Say You're Sorry (Morgan Dane 1)

“This is true.” The inmate nodded. “I’m Shorty.”

OK.

“I’m Nick.” What the hell? Not knowing what else to do, he reached out a hand.

Shorty shook it with only the briefest of hesitations.

What did an introduction mean? Had that been a test?

This was so confusing. He felt like he’d been dumped into a reality TV show with no description of the game he was supposed to play.

During the next few hours, three other inmates introduced themselves to Nick and asked for his story. Were they comparing notes? Nick kept his statements simple and honest and hoped that came through.

Not much else he could do. Everything depended on Ms. Dane.

Nick got up to use the toilet. He passed by a cell. A hand grabbed his uniform collar and yanked him off his feet into the dark space. He landed on his side, his shoulder smashing into the concrete. A body jumped on top of him. A fist slammed into his face. Pain exploded through his nose and mouth. Nick tasted blood. He wrapped his arms around his head to block the blows while he got his bearings. Adrenaline shot through his bloodstream, shocking his heart into a panicked frenzy.

Questions fired through his mind. Would the guards see? Were there cameras in the cells? Nick had never ventured inside one.

Were they going to kill him?

Trying to block the raining fists, Nick squinted around his forearms. One man was delivering the beating, but others watched from the doorway. They seemed to be standing guard.

A punch connected with his ribs. He couldn’t protect his head and his torso at once. Primal instinct sent a blast of energy through him. He was going to die if he didn’t fight back. As shitty as his life was, he couldn’t just let it go.

Nick rolled a shoulder to cover his face. He lashed out a hand. His fist connected with his attacker’s body.

The guy got to his feet and delivered a kick to Nick’s ribs. The pain just about split him in two. He coughed and wrapped his hands around his middle. When the foot came in for a second kick, Nick grabbed the ankle and pulled. Surprised, his attacker went down on his back. Nick scrambled to his feet, his chest heaving, his lungs crying for air.

Blood dripped down his face and onto his uniform. He almost went after his attacker, and then stopped when he recognized Shorty—and saw the three larger inmates in the doorway. They helped Shorty to his feet. Then the four of them stared at Nick.

What. The. Fuck?

He couldn’t take them all on.

His chest heaved. He wiped a hand across his face and waited. A few long minutes passed until one of the men tossed Nick a towel. “Get yourself cleaned up before the guards come in.”

Nick nodded and wiped his face. The four men stepped aside and let him out.

Two guards burst through the door. One eyed Nick’s face. “What happened?”

Snitches get stitches.

Had that been some sort of test?

“I tripped,” Nick said.

“No one attacked you?” they asked, scanning the room.

“No,” Nick lied. “These guys were just helping me up.”

The guard frowned. Clearly they didn’t have cameras inside the cells, just in the main room, and the inmates all knew it.

Who’s fucking stupid idea was that?

“You’re sure?” the guard asked.

“Yep.” Nick wiped his nose.

The guard frowned, not convinced. “You need to go to the infirmary?”

Nick shook his head. Dizziness swam in his head. “I’m good.”

The guards shot a warning look around the room. Shorty wasn’t in sight. Nick wondered if his knuckles were bleeding. He limped to the toilet and relieved himself. Returning to his mat, Nick put his back to the wall. He huddled on the mattress, pain and cold blotting out every other sense.

And waited.

He might have to spend a year or more in this place. The thought of living out the rest of his life in a concrete box made him want to throw up.

Or kill himself.

Today he’d received a beating. He had no idea why.

Or what was next.

Chapter Twenty-One

He lifted his binoculars and watched the three girls standing at the edge of Scarlet Lake. He guessed the girls were about sixteen. The sun reflected off the water like a mirror. One girl handed something to her friend. A joint?

He adjusted the focus of his binoculars to zoom in on the girl’s face.

Yep. They were passing a joint around.

He shifted his aim lower. Tight yoga pants cupped tighter asses. He licked his lips. A hand slid down to his crotch. He rubbed himself through the fabric of his pants before giving in to the urge and lowering his zipper.

But it wasn’t enough.

Frustrated, he zipped up.

There was no doubt about it. He needed to replace Tessa.

He’d thought coming back to the place where she’d died would help with his self-control by reminding him that all actions had consequences. And that he absolutely had to stay out of trouble until this whole mess blew over. But he hadn’t counted on those girls and their skintight pants.

He’d wanted to be alone at the lake. To reflect. To get a fucking grip.

He’d been prepared to share the beach with dogs and families. But pretty girls brought back memories of Tessa. Not just of her death, but of all the things he’d done with her.

To her.

The girls finished their joint and turned away from the water. He followed them with his binoculars as they walked toward a car in the parking lot. The one on the left had long blonde hair. Tall, blue-eyed, and stacked, she was as different from Tessa as possible.

The blonde slid into the driver’s seat. They drove away, and he lowered the binoculars after memorizing the license plate of the car. How hard would it be to find out her name?

He knew he needed to wait. It was too soon. But in reality, how long would he be able to keep his shit together?

He’d come to the lake to get a grip on his need, but he’d ended up stoking it higher.

Chapter Twenty-Two

In the passenger seat of the Jeep, Morgan blinked the tears from her eyes. Her grief was ramping up this week.

Lance was still holding her hand. The gesture was simultaneously comforting and terrifying, and she fought both the desire to snatch her hand away and crawl into his lap.

She shouldn’t be surprised that she wanted some comfort. She’d thrown away her job. Her neighbors hated her. After two years in a holding pattern, she’d turned her entire professional life into a train wreck in the course of a single week.

And Lance seemed to want to be there for her. In high school, he’d kept his emotional distance, and she hadn’t pressed him for a deeper relationship. They’d been young, and she’d had her own family issues. But the adult Lance was harder to resist. The more time she spent with him, the more he opened up to her.

The more she liked him.

He put his mother’s welfare ahead of his own desires. He made real sacrifices to care for her, and he did it freely and without resentment. He was willing to help Morgan solve Nick’s case, and she knew that if Bud couldn’t pay, Lance would still be in.

He was a man you could count on. A man she could count on.

But this wasn’t the time. Regret pinged in her heart as she pulled her hand out from under his. All her focus needed to stay on Nick and his defense. When it was over, she would reassess her personal life. A few months ago, she hadn’t thought she’d ever be attracted to another man. But she had to admit it—she definitely was.

She turned to study Lance’s profile, her gaze sliding from his face over his muscular chest and arms. She definitely liked what she saw, and there was no mistaking the fact that her girl parts were perking up.