Crossroads Read online

  Well, the lack of funds sure changed things. Too bad Brady the Fox was gone. If I'd realized I was stranded in the mountains on a cold night without any money at all, I might've asked him for a little help after all.

  I was independent as fuck, but damn. What else could I have done? Dropping my head onto my knees, I let the tears fall, lamenting my life choices. Some things, like my parents kicking me out, I couldn't have helped. Other things, though, like staying with John even though I knew damn well I should've left, that was exactly the sort of decision making that had landed me in this fucking mess.

  "No more," I mumbled into my knees. From that point on, I would consider my decisions and take them in a different direction. If my instinct was to go left, I'd go right. If it was to trust someone, I wouldn't. And if it said don't take help from a handsome stranger, damn it, I should've taken the damn help. Damn.

  What the fuck was I going to do now? Looking around in the dark, I found nothing that gave me any great ideas or inspiration. Hell, the street lights weren’t even on this late. The gas station parking lot was lit up like a beacon, but outside of that it was pitch black. This place was probably just like my hometown. They rolled up the carpets at nine. Six on Sundays.

  3

  Brady

  My headlights lit up the front of my house three minutes later. I sat in the truck, guilt weighing heavily on my mind. That guy at the gas station was in trouble. He sure hadn't looked like he had any money to pay to get to Bend. And what if the other guy came back? Would he be safe? He looked like he'd been beaten down, worn out by life.

  The image of him in my rearview mirror had been pitiful. He'd put his head on his knees. The poor guy was completely defeated.

  Banging my hands on the truck steering wheel, I pulled out of my driveway again and headed back to the gas station. If he was still there, I'd insist he let me help him.

  What else could I do? It was fucking cold out, and after all, it was my duty to keep the citizens of Three Lakes safe—even the temporary ones. My motivations were entirely from a police officer and raised-right standpoint. It had nothing to do with his slender frame or sculpted cheekbones. Or his artfully messy blond hair. Not at all.

  Corey's head was still on his knees when I pulled the truck directly in front of him, his almost white hair spread out over his knees. it was just long enough to cover them. He didn't even look up to see who had parked so close to him.

  "Go away, whoever you are." His muffled voice rebuked me.

  "It's me," I said. "I can't leave you here like this."

  Corey stiffened, rolling his head to peer at me out of the corner of his eye. "Hey."

  "Hey." I hoped he'd accept my help. My grandmother would've rolled over in her grave if I hadn’t gone back to help him.

  "A bed and breakfast, huh?" he asked.

  "Yep. The owner is nice, even though we might have to wake her up." I opened the door to my truck. "I promise I'm not a serial killer. I've only murdered three, maybe four people and all in totally separate incidents."

  He snorted, then it turned into a laugh. "Oh, well, if that's all."

  At least he'd taken the joke. "I'm a cop." I yanked my wallet out of my back pocket and showed him my badge. "And, for good measure, we can go in and tell Sasha I'm taking you to check out the B&B."

  He looked around the empty parking lot, then craned his head to look at Sasha through the window. She had the TV on, watching a movie in the deserted store.

  A brisk wind whipped through the parking lot, cutting through my coat. He wasn't even wearing one. He had to be freezing. "Okay," he said finally. "But only because it's freaking cold out here."

  "That it is." He climbed into my truck, throwing his bag into the floorboard. "I can close my own door, mate."

  I nearly choked on my words. "Of course, sorry." I left the door open and walked quickly into the building. “Hey, Sash?”

  She cracked her gum as she answered, not even looking up from the show. “You’re rescuing the hottie?”

  At least she thought he was hot, too. “Uh. I guess so.”

  “Have fun.”

  Chuckling, I walked back out and around the truck. I kept my girl clean and well maintained. She was my pride and joy. When my grandmother died, she left me a considerable amount of money as well as her house. Hell, I hadn't even realized she had that much money. We'd always lived quietly, without any frills. Not that we'd gone without, but she wasn't extravagant.

  I'd remodeled the house, updating and modernizing it, and bought the truck. The rest I'd tucked away for the future. Never know what would happen. I hoped that one day I'd be in a position to have to pay for my child's college education. The police force provided me with plenty enough to live on, especially considering I didn't have to pay any rent.

  I shut my door to see Corey looking around the inside of my truck with wide eyes. His shoes were worn out, but relatively clean. I cranked up the heat, eyeing the holes in his jeans and the thin shirt. He'd just refuse my jacket, so I didn't bother offering it, though I really wanted to. I wore a sweater underneath and would soon be hot. Slipping it off and putting it on the seat beside me, I left it up to him. "I'll turn up the heat a bit. Here's my jacket."

  Acting as if it was no big deal, I pulled out of the parking lot toward Annie's Bed and Breakfast. Annie was a transplant from Bend where her ex-husband ran his own B&B. When they'd divorced, she'd found the old Bennet home perfect to open her own and compete with her ex. Conveniently enough, the B&B was close to Carson's brewery, so they were constantly sending each other business, and consequently she was nearly always booked. The only other places to stay in town were privately rented through a website, and not places we could check Corey in at in the middle of the night.

  The sign at the bottom of Annie's driveway said 'No Vacancy.'

  "Damn." I checked the time on my dash. It was nearly two. "We'll pull near the house so we can connect to Annie's Wi-Fi." I turned up the driveway. "I'll check a few places for vacancies."

  "I thought nobody here had websites?" Corey said in a tired voice. "Besides, I think my phone died."

  I handed him my charging cord. "I've got a phone too, silly."

  He checked it, and plugged his own phone in. "Thanks."

  We pulled up to the front of Annie's dark house, and I waited for my phone to recognize her signal and connect. I had passwords for Wi-Fi all over town. Even most of the residential homes were programmed into my phone. With the signal in the area so spotty, it helped me stay in touch, especially if I got too far away from the station and the radio didn't work.

  After a few minutes I shrugged. "Corey, we're SOL. They're all booked this week." He hung his head.

  I was willing to help him out, but not without knowing at least a little bit about him. Trying to be a good person was one thing, but I did need to have a care for my own safety. "What's your story, anyway?"

  Pulling out of Annie's driveway, I headed back toward the sleeping town. The dark truck gave me no opportunity to catch a glimpse of his sculpted profile. He intrigued me in a way that nobody had for a long time.

  "I'd rather not talk about it. Just leave it that John is better off out of my life, even if that means I'm stranded here."

  Well, if the guy was bad news, at least Corey had the nerve to let him go. "Where are you from?"

  "Nowhere, now. I don't have anything to go back to in Portland. Might as well move on." He looked out the window at the dark town as I pulled onto Main Street again, not sure exactly where I was headed. I knew what I had to do but wanted to learn just a little bit more about him first. He clammed up, though.

  "That's our parts store. Duke owns it, and he's married to Daisy, who runs the diner right down there." I pointed straight ahead and to the left, even though I knew he couldn't see it yet. "Over there is the only salon, all the women go there. The barber runs a shop out of his house a few streets over."

  Corey looked at me like I'd grown three heads. "You saw the laundromat at
tached to the gas station. We've got a small hospital and clinic at the county line, but all the big cases are flown into Bend or Portland." We rolled even slower through town, and I pointed to the general store. "There's our only grocery store, locally owned. They stock just enough to keep us covered, but every once in a while, we'll have to do a big shopping run in Bend."

  "Are you trying to convince me to put down roots here?" Corey asked skeptically.

  I realized I sort of was. "I didn't mean to. I'm sure you're not staying here, but nobody would object if you did." Something inside me really wanted him to stay. Probably just because he was so hot, and obviously gay. Even if he hadn't made every alarm in my gaydar go off, his fight with his boyfriend was a big clue.

  "I'm sure this place is great, but I'm used to the city. I know how things work there, and I know how to survive there. Hell, I don't even know the name of this town."

  What bleak words. "Three Lakes. Maybe someplace like this could teach you how to do more than just survive," I said gently.

  Damn it. There really wasn't anywhere for him to go. "I've got a mother-in-law cottage at my place. It's just a small studio, but you're welcome to stay in it for a few days and decide what you want to do, where you want to go."

  It was too dark to see his face, but he was looking at me. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. The weight of his gaze was exhilarating. Damn it, he was even hot when I couldn't see him.

  He sighed, and I heard a rustling, like he was repositioning. He was probably uncomfortable. "I guess I'll take you up on your offer of a room. I'm not sure what else I can do, really."

  "Good. I'm happy you're going to stay."

  "I didn't say I would stay, but I'm nearly dead over here. Now that I'm warm, I'm already falling asleep." His stomach growled, interrupting his words.

  "Well, I'm starving," I said brightly. "I'll just whip us up a couple of sandwiches before we turn in."

  I'd been driving so slowly while we debated what he should do that I'd just turned off of Main toward my house. Picking up the speed, we were in my driveway—me for the third time since I'd left the party—in minutes.

  After I pulled into the garage, I grabbed the bag of sodas, I let Corey find his own way out of the truck. I would've opened his door for him, but it wasn't a date. Hell, he was probably far too vulnerable from his breakup to even think of me in that way at all.

  Too bad I couldn't get him off of my mind in 'that way.'

  4

  Corey

  Fuck, his house was nice. Not in an opulent, excessive sort of way. More in a June Cleaver sort of way. We pulled into his garage—of course he had a garage— and he didn't try to open my door or carry my bag for me. Somehow I was slightly disappointed that he didn't. I slid down out of the high seat onto the white concrete. His garage floor didn't even have any oil stains on it.

  The door into the house opened directly into a large kitchen, with nothing less than red and white checkered curtains hanging at the window.

  If I'd had any money at all, I would've bet that window looked out onto a picturesque backyard. It would be fenced in, of course, and have a perfect puppy romping around in it.

  "You okay?" Brady asked. He'd put his sodas down on the kitchen island and looked at me like I was crazy. I realized I was looking around with a perfect resting bitch face. He probably thought I was judging him.

  Quite the fucking opposite. I wished I felt good enough to be in a kitchen like this one. "Fine." I set my bag down under his small kitchen table.

  "Hungry?" He turned to the stainless steel refrigerator and started pulling out a myriad of lunch meats. "I like a big sandwich, you?"

  As much as I hated to impose any more on his hospitality, I was starved. A gigantic sandwich sounded perfect.

  "Where's your bathroom?" I asked in my politest voice. He pointed toward a hallway as he pulled out mustard and mayo. Second door on the left.

  The bathroom was even nicer than mine in Portland. It only held a toilet and vanity, but the walls were soft gray, and the sink looked like it had just been wiped down. I kept a clean house, but it was hard to clean stuff like rust and chips in the porcelain.

  After thoroughly washing my hands, I returned to Brady. He had most of the sandwiches assembled, waiting on the tomato he was slicing. "I can't do that," I said.

  "Do what?" he asked, looking at me as he paused his slices.

  "Slice a tomato. I'm pretty good in the kitchen, but I mangle a tomato every time. I had to get one of those mandolin slicers that does it for me."

  Brady grinned. "I'm good with a knife, always have been. Once upon a time I took a cooking class, and about the only thing I took away from it was the knife skills."

  I watched him finish the tomato, thinking about my mandolin. I'd bugged John until he'd bought me a nice one, too. It was one of the few things in Portland I wished I could take with me. I didn't have much in the way of personal possessions. Most of my childhood belongings were still at my parents' home, if they hadn't thrown them out.

  I grabbed the tomato slices and finished loading up the sandwiches while Brady pulled lettuce out of the refrigerator. He took our plates to his table, and I grabbed the jar of pickles to put back in the fridge.

  It had pickle juice on the outside, and it slipped out of my hands, crashing to the floor. Pickles and juice went everywhere, along with glass. My heart leapt into my throat. What would he do? He'd surely be furious.

  He jumped at the sound of the glass breaking, whirling around. I probably looked like a kid with his hand in the candy jar, all wide-eyed and scared.

  "I'm so sorry," I whispered.

  "For what? This is no big deal." He smiled at me, and there was no anger in his face, which was a little disconcerting. "I'll just get the shop vac."

  He walked into the garage while I grabbed paper towels, sopping up what juice I could. A minute later, I looked up as he wheeled a big vacuum into the room. "This thing will suck up the liquid and the pickles and glass."

  That was too cool. "I've only ever seen those in places I've worked like grocery stores."

  "My grandmother had to have one. It's come in handy for stuff just like this."

  Must've been nice to be able to have such a contraption. I gathered up the paper towels I'd used and looked around for a garbage can.

  Brady saw me looking. "Left island door."

  His garbage can was hidden. Talk about fancy. My parents’ house hadn't even been this nice. We never went hungry or anything, but we sure didn't have enough room in the kitchen to hide our trash. I bet the pickle smell wouldn’t even permeate his kitchen.

  I opened the door with one hand and held onto the soaked paper towels with the other, wincing when I felt the bite of glass on my finger. "Ouch," I muttered. The pickle juice that immediately invaded the wound stung like mad, too.

  "Are you okay?" he asked as he plugged the vac in. "Did you cut yourself?"

  "It's not bad." I turned on his tap and ran water over it. "Just needs a Band-Aid."

  "Okay, then. Band-Aids are in that cabinet." He pointed to the one over the sink, up high. I wrapped a paper towel around my finger as he turned on the loud vacuum. By the time he finished, I had my finger wrapped. It hadn't been bad at all.

  He took the vac out to the garage, returning with a mop that had those disposable pads on the end. Another luxury. I took it from him so he could wash his hands. I'd broken the jar, the least I could do was clean up the mess. The mop was super convenient, and the whole fiasco was over in probably less than ten minutes.

  "See, no big deal," he said as I threw the mop pad away. "Come eat." I used his dishwashing liquid to wash my hands and the same towel he had. I’d paid attention. Some people turned funny about which towels to use.

  Sitting down at the table, I grinned at him. John would've lost his damn mind if I'd dropped a nearly full jar of pickles. Brady was different. And he'd not said a word about having a significant other.

  "So, what's your story?" I
asked before taking a big bite of the sandwich. I moaned in ecstasy as the flavors hit my mouth. "Mmmm," I hummed as I chewed.

  Brady stared at me with his sandwich halfway to his mouth.

  "Sorry," I muttered once I swallowed. "I’m really hungry."

  He jumped up suddenly. "We need drinks," he said in rapid fire. "And chips."

  Whatever. I just wanted to make love to my sandwich. He set a bag of plain chips on the table. "Want a beer?"

  Shaking my head, I pointed to my full mouth. He laughed and got out a couple of cups, filling them with ice. "Soda?"

  I nodded, swallowing down the food. "Yes, thank you. I don't drink."

  He turned away and poured us both a glass while I snarfed down another big bite.

  "Not at all?" Shaking my head and giving him a level stare, I chewed slowly. I didn't know him well enough yet to tell him why.

  He took a small bite, talking around his food. It didn't bother me in the least. I enjoyed watching his full lips move. "I've lived in this house for most of my life, though when Granny died, I remodeled."

  So the decor was his doing. Wow. It screamed country female. "Wife?"

  He laughed. "No, not at all," he said with an arched eyebrow.

  Holy shit, my attraction wasn't off after all. He was gay. "Gay?" I asked bluntly.

  With a head nod, he took another bite. The look he gave me was full of significance, but I didn't want to read too much into it. He didn't want anything to do with a skinny loser like me. "Taken?" I finally asked.

  "No," he said after a sip of his drink. "The prospects in such a small town are rather thin."

  I could imagine. "Well, as it turns out, I'm single as well." The feeling of freedom was exhilarating, overshadowing my terror about what the hell I was going to do.

  I just let him do whatever he wanted to with that information. It probably didn't mean anything to him, and after such a disastrous relationship with John, it shouldn't have meant anything to me, either.