Falling for the Enemy (Private Pleasures 3)

Her fuzzy-edged reply almost didn’t reach his ears. “…Illegal U-turn.”

Chapter Sixteen

Shaun got behind the wheel of his Jeep, went to start the engine, and then stopped and waited for the weight on his chest to move. A U-turn. Maybe she’d forgotten something at the pub, but even as the explanation formed in his brain he knew it didn’t hold. She’d had her purse and jacket—all the essentials—when she’d arrived home. He knew the road out to his cabin was open, since he’d driven it himself. Time to face facts.

Fact one: simple explanations tended to be correct.

You want the simplest explanation? She turned around because she changed her mind about seeing you tonight.

Flawless timing on fate’s part. The same evening he’d manned up to the truth that he was in love with her, she’d stared into her rearview mirror and wondered, “What the hell am I doing, driving miles out of my way to spend the night with a screwed up, rudderless, drifter who also happens to be Tom Buchanan’s son?”

Fact two: if her answer had been, “Falling in love,” she wouldn’t have whipped the U-ball.

He rubbed his palm over his sternum, but the ache in his chest refused to budge, and for the first time in months, he had an overwhelming urge for a drink. The clock on the dash read two thirty in the morning, which ruled out the standard Kentucky cure for a jacked-up Saturday night. Unless he pulled a Justin and raided Tom’s liquor cabinet. Unlike little brother, he didn’t need the key to pop the lock on the cabinet. He was debating the merits of a stop at the house when a vibrating noise snagged his attention.

He picked up his cell phone from the dash, where he’d tossed it when he got in the car, and touched the screen. The icon for the security camera registered a bunch of new images. He’d retrieved some earlier alerts of him sitting on her porch before she’d arrived home. The new ones were probably from when she and Roger had arrived, and then one of him leaving a few minutes ago, but when he tapped the icon and scrolled through the images he got a surprise.

The latest images had been recorded mere seconds ago, at her shop. They revealed a black-clothed figure spray-painting “firecrotch” across the white wall in rude, red letters. The camera’s night-time resolution didn’t quite turn darkness into day, but only a blind person would have trouble identifying Justin’s face.

Fucking idiot. Deep down, he’d hoped his warning would do the trick, which no doubt made him the bigger idiot. He started the car and drove down the hill as fast as he could without waking the neighborhood. Once he turned onto Main, he picked up speed and closed in on the salon, but even from several feet away he could see the empty sidewalk. Only the single slash of paint hinted anyone had been there recently. Luckily, he didn’t need to catch Justin in the act. A picture was worth a thousand words, or, in this case, a thousand hours of community service.

Driving straight to the sheriff’s department and showing them the video would save Virginia the trouble of calling them first thing in the morning when she woke up and checked her phone. Given what had gone down last night, he didn’t want her interacting with them at all—at least not until after the election. Speaking of which, Justin’s prank might deal a death-blow to his father’s mayoral campaign. Maybe Tom would withdraw if he saw the evidence—decide to focus on solving his kid’s behavioral problems instead of fighting to keep the status quo in Bluelick?

One could hope. And the hope had him heading up Riverview Road rather than out to the Double A. The house was dark when he arrived, except for a light shining from the window of his father’s study. He half-expected to see a red Mustang angled in the driveway, but instead he spotted a dark sedan he recognized as Jim Bob Butler’s Buick. Maybe the sheriff already knew about Justin’s nocturnal artistic endeavors? Why else would he be at the house at this hour?

He couldn’t answer the question with certainty, and, in his experience, uncertainty mandated caution. He parked on the street, walked across the lawn, and let himself into the house. The e

ntryway was silent and dark, and he did nothing to alter that status. A few steps down the hall, he picked up voices coming from his father’s study. The door hung half open, and through the gap he saw Butler, in plain-clothes, sitting in the guest chair, and Tom behind the desk in his robe and pajamas, looking primed for an argument.

“Butler, you assured me after tonight, Ginny Boca would be a non-issue. What the hell happened?”

“Crocker picked her up outside Rawley’s just as you suggested, but there was a small flaw with your plan, Tom. A DUI arrest only sticks if the person is, in fact, driving while intoxicated. Not only was she nowhere near drunk, she recorded the incident on her cell phone, unbeknownst to Crocker. Next thing I knew I had Roger Reynolds in my office playing a recording of Crocker threatening her like some tin-badge deputy on a power trip, and I was lucky to negotiate a “let’s forget about this little misunderstanding” settlement just to keep the whole cluster-fucking mess off the front page of the Bugle.”

Shit. It was a night for idiots. Shaun nearly banged his head against the doorframe, but rendering himself unconscious would be taking the easy way out. Instead he hit the record button on his phone and stayed where he was, just outside the study door.

“Look, you brought us to this,” Butler went on. “You told me you’d discredit her during the debate, and she wouldn’t stand a chance of winning, but she wiped the floor with you—”

“I know what happened at the debate. I was there, thank you very much. It’s done. There’s no un-doing it, but I can still win this thing. I just need an advance on the appreciation fee we agreed on, so I can give some people a proper incentive to come out on election day and cast their vote my way.”

Shaun’s stomach churned as he watched Butler stand and pull an envelope from the back pocket of his jeans. “There’s half the appreciation fee. You’ll get the other half at the usual time—once the city council votes to renew the contract with the county.”

Tom picked up the envelope and glanced inside. “Thanks, Jim Bob. Thank the rest of the boys for me, too. You won’t be sorry—”

“No, we won’t,” Butler said in a hard voice. “The boys asked me to inform you if you don’t win on Tuesday, they’re taking that back, out of your ass if necessary.”

The envelope in Tom’s hand shook and his pale face stood out in stark contrast against the dark green curtains behind him. “Hey, now, I don’t appreciate threats.”

“What are you gonna do, Tom, complain to the sheriff?” Chortling at his own joke, Butler headed to the door.

Shaun stepped into the shadows and listened to the sound of the sheriff’s footsteps fade down the hall. His leg muscles twitched with the urge to pursue, tackle the man, and make him choke on his laughter, but, frankly, the guy didn’t deserve a fast, easy take-down. He deserved to twist on the line like a hooked fish, and watch while every single person in the ring of corruption turned on him on their way down, starting with Tom.

The front door opened and closed, and the house fell silent. He pulled out his phone, stopped recording, and pushed back alternating waves of disappointment and anger. A tap on the doorframe had Tom’s head jerking up from counting the hundred dollar bills fanned out across the top of his desk. His cheeks turned a guilty shade of red, but he swept the bills into the envelope and smiled. “Shaun, Jesus…always good to see you, but you scared the crap out of me. How long have you been there?”

Shaun walked into the office, sat in the chair Butler had vacated, propped his right foot on his left knee and put his phone on the edge of the desk.

“Long enough to know we need to talk.” Then he hit play.

…