Out of Love(15)

Before he could respond—not that I think he had anything left to say—I unlocked the front door and opened it, pausing for a second with my back to him. “A month ago … something bad happened to me. It could have been worse, but someone saved me. I know you either heard about it or you were there. If you heard about it, and that’s why you’ve been letting Jericho watch over me … then I want to say thank you. If you were the one who saved me, then …” Tears filled my eyes.

I still hadn’t told my family.

I still had trouble sleeping.

I still felt a constant fear when I went someplace alone.

“Well …” I swallowed the emotion building in my throat. “Then there are no words for what that means to me. Bye, Wylder.”





Chapter Seven





A wet suit, my board, and good friends awaited me when I walked up the street.

“Seriously … what have you been doing? You went in his house?” Missy eyed me with suspicion. “Voluntarily?”

I grinned. “Yes. Voluntarily. And probably illegally.” My nose scrunched, remembering how my heart nearly exploded when he caught me.

“Dude, you broke into his house?” Kara’s jaw dropped as she tossed a bag into the back of the SUV.

“I entered his house uninvited. Nothing was broken. Let me go change. Give me five minutes.”

We spent three hours fighting the choppy waves, bailing, paddling forever, and waiting in the Friday line. There was a reason I preferred dawn patrol.

“That was not fun.” Missy sighed when we piled into the vehicle to make the trip home—windows down, heater on, music blaring.

“It was brutal.” I tried to run my fingers through my hair, but it was not happening.

“This song is everything.” Missy played her list that was only a third country.

“It is.” I leaned my head back in the passenger seat and closed my eyes as James Arthur serenaded us with “Falling Like The Stars.” My aspirations to climb the political ladder straight to the top didn’t deter me from wanting everything.

Kids and an adoring husband—the kind that never let me forget why I fell in love with him.

One of the things I would never forget about my parents is the way my dad loved my mom so completely, and he never hid it. He worshiped her with every look and every touch. At the time, I thought their PDA was a little gross.

When she died and I watched him mourn her to the point of wondering if he would survive, I realized it wasn’t gross. Their love was the most beautiful thing I had ever witnessed. If I could find a love that felt even remotely close to what they had, I knew I would be the luckiest woman in the world.

My mom was the luckiest woman in the world.

“Gah!” Missy turned up the music on the chorus. “I need to find a man who loves me with the same passion as James Arthur sings this song. You think he’s married? I’d marry him in a heartbeat. And he’d sing to me every night.”

We laughed.

We sang the words.

We replayed the song the whole way home.

“Whoa … does he think you’re home alone?” Kara nodded to the German shepherd barking at our front door.

I hopped out and rushed toward Jericho. Something wasn’t right. I felt it in the pit of my stomach.

“Hey, baby. What’s wrong?” I hunched down, my wet suit half off and a sweatshirt covering my swim top.

He took off toward the firehouse. When I didn’t follow, he turned and barked at me.

“I think he wants you to follow him.” Missy brushed past me and opened the front door. “I’d stay here. He’s probably luring you to the murder dungeon.”

Jericho barked again.

“I don’t think so. I’m going to see what the deal is.”

“Want us to come?” Kara asked.

“No. It’s fine. I’ll call if something is off when I get there,” I called as I followed Jericho.

He led me to the back door that was ajar about three inches. I paused. Something was definitely off. I pulled my phone out of the front pocket of my sweatshirt, contemplating calling someone like I said I would do.

“Hello?” I said with a jittery voice as I slowly opened the door.

Jericho rushed inside and up the stairs.

“Oh god …” I whispered, halting halfway through the kitchen when I saw the trail of blood.

The tiny part of my conscience that spoke complete reason told me to get the hell out of there and call the police. Not too shockingly, I ignored that tiny, but very smart voice of reason. Instead, I followed Jericho and the trail of blood to the last bedroom at the top of the stairs.

A small lamp on the bedside table dimly lit the bedroom. When my eyes adjusted to the light, a bloodied Slade came into focus.

Jericho hopped onto the bed next to him, licking his face and neck.

“Oh god … what happened?” I took quick steps to the bed. “I’ll call an ambulance.”

“N-no …” Slade’s hand grabbed my wrist as I started to dial 9-1-1. “Go home.”

Shirt off.

Blood on the bedsheets and pillowcase.

Crimson-saturated gauze bandages on his shoulder.

I jerked my hand away as panic sank its claws into my murky conscience. “You’re bleeding. A lot. Slade …” The torn open suture kit and empty bottle of vodka on his nightstand snagged my attention. “Did you stitch yourself up?” My head inched side to side as I backed away, eyes unblinking at his bloodied hand. “Are you in danger? Did you do something? Is this about the drugs?” The fear flowed freely.