Was he looking for his citation pad so he could write her a ticket? Perfect. She had exactly eight hundred and thirteen dollars to her name. Whatever the fine for hitchhiking, her limited resources couldn’t take the hit. She closed her eyes and rested her forehead on her knees.
“Under the circumstances, I think we can skip the blessing.”
“Huh?” She raised her head and saw an energy bar and bottle of water in her line of vision. Surprised, she took both and managed a pathetic, “Thank you.” Nobody had taken care of her in a long time. She wasn’t used to it. Maybe that’s why a couple Band-Aids and a snack suddenly made her want to cry?
“Eat,” he ordered and got out of the passenger seat.
And bye-bye sentimental tears. Securing the water bottle between her knees, she peeled the wrapper off the energy bar and eyed the machine-extruded protein bomb. Not normally her snack of choice, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. Her stomach leaped like a starved wolf when she bit into the bar.
By the time she’d swallowed the first mouthful, he was standing over her again, right arm braced on the open door, giving her a measuring look. She must have measured up, because he straightened.
“You have a pair of shoes in your bag that won’t do more damage?”
She gulped some water, nodded, and then started to stand. He stopped her with a shake of his head.
“Don’t get up. I’ll bring it over.”
Around another bite of energy bar, she called, “Thanks,” to his retreating back.
When he returned, she swallowed the last bit of the bar and licked her sticky fingers before rifling through her bag for her Wonder Woman flip-flops. She slipped them on and admired the contrast between the red, white, and blue rubber and her Purple Haze multi-chrome toenail polish.
“Do you own an article of clothing that doesn’t constitute a disturbance of the peace?”
She wiggled her toes to see the polish shimmer in the watery light and did her best to hold back a grin. He sounded so disgruntled. “Mama said never blend in.”
“Trust me, Roxy, you couldn’t blend in if you tried.”
He spoke the truth, and she knew it. She specialized in left of center. Felt comfortable there most of the time, but his words still hit a sore spot. Not blending in also meant not fitting in. She was a born outsider, but with Bluelick she’d let herself believe things might be different. After all, she had family there. Was it inconceivable to think she might actually belong? Having the local law dash that hope before she even set foot inside the town limits left her depressed.
And defensive.
She was fine on her own. Having musicians as parents meant she’d grown up on the road. That kind of life taught a girl to make friends easily—because the road could be lonely—and relinquish them easily—because another gig always beckoned. She had fun while the fun lasted and then made her way down the next sometimes-lonely road. Lonely she could handle. Tying herself to someone else had proved to be the dangerous thing.
Hiding her feelings, however, had never been a natural talent, so she kept her head down and concentrated on stuffing her boots into her bag and zipping it closed. When she was sure she had a mask of indifference in place, she got out of the car. He didn’t budge an inch, so she shouldered her duffel and stood a bit taller. “Officer Donovan, thanks for the first aid. If we’re all through here, I’ll take my guitar and be on my way.”
He simply reached out, lifted the bag from her shoulder as if it weighed nothing, and strode to the trunk. “Get in the car. You can ride shotgun, or you can stick with the backseat. Your choice.”
“In the car? Why?” The questions came out abnormally high-pitched. “I thought you said I wasn’t under arrest?”
“You’re not. Yet,” he added under his breath when she didn’t move.
“Look. I like to walk. I prefer to walk. There’s no law against taking a walk along a country road.”
He closed the trunk. “There’s a law against hitchhiking.”
“I’m not going to hitchhike anymore,” she said as he approached.
“That’s right.” He opened the passenger-side door and waited. Patiently. Like a man entertaining absolutely no doubts about the outcome.
Much as she would have loved to keep arguing, the look on his face suggested any additional words would be a waste of breath. As long as he had Gibson, he had the hammer. She walked to the passenger seat and got in.
“Buckle up.”
With that order hanging in the air, he shut the door. The resulting slam sounded disturbingly final.
Chapter Three
West got behind the wheel and glanced at his reluctant passenger. Roxy stared out the window. Her hair, now closer to dry, waved with abandon. Beautiful, untamed, and in a state of natural chaos, just like the woman. Chaos worried him. Spending his formative years in one of the worst areas of Baltimore had satisfied his chaos quotient for the duration.
Stints as a SEAL and in the NYPD had taught him information combated chaos. Using his on-board computer, he keyed in her driver’s license and waited while the system ran a DMV and warrant check. He scanned through results—a whole lot of nothing—while noting her attention.
She shifted closer to get a view of the monitor. “What are you looking at?”
Christ, even cagey with nerves, her throaty voice thickened his blood. “You,” he answered a little more curtly than necessary and tapped the screen to scroll to the final page of the report.
“You ran me?”
There was that wariness again. He looked up and caught her running her tongue over her lower lip. “You’re clean.”
Her lip glistened, and he imagined taking his turn dampening the soft, pink flesh. Instead, he started the engine and pulled onto the road. “You seem surprised by that outcome. Something you want to tell me, Roxy?”
Silence
