Page 13 of Monk
“Are you taking me in? Going to charge me?” I ask.
His frown deepens the lines in his face and the light of his fury makes his eyes sparkle, but he says nothing. I have to look away again as I stare at that piercing green gaze of his, the familiarity of it making my heart hurt. Turning my eyes back to him is a Herculean effort, but I manage it anyway.
“Well, if you’re not going to charge me or haul me down to the station just to slap me around where there are no witnesses, then I need to go. Things to do and people to see. I’m sure you can see yourself out?”
He lets out a low, deep breath, the sound of it filled with frustration and rage. And if looks could kill, I’d be dead ten times over already. But he knows I’m right and that he can’t touch me since he’s got nothing on me.
“One of these days, you’re going to fuck up, Tulowisky. You’re going to fuck up huge, and I’m going to be there to rub your face in it.”
I nod, maintaining eye contact. “Looking forward to it.”
He turns and stomps off, muttering to himself under his breath. Cosmo and I exchange glances as we watch him get in and slam the door behind him. He fires up the engine on his Interceptor SUV and guns the engine in a wide U-turn, spraying dirt and gravel all over the yard as he tears out of our clubhouse.
“That man has got a very special hard on for you,” Cosmo says.
I nod, feeling a stab of guilt blended in with the pain that courses through me as her fiery red hair and those familiar green eyes—always in that young, feminine face—float through my mind. It’s been years, and I feel stupid for not having cleansed my memories of her… the one who got away. I have a feeling I’m always going to be haunted by the memory of her.
Although the memories of her and of our time together are still fresh in my mind, I realize Cosmo doesn’t really know the full story. None of the guys do. It’s one of those things I keep to myself for the most part, simply because they’re my memories and I guard them jealously. Cosmo only knows her name because I’ve talked to him about her before.
It occurs to me then that because I’ve never filled them in on why Singer hates my guts, they’re in the dark as far as why he’s always rousting us. Part of it, I know, is simply because we’re bikers and he doesn’t like us as a matter of principle. The other part is that my presence and my history with him—and her—gives him a little extra motivation to be an asshole.
I don’t know for sure if the guys even know Singer has a daughter, or who she is, but it will be a surprise if they do. She’s been gone from Blue Rock for a while anyway, so even if she was a blip on their radar back then, I’m sure she’s faded from their memories by now. But singer hasn’t forgotten. Singer never forgets.
“That happens when you date his teenage daughter, then ghost her and break her heart,” I tell him.
Chapter Five
Kasey
I pull the Range Rover to a stop in the driveway and sit for a moment, letting out a deep breath. When I left home, I really had no specific destination in mind. But as I sit in front of my dad’s place—my childhood home—I realize that maybe deep down, I’ve always known where I am headed all along.
I get out of the car and look around. The neighborhood is like a perfectly preserved time capsule. Everything is how I remember it. Almost nothing has changed. Of course, not much changed while I was growing up here either. It’s part of the charm—and monotony—of Blue Rock Bay.
The lights are burning downstairs and I know that my dad is sitting in his recliner, beer in hand, watching whatever game is on. It’s his natural state of being after a long day at work. Has been since I was a kid. It’s just one of those things that never change around here. It’s a sleepy town, and life here is often predictable. It’s one of the reasons I was so keen to get out of this place and start a life in a place that was more… vibrant.
That’s not to say that Blue Rock Bay isn’t without its charms. It’s a really nice place to live and raise a family. But the existence here is staid. Comfortable. There are never any real surprises around here. If I have to sum up life in this town in a word, it will be “idyllic”. But I want more than that.
“Yeah, that turned out really well,” I mutter.
The porch light that has just come on draws my attention. When I turn, I see my dad standing on the porch. He looks at me curiously for a moment, then breaks into a warm smile.
“What are you doin’ here, Kasey?” he asks.
I slide my hands into the pockets of my jeans and shuffle my feet, kicking at a small pebble near my shoe. I feel the pressure building up, and I try to fight it off. But it’s like now that I’m out from under Spencer’s thumb—now that I’m free—the weight that’s been lifted off my shoulders is so profound, I start to feel cracks forming in the wall of self-control I’ve built inside of myself.
I bury my face in my hands and erupt into hard sobs that shake my body from head to toe. My dad is suddenly there, pulling me into his large arms, and holds me close. I have to admit, the feeling of his burly body and the scent of his aftershave are warm, comforting reminders of my life before Spencer. The life I’ve walked away from.
Slowly, I’m able to shut off the waterworks and take a step back. I give myself a minute to wipe my eyes and gather my wits back. And when I’m composed enough, I look up and give him a quavering smile.
“Hi, Dad,” I say, my voice still trembling.
He takes me by the hand and without a word, leads me along the path, then up the steps to the porch and the front door. He closes it behind me, and I follow him into the kitchen. He gestures for me to take a seat at the counter on the center island while he turns on the Keurig machine and puts a pod in to brew.
As I sit there, my gaze falls upon the badge sitting on the island beside me. I run my fingertip over the embossed lettering, the metal cool beneath my touch, and I smile. I almost can’t seem to remember a time when my dad isn’t the sheriff around here. My smile slips as I think back. Sometimes I feel like his job came even before us. Pulling my hand back, I glance at the worn and cracked leather gun belt sitting on the counter and a small shiver passes through me.
I’ve never been comfortable around guns. My mom wasn’t crazy about them either—though she didn’t have quite the same aversion to them as I do—and when she was alive, she would always make my dad hang his gun belt in the closet. He’d grumble and complain, but he always did as she asked. I suppose without somebody here to nag him about it now, he doesn’t concern himself with leaving his gun lying about.
Tearing my eyes away from the gun belt, I look around and see that, like everything else in the neighborhood, the kitchen has almost been hermetically sealed. Locked in time. Not that I’ve ever expected him to, but the farmhouse motif my mother favored is still in place. The table and center island are done in a light oak that’s polished to a high, glossy shine, but the cabinets and drawers are all done in wood that’s been made to look weathered and distressed.
