Page 9 of What Hurts Us

I snapped out of my mental haze when I heard her opening the oven again. She plopped the casserole dish onto a crocheted hot mat and tucked my oven mitts back into the drawer.How the hell did she know where my stuff was?

“Your kitchen issowell organized,” BJ gushed. “It’s like I could just move in tomorrow and not have a single problem figuring out where everything is!” She peeled back the aluminum foil that covered whatever it was she had murdered. What I assumed used to be edible was now charred. “But like I was saying—I just think we’d have a grand ol’ time together. Maybe we could combine dates two and three into dinner and breakfast.” I think she winked. That or her lash had completely fallen off and gotten trapped in her eye.

“BJ, I—”

She cut me off. “Well, that or I’ll just have to win another date with you! And trust me, I’m prepared to pay top dollar for a night with Officer Callum Fletcher.” She giggled. “I’m not about to let some little old lady steal you out from under me!”

The thing was, Brandie Jean had those dollars to spare. She didn’t have to pay a dime for those plastic boobs. When Old Man McCuller was still alive, he was her sugar daddy. The day he kicked the bucket and a lawyer read his will, the rest of the McCullers nearly died too. He had left every cent of his multimillion-dollar fortune to Brandie Jean.

Now, she was Exhibit A in the argument for why money couldn’t buy class.

I wasn’t one for dramatics, but another evening with Brandie Jean would hurt worse than having my shin bone snapped in half in a car accident. Mainly because, at the moment, I couldn’t actually run away from her. I needed a way out of that fucking date fundraiser.

“Good thing you didn’t go off and get engaged this year or something silly like that,” she babbled.

A lightbulb flickered in my mind as Brandie scooped out a helping of charcoal and plopped it into a bowl. The odor made my stomach turn.

Brandie Jean stuffed the putrid concoction into my hand and squeezed my bicep; her nails nearly drew blood through my t-shirt. She let out a dreamy sigh. “September can’t come soon enough, sweet pea.”

I wrenched my arm out of her grasp and forced a polite grimace. “Thanks—uh…” I lifted the bowl. I was pretty sure the sizzle wasn’t from the heat. It was the type of crackle and hiss that happened in cartoons when something fell into a vat of simmering toxic waste. “For this. Very … kind of you.”

She beamed. “I’ll drop in tomorrow to get the casserole dish and check on you. Such a shame you’re here all alone.” BJ hit me with Bambi eyes. “I could stay and help you out. You know … take care of you. Nurse you back to health.” She winked again.

Hell no.

“You know, BJ, that’s real thoughtful of you.” I set the bowl on my coffee table, only slightly concerned that the contents would eat through the glass, and steered her toward the door. She could keep my apron. “But my Gran said she’s stopping by, then I’ve got to head into the station to get some paperwork squared away.”

Brandie pouted with artificially plumped lips.

The door was still open, and I all but shoved her through. “But I’ll wash your dish and set it on the porch. You’ve been a real help.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but I shut the door in her face and didn’t feel an ounce of remorse.

I waited for her pink Volkswagen Beetle to peel out of my driveway before holding my breath and disposing of the necrotic mess she’d cooked. I doubled up the trash bag to contain the stench and tossed it into my garbage can. Thank fuck tomorrow was trash pick-up day.

Brandie Jean didn’t know it, but she had been a help. Albeit, a small one. That little comment about her being thankful I hadn’t gotten engaged this year had my wheels spinning.

There was one condition that would make me exempt from the date fundraiser.

One very specific condition.

4

LAYLA

Those eyes.Steel-gray and brooding. Full of pain, complex and deep. Dark brows furrowed as he stared at me, frozen on the sidewalk.

I knew it was him. He was all the town had talked about for the last month and a half. I’d barely seen the outside of my apartment or the base, but even as a newcomer, I was privy to every detail of Callum Fletcher’s recovery.

He looked at me for a moment, jaw clenched and lips pursed. His hand gripped a paper bag from The Copper Mule.

I couldn’t help but stare. He was painfully attractive. Tall, toned, tanned, and tattooed. Part of a design peeked out from the edge of his t-shirt sleeve, wrapping around his wide bicep. A sharp edge of stubble shadowed his strong jawline. His lips were turned down slightly, as if he was deciding what he thought of me.

Did he remember me being in the helicopter with him that day? From how intently he studied me, it was as if he couldn’t tell if I was real or a figment of his imagination.

There was something dark beneath the façade of the all-American boy. Something haunted.

Something inside me drew toward him like a magnet.Go to him,the little voice whispered.See that broken man? He needs fixing.

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