Page 6 of Catch
I’d hate to be on her bad side, I thought wryly. But damn, I could listen to her all day.
I could never put my finger on what made her different from all the others. But I knew I was hooked the first time I heard her perform at the Harmony Haven music festival. There was something about the way she sang that went deeper than the lyrics on paper. She seemed to be channeling the air around her and turning it into something we could all feel.
Sometimes, the sadness in her voice didn’t quite align with the anger in her lyrics, and that contradiction, like a slow-burning fire, kept drawing me in. Intoxicating. Confusing.
Then, she shifted. The guitar softened, and she launched into an acoustic version of one of her older songs, which was a haunting ballad about wanting to feel something again but being too tired to even speak. Her voice was stripped.
Vulnerable.
I’d been standing on patrol next to the stage to keep the crowd from getting too close. I was near the staircase leading up to the stage, but I couldn’t have told you what was happening around me at that moment. I was too enchanted by Loxley Adams.
Even more so when I saw her stepping off the stage, heading right toward me. My heart skipped a beat as she looked up at me, her eyes meeting mine. Then, the faintest curve of a smile pulled at her lips as she made her way carefully down the metal stairs.Her movements were deliberate, like she was holding herself together just a little longer for the crowd’s sake.
I nodded at her, offering a small smile in return, and then instinctively held out my hand as she approached the last two steps. I don’t know why I did it because it wasn’t part of my job, but somehow, it felt like the right thing to do.
When she took my hand, her smile slipped just a little, and I caught the tiredness in her eyes before she quickly masked it.
The radio host’s voice pulled me from my thoughts:
“That was the latest by Loxley Adams, who has been on a small-town tour and is set to play again tonight in Tullahoma. If you’re thinking of getting tickets and going, don’t bother. That show has been sold out for months and Ms. Adams’ appearance is set to break all kinds of records for her show and the town of Tullahoma.”
The radio DJ moved on to another segment, but my mind stayed locked on the thought of Tullahoma. I mentally kicked myself for not looking into tickets earlier. I could’ve made the three-hour drive—no problem. It would’ve been worth it to see Loxley Adams perform again. Especially since I wouldn’t be working, so I could actuallyenjoythe performance without having to keep my eyes peeled for trouble in the crowd.
Shaking my head, I pushed the thought aside and glanced at the clock. I had fifteen minutes left on my shift, so I decided to head back into town and check on Blue, the bartender at the pub. It wouldn’t be long before she'd be calling me anyway, probably to come escort the Murphy brothers back to their place after their latest afternoon bender.
As I readied myself to pull onto the highway, a car came over the hill, speeding past me. Okay, that was the wrong word because they were only going eight miles per hour over the limit.
Usually, I’d let that go. A ticket for less than ten miles per hour over the speed limit wasn’t worth the paperwork. Buttoday? Today, I felt restless. Agitated. I hadn’t done anything remotelycop-likeall day, and I needed that little burst of adrenaline.
Chances were, I wasn’t going to issue a ticket. But I was at least going to slow them down a bit. The car was approaching the heart of Harmony Haven, and we didn’t need anyone tearing through the main strip.
Flipping on my lights, I let the flash of blue and red signal the car to pull over, then I eased up behind them. I ran the Tennessee plates as the driver looked around. It took me a second to pull up the information, but when it popped up, I glanced at the screen.
Rental. Of course, it was a rental. Which meant I had no idea who I was about to deal with. Probably a tourist. Someone going from Nashville to Atlanta, like so many others who passed through.
When I stepped out of my vehicle, I adjusted my belt, ensuring everything was in place—gun, radio, flashlight—and began my slow approach toward the driver's side of the car. I kept my distance at first, practicing my old patrol mantra:Never assume. Never get comfortable. Always stay aware.Even in a small town during a routine traffic stop, I never wanted to disregard my training.
“License and registration, please,” I called out, my voice steady, professional.
The driver didn’t react immediately. There was a brief silence, followed by him shifting in his seat. He adjusted the baseball cap on his head, pulling it down to cover his eyes. He reached for the console and pulled an ID out, handing it to me without even looking up.
I glanced down at it, reading the name aloud. “Sam Moreno?”
“Uh huh,” the voice came out gruff, flat.
"Sir, do you know why I pulled you over?"
“Uh huh,” he muttered again, still refusing to look at me. His eyes stayed glued to the dashboard, his jaw tight.
I took a step closer, wanting to press him just a little further, to see if I could get some kind of reaction. If he thought he could just shrug me off without even acknowledging my presence, I was going to make sure he knew he couldn’t.
“And why is that?” I asked, keeping my tone neutral.
“Speeding,” he said quickly.
Something about him rubbed me the wrong way. I took another step closer, keeping my eyes on the side of his face as his whole body tensed, and he turned away even more. He was now facing entirely toward the passenger seat, awkwardly, as if I might disappear if he ignored me hard enough.
All it did was give me another minute to look at him. He wore oversized sunglasses and a jacket that swallowed him whole.Did that thing say Members Only?
