Wet and Reckless (Private Pleasures 4)

Lucky whined and butted his head against her shin. A glance at the clock told her a re-write wasn’t in the cards. After slipping the note into the case, she carried the instrument upstairs and left it in the front hall. Self-protective instincts urged her to walk away quickly so as not to draw out the anguish of giving Gibson up, but as she pivoted, Lucky barked. She turned to see him dancing around the guitar, as if to say, “Hey, mind if I pee on this?”

Sighing, she retraced her steps and carried the guitar to West’s bedroom, shutting Lucky on the other side of the door. He gave one miffed bark and then pattered away on busy little feet. Roxy looked at the tumbled sheets where, last night, she’d given West everything she had. Everything except the pieces of her past that would put him in harm’s way.

But maybe this—she lay Gibson across those sheets where she’d left her heart and whatever remained of her soul—would help explain and give him tangible proof that he’d made her want to be a better person.

She wasn’t quite the same reckless, untethered girl as she had been when she’d rolled into town six weeks ago. She understood a thing or two about accountability now and knew in her case it required relinquishing things that mattered.

She wished she could turn back the clock—all the way back to that first afternoon when cool, unamused Officer Donovan had picked her up along Route 9, lectured her for hitchhiking, smoking, and just generally being who she was. He’d also doctored her heel and asked her if she was in trouble. If she’d confided in him then, she might be sitting in a Nashville jail right now, and there would definitely be no traces of West Donovan on her body, no imprint of her head on his pillow, and no impact of him on her heart, but there would also be no threats from Randy placing West in crosshairs because of his relationship with her.

The sad truth was, she hadn’t earned West. Not by a long shot. She’d known it going in, but let herself believe that fate, God, or the universe would overlook her failings and let her keep what she loved, because the idea of losing everything yet again seemed too awful. Too harsh a price to pay for one little legal shortcut.

It was awful. More awful than she’d imagined in her darkest moments, but—she took a deep breath and straightened—it had to be. This time she had a choice. Life had taught her choice was a privilege, and by God she’d make the best one she could.

Resolved, she walked out of the bedroom, through the kitchen, and down the stairs. Once West read her note and learned she’d stolen her guitar away from the Boudreauxes’s clutches, she knew what he’d say. Stealing was wrong, no matter what the circumstances. She’d never be right in his eyes—certainly not now, she admitted as she took a final sweep of the apartment before heading to the main room where her packed bags waited.

What would West think when he arrived home and realized she’d left Gibson and bugged out? Would he think her a criminal and a coward? Blinking rapidly, she shook her head. Both conclusions were arguably true, but hopefully he’d recognize her gesture of leaving Gibson behind. Maybe he’d even believe the part of her note that promised him she wouldn’t be so damn reckless anymore. She’d think twice. She’d make better choices. She’d be the kind of person worthy of trust. Because of him.

Having let go of the man she loved and her most valued personal possession, Roxy figured the toughest part of her departure was behind her. She lifted the duffel to one shoulder and prepared to walk away for good when a black furball streaked through the open door to the laundry room and padded over to sit at the tips of her biker boots and stare up at her.

“Wooo,” he warbled in his low howl. He lifted a paw and pressed it to the shaft of her boot in a classic, “Me, too,” move.

Pressure rose in her chest. Who knew this would hurt, too? “No.” She shook her head. “No walk, Lucky. Go upstairs.”

“Woo-woo,” he repeated, not budging.

“I mean it, pupper. Back upstairs.” Without thinking, she gave him a little nudge with her boot.

He let out a high-pitched squeak and retreated, cowering behind a kitchen stool.

“Oh, God.” She dropped her bag and went down on all fours. “I’m so sorry! So sorry, boy.” She crawled toward him, one arm extended, palm up. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I swear. Lucky…” She stilled her body and clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth to coax him out. “Here, boy.”

He inched closer, head and belly low in a cautious approach that broke her heart.

“Good boy,” she whispered. “Such a brave, good boy.” When he raised his round snout toward her outstretched hand, she petted his head and then scratched his ears. “What a good dog you are. Good dog,” she repeated as he scooted closer on his tummy. She scooped him into her arms and buried her face in his short fur. “I’m sorry.” After kissing his round head, she went on, “I didn’t mean to scare you or hurt you. I love you, boy. All I want to do is keep you safe.”

The dampness of the fur she nuzzled told her she’d failed in her attempt to get out the door with mature dignity. She snuffed the worst of it back through her nose and murmured, “I need you here, Lucky. I need you to look after West. Don’t let him get too set in his ways. Steal his socks when he comes home all gruff and cranky, and don’t give them back until he lets you sleep in his bed. And for a little while—maybe a year or two—bark at any woman who comes around like you mean to piss on her shoes if she crosses the threshold. Okay, a week or two,” she relented, trying hard not to think about West replacing those dents she’d left in his bedding with a new impression. The shape of some law-abiding woman with an easy smile and nothing to hide. Somebody that would earn Lucky’s trust, and West’s, and make them both so happy they’d find it hard to remember the impulsive woman who blew through their lives like a summer storm and left just as suddenly.

…

If one was in the market for a pre-owned engagement ring, West suspected the glittering selection beneath glass at the front counter of Music City Pawn & Loan wouldn’t disappoint—though to his mind the meticulous shine of the precious metals and gemstones didn’t hide the tarnish of disappointment inherent in every piece.

No clerk currently attended the diamond and platinum orphans, which had an approximate value of twenty- to twenty-five thousand, by West’s mental addition of the visible price tags. But any reasonably observant visitor with less than above-board intentions would surely spot the small domes of ceiling-mounted cameras strategically placed throughout the shop. A twitch of awareness between his shoulder blades had West looking over his shoulder, and he found himself staring into the unblinking eyes of a mannequin modeling a cowboy hat and a leather jacket.

He hated pawn shops.

“Donovan.” A voice dug from a pit quarry came from behind him.

West turned and watched Central Casting’s version of a Hell’s Angel circa 1976 amble out of the back room on the other side of the counter. If the sheer size of the guy, coupled with the shoulder-length dark hair shot with gray, and overgrown beard didn’t positively ID him as William Boudreaux, the weathered assortment of coiled-snake-around-dagger and flaming-skull-themed tattoos stretched over still impressive arms would have done the job. Since Boudreaux expressed no uncertainty concerning West’s identity, West didn’t bother confirming or going through the unnecessary preliminary of introduction. “William Boudreaux. Thanks for seeing me.”

The man folded his forearms across his chest, so the empty sockets of the flaming skull stared blankly at West. “A thanks implies I did you a favor, which I did not. I made the least offensive of my limited choices. Tran told me you and I could do this here or down at the station. The only thing I like less than cops in my house is me in theirs. Let’s get this done.”

That suited West fine. He stepped up to the counter and placed his badge and ID on the glass. Boudreaux glanced down then back at West, his shaggy eyebrows high. “What does Kentucky law want with me?”

“You’re the registered owner of a red 2020 Mustang GT convertible, license plate MCPAWN?”

“Yeah. So?”

“Not stolen recently, or borrowed?”