Chapter Thirteen

 

Two Weeks Later

 

Wade stared down at the cast covering his lower arm, the one remaining vestige of his bizarre experience trying to help pry a little kid out of a car that had been swept away in a terrifying flash flood. The car had been spinning its way down a major thoroughfare by the time Wade and Jax made it out to the middle of what had become a rushing dangerous river so they could loop a rope around it. The rope was attached to the hook and ladder truck, so that stopped the thing from moving forward. But when Jax handed him over to Wade, the little kid had gone into full freak-out mode, flailing around and screaming.

Wade remembered losing his balance and slipping on something as he held the little boy aloft. As he went under, he shoved the kid up and was relieved to feel someone grab him, even as Wade tried to regain his footing, only to slip again.

When he braced himself against the car, now straining hard against its tether rope, the damn thing snapped, whacking his wrist hard before he was literally run over by the car, but in the water, which kept him under long enough for his own crew to have to rescue him and provide artificial resuscitation until he coughed up a lungful of muddy water.

All in a day’s work, really.

He’d made it out okay, even with a hairline fracture in his wrist and a lump on the back his head, but no worse for wear. Shit, he’d take water over fire any day. He’d even fought the docs over the necessity of the cast.

However, when he’d woken up in the hospital and glanced around for the one pair of eyes he needed to see, they weren’t there.

“She freaked all the way out and back again,” Jax told him. “Got one look at you banged up and out of it and bolted. Skye went after her, but . . .” He shrugged and patted Wade’s shoulder. “She’ll come around. You’re irresistible, I hear.”

He managed to bully the staff into releasing him after a couple of days—one day too long, as far as he was concerned. His bitch of an ex-wife even had the total nerve to check in on him at one point until he threw her out on her ear. The sight of her had done a number on him, though, so he’d decided if little Miss Samantha couldn’t tolerate him getting banged up now and again on behalf of saving lives, well, he was probably better off without her.

Except, of course, he wasn’t. Not even close.

He shook his head to clear it, then continued filing reports on the last week’s calls, the stupid, unnecessary cast on his lower arm hindering him just enough to make him insane. “Fuck this,” he muttered as he got up and headed for the tool case. As he rooted around for a hacksaw, determined to rid himself of the thing once and for all, he heard a distinctly female voice-clearing behind him.

“Ah hah,” he said, hoisting the tool up and turning around, expecting to find one of his lady crew members prepared to lecture him on his crappy self-diagnosis skills.

When he saw that it was Sam, dressed to kill in a short skirt, sky-high heels, and sleeveless blouse, he frowned and turned away from her. His heart raced, and he had to shut his eyes a split second to gather himself. He didn’t have time for a woman who would spook at the first sign of danger. His job was dangerous. And he loved it. End of story.

He plunked the cast on the top of the tool bench and tried to figure out the best way to divest himself of it, using the fairly rudimentary device in his other hand. When he recalled that there should be one of those motorized circular saws somewhere, the kind they used in hospitals that would cut the plaster but not skin, he tossed the hacksaw aside and resumed pawing through the tools.

“Wade,” she said, her voice soft. It went straight to his gut. But he set his jaw and ignored her. “Please look at me.”

He found what he needed, pulled it out, fired it up, and was lowering it to his cast with a grim smile when a loud shout from across the garage floor made him hesitate. “What the fuck are you doing, Roberts?”

Jax marched over and yanked the saw out of his hand, turned it off and glared at him. “You have company. I’ll take this somewhere safe.”

Wade sighed and turned to face Sam, keeping his expression as neutral as he possibly could. Of course, the sight of her brought back a tidal wave of memories. Memories that kept him up almost every night lately.

“Can I help you?”

She bit her lower lip. He got an immediate, painful hard-on.

Damn woman.

“Why are you here, Sam?” He marched away from her toward his small corner office. She followed him and stood, rubbing one bare arm with a shaking hand. “Well?” He sat and put his work-booted feet up on the messy desk, attempting not to care if she stayed or not.

“I wanted to apologize, for not . . . sticking around in the hospital.”

“I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself. No apology required.”

“Well, I’m sorry anyway.” She blinked fast as if trying to gather her thoughts.

“Fine. Anything else? I’m kinda busy here.”

He waved at the stacks of paper on the desk, realizing he’d just gotten a snoot-full of his own medicine. All those women he’d fucked and booted out of his house were coming home to roost, he figured. All in the person of this one, tall, curvy, beautiful, perfect creature that he honestly believed he loved.

“No, I guess not.” She glanced around. Wade stayed quiet, wishing he had words, willing himself to get up and go to her. But something held him back.

“All right then,” he said. He dropped his feet back to the floor, rested his fingers on the keyboard and pretended to type something. His throat was so tight he could barely suck in air. But he stayed put until he sensed she’d left, tap-tapping her way across the concrete.

“Chief,” Cal said from behind him, making him jump and curse. “Sorry,” the young man said when he caught the look on Wade’s face. “Was I interrupting—”

“No, you weren’t. What is it?” Wade’s brain was spinning in a million different directions, concocting ways to get her back, but at the same time wondering which of the many nameless chicks he could call to come over tonight and help him forget her.

“Um, this,” Cal said, handing over a single piece of paper. Wade snatched it and glared down at the words, barely understanding them at first. When he absorbed what he’d been given to authorize with his signature, his ears got hot. He glared up at the young man who’d been such a killer addition to his crew. “I also brought this.” Cal held up the plaster saw and a wrist brace.

Once Cal had freed him of the cast and fastened his wrist into the plastic and Velcro contraption, Wade focused in the piece of paper.

“What the hell is this, Morrison?”

“I gotta get back home, Chief. Family stuff.”

“You just got here. I mean . . . shit.” He slumped back in his seat and stared down at the transfer request. “I’m sorry. I hope everything’s all right.”

“Yeah, well, it is kinda. Or not. It’s a long story. Suffice it to say, I’m needed back in God’s Country . . . you know, Kentucky. My brother…anyway, it’s a mess and I need to help sort it all out.”

Wade smiled at the kid. “How’d you know I’m from God’s Country?”

Cal shrugged and stuck his fingers in his belt loops. “Word gets around. You left to go to college here but had to drop out and take care of your mother when she got sick back home.”

“Yeah,” Wade said. “I grew up on the west side of the state. Murray, to be exact.” He glanced down at the transfer request. “You’re damn good at what you do, Cal. You’ll be missed. But family is family. I get it. I don’t like it. But I get it.” He signed the paper and handed it over. “I’ve got you for two more weeks, though, right? I’ll need that long to find a replacement.” The reality of that made a heavy stone settle in his gut, right alongside the one labeled ‘Sam’ and the one he liked to think of as ‘get rid of the house.’

He’d definitely arrived back at a shitty square one.

“So what happened with Sam?” Cal asked out of the clear blue, jerking Wade back from his approaching funk.

“Uh, well, none of your business, I guess.”

“I guess,” Cal said, not moving along as he should. “You ever think about pulling a hardcore romance move on her? You know, surprising her at work with flowers, champagne, that kind of thing?”

Wade glared at him. “No. I haven’t thought about that. She’s the one with the problem, not me.”

“Dude, I thought you knew the code.”

“The…what?”

“The code that states that no matter what, if the woman is worth the effort, you are always at fault and have to make things right.”

“Fuck that shit,” Wade grumbled, slumping further down in the butt-sprung chair.

“Yeah, well, it’s not really fair, but it is true. You want her back, you gotta go after her.”

“I’m pretty certain that I don’t need love life advice from you, junior. Beat it.”

Cal shrugged and sauntered over to the row of lockers. Wade watched him go, chewing on the inside of his cheek, wondering if he should take the punk’s advice. But anger rose, stifling any thoughts of Cal and his stupid code. He grabbed his phone and scrolled through a few numbers before finding one and sending a text, demanding the presence of the woman on the other end of the line at his place in three hours.

He stared down at the phone a few seconds then heaved the thing across the garage with a yell of frustration, noting with sick satisfaction when it broke into a zillion pieces against the side of his rig. A low whistle made him roll his eyes. Jax emerged from around the corner. He picked up the fragments of Wade’s device and dumped them on his desk.

Wade sighed and stared up at the ceiling. “I’ve got another one, don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried about your phone.”

The silence between them was deafening. “What?” Wade demanded. “You gonna lecture me on the man code now, too?”

“The one where no matter what, we’re always at fault if she’s worth the effort? Nah, I figure you’ve got a handle on that one.”

“Great. Then fuck off. I’m busy.”

But Jax remained standing at his desk, putting his ability to speak volumes with his silence to its highest and best use.

Wade heaved a huge sigh. “I am not gonna beg her.”

Jax held up a hand. “Dude, what you do with her is your business. But you gotta remember that a woman who makes a zillion bucks a year selling houses doesn’t really have a sense of what our job entails until she comes face to face with it. Skye says she’s miserable and doesn’t know how to talk to you, to make you understand why she bolted.”

“Whatever,” Wade said, but he felt a tiny glimmer of hope at his friend’s words. “Tell your woman her message has been relayed. I’ll think about it.” His skin was getting that weird, anticipatory, tingly feeling already at the thought of seeing Sam again, of touching her, kissing her, and more. He glanced at his watch. “I’m going home.”

“Want to grab a brew?” Jax asked.

“Nah, I need to . . . do some thinking.” He didn’t meet his friend’s eyes, figuring he’d betray the roil of emotions churning through him. Wade was shitty when it came to emotions. His ex had reminded him of that daily. But that night, that amazing, incredible night with Sam, when he’d busted out and used the L word? That had been the most natural thing in the world to him. He cursed under his breath and climbed into his truck, still thinking he’d fuck whatever girl he’d invited over and purge Sam from his life.

But deep down, he knew better.

 

**

 

Sam stared at her computer screen, blurred by a scrim of tears. God, she was a weepy mess. Insomnia will do that do you, she figured. And insomnia was now her best buddy every night. Ever since she’d seen Wade, unconscious and bruised all to hell in that hospital bed.

Skye had followed her to the bathroom where she’d run that day, first to throw up, then to cry. They’d sat a while together, and Sam had finally gathered her wits and said she needed some air. Skye had nodded and said she’d wait with Jax in Wade’s room until she got back.

But of course, she’d not gone back.

She was such a big baby, a loser, an unsupportive wimp. But the concept that she would allow herself to feel as deeply as she wanted to about Wade Roberts—even to love him—only to see him head out to work every single day with the risk of drowning, or burning alive, or being shot by some crazy person, simply would not compute.

She’d buried herself in work the past weeks, managing to increase her personal bottom line, only to find herself staring out into the Dallas skyline all night, every night, managing to doze an hour or two right before it was time to get up and start all over again. It was killing her. It had taken everything she had to go to the station today. His reaction had told her everything she needed to know.

It had been fun for approximately twelve hours. Then the reality proved too much for her, and he had zero patience for that shit. She could hardly blame him.

“Sam, you have a guest in the lobby. Sam Weaver, your guest is in the lobby,” the receptionist intoned over the office intercom.

She leaned forward on her elbows, pondering her computer screen a few more seconds. When she realized she had nothing scheduled with anyone for today, she took a long breath, stood up and plucked her suit jacket off the back of her seat. Nothing like a mystery client to distract her, she supposed.

She pasted a smile on her face and re-fastened her hair back in a ponytail. When Wade’s words about how he wanted her to wear it down all the time, and why, wafted across her brain, she had to stop in the hall for a few seconds to collect herself.

“Shake it off,” she muttered to herself. “Shake it the fuck off.” She stamped her expensively clad foot. A couple of her colleagues gave her a wide berth, hurrying by on their way to their own real estate crises.

“Sam Weaver, your guest is waiting in the lobby,” the receptionist called over the speaker again, sounding a bit strident this time.

With another sigh, she buttoned her jacket over her camisole, squared her shoulders and marched out to the lobby. “Hello there,” she said to the tall man sitting in one of the leather lobby seats. “I’m Sam. How can I help you today?”

The man rose, his smile large and a tiny bit creepy. Sam couldn’t shake the sensation of his eyes raking her up and down. She shook it off at his words. “Hi, Sam. I came to talk with you about listing my house. It’s on Echo Brook Lane. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

Sam heard the receptionist suck in a breath behind her. Her own smile widened. “Yes, of course, I have. I sold a lovely home on Royal Springs Drive just a few months ago.”

The man seemed to relax and appear less creepy all of a sudden. “Yes, you’re the best. I follow you on Facebook.”

Sam blinked. The sensation of red flags waving in her head was almost too hard to ignore. But seriously, Echo Brook Lane was in Preston Hollow, the most exclusive neighborhood in Dallas. She’d managed to list a few homes on its periphery and had sold a couple of the bigger homes within its storied perimeter. Both deals had netted her more money than she’d ever thought possible.

The man’s smile expanded. “So, you can come out and see it today, right?”

“Oh, uh, okay. Sure.” She glanced around her as if something might give her a clue as to how to handle this. Her inner realtor was clamoring for her to hop in her car and follow the man to his no-doubt giant mansion. Another part of her—a loud part—was warning her to make an appointment for another day, to do a bit of research and make sure the guy was legit. He was a self-admitted Facebook stalker, after all.

The man raised an eyebrow at her. For some reason, a memory of Wade burst across her consciousness.

Deflect, distract, get busy with work and forget him already.

“Sure, Mister, um . . . sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Call me Matt,” he said. “You can follow me now if you like.”

“Uh, okay, sure. So, um, what’s the house number? I need to tell Lizzy,” she said, indicating the receptionist behind her. When the man’s face seemed to collapse in on itself in unhappiness, she felt that qualm again—the one telling her that even though it was still light, with several more hours of daylight left, she would be a full on idiot to follow this total stranger to his house. Even if it was on one of the streets with the most expensive housing in Dallas. “It’s protocol, Matt.” She emphasized his name, trying to reestablish some kind of a normal connection. “I’m sure you understand. If not, we can make an appointment for another—”

“No, no, it’s fine. I understand. It’s fifty-four hundred Echo Brook Lane.” He glanced at the receptionist, who nodded and wrote it down. “Now, I only have about an hour and really want to get going on this thing. I want your sign in my yard by the end of the week. Can you manage that?”

“Of course,” she said, letting her inner realtor quash her quavering Nervous Nellie. “I’ll follow you there.”

“Great! Super. Awesome.” The man practically gushed. The receptionist met Sam’s gaze. “See you there, Sam.”

“Yeah, okay. Meet you there.”

“Okay, you got the address, right?” she asked the receptionist. “I’m not feeling super confident about this.”

“I’ll make sure Joe knows,” the young woman said, naming the office sales manager. “Go! Jeez, Sam. It’s Preston Hollow.”

“I know, I know. You’re right.” She marched back to her office, grabbed her purse, keys, phone and sunglasses, and got behind the wheel of her Porsche, giving herself a pep talk to quash the heebie-jeebies. As she made her way across town, she kept up the inner mantra of Preston Hollow—Preston Hollow—Preston Hollow.

Her onboard navigation system delivered her not to 5400 Echo Brook Lane, but 5412 Echo Brook Lane. The house was gargantuan. But it still didn’t match the address she’d been given, even though the car Matt had driven away in was parked in its circular drive. She pulled in behind him, then, as per her safety training, she backed around and pointed her SUV nose outward before sending a quick text to the office, changing the house number.

Getting a grip on herself, she got out, tugged at her skirt, and made her way up the flagstone path to the massive double doors. This could easily be her biggest listing ever. And the guy, Matt, had sought her out specifically. He’d shown his face at her office in broad daylight. What crazy person would do that?

She rang the doorbell, smiled at the man when he opened the door and made her way into the freezing cold interior. The door made a loud clunk behind her and sent a shock of fear down her spine that she couldn’t ignore.

“Okay, so Matt, I don’t have but a few minutes, so let’s take a look around, shall we?” She kept her voice light but kept her phone in her hand. “Kitchen first. Please?”

He shrugged. She forced herself to relax. But as a precaution, she sent a specific text message with shaking fingers to the first phone number she pulled up, which turned out to be Skye’s.

911 -- 5412 Echo Brook, which was  realtor shorthand for “Warning, I don’t feel safe at this house, send help.” She prayed that Skye would interpret it, or show it to Jax, who would know what it meant.

“Sam, are you coming?” Matt called from the echoing kitchen. She rubbed her sweaty palms against her skirt, then pulled her phone back out of her jacket pocket, as if she could use it as a weapon. The walk down the hall from the cavernous foyer was the longest she’d ever taken. Her heart pounded louder with every step. When she walked into the shocking white space, complete with cold black granite counter tops, skylights and commercial grade appliances, there was no sign of her new client at first.

“Um, Matt?” She peeked around the corner. “Hey, uh, I don’t have a lot of time, so . . .”

The next to last thing she remembered was the sight of the ceramic tile floor rising to meet her for some reason. Pain bloomed across her brain, spread down her spine, and made her vision fade from the outside in, until all she knew was the agony and encroaching darkness.

“Wade,” she whispered, as she forced herself to her hands and knees, tears blurring her vision. “Help me,” she said when her fingers found the lower cabinets, and she tried to haul herself up to her feet.

“Sam, you should relax,” Matt’s voice hit her ear. “Really. Let me help you upstairs.”

“Don’t fucking touch me, you creep,” she screamed as she scrambled to her feet just in time to receive the full force of the baseball bat to the side of her head.