriend winds up? Never a dull moment with Lucille, that’s for sure.

I knock at the door of room #7, my skin crawling just being here.

“Ash?” Lucille’s voice comes from the other side, shaky but unmistakable.

“It’s me.”

The sound of bolts sliding and locks turning assuages my ears before she pulls the door open, grasping my arm and tugging me inside.

What the fuck? I do not want to stay here a minute longer than necessary.

“Thank you for coming.”

My jaw drops as I take in the faint bruise covering her upper cheekbone and the half-healed split in her lower lip. I pull her under the flickering light, studying the marks more closely.

“What the fuck is going on? Who did this to you?”

“A bad man.”

“That’s an understatement. Is this the first time?”

I already know the answer. Sadly, most women don’t leave the first time. Or the tenth. Hell, some never leave, powerless to escape the abuse as society turns its head away.

Total bullshit.

I’m not in the mood for a knock-down, drag-out fight, but it looks like that’s what this is gearing up to be.

No one hits a woman.

No. One.

A heavy knocking reverberates through the room, and my gaze flits between Lucille and the door. “Did he tail you?”

Lucille shakes her head, peeking through the keyhole before swinging the door open.

On the other side stands Trace. Also known as Lucille’s ex-husband, the guy I unwittingly screwed over a decade earlier.

Lucille, what the hell are you doing?

I tense, the weight of old grudges mixing with fresh confusion. Maybe these two dragged me here to settle some decade long grievance.

All I know is—I should have listened to Braden.

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