Page 5 of Beneath the Burn

She shook her head. “Charlee of Kilroy Tattoo.”

His anguish over letting her walk away was overpowered by his determination to make her his future.

Purpose girded his spine, gave him strength. “Catch you later, Charlee of Kilroy.”

2

Why the hell did she give him her real name? Charlee practiced her alias daily, owned it for a year.

The tattoo was another stupid move. In the short session, she’d only started the outline, but the finished design would’ve been an unerring compliment to his masculine beauty. And exactly what he did not want.

An hour’s worth of anxiety had whooshed out of her when he didn’t check her work, and she wanted to get the hell away from him before he did.

Oh, he would catch her later. In a courtroom when he sued her ass for willful negligence. A problem she would’ve avoided if she’d turned him away to begin with. That was her first mistake. She never allowed a stranger in her shop after hours. She had been in St. Louis a year, the longest she’d stayed in one town, and she’d grown too comfortable with her business, with Noah. It was making her sloppy.

She’d always been good at reading people, and there was something identifiable about Jay. The perpetual dread that troubled his dark eyes reflected her own.

His eyes seared the spot between her shoulder blades, so she picked up her pace. She wouldn’t look back. In her four years of running, always looking over her shoulder, there wasn’t a single day she hadn’t thought about the shackles, the servitude, and the beatings. But she thought of those things in past tense. Freedom was forward, and Noah was waiting.

She approached the corner of the building. Her rusted out Gremlin sat alone in the lot. She chose that lot for the lighting. Enclosed on three sides by tall buildings, there were no shadows. No hiding places.

Keys in her right hand, she slipped her left inside her bag and gripped the Bodyguard 380, finger beside the trigger. One more scan of the street, and she ran to the car, circled it, checked the locks, and swept the interior. All clear.

Safe inside and on the road, she allowed herself a calming breath and dialed Noah.

“Hey, you.” Warmth flushed his voice.

Since the bars were shutting their doors for the night, the traffic closed in on all sides. She up shifted, building speed. “Hey. On my way. Still at the station?”

“Yep.”

“See you in five.”

“Don’t speed. Safety first, sweetheart.”

“Always.” She opened the messenger bag on her lap, the strap tugging at her shoulder, and tucked the phone inside. Dozens of headlights bobbed in the rearview mirror. She couldn’t distinguish one pair from another. Were any of them following her?

Did paranoia award safety? She wasn’t paranoid. She was aware.

The police station emerged up ahead. The bleached brick facade glowed under high-powered flood lights. She slid her rust-bucket to the curb and tucked it between two police cruisers.

The rear and side mirrors reflected the well-lit terrace, the empty visitor lot, and more police cruisers. No loiterers. She hurried to the entryway and paused inside the protection of the alcove, staring at the door.

Noah would propose again. He’d become predictable in his resolve, and her defenses were thinning.

When she’d met him a year earlier, the excuses flowed easily.

The relationship’s too new. I’m too young. There’s no rush.And the time-honored, It’s not you, it’s me.

The proposals didn’t stop until she suggested he let her go and move on. His broody silence lasted two days.

She should’ve run when she met him, but his occupation ensnared her, soothing her need for protection. Their year together hadn’t been easy. He coaxed and wooed and devoted himself to earning her trust, and she let him. Must have been her bullheaded stand against victimhood. But she held that final wall in place for his own safety and kept their recent engagement debates trivial and remote.

Spend the rest of your life with me.

Don’t need a court document for that.

Honor me by wearing this ring.

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