Breathe

Chapter Three Drift Away

You’re giving up?!?!?

I stared at the message box on my computer and sighed.

Yes, I was giving up. A week ago, Chace had laid it out. I didn’t get it. I wasn’t experienced enough to know. It felt for a good while there, when his arms were around me tight, his lips locked to mine, his hand in my hair, that he was into kissing me…

Kissing me.

And oh, my, fraking Lord, what a kiss.

And to be that good, it seemed he had to be into it. Into me. Like Lexie said. Way into me in a hungry heart, longing, soul destroying if you can’t have it, put your life on the line to get it kind of into me, well, into me.

Then I suddenly wasn’t in his arms and he was making it perfectly clear he was not into me.

Not at all.

Not even a teeny, tiny bit.

And I had a wise father who liberally shared his wisdom, a wise mother who shared her wisdom through deed rather than action and I also had a Master’s in Library Science.

I was no dummy.

I got it.

So I was giving up.

I lifted my hands to the keyboard and typed to my on-line friend Benji, We weren’t getting anywhere anyway.

We were! He typed back. It has to be someone in The Elite who hired the hit. And we’ve already discovered some of the players! The money behind the corruption. The money that paid for a clean hit. We have to keep digging.

I’d met Benji on a forum celebrating everything that was the new Battlestar Gallactica, or, as Benji called it, “The best television show fraking ever.”

I disagreed. I loved Battlestar Gallactica but Firefly was by far and away the best television show ever which made its mid-season cancellation an act (I thought) of sacrilege. Fortunately, they made a movie about it. And also fortunately, Nathan Fillion moved onto another awesome show, Castle.

But nothing topped Firefly.

Nothing.

Years ago, Benji and my relationship had gone off-forum and grown so I’d introduced him to my other on-line friend SerenityWash. I’d met her on a Firefly forum and that was her screen name. Me thinking she was a “her” was the fact that she could perv on Nathan Fillion for hours in a way that I wasn’t sure but I thought could not be gay-love. Serenity and I were friends, close. We’d “known” each other years and we messaged each other all the time, talking about life, jobs, family, thoughts, feelings, emotions but I didn’t know her real name, her gender, where she lived or anything tangible about her. All of this she gave hints at but at the same time guarded like it was a State secret. So I never knew if the hints were real or if she was trying to throw me off-track.

SerenityWash was her screen name, the name of the spaceship in Firefly, “Serenity”, plus her favorite character from the show, “Wash”.

Benji’s screen name, by the way, was “AdmiralAdamaforPresident”. Seeing as this was a pain in the behind to type out, I’d made him give me his real name. And I knew he was a man since he perved on Number Six from that show in a way no woman could.

He’d also told me his full name was Benjamin and I didn’t know any girls named Benjamin so I was thinking his gender was not in question.

Over the years, I’d kept them up-to-date on the goings-on in Carnal. I’d also shared my long-distance, unrequited love for Detective Chace Keaton. They’d gotten interested, especially when things heated up and finally exploded. That included the news that Misty Keaton was dead and her husband was free to be, they hoped, with me.

They’d stayed interested, maybe unhealthily, and talked me into doing the same. And the unhealthy part about this was that they were both good at computers. They lived on the fringe of society, devoted themselves to on-line communities and geek television. They were always gearing up for then rabidly attending any geek convention that came their way. They also indulged in such other pursuits as, say, hacking and amateur sleuthing.

This also led me to my middle of the night trip, one of many, to the scene of the crime. I, of course, had no clue what I was looking for. Serenity, of course, watched Bones and told me you could catch a murderer by examining dirt. I didn’t have three doctorates in entomology, botany and mineralogy like the fictional Jack Hodgins did on that show, nor did I have a space age lab to take a sample to be tested, so I had no idea what they expected me to do with the dirt at Harker’s Wood. I did, however, live in Carnal and, head in a book, fingers on a keyboard with on-line friends, eyes trained to geek TV or not, I still knew a lot of the bad guys seeing as they were police and made their presence smotheringly known. So this also meant I knew most of them were idiots. And idiots couldn’t commit murder and get away with it.

So up to Harker’s Wood I went when no one could see me. I looked around, combed that wood so thoroughly that by now I knew it like the back of my hand.

But I never found anything.

I also, like Benji and Serenity, never gave up.

Until now.

I hadn’t shared the recent events because both of them were openly hoping that our activities would reach a desirable conclusion, make Chace take notice of me and then, promptly, fall head over heels in love with me.

Obviously, this wasn’t going to happen.

So now it was time for us to stop trying to do what we were never going to do anyway. Even if Benji had hacked into the Carnal Police Department’s computer server and Serenity had somehow managed to hack into and follow along with conversations and text messages on more than a dozen cell phones.

And what we were trying to do that we’d never do was find Misty Keaton’s murderer.

Furthermore, even before the recent unpleasant and confusing (but unfortunately, for several beautiful moments, also excruciatingly exciting) Chace Encounters, I was getting worried.

This was because Serenity was turning up names that my own lame, internet searches showed were wealthy, powerful people. Big money. Old money. Judges. Businessmen. Politicians. Powerbrokers.

Serenity was convinced that the now dead ringleader of a dirty band of dirty cops, Arnold Fuller, had these guys in his pocket. And Serenity was convinced that even though Fuller was very dead, a man like him couldn’t yank the chains of men like that unless he had the goods on them. And last, Serenity was convinced that these goods did not die with Fuller.

They were out there.

She also thought that if we found Misty’s murderer, we’d find this. In the brouhaha that followed Ty Walker’s exoneration and the exposure of corruption in Carnal, none of this came out.

So Serenity was convinced there was another shoe that would drop and the best way for a shoe to drop without causing any damage was to aim it yourself.

As you could imagine, this did not fill me with glee. It didn’t even fill me with trepidation. It filled me with the desire to run screaming from this pet project and never look back.

Alas, Benji and Serenity were dug in. Fortunately, Serenity’s real identity was hidden so far behind a wall of her computer cunning that it was likely no one could hack it. And Benji lived in England so, hopefully, the long reach of Colorado money and power wouldn’t extend that far.

But I was done. Chace had called my charms “limited” and my kiss “bullshit fumbling” so I wasn’t actually done. I was done. I didn’t want any reminders of him. Luckily, I worked in the library, a building, to my knowledge, he’d never stepped foot inside of in thirteen years. And since I was the only paid employee at the library, I figured it was safe to say he never had and therefore never would. And I wasn’t going back to the diner. I was also giving up La-La Land coffee. This stunk. Shambles and Sunny’s coffee was awesome and Shambles’s baked goods were to die for.

But these were the only times my path could cross with any regularity with Chace Keaton’s so until the burn of his words faded away, I was avoiding them.

Benji and Serenity, I couldn’t control. They were adults (I hoped) and they were far from stupid. Maybe less involved in the real word even than I was but not stupid.

And for my part, I’d just keep warning them.

Benji, we weren’t, I typed. And I’m not comfortable with what we’re uncovering and you shouldn’t be comfortable with it either. It’s really none of our business. Things are good in Carnal again. I have a strong feeling, a very strong one, we should let this sleeping dog lie.

But what about Chace? Benji typed back and I closed my eyes.

Then I opened them in order to lie again.

He has a girlfriend.

What!?!?!?!

I pulled in a breath and kept lying.

Yeah. I saw him with her the other day. They look really close. She’s super pretty.

OMG! Why didn’t you say anything?!?!?

I just needed some time to give up a dream.

Oh Inara (this, by the way, was my screen name because Nathan Fillion’s character was in love with Inara’s character on Firefly – actually my full screen name was Inara000 since there were a gazillion Inaras out there) don’t say that. Is this thing new with him? Maybe it won’t work out.

That isn’t part of caring about someone, Benji, even if you care about them from afar, hoping they won’t be happy. He wasn’t happy with Misty. Now he looks happy with this new lady. He’s moving on. I should too.

Don’t give up hope. You never know, Benji replied.

No, what I know is, I’ve been home from college for seven years and he hasn’t noticed me. He’s been a widower for seven months and he hasn’t noticed me. This means he’s probably never going to notice me. I have a life to live to, Ben. And I should probably start living it.

My eyes remained on the screen as nothing came back from Benji for a while then it did.

I’m sorry, Faye. But you’re probably right. Still, I hope you find someone spectacular because you deserve that and when Chace Keaton finally gets his head straight and notices you, then he can feel a little of what you’re feeling now, knowing you’re happy and that happy isn’t ever going to be with him.

I wouldn’t hold my breath for that to happen.

This I did not share with Benji.

A Benji that, reading his words, I was reminded of all the reasons why, even though I’d never met him and probably never would, I loved him.

Instead, I typed, It’s getting late here, Ben. I need to go to bed.

Right, he returned, I’ll let you go. Back tomorrow?

Probably, I answered and I probably would be back tomorrow. Sitting in my apartment at my computer talking to people I knew well but had never met. Nor would I probably ever meet seeing as they were social misfits.

Like me.

Twenty-nine and never been laid. I’d hardly ever been kissed and I was pining for a man I’d never have who was real and another one who was a fictional character on a long-since cancelled television show.

“Yep,” I whispered as I typed, Later, Ben. “I need to get a life.”

I read his farewell then shut down my computer.

Then I wandered to my couch.

There was one thing in my life that could be considered kickass. This was my apartment.

It was the space over Holly’s Flower Shop on Main Street. This meant, on frequent occasions, it smelled like flowers. It also meant I could walk to work. Considering my car was a dark green junker Jeep Cherokee my Dad handed down to me seven years ago upon my graduation from college, being able to walk to work and anywhere else I needed to go in my narrow life was a good thing.

My apartment was all one room, mostly. Four, thin but tall arched windows in the front facing Main Street. All the walls were exposed red brick. The floors were beaten up wood planks that, before she rented it to me, Holly had refinished so, although they were distressed, they were also gleaming and gorgeous. I’d thrown a bunch of mismatched, multi-colored, multi-shaped but pretty and bright rugs here and there to warm up the room

There was a kitchen at the back delineated from the room by a high counter with stools in front of it. It was big because the space was big. It had lots of ivory painted cabinets with nicks and scratches in that looked cool rather than beaten up and some of the cabinets were glass fronted so you could see my vivid collection of stoneware displayed. It also had a huge island in the middle and lots of counter space. The kitchen was awesome.

Next to the kitchen was a small utility room. It was tucked in the nook created by the wood paneled room that bit into the space that was a big bathroom.

The bathroom had a pedestal sink and a deep, fabulous claw footed tub that was the dreamland of tubs for people (like me) who liked to take baths.

By the windows at the front was my bright pink, slouchy, pillow backed couch and three comfy armchairs (one royal blue, one aubergine and one bright teal), all with ottomans surrounding a variety of pretty but random mismatching tables. I read a lot so I needed a lot of different choices of where to read. With my seating area, I had it.

In the middle of the space sitting on a large, thick area rug in a rich forest green was my queen-size bed. It had scrolled, ivory painted iron head and foot stands and wide but not deep, ivory painted but distressed nightstands on each side. One nightstand had a big lamp with a fluted glass base. The other had a lamp on it that was round, matte pink ceramic that looked like punched out eyelet, the bulb inside it so the lamp threw pretty patterns on the wall when lit (like now). The bed had bunches of pillows of all shapes and sizes, soft sheets I indulged in because they cost a fortune but felt great and a down comforter covered in a mint green cover with purple, pink and blue flowers on it.

The wall to the side of the bed close to the seating area was filled with shelves that had my extensive collection of books, my stereo, CDs, DVDs, some framed photos and geek items like a small-scale model of the Serenity ship from Firefly and a frame with a mounted chakram, Xena, Warrior Princess’s awesome weapon.

The wall to the other side had a huge, antique wardrobe that my Dad had to dismantle and put together to get it in there.

The wall opposite the shelves by the living area held my big, awesome shabby chic desk, computer and its paraphernalia. On the other side, between the front door and bathroom, was antique, distressed dresser. It had on top another fabulous lamp with a delicate, etched crystal vase I’d bought for a song because it didn’t work but I bought it because I knew my Dad could fix it. And he did.

Nothing matched, not even the stools around the kitchen counter. I had random, quirky bits and bobs here and there, decorating surfaces and walls. If I had to give the look a name, I’d call it “Distressed Mountain Girlie Kickass Chic”.

And I loved it.

Which was good, I thought as I wandered to my couch, snatched up my iPod and threw myself down on it on my back, since I spent so much fraking time in it.

I stared up at the ceiling, smelling my candle burning (apple) and snatching up one of the many packs of gum around my house, unwrapping a piece and popping it into my mouth.

Bubblemint. I loved the taste, rejoiced when I discovered it, was addicted to it and chewed it all the time, even after midnight on a Thursday while I lay on my couch wondering what on earth I was going to do with the rest of my life.

It was likely that tomorrow Lexie, Laurie, Krystal, or a mixture of them or all of them would be in the library. Not to mention they could bring the rare but plausible additions of their other friends, Wendy, Maggie, Stella, Betty, Sunny, Avril, Amber, Jazz, Kayeleen, or God forbid, the crazy Twyla who scared me more than Krystal.

I’d been blowing them off now for a week, telling them I was busy with library stuff. Seeing as we were having increasingly frightening but strangely vague funding issues, this, thankfully, was not a lie. But it also meant their occasional visits became a lot more frequent and one, the other or several of them, together and separate, had been in the last two days back to back.

Laurie and Krystal had told me that word was buzzing through town, which meant Bubba’s biker bar and Carnal Spa then reaching out to the moon, that I’d gone to the Station and talked to Chace.

Word was, from their sharing it with me, correct. That word stated that I had gone in to make a report. Chace and I had been behind closed doors for ten minutes. Chace had stalked out, looking pissed and immediately went to his SUV. Then I had wandered out moments later looking like I’d been slapped and quickly exited the premises without looking back.

At this news, I’d lied and told them it wasn’t true at all. I told them about the boy I’d seen (and killed two birds with one stone by asking them to look out for him and call me if they saw him) and that was why I went there. Nothing had happened. Chace was looking into it and in the meantime I’d given Frank Dolinski a book and an artist had sketched a (very good) picture of the boy. All this done while Chace was absent from the Station.

They didn’t buy it and although I had to admit I liked that they came around, I knew the pressure would increase and I wasn’t looking forward to that.

But being the librarian in a small town wasn’t nine hours a day, Tuesday through Saturday of fun and laughter. Them coming broke up the day. They were funny. They were open, real and, unlike me, normal. And they liked me which felt nice. It wasn’t like I didn’t have any friends. But all my friends from high school had either moved away or were in committed relationships so I didn’t have much in common with them. We spent time together, just not very much. My other friends were accessed through a computer keyboard.

So it felt nice to feel like a part of their group.

I just didn’t want to share about what happened with Chace.

Maybe I would, one day, when it didn’t hurt so much to think about it. Maybe I’d invite them over for dinner and margaritas and we’d get hammered and I’d spill the beans.

That sounded like a good idea. An open, real, normal thing for a girl who had a life to do. Have her girls over, dinner, drinks, drunkenness and confessing your most mortifying, painful life moments so they could tell you all men are losers and make you another drink.

I popped my earphones in and since I should be winding down rather than gearing up, which was where my thoughts were taking me, I put on a one of my unwind playlists.

This worked until it came up in the queue.

Ella Mae Bowen’s rendition of “Holding Out for a Hero”.

Lying there like I did all the time, alone, late at night, in my kickass but lonesome apartment, her beautiful voice filled with longing, singing words I’d never really listened to, hit me like a bullet tearing clean through my flesh leaving a raw ache in its wake.

I didn’t even try to control the tears that filled my eyes. I didn’t feel the sting of them in my nose. I just let them fall as the ceiling above me went watery and the longing in Ella Mae’s voice, the beautiful yearning of the words ripped me to shreds.

I’d seen Chace Keaton at sixteen years old, incidentally, Ella Mae’s age when she recorded that song, and I convinced myself I found my hero and he was always there, just out of reach.

But he wasn’t just out of reach and if I kept hoping, kept reaching, eventually his fingers would close warm, strong and firm around mine.

He was just plain out of reach.

He lived in the same town but he was miles and miles and miles away.

When Ella Mae was done, I played her again.

And again.

Then again.

Then, tears in my eyes, I got up, blew out the candle and walked to the distressed, whimsical set of hooks Dad had mounted by my door. I grabbed my long, pastel green scarf and wrapped it around and around my neck, this pressing the chords of the earphones to the skin under it.

I replayed it as I grabbed my pine green wool pea coat, tugged it on, maneuvered the iPod around while I buttoned it up, nabbed my mittens that matched the scarf and pulled them on. Then I grabbed my keys.

I listened to it playing as I pulled open the door and walked out, locked the door, shoved the keys into my pocket and took off down the stairs that led to the back alley and my Cherokee.

I replayed it as I rounded the side alley and walked swiftly, shoulders scrunched, arms held up in front of me, hands clasped, through the fierce, arid cold that dried the tears on my face.

I replayed it when I turned off Main Street and walked through the quiet, dark streets to the elementary school. I listened to the words yet again as I slipped through the opening in the chain link fence and headed to the playground.

I was listening to it when I stopped at the swing set, lifted my mittened hand and rested it on one of the high swing set poles and dropped my head, pressing my forehead against my mitten. Listening and aching and knowing that there was nothing worse in the whole, wide world than the death of hope.

And I was listening to it when a hand wrapped firm and strong around my bicep but I also heard my low, surprised cry ringing in my head if not in my ears when I felt the touch and that hand didn’t hesitate to whip me around.

Then I stared up at Chace Keaton’s angry face.

What the frak?

I blinked up at him and I did this twice before I realized his mouth was moving.

He was talking to me.

“What?” I asked, automatically talking very loudly over music he couldn’t hear.

His head jerked, his eyes narrowed even as they moved all around the vicinity of my head. I felt his hand leave my arm then suddenly Ella Mae was gone because he’d lifted both his hands and pulled out my ear buds.

Then I heard him growl, “Jesus, it’s worse.”

I wasn’t following. I hadn’t gone from denying my lonesomeness to understanding it to the core of my being, letting go a dream, feeling that ache throb through me, beating at me in a way I knew I’d feel it forever to standing in the cold in the elementary school playground staring at an angry Chace Keaton.

“What’s worse?” I whispered.

“You, takin’ a walk alone in the dark of night in a town full of bikers who like to get drunk, rowdy and laid and doin’ it with your ear phones in and music so loud you couldn’t hear someone approach even if he was wearin’ a fuckin’ cowbell.”

He was right, of course. I could actually hear Ella Mae now and the ear buds weren’t even in my ears.

Quickly, with my thumb, I paused my iPod but I replied to Chace, “Bikers are friendly.”

“No, Faye, they’re not.”

“But, I’ve been living here my whole life and so have a bunch of bikers. They are.”

“Yeah, the ones who live here don’t shit where they live. The ones who come here from other places don’t give a fuck where they shit. ‘Course, this would mean that something happened to you, the local bikers would have to throw down, seeing as someone harmed one of their own so wherever they tracked the others to, all hell would break loose. After you created that nightmare, in the meantime, you wouldn’t be doing too fuckin’ good.”

“You curse a lot,” I whispered and his head jerked again just as his eyes narrowed again.

“What?” he clipped.

“Nothing,” I muttered and bit my lip.

His eyes dropped to my lips then sliced back up to mine.

Suddenly my hand was caught in a strong, firm grip and tugged while he stated, “I’m walking you home.”

Since his hand was tugging mine and his body was tall, lean and muscular and it was moving, I had no choice but to follow it.

But I did protest as my feet moved double time to keep up with his long strides, “That’s okay. Really. It isn’t far and I won’t listen to music.”

He stopped abruptly, jerking my hand which made me stop abruptly and he bent his neck so his handsome face was an inch from mine.

His eyes were angry.

No, furious.

I stopped breathing.

“I’m… walking… you… home,” he said low, slow, each word deliberate.

I did the only thing I could do. I nodded.

His face started to move back then his eyes narrowed again and, to the further detriment of my ability to breathe, it got even closer. His eyes moved over my features then they came back to mine.

“You been cryin’?” he asked, his voice low still but now soft.

I stared up at him and it hit me that he’d pulled us closer to the sidewalk where there were streetlamps so he could see me.

“No.”

There it was again!

Another lie!

Chace called me on it and he did it again in that low, soft voice that made his normally deep attractive voice deeper and far, far more attractive.

“Honey, I got eyes.”

I really liked it when he called me honey. He’d done it twice now and both times felt like gifts.

Of course, he probably called everyone honey if they were female. So it wasn’t a gift. It was throwaway. Meaningless.

I pulled in breath and straightened my shoulders.

“Okay then, Chace. I have been crying. But the fact I have and the reasons why I was are none of your business. So if you’re fired up to do your duty as an officer of the law and make sure I’m safe then walk me home. But, if you wouldn’t mind, I’ll pass on the interrogation.”

“There’s the backbone,” he muttered.

“What?” I snapped.

“Nothin’.” He was still muttering as he moved away, yanked on my hand and we started walking again.

I wanted to ask what he was doing roaming the streets in the middle of the night but I didn’t. I wanted to ask where his SUV was since I scanned for it as we walked through town in the cold and didn’t see it but I didn’t do that either. I wanted to ask him to let go of my hand but I didn’t do that either.

I just walked at his side with my hand held firm in his big, warm one and I promised myself I wouldn’t do anything stupid and dramatic. Like let my emotions and a beautiful, soul-wrenching song send me out into the night on an ill-advised walk. Which did nothing to clear my head seeing as I listened to the song that was wrenching my soul repeatedly while I did it.

In fact, I was deciding (dramatically, of course) from then on in, as we rounded the side alley to get to the back alley that led to my apartment, that I was listening to nothing but upbeat music for the rest of forever. I was so intent on deciding this that it didn’t occur to me that I wasn’t leading Chace to the alley where I lived.

He was leading me.

We’d turned into the back alley and got four steps in when we heard a crash.

Chace’s arm instantly jerked mine, pulling me back. He stepped forward and in front of me as he let go of my hand and his went to the gun at his hip.

But I saw, peering around him, a head pop up from the other side of the dumpster that was behind the Italian restaurant.

I knew that head.

“Holy frak!” I shouted. “That’s him!”

The boy from the library took off at my voice and I didn’t hesitate to take off after him.

“Jesus, Faye!” Chace roared from behind me but I kept right on going, arms pumping, feet sprinting.

I heard the beat of Chace’s boots then I saw him pass me and keep after the kid who darted around the corner of the side street. I watched Chace make the turn after him then I turned after them and saw Chace make another turn down Main Street.

I followed and saw Chace, well, chasing the kid down Main Street.

“You’re not in trouble!” I yelled. “We just want to help! It’s okay!” I kept yelling as the kid made a quick dash up a side street and disappeared, Chace still after him thus, seconds later, turning and disappearing too.

I made the dash as well and saw them racing up the side street.

Two blocks up, Chace was nearly on him when the kid put his hands to a fence, catapulted himself over and dashed through someone’s yard.

Chace didn’t delay in following him and disappearing into the yard.

Once I made it there, it took me four tries to get over that fence and I eventually had to heft my ass on it and swing my legs over. I had a feeling I tore the seat of my jeans when I did but I dropped to the other side and took off after them.

I lost them in the dark backyard, stopped and tried to listen over my labored breathing, hoping I’d hear a noise that told me which direction they’d gone.

I heard nothing.

I stayed there a long time.

I still heard nothing.

Frak!

It hit me I was in someone’s backyard after midnight and I shouldn’t be. It also hit me that Chace was chasing after some kid and not only had I lost him but he’d lost me. Therefore it hit me I had no idea what to do.

I gave it some time just in case Chace came back, hopefully with the kid so we could get him warm, fed (he was dumpster diving!) and talk to him but Chace didn’t come back.

So I quickly retraced our steps (avoiding the fence and belatedly noticing it opened at the drive and taking that route which I should have taken earlier). I went back jogging just in case Chace had the same thought as me and was headed the same way. I also did it scanning, hoping I’d catch sight of one, the other or better yet, both.

I didn’t.

What I did was go to the bottom of the stairs that led up to my apartment in the back alley, paced and waited.

I did this for about ten minutes. I had my iPod and my earphones detangled from my clothing and shoved in the back pocket of my jeans by the time I saw Chace round the corner of the side alley and prowl toward me.

Believe it or not, men could prowl. I knew this by the way he was doing it.

He was five feet away when he ordered low, angry and confusingly, “Ass up the stairs.”

“What?” I asked.

“Get your ass up the stairs, open your door, in your apartment.”

That seemed like a good idea since it would be warm up there so I turned, raced up the stairs, dug out my keys, yanked off my mittens and opened the door.

I went in and Chace followed me.

He also slammed my door.

I tossed my mittens across the room to a chair, turned to him and my first thought when I took him in fully was, Uh-oh.

“You chased him again,” he remarked quietly.

“I, uh… didn’t think.”

“Kid’s terrified outta his mind and not only did you chase him, you shouted at him.”

I pressed my lips together.

“In the dark,” Chace went on.

I shrugged my shoulders up and kept them there.

“In an alley,” Chace continued.

I made no move or noise.

“In the cold,” Chace kept going.

I dropped my shoulders and unpressed my lips but slid the bottom one slightly to the side so I could bite the end.

“After midnight,” Chace (hopefully) finished.

“Uh…” I mumbled but had no idea what to say. All that was true and, looking back, seemed more than slightly ridiculous.

“Kid like that knows this town like the back of his hand. Kid like that, fear that huge, he’ll fight and scratch and die before anyone he doesn’t know lays a hand on him. Kid like that needs care and communication. He needs to feel safe. He does not need anyone chasing him and shouting at him. He won’t hear your words, just your tone. And he’ll know what chasing means and he’ll do everything in his power not to get caught.”

“So that’s why you didn’t, uh… catch him?” I asked stupidly.

“That’s why,” he answered shortly then elaborated. “He hit the dark of that backyard, he was vapor.”

“Oh,” I whispered thinking, maybe, he was actually still in that backyard and hiding.

“Get that outta your head,” Chace broke into my thoughts. “I went back and looked. He’s gone.”

“Oh,” I repeated on a whisper, now thinking it was weird Chace Keaton could read my thoughts.

“Jesus, Faye, you want me to help this kid, you gotta help me help this kid. And makin’ him more scared is not the way to go about doin’ that.”

“Okay,” I agreed quietly then hesitantly asked, “So, um… what is the way to go about doing that?”

“I don’t know. Seein’ him, that is not a kid who’s escaped an abusive home. Or it’s not the only shit in his life. He’s terrified, of what, I have no clue. But whatever it is, it’s huge or at least it is in his head. We have to find some way to establish trust so he’ll let us approach or he’ll come forward.”

“Food,” I said instantly and his head jerked.

“What?”

“Food. I’ll put out food. And… and… a coat!” I cried. “He needs a coat. I’ll go buy him one. I’ll put it out by the dumpster.”

“Honey, he’s not goin’ back to that dumpster. Not again. Not ever.”

“Oh,” I whispered as my mind raced and I came up with another idea. “At the library. By the return bin. He returns his books. He hasn’t been back in a week because, well, I chased him last time and he hasn’t returned any books either. But he will. He always does. I’ll put food and a coat out by the bin. And… and… more books. I’ll find ones like he likes to take and I’ll put them out there. With a note telling him he can find what he needs there and if he needs anything he’s not finding, to leave a return note and it’ll be left for him.”

I watched Chace jerk up his chin before he said, “That’s a good idea.”

I grinned at him and said, “Thanks.”

His eyes dropped to my mouth, it seemed strangely that his body went still then his eyes came back to mine and he asked instantly, “Why were you crying?”

I felt my grin die and I took a step back, murmuring, “Chace –”

“Why were you crying?” he repeated.

I took another step back saying, “I don’t think –”

My heart started to beat harder when he took a step toward me and he asked again, “Why were you crying, Faye?”

I started actively retreating as Chace started actively advancing and I said, “I think I told you that’s none of your business.”

“Faye, why were you crying?”

I hit the foot stand of my bed and was forced to stop.

Chace didn’t stop until he was toe to toe with me, neck bent, eyes locked to mine.

“I’ll ask one more time, honey,” he said gently. “Why were you crying?”

I felt it prudent, considering his proximity, to answer.

So I did.

“I was listening to a song that made me cry.”

His brows went up. “A song that made you cry, leave your house in the dead of night and walk to the elementary school playground?”

To this, I offered lamely, “It’s a good song.”

His eyes moved over my face as his lips whispered, “It’s a good song.”

I held my breath unsure what was happening but I was sure what was happening to my heartbeat. It was escalating. And my skin, it was tingling. And my blood, it was firing.

I stopped holding my breath and pulled in a needed one.

Then I straightened my shoulders and said quietly, “I’m home safe now, Chace. You can go.”

His eyes came back to mine and he didn’t go.

Instead, he asked, “What song was it?”

No way in heck I was sharing that.

“Dobie Gray’s, ‘Drift Away’.”

There it was again. Another fraking lie!

His eyes lit and his mouth twitched before he asked, “The song that moved you to tears and drove you into the cold night was a song about a man who gets through by listening to rock ‘n’ roll?”

I was realizing I really needed to pay more attention to lyrics when I answered with another lie, “Yes.” Then to add validity to something that was nowhere near valid, I added, “My favorite part is when he sings while people clap.”

And right then, in my apartment, I watched Chace Keaton throw back his handsome head and burst out laughing.

Seeing it, hearing the deep richness of it, my hands went behind me and curled into the iron of my foot stand so they could assist my legs in keeping me standing.

I was prepared to ask him to leave when he stopped laughing (not that I wanted him to stop laughing, ever) but he got there before me by tipping his eyes back to mine and ordering through his laughter, “Put it on.”

I blinked and my chest seized.

Therefore I had to force out my, “What?”

His eyes scanned my apartment, spied my stereo then came back to me.

He tilted his head to my stereo and repeated, “Put it on.”

“Put what on?” I asked stupidly.

“‘Drift Away’.”

Oh God!

“Um… I’m kind of tired,” I informed him.

“Faye, honey, you just ran through a very cold night chasing an abused, terrified kid. You’re not tired.”

There it was, him reading me again.

“Um…”

“But I bet that song will help you relax and unwind.”

He was right. It would. It was on my unwind playlist for that very purpose.

“Uh…”

“Put it on.”

“Chace, I don’t –”

“You don’t, I find your iPod and I’ll do it.”

That got me moving for two reasons. One, this would require a body search and my iPod was at my bottom. I didn’t want Chace Keaton’s hands anywhere near my bottom. Second, the song it was set at was “Holding Out for a Hero” which meant if he had my iPod, he’d catch me out in the lie and know, possibly, what really was making me cry.

So I slid out from in front of him, unbuttoned my coat, shrugged it off and threw it on my armchair. Then I unwound my scarf and did the same with that. Finally, I dug into my back pocket, pulled out my iPod and set up the song.

The strains of the guitar hit the space as I turned back to see Chace had taken off his coat, thrown it on my bed and he was leaning a hip against the foot stand.

He looked good standing anywhere.

But he never looked better than standing right there.

Really, seriously, how was this happening?

“Forgot how much I like this song,” he said through the music.

“Told you it was good,” I muttered.

At my words, he suddenly pushed away from the bed and came at me.

I had to make a split second decision. Run from the apartment (and I’d just taken off my coat), race to the bathroom and lock myself in, retreat again even though I had nowhere to go or hold my ground.

I took longer than the split second to make my decision and thus ended up doing the last and therefore was an available target when he reached down and grabbed my hand.

He yanked it firm but gentle and I flew toward him.

His other arm slid around me and suddenly I found myself, after midnight, in my apartment, dancing with Chace Keaton.

It wasn’t just a close to each other, hips swaying dance. He swung me out, twirled me around, threw me wide and wound me back in. He was sure in his moves, strong, confident and my body just moved how he wanted me to move. It didn’t feel stilted, I wasn’t nervous.

I just moved where he guided me like we’d danced together countless times. It felt natural. It felt right. It felt great.

So great, the song was so awesome, I got into it and started grinning, aiming this at him whenever my eyes caught his which were always on me.

The slow bits, he held me close and swayed. The faster bits, he moved me around and when the clapping came, he pulled me close, his neck bending, his lips finding my ear and he whispered, “You’re right, honey, this is definitely the best part.”

My hand was resting on the hard wall of his chest, my head tipped back, his came up and we locked eyes.

Then I whispered, “See?”

He smiled.

I drowned.

Then he twirled me out when the tempo shifted up but we finished close, hips swaying. His arm was around me, his hand in mine holding it to his chest. My other hand was resting lightly on his shoulder. His jaw was pressed to the side of my hair and my eyes trained to the strong column of his throat.

The song faded away, our hips stopped swaying, but he didn’t let me go.

I had no idea what was happening, how it came about but that didn’t mean I didn’t close my eyes and commit every nuance of that moment to memory.

Then he said quietly in my ear, “For a long time, a long fuckin’ time, Faye, nearly six years, I thought it was certain I’d never have anything as beautiful as the last three minutes. Thank you, honey, for giving that to me.”

Once he’d dropped this confusing, exquisite bombshell, he moved away, went to his coat on his bed, tagged it, sauntered to my door and walked out of it, closing it behind him.

Not looking back.