My Killer Vacation — Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

Myles

climb off my bike and pop an antacid.I Well isn’t Cape Cod just cheerful as hell on this sunny Thursday afternoon?

Little signs hanging from every door proclaiming that life is a beach. Beach life. Life is better at the beach. Seas the day. How anyone can be passionate about a place with so much fucking sand is beyond me. I already want to get back on the road. Unfortunately, I’ve turned my back on a lot of things, but I couldn’t seem to do it with my friend, Paul. Not while he’s deployed and unable to fix this mess for his girlfriend in person. Paul once refused to rat on me when I shattered a stained-glass church window with a line drive.

I’m here because I owe him one and we grew up together in Boston—but then I’m gone.

Until then, my job is to find Oscar Stanley’s “real killer.”

This happens a lot in my line of work of bounty hunting.

The family is in denial. Their son violated his parole, but he’s trying to turn his life around. Their daughter is on the lam, but only because she’s innocent of that drug charge and no one believes her. I’ve heard it all before and it goes in one ear and out the other. My job is to bring bad people to law enforcement’s door and walk away whistling with a check, without having to deal with any of the red tape or paperwork.

This case is slightly different in that there is no bounty to collect. There is no criminal at large. I don’t have a name or a face or a prison record at my disposal. All I’ve got is a big question mark and a favor to return. However, after Paul gave me the rundown on Oscar Stanley and how his peeping Tom ways got the snot beat out of him prior to the murder, I’m inclined to agree with the local PD on this one.

The father of that girl came back to finish the job. It should take me one or two days to prove that beyond a shadow of a doubt and get back on the highway, my slate wiped clean of any favors or responsibilities to anyone.

On my way here—to Coriander Lane—I stopped at Lisa Stanley’s house and picked up the set of keys I’m holding.

Technically, this is a crime scene and there is yellow caution tape across the entrance, but obeying rules isn’t really my strong suit. Never has been. That’s why I was a shit detective and an even worse husband. Might have been faithful, but loyalty only goes so far when a man leaves out the cherishing part of his vows.

Laughter kicks up down at the beach, voices intermingled with the sounds of Tom Petty. A bumble bee

kite dips and whirls in the sky. The smell of hot dogs and burgers carries in thick on the breeze. This is where people come on vacation with their families. To be happy.

I can’t wait to get the fuck out of here.

I toss up the keys and catch them in my hand, continuing across the street to the house where the murder supposedly occurred. I haven’t seen crime scene photos, but I have the victim’s description and it’s unlikely that a man of Oscar’s stature would have been transported by the perpetrator post-mortem. Furthermore, why would the murderer make iteasier for the body to be found? No, this was a crime of passion. Anger. Cut and dried.

Get this over with.

I’m halfway across the street when I sense eyes on my back.

Slowly, I peer back over my shoulder and find a young woman, brownish-blonde hair, maybe in her mid-twenties, watering a flowerpot on the front porch of a house. She’s completely missing the pot, though. Water is pouring from the spout straight down onto the floorboards, splashing up onto her bare calves. And she doesn’t seem to notice at all.

“Can I help you?” I bark in a hard tone.

She drops the can with a loud clatter, spins on a toe and runs head on into the front door, bouncing right off the damn thing. Even from a hundred yards away, I can see the canaries spinning around her head.That’s what you get for being nosy.

I dig another antacid out of my jeans pocket, pop it and continue on my oh-so-merry way across the street, ripping the caution tape off the front door and letting it flutter to

the ground. I’m halfway over the threshold when I hear footsteps approaching from behind. Nimble, girly ones. In the reflection of the storm door, the nosy neighbor approaches. And boom, I’m already annoyed. “Listen, you want to call the cops?” Scowling, I turn around partially to face her. “Be my…”

It’s extremely weird, the way I just sort of forget what I’m saying.

This has never happened to me before. Every word out of my mouth has a purpose and whoever I’m talking to better damn well listen. I just…don’t really know why I was planning on being so mean to her is all. Didn’t she just run into a door? That had to hurt. Plus there are water splatters all over her legs and she is… Facts are facts. She’s cute as a button.

I don’t look twice at cute women.Anything cute, really.

That would be like a tractor admiring a dandelion. Looking might seem like a fine idea, but tractors are built to mow down dandelions. It’s what they do. So there isn’t very much use in me noticing the way freckles just kind of… scatter all the way from her nose down her neck. To her tits. Which are tied up in a bikini top. A pink one. The color alone makes me feel guilty for looking, but hell, they’d fit right into my hands. A lot of her would. Those hips. Her knees. The sides of her beautiful face.

Christ. The top of her head barely reaches my chin.

What the hell is the matter with me?

I clear my throat. Hard. “As I was saying, you want to call the cops, half pint? Be my guest. They know I’m here.”

“Half pint?” she gasps. Sputters. Pushes a big hunk of hair behind her ear so I’m impacted by the full force of her eyes. Green ones. Fuck. “I’ll have you know,” she continues, “that I’m the tallest one at my job.”

“You either work alone or you’re a kindergarten teacher.”

A split-second’s hesitation. Subtle shift from right to left.

“Wrong.”

I wink at her and she bristles. “I’m never wrong.”

Is that a flush creeping up her neck? God, she has to be eight or nine years younger than me. Mid-twenties to my mid-thirties. So I’m definitely not noticing the spot where her bikini strap digs into her shoulder, ever so slightly. Just this side of too tight. I’m definitely not thinking of tucking my finger beneath it and dragging the little strip of material down her arm. Unwrapping her like a birthday present.

Jesus, I need to get laid. That fact wasn’t obvious until right now, when I’m lusting after this stranger in the heart of Middle Class Vacationville wondering what her nipples would look like in the sunshine, all licked up in my spit.

She’s probably married. Single girls in their twenties don’t vacation in Cape Cod. Provincetown, maybe. But not this family-oriented section of Falmouth. So why isn’t she

wearing a ring?

She notices me looking for one.

Dammit.

In response, her posture changes. Her hands drop to her sides and she shifts left to right, unconsciously tossing her hair back over her shoulder. Kind of like she’s only now,

this very second, becoming aware that I’m a man and she’s approached me in a bikini and ridiculous cut-off jean shorts that cover only slightly more than a pair of panties. And that I’m interested enough to wonder if she’s already got a man waiting for her in that saccharine sweet house with heart shapes cut into the shutters. She’s figuring all of that out and hiding none of it on her spectacular face.

Great. We’ve gone from beautiful to spectacular.

She’s definitely married, you idiot.

Do your job and get gone.

“Go water your flowers. I’m busy.”

“I know. I was just…” Her hands flutter around until she folds them at her waist. “Well, I was just wondering if you had any theories yet.”

“I just got here.” I tip my chin at the bike. “You saw me arrive, right?”

“On your death trap. Yes. But I assume you’ve gotten some kind of advance…dossier. Or case file. Right?”

I give her a narrow-eyed stare, hoping she’ll cower and slink away like everyone else who is unlucky enough to be

on the receiving end of this look.

“Fine. Be coy about it, Mr.…”

“Don’t worry about my name.”

That throws her off for a second, almost like she’s disappointed. But finally, she shrugs. “I just thought you might like to speak with me.” With a prim little once-over, she turns and heads back across the street. “Since I’m the

one who found the body and all.”

“Come back here.”

“I don’t think I will.”

“Half pint.”

“I have a name.”

“Come back here and tell it to me, then.”

What in God’s name is wrong with me? Am I really following this young woman, who isdefinitely married, probably to someone named Carter or Preston, across the street? I should be in the murder house taking pictures, checking for blood spatter or missed evidence. I should not be suddenly desperate to know this woman’s name. But hell if I can stop following in her wake when her ass moves like an assought to move.Damn.

She spins on a dime and I almost mow her down, just like a tractor always does with a dandelion. We end up toe to toe, only I’m a good ten inches taller, so her face is tipped up to the sky and blanketed by sunshine. Something flips in my chest. Something I really don’t like.

“You found the body,” I say, trying my best to stick to the job. That’s what this is.

Get in and get out. No entanglements. That’s what I do.

It’s what I like.

Her gaze drops to my mouth for a split second, but it’s enough to make my briefs feel like an XL instead of an XXL.

“Uh-huh.”

Why does my skin turn clammy thinking of her around a dead man? A recently murdered one? She shouldn’t have to see something like that. Not this woman who waters flowers and runs into doors. “Tell me you got out of the house immediately. In case the murderer was still on the property.”

“Oh.” She scrunches up her nose. “No. We…did not.”

We. There it is. I grunt, because It’s not a good idea to speak with my heartburn acting up. That’s what’s wrong with me. That’s why everything south of my neck is off-

kilter. “You and your husband.”

“Me and my brother.”

Where did my heartburn go? It must be coming in waves. “You’re here with your brother,” I confirm, wincing over the thread of relief in my tone.

She nods, eyes serious. “Who discovered the body is very important information. It probably should have been in the dossier.”

Now I have the damnedest urge to smile. Obviously I need my head examined. “We don’t call it a dossier, half pint.”

Curious head tilt. “What do you call it?”

“Notes. Boring old notes. And that’s what this case is going to be. Boring, fast, open and shut. Dude was spying on a bunch of girls and got caught. Dad lost his temper.

Physical altercations end in death a lot more often than you’d think. Either someone loses the fight and wants payback. Or one of them can’t let it go. That’s what happened here.”

“But you were hired by Lisa Stanley? Oscar’s sister?”

“Technically, yes, though I’m doing her boyfriend a favor.”

“Did youspeak to her? Didn’t she tell you about the issues with the peephole theory?”

My head falls back on a gusty sigh. “You’re one of those amateur sleuths aren’t you? You’ve watched a couple of

sensationalized documentaries on Netflix and now you think you’re an honorary member of law enforcement.”

“Podcasts are more my thing, actually—”

I send a groan toward the clouds.

“—but that’s not relevant. I’vealways liked to leave things neat and tidy. For instance, there is a loose thread on your shirt and I am dying to trim it off.” She wiggles her fingers at it and I come very close to stepping forward to give her access to the thread, just to get her touching me.

“There is no reason for two peepholes if filming the guests was the goal. Only one would be necessary. Someone had to have spied with their two eyes at one time. And Oscar Stanley could never have fit into that crawl space.”

“Maybe he drilled the holes first, then realized he’d miscalculated his ability to fit.” Chewing on her lip, she says nothing. “There isn’t always a rhyme or reason to a person’s behavior. And a lot of time, people just make mistakes. Sort of like me taking this job.” I make a shooing motion with my hand. Seriously, I need her to go back to her cookie-cutter vacation house across the street because she’s fucking with my peace of mind. I’m starting to notice things about her. A little mole beneath her navel. The way she sucks in a breath before she starts speaking. Her apple orchard scent. “Run on home. I’ve got this covered. Like I said, I’m going to wrap this up quickly.”

After a moment, she nods and begins to back away.

And it’s like she’s pulling my stomach along with her.

The odd sense of loss doesn’t make any sense.Ignore it.

“Okay,” she murmurs, adjusting her bikini strap. “Well, when you need the guest book, I have it in my luggage.”

“Uh-huh,” I say. I’m half turned when I realize what she said. “Wait a second. You took the guest book from this house?”

She keeps walking, that sexy butt ticking side to side.

“Let me know if you need it.”

“You can’t just take evidence from a crime scene.”

“What was that?” She cups a hand around her ear.

“Sorry, I can’t hear you over the ripping of caution tape.”

“Don’t be a smartass,” I growl. “I’m a professional.”

Stopping at the bottom of her porch stairs, she cocks a hip. “Neither one of us is qualified to collect evidence because we’re not police officers. Lisa said that you’re a bounty hunter, correct? And I’m a second grade teacher.”

A second grade teacher.

I was mostly right. That’s why she’s the tallest at her job.

She must know what I’m thinking, because she gives me

a grudging smile.

Before I can stop myself, I smile back.

I smile back.

It drops faster than a bowling ball. “Give me the guest book, half pint.”

She’s jogging up the stairs now, like she doesn’t have a care in the world. “Only if you keep me informed of any developments,” she calls over her shoulder.

Time to face facts. I am a big, nasty motherfucker and this freckle-faced teacher couldn’t be less scared of me if she tried. “Not a chance in hell,” I shout back.

She gives me a pinky wave and shuts the door.

The absence of her is like a cloud passing over the sun and the fact that I notice her being gone so profoundly does not sit well. I’ve known her for ten minutes. She’s deliberately withholding something that might make my job easier. And most importantly, she’s not my type. She’s not even in thestratosphere of my type. Every once in a while, I take home an age-appropriate woman, usually a divorcee like me, who shares my disdain for romance, true love, happily ever after. Disney sells that shit to females from age zero and men have to cope with those expectations our entire lives. Nope. Not me. One look at that woman and it’s easy to see her expectations are on the fucking moon.

Bring her flowers? Not enough. I’d probably have to plant her a garden and waltz in it with her beneath the stars.

She’s the marrying type—I can guarantee that based on the fact that she’s vacationing in Cape Cod and not the Jersey Shore or Miami. She’s not a one-night roll in the hay and

that’s what I like.

I’m not interested in anything else.

Doing my best to put the green-eyed menace out of my mind, I kick open the door to the house and stomp inside.

The scent of decay lingers in the air, but not strong enough to require a face covering. Nice place. Not the kind of rental that would put a person on guard against peepholes or hidden cameras. First, I head to the laundry room, camera app at the ready. Blood spatter on the wall indicates the victim was shot in this location, as does the black pool of bodily substances on the ground. Perp would have likely entered through the back door of the house, so I go there next. Lock is intact, not broken, but that doesn’t

mean anything. It could have been unlocked at the time of the murder. No breaking and entering required.

I make my way upstairs to the master bedroom, and irritatingly, I find myself wondering if I’m looking at the bed where she planned to sleep. Damn thing would have swallowed her up. Now if I was sleeping in it with her… A pulse travels through my dick at the thought of it. Us in bed together. She’d have to ride me, though. I couldn’t just get on top and go for broke. Not with our size difference. I’m not gentle in bed and she’d…she’d need that. Tenderness. Wouldn’t she?

“She’s sure as shit not getting it from you,” I mutter, scrubbing at the back of my neck, unable to find the itch that’s plaguing me. I’m probably just unsettled because there is a piece of evidence I should have at my disposal and someone has stolen it. Right out from under the noses

of the cops, too.

Huh.

She might come across innocent, but she’s got a rebellious streak, doesn’t she?

Don’t think about that. Don’t think about what that streak might lead her to do.

Like hook up with a rough, unmannered bounty hunter while on vacation.

“Not my type,” I rasp, raising my camera to get a shot of

the peepholes— I stop. Tilt my chin and lean closer.

The woodgrain at the edges of both holes points outward, toward the bedroom The holes were drilled from inside the crawl space.

“Goddammit.”

Oscar Stanley was a big man. It would have taken serious maneuvering to drill those holes without physically being inside the crawl space. And yeah, fine, why would he need two holes unless he planned on looking through them?

I’m nowhere near abandoning the cut and dried theory that Oscar Stanley is a peeping Tom who spied on his guests, but the woodgrain is throwing me off a little.

Despite wanting to wrap up this job as quickly as possible, I am not and will never be the type to leave questions unanswered or close a case with the finger pointed at the wrong suspect, all in the name of expediency.

According to Paul, the cops already spoke to the father— Judd Forrester. He denies shooting and killing Oscar Stanley. Only admits to the fistfight days before. But I need to speak with him myself to determine whether or not he’s

telling the truth.

Beyond that… Who else had—or has—access to this place?

“I don’t know, do I?” I grit out, striding down the staircase. “Because I don’t have the goddamn guest book.”

When I open the front door of the house, she’s watching me from the front window of her house, lip caught between her teeth. She starts to duck out of sight, but I shake my head, crooking my finger at her. Now it’s her turn to shake her head. I keep going until I’ve climbed the porch and knocked on the door.

“Are you going to keep me informed?” she calls through the door.

“No.”

“I’d really just like to be kept in the loop.”

“Nope.”

“Please?”

I’m about to state my intentions to kick the door off the hinges, but my mouth snaps shut on the word “please.” I don’t know why. It’s just a word. But coming from her, it makes me sweat. Who says no to this woman? Especially when she asks in that hopeful princess voice? Me continuing to say no is disappointing her. I can hear her growing less and less optimistic and…that doesn’t sit right.

In fact, disappointing her is like broken glass digging into my stomach lining. Am I going to say yesjust to make her happy? Hell, I don’t know. But I find myself very unwilling to do the opposite.

“Why?” I say, crossing my arms. “Why is this so important to you?”

A tick passes and then the door opens. Slowly. There’s her face, appearing in the opening, and I won’t acknowledge how my ribcage seems to shrink-wrap around my heart, throwing off the steady beat. Damn, she is a beautiful woman. Soft. The kind of woman who makes a

man want to be a hero.

Other men. Not me, obviously.

She looks back over her shoulder—to see if her brother is around? When she faces me again, she speaks in a reluctant whisper, forcing me to lean forward. Forcing me to count the flecks of gold in her green eyes. “I’m not very brave,” she says quietly. “I’m really sensible and I always play it safe. But I saw a dead body and I didn’t vanish into

dust. I stayed calm and I called the police. I found blankets for me and Jude, gave a detailed statement to Detective Wright. I haven’t thought a lot about how I would react in a terrible situation like that, but I thought I would cry or hyperventilate or die of fright.Definitely thought I would pack up and run home. But I didn’t. I surprised myself by sticking it out. And I guess I just want to see what else I can do.” She blinks up at me, the dark fringe of her lashes seeming to sweep down and up in slow motion. “Does that

make sense, bounty hunter?”

She still doesn’t know my name.

Keep it that way.

Because I’m about to ask if she, perhaps, needs a blanketnow, too? So if she said my name, I would be fucking toast. Somehow I know that like I know my way around a Harley. Because I’m not going to lie, her explanation seems to have opened a trap door in my belly and all of my irritation is falling right through it. Gone. I’m mostly wondering who the hell told her she wasn’t brave.

That would be a satisfying person to kill. “You aren’t backing down from my scary ass, are you?” I cough into a fist, glancing off down the block. “Seem pretty brave to me.”

When I look back at her, she’s smiling at me.

Not a grudging one. A big, unrestrained one that

punches me square in the jaw.

“Uh…”

“You’re not scary at all,” she informs me brightly.

“Yes, I am,” I shout back, because it feels totally necessary. Like I’m acting out of self-preservation here.Am

I? What has happened to me in the last thirty minutes?

“Taylor, who are you talking to?” Following the newcomer’s muffled question, footsteps approach behind her and a man appears, grinding a knuckle into his eye socket and yawning. When he opens his eyes and spots me in the doorway, he jolts backward with a startled curse.

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

“See?” I tell her, caught between satisfaction and… embarrassment, an emotion I am very unfamiliar with. It has never existed for me. Until now, apparently, when this woman is about to realize I’m the beast and she’s beauty.

But she just goes on smiling. “Do you want to come inside and look at the guest book?” She pushes the door wider. “I just made lemonade.”

I’m giving up too much ground here, so I say, very pointedly, “Do I look like I drink lemonade?” I step inside the house and they both back up, the brother—Jude, I believe she said—edging toward his sister protectively. “I’ll take a beer.”

“Okay,” Taylor says, nudging her brother in the ribs.

“He’s going to let us help solve the murder case!”

“I didn’t say that—”

But she’s already skipping off toward the kitchen.

What in God’s name have I gotten myself into?