I walk out the door and down the stairs, listening to see if my father decides to follow me.
He doesn't.
Good for him. Best decision he's made all week.
Trinidad Community Hospital is relatively new and—like everything else in this town—isn't near as large as it should to accommodate the recent population boom. In this case, that turns out to be a particularly good thing. The woman in charge of the human resources department—Loretta Condie—and I went to high school together. It takes me less than five minutes to get the name and address of the man who tried to kill my brother last night. Totally illegal, sure, but Trinidad has that small town feel and those of us that grew up here stick together.
Loretta also tells me that the man, a Mr. Clint Woodrow, called in sick today. How surprising. I'd be shocked if he was still in town. I know if my assassination attempt on the mayor's son went south, I'd be heading south of the border.
I sit down with a cup of coffee at the Beachcomber Café, relieved that—at least for the moment—I'm finally alone. No Sully, no Dad, no FBI agents … no Royal McBride.
With a groan, I lean my elbow on the metal bistro table and put my head in my hand.
Royal McBride. The source of so much trouble in my life. And the source of so much pleasure.
A quick glance at my phone says it's not quite nine in the morning. I send a quick text to Royal, telling him to check in with me before the shoot, and then set it aside. This time right here, this is just for me, my coffee, and my blueberry scone. Oh, and that guy, Sketch, the young kid with the dark hair and yellow eyes.
I ignore him, letting my eyes travel down the quiet street toward the ocean. The Trinidad Head Lighthouse is directly in front of me, a red and white splotch against the gray-blue of the early morning sky. Far below, down a winding trail and dozens of old wooden steps, is the beach. As usual, it's a little chilly for a beach day, but at least I can hear the waves from here. And from Royal's place.
I purse my lips.
I am so not moving in with the guy. I mean, who does that? Who moves in with an outlaw two weeks into their … well, two weeks after meeting him for the first time?
It's so not a logical thing to do. So not a Lyric Lenore Rentz sort of a thing to do.
I yank a pen from my purse and pull my coffee stained napkin out from under my cup.
On one side, I write Royal in gentle, flowing script. On the other, State Senate. Now, I've never really let myself dream beyond that, like maybe to a US Senate seat, but the fantasy's always been there. As I look at the two things on my list, I feel sick to my stomach. The wild, whimsical, romantic side of me wants to ride off into the sunset on the back of Royal's back. The other, more practical side says that love doesn't always last, that if I join his club, I can't be anything more than I already am. This is it. At best, I keep working for my father. At worst, I end up getting fired and working at the Alpha Wolves Compound with the other 'old ladies'.
I set the pen down and put my face in my hands.
Fuck.
There's my word again, coming back to haunt me in its single syllable of glory.
“Maybe I'm getting ahead of myself,” I say aloud as I crumple the napkin in my fist and shove it back in my purse. If Sketch notices that I'm talking to myself from his position two tables down, he's polite enough to pretend not to. I watch as he sips a small, black cup of coffee that I somehow missed seeing him buy. I'm too up in my head. That's the problem.
Royal says we can't take this slow, but I think at this point that's all I can really do. Anyway, doesn't the club have more to worry about than little old me? FBI agents and drug cartels could fill anybody's to-do list pretty quick.
I suck in a deep breath as the wind lifts off the ocean with a salty sting and pokes at my bare arms, encouraging me to slip on the jacket I draped over the back of my chair. It's as I'm turning to put my right arm in that I notice Glinda—the blonde with the property patch—walking towards me at a brisk pace.
“Jesus Christ,” I mumble, pretending not to notice her as I whip back around and use my remaining napkin to wrap up my scone, shoving it in my purse so I can get the hell out of here if she decides to stop by my table. I'll just say I was on my way out.
“Well, if it isn't the deputy mayor,” Glinda says in her warm, buttery little southern belle voice. I force myself to smile as she takes the seat opposite me without even asking. I should've gotten my coffee to go, I think as I glare at the chipped white mug in front of me.
“Glinda,” I say as cheerfully as I can, watching her watch me. I don't miss the way her blue eyes trace the nearly invisible lines on my cheeks. “What a coincidence that we'd run into each other here.”