Page 7 of What Hurts Us

Lauren pulled out her phone and read an email while she waited for her to-go order. “The chief just sent an update on Fletcher,” she said gleefully.

Shane raised his eyebrows. “Yeah?”

“What’d it say?” John asked.

“Bet he’s already bitching and moaning about being laid up in the hospital,” AB said.

Lauren skimmed the email. “He’s out of surgery. Looks like he’ll be out for a few weeks, then on desk duty until he gets cleared. The Ladies Auxiliary is organizing a meal train for when he gets out of the hospital.”

Elijah snickered. “He’s gonna hate that.”

3

CALLUM

Six Weeks Later

“Fuckin’ hell,” I muttered and slammed my palm into the countertop. All I wanted was to get in, get out, and not be seen. Six fucking weeks of casseroles and well wishes and nosy busybodies swarming my house. What I wanted was a Cuban sandwich and a friggin’ minute of peace.

Thanks to delivery apps that brought groceries to my doorstep, there wasn’t a need for me to be spotted hobbling around town. The minute the tech in the doctor’s office cut off that godforsaken cast, I tossed the crutches in the dumpster behind the medical park.

I regretted it now. I had a short stint of department-mandated physical therapy ahead of me and probably could have used the aid.

Raucous voices filtered in from the patio of The Copper Mule. The crew—a random assortment of cops, firefighters, nurses, and paramedics—were out there grabbing a bite. I knew most of them. Had worked with them for years. And, in my early days as a cop, I had even joined them a time or two. The shine had worn off and the effort it took to socialize wasn’t worth it.

Friends were needy. They had expectations. I didn’t have the time or the energy to care about anyone else.

I just wanted to go home and eat my sandwich in peace.

“Officer Fletcher!” Tiffany, The Copper Mule’s head waitress, said in an eardrum-shattering squeal. “I haven’t seen you here in so long! How are you?”

“Fine,” I clipped. “Called in a to-go order.”

She flipped through the stack of tickets until she found mine and matched it to a grease-soaked paper bag. “It’s so good to see you!” she said as she took my card and swiped it through the register. She tipped her head toward the patio. “Want me to pull an extra chair out there so you can put your leg up?”

No-the-fuck-I-do-not.

“I’m not stickin’ around,” I said as I scrawled my name across the bottom of the receipt and added a tip. I snatched the bag off the counter and, less cautious than I should have, put weight on my left leg.

I clenched my jaw and swallowed the ache and discomfort. “Thanks.”

I pulled my ball cap low and kept my head down as I made my way onto the sidewalk. The same melodic laugh that haunted my dreams floated from the patio.

I thought I had dreamed that voice.

Long black hair feathered in the wind. Mile-long legs were stretched out in an empty chair, glowing in the sunshine. She swirled her straw around a glass of tea, turned her chin, and glanced at me as if she knew I was watching. Big brown eyes widened. Her cheeks were pink from the sun. Rosy lips parted in surprise, but she said nothing. Didn’t draw attention to the weird lurker staring at her from the sidewalk.

I snapped my attention away from her and limped to my car.Was I still hallucinating a month and a half later?

I chucked the takeout bag into the passenger’s seat and eased in, dropping my head back and closing my eyes the moment I shut the door. For six weeks, I had blocked out the world more than I usually did. The well-intended intrusions got so bad that I had put a cooler on my front porch so I didn’t have to answer the door when someone from the Ladies fuckin’ Auxiliary came by with a meal I didn’t ask for.

Leaving the mysterious stunner of a woman behind, I pulled out of my parking space and headed down the block. Before the AC could even kick on, I was pulling into my driveway. That was another thing that annoyed me about having a fucking broken leg. My house was just outside of downtown. It was close enough that I usually walked into town if I wanted to pick up something from the tavern. Now I had to put my ass in the car and find a damn space to park in.

But that wasn’t the worst part of my day. Nope.

Awful had just taken a dive toward hell.

Brandie Jean Palmer was waiting on my porch. All five-and-a-half feet of boobs and fried blonde hair teetered on glitter-covered heels. She was wearing a mini skirt and tube top that I hadn’t seen women in since Y2K.

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