Absolute Power (Southern Justice #1 (27 page)

“Hey, Sean is a common Irish name. It doesn’t mean it’s your Sean.”

She could be right; Sean
was
an incredibly common name, even in the US. However, it was the man standing at the bar, with welcoming arms and smile, which clarified it all. Arms that once laid me down softly in a bed. A smile formed by lips that once kissed me stupid. Both never belonged to me, were never meant for me to enjoy. They had belonged to a beautiful Irish girl named Megan.

“Okay, maybe not.” Lainie’s eyes turned to the bar, seeing the same couple I was. “Well, at least he was telling the truth about it being a family issue.”

Rain started to fall as soon as we exited the bar. The last thing either of us wanted was a confrontation in his family’s business. I would calm down, gather my words carefully, and then let him know just how big of a slime ball he really was. Lainie offered to have dinner delivered and kill off a few liver cells with me, but I declined. There was nothing better on a rainy night than cotton pajamas and a cup of something hot.

I was sitting at a set of lights, after dropping her off at her apartment, when the monsoon began. Rain was falling so hard I could barely see the street in front of me. Slowly going forward, my intention was to clear the intersection and pull over to wait out the worst of the storm.

Just as I was about to pull over, the rain stopped. Not willing to question my luck, I stepped on the gas and continued on. The city always looked so different after a good rain cleaned the grime from the cracks and crevices, refreshing their appearance, if only for a little while.

The rain must have been heavier in certain areas, as was evident when my car hit a deep area of water, flooding the engine and causing it to stall. I had no power steering, no windshield wipers and the rain started to fall once again.

Using muscles in my arms I never knew I had, I managed to pull my wet car to the side of the street. With the car in park and the ignition off, I tried to look around to see what was open. I needed to call a tow truck to help me get home.

I opened the car door as the rain left the windshield impossible to see through. Stepping out, I managed to step into standing water, which covered the top of my ankle. The temperature of standing water was bone chilling cold, causing me to gasp, and drop my phone.

Looking around, I noticed a red and blue neon sign with a catchy name: Ike’s Custom Bikes. I only hoped the owner was still working. With the rain increasing, I snatched my purse off the front seat and made a run for it.

Two large garage doors opened to the street my car was parked on. To the left of those massive doors was a much smaller one. It resembled a door one would find at the back of someone’s house. Four windows with a solid paneled bottom. I tried the handle, but found it locked. Peering in the window, I could see a single light in the rear of the garage and the muscular back of a man working on a motorcycle, which was up on a lift. With my options limited, I began banging my closed fist on the glass. “Hello! Can you please help me?” I shouted; the roar of the rain behind me.

The man looked over his shoulder, and I could tell he had dark hair, but that was about it. “Hey, please help me!” I banged harder, desperate to get out of this storm. I watched as he pulled a rag from his back pocket; wiping what I could only assume was grease from his hands. As he got closer, his features became clearer, and I could swear, for just a moment, I was looking at Dylan Morgan.

The door swung open and my words caught in my throat as I took in his face. “Claire? What the hell are you doing out in this shit?” His warm hands pulled me into the dry room, “Let’s get you warmed up.” He spoke softly, a hand on each one of my shoulders, directing me to an area in the back of the shop.

After he helped me to a chair, he slipped into the back, mumbling something inaudible under his breath. My body began shivering from being soaked through. While Dylan was gone, I chanced a look around the room. In one corner was the bike he was working on, behind it, on the wall, were dozens upon dozens of drawers. Growing up with brothers, I knew each one of them was likely filled with tools. The wall next to me had stacks of boxes with various bike parts labeled on the sides.

“Here, you can warm up with this.” Dylan came back with a steaming mug in his hand and a clean shirt draped across his forearm. With shaking hands, I took the hot cup of coffee, ignoring the bitterness as it warmed my throat. “I drink mine black, so I don’t keep cream or sugar around.” His smile was kind; not a word I would have ever associated with him.

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” I returned, grateful for the warmth it was delivering.

“Oh, here, you can change out of those wet clothes. It isn’t much, but it’s dry.” He handed me the flannel shirt, taking the cup from my hand. “The bathroom is just through there.” He pointed to a door on the far wall.

“Thank you,” I said, taking the shirt from his hands. The bathroom was surprisingly clean and modern. I was expecting it to resemble one of those nasty truck stop places, where you hovered over the toilet for fear of catching something.

The shirt felt so warm against my chilled skin. I couldn’t help bringing a sleeve up to my face, enjoying the smell, which was distinctly Dylan. Where Sean had the allure of his cologne, Dylan was a natural, manly fragrance, with no department store additives to enhance the smell. My eyes drifted closed as I committed the scent to memory. It was wrong and I knew this, but it didn’t stop me. Dylan Morgan was not the type of guy who would ever bring you flowers like Dr. Gillman. Hang around your house, just because, like Shane. From my limited experience with Dylan, he was at least honest, unlike Sean.

I opened the door, after hanging my clothes over the glass shower door, another feature I didn’t expect. Dylan’s shirt fell nearly to my knees, and even with my desire to keep warm; I needed to roll up the sleeves. I found him standing by what looked like a mini kitchen counter, with a small dorm-sized fridge and microwave on one end. The aroma of cooked chicken was filling the room

He looked over his shoulder, a sliver of a smile on his face. “You picked a perfect time to stop by. I was about to eat dinner alone.” As I approached, I could see two paper plates with Chinese noodles in the center of each. “It isn’t much, left over lunch, as a matter of fact. I was too busy to eat it when it was delivered this afternoon.”

His jeans were fitted and blue denim never looked so good. His white cotton T-shirt accentuated every muscle he had worked hard to build.
I read once how you could judge a man’s character by the shoes he wore. I wasn’t certain how much of that I believed, but if I were to judge Dylan by his shoes, I’d find him to be seasoned and not afraid of hard work or worried about what others thought of him. He created his own style, avoiding the cookie cutter fads the fashion world depicted for him. He was a good ol’ boy at heart, with a modern day hero exterior.

“I’m sorry. You don’t have to share your food with me. If I could use your phone to call a tow truck.” I pointed to the black, vintage phone, which hung on the wall. “My car stalled when I hit a puddle of water,” I added, uncertain as to why I thought that was important to share.

Dylan set the plates on a small table, which wasn’t there when I went to change. My cup of coffee was there along with a bottle of water and a bottle of beer. “Claire, the chances of you getting a tow truck here in less than a few hours in this kind of weather are extremely low. Besides, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about a few things.”

I was hesitant to join him, not because I was afraid he would try something or hurt me, but because he was so different from the person I’d come to know as Dylan Morgan.

“Come on, eat dinner with me. Then if the rain has stopped, I’ll have a look at your car and see what I can do.”

I took the seat he offered; showing me his ability to act as a gentleman by helping me with my chair. He then pulled up his own seat across from mine. The food was hot and exactly what I needed. Although, I tried hard not to wolf it down, apparently I was starving. With half of my plate clean, I glanced up to find his blue eyes taking me in.

“Can I ask you something?” Courage must have been an additive in this particular noodle, as I had no right to ask anything of him.

“Absolutely, Claire.” He wiped his face with a paper napkin. His tone even and calm, not the gruff way it sounded at the trial.

“What are you doing here? I mean, shouldn’t you be out patrolling the streets?” I regretted my question immediately; it was none of my business what he did.

“Actually this…” He waves around the room. “…is mine.”

Surprise registered on my face, causing his smile to become bigger. “Wow, I had no idea you had a business and a full-time job.” I shook my head quickly in astonishment.

“You haven’t heard?” He quirked his brow, leaning back in his chair, two of the legs leaving the floor.

“Heard what?” I questioned, ignoring how my response was too quick, with far too much curiosity.

“Well, that’s interesting.” Dylan crossed his massive arms over his chest, his chair leaning back far enough to reveal his silver belt buckle. “I assumed the rumor mill would have reached you by now, considering the people you live and work around.” His eyes flicked to the corner of the room, whether questioning my honesty or choosing his words, I couldn’t be certain.

“I’m not a big gossip person,” I admitted. “Half of what is usually said is a lie anyway. I prefer to hear things from the source.” Dylan’s smile slowly built again, eyes twinkling as he returned all legs of his chair to the floor.

“Well, then, let’s see,” he began.

Every time I’d been this close to him, his face had been clean-shaven. Tonight, his face was scruffy, the stubble thicker along his jawline, dramatically thinning at the point of his chin. There was a sprinkling of hair where his soul patch would fill in. Where some people had dimples, Dylan had a smile line; it wasn’t a wrinkle, at least, not yet. It was a line where a dimple decided it wanted more space, although his was only on the left side of his face.

“Since my granddaddy passed, I’ve been doing some thinking.” The area between his eyes wrinkled and his smile disappeared. “I’ve also had a few issues which forced me to make some life adjustments. One of those adjustments was to take a leave of absence from the force and some time to figure out what I really want in life.” His expression was serious, eyes full of honesty and truth. There was more to his admission, something he wasn’t ready to share yet. “The other was to buy this shop and do something I enjoy.” His face suddenly hardened as his gaze moved to his lap. “I also ended some relationships which were toxic, which is why I just assumed you knew about all of this.” He nodded his head to indicate the room.

“Ah, you mean Shayla.” My chin rose as I said her name. I knew they broke up, but I didn’t know the particulars.

“Shayla, Portia, and a few others.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Women who served only to add to the confusion in my life.” His response way mixed with a huff of frustration. “I needed to separate myself from them and what they represented. I have a new goal in mind, besides this shop.” As he added that last statement, his face returned to the happy and content one it was only moments ago. “I’m changing, Claire.” His voice was full of integrity, and I knew he meant more than only his career. The seriousness of the moment hung thickly in the air, his eyes flicking back and forth between mine. “Enough about me,” he abruptly said, his dimple line returning to his cheek. “I want to know more about Claire Stuart.” He folded his arms against the table, leaning his body in my direction.

“What would you like to know. Mr. Morgan?” I chuckled. “I have to warn you, prepare yourself for a better remedy for sleep than warm milk, as my life is
completely
boring.” I rolled my eyes for dramatics. I would have to tread lightly with what I was willing to share. I’d left them in the past for a reason; embarrassment was not a characteristic I was proud of.

A singular light hung from the metal ceiling, spotlighting a bright red motorcycle raised in the air on a hydraulic lift. Dylan was doing something to the bike when I interrupted with my incessant banging of his door.

“My youngest brother was born with a wrench in one hand and a knife in the other.” I pointed to the shiny, red bike, which would have Benny salivating. “He is always tinkering around with something, but if he were to see this bike…” I stood from my seat and picked up my used plate and plastic ware. I reached over to take Dylan’s, as well. “Well, let’s just say you would be arrestin’ him for theft.” I tossed the trash into the tall metal can which stood beside the lift.

I slid my index finger along the leather of the seat, the stitching on the side fraying in several areas.

“Do you have just the one brother?” Picking up a silver tool, Dylan stood to my right, so close I could feel the heat from his body.

“No, I have three brothers and one sister.” My voice was trembling from his close proximity.

“Older or younger?” He questioned as he placed the tool on what I knew to be the bleeder screw, his voice barely above a whisper. He slid his hips to the left, giving himself more room to work on the task of turning the screw. Looking away from his hands, his muscles flexed as he continued to grip the tool. I turned my attention to his face, which was only inches from mine.