Putting Out Old Flames (27 page)

S
adie Wilson knew she shouldn't do it.

It was against the rules, and the key to her ordered life had always been to follow the rules. But the ping of her phone rang in her ears, a siren's call. It could be what she'd been waiting for.

She peered out her windshield up the street. Maple trees, bare of any leaves and wound with hundreds of white lights, lined the avenue, giving the dark night a cheery glow. Green wreaths with red bows hung from each light pole. And the dark streets were empty of traffic.

She glanced down at her phone. Shoulders slumping, she blew out a deep breath. The text wasn't the one she'd been praying to see.

And because that was just the way her life had been going lately, of course her lapse in judgment would come back to bite her in the end.

The raccoon didn't even try to avoid her car. It was a stationary shimmer of silver fur, black mask, and a raised paw, and she swore it was giving her the middle finger. She gasped, swerved. She pumped her brakes, knuckles whitening. The Nissan Maxima skidded sideways, executed a perfect pirouette, and slid inexorably toward the sidewalk.

The light pole on the sidewalk didn't stand a chance. The front end of her car struck the pole, her hood buckling with the crunch of metal. Her body trapped by the seat belt, Sadie's head and limbs snapped forward into the exploding air bag before she collapsed back into her seat.

Groaning, she rolled her head, trying to work through the ache in her neck. She pushed the deflated air bag out of the way and looked up. The raccoon waddled down the street to her left, unrepentant. But it was the movement she caught from the corner of her eye that stopped her heart. Peering through the windshield, she saw it again. A flutter of red.

Swaying in its moorings, the light pole wobbled like a metronome, the ribbon in its Christmas wreath trailing through the air.

“Please, please don't fall,” Sadie whispered. The twinge in her neck from the collision forgotten, she prayed for further disaster to be averted.

Luck was not on her side. The thirty-foot aluminum pole tore from its bolts with a shriek and toppled away from the crumpled hood of her car, the ribbon flapping cheerfully. The cab of an F-150 Ford truck broke its fall.

“Oh God.” She tore from her car and raced to the truck. The pole had fallen lengthwise down the center of the bed, creating a dent in the roof of the cab that nearly split the truck in two. The truck was parked on the side of the street so Sadie didn't
think
anyone was in it, but she wasn't positive.

Glass crunched under her three-inch Betsey Johnsons, and she steeled herself to peer in the driver's-side window. Her heart pounded, her palms growing clammy. If someone had been sitting in the cab, she didn't see how they could still be alive. Stepping to the window, she peered under the twisted metal and blew out the breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. Empty.

No one was hurt
. That knowledge didn't stop the tremors that enveloped her body. Sadie wrapped her wool coat tighter around her, but her body didn't stop shaking.

She peered up and down the street. This late at night in downtown Pineville, no one was out and about. The sidewalks rolled up in this small Michigan town when the sun set. She had to call someone, but 9-1-1 didn't seem appropriate. The damage had been done. It was no longer an emergency.

A choking sound across the street made Sadie spin. A man stood in front of the large window of a darkened hair salon, mouth gaping, brown paper bag dangling from the tips of his fingers. He swiveled his head from the truck to Sadie and back again. The shock evaporated from his face, his lips pressing into a hard line, his chest expanding with a heated breath.

Roaring, he chucked his bag on the ground and ran across the street. A bear of a man, he was tall and well built, making her own five-foot-nine-inch frame feel insignificant. Or maybe it was his righteous fury that made her feel small. A black knit cap covered his head, but Sadie assumed his hair was the same color as his short beard, dark brown. A blue-checked shirt peeked out from under his worn pea coat, and jeans stretched tight across muscled thighs.

“What the hell happened to my truck?” His eyes traced the path of the fallen light pole from his truck to its base at the hood of Sadie's car. “You hit the light pole?”

She didn't answer such an obvious question. “I'm sorry. I have insurance. I'll pay for any damage.”

“Any damage?” he shouted. “Are you an idiot?” His arm swept out to encompass the warped truck. “Of course there's damage!”

She stammered. “I meant I would cover anything insurance might not.”

He stepped toward Sadie. His eyes, a deep, feral green and hard as agate, narrowed to slits. He surveyed her, taking in her Burberry coat and pearls, and snarled. “People like you think money solves everything. How did you even hit the pole? Were you drinking?” He leaned close and sniffed. She couldn't help but smell him back. If he wasn't such a jerk, she would have found his woodsy scent appealing.

“No, I wasn't drinking.” She lifted her chin and an arc of pain shot through her neck. Rubbing it, she trotted after the bear.

He strode to her car and leaned in the open door.

“Hey, what are you doing?” she asked.

“What's your cell phone doing by the accelerator? Were you talking on the phone?” His nostrils flared, and he puffed clouds of condensation with each jerky breath, an angry dragon, ready to blow. He bent over, giving her a glimpse of his firm, denim-clad butt, then thrust her smartphone in her face. He growled. “You were texting.”

She took a quick step back. The skin beneath his scruffy beard mottling, he appeared ready to strangle her. “I . . . I was expecting an important text. I didn't mean—”

“Of course you didn't mean anything by it. Your kind never does.” He shoved her cell into her chest, reached into his front pocket and pulled his own phone free.

“Who are you calling?”

“The police,” he said, his voice dripping with disdain. “Who do you think?”

Sadie clenched her fists. Of course the police needed to be called. There was damage to city property, and who knew how much the truck would cost to repair. Her fingers kneaded the ache in her neck. This trip to Pineville had been a disaster from start to finish. Not that her life in Ann Arbor was going much better.

She released a deep breath. Her bangs blew up and drifted down, covering one eye. Brushing them aside, she glanced at the man. He gesticulated wildly at his truck, shouting at whoever was at the other end of the line. A person who couldn't see his gestures.

She snorted. He gazed at his truck like it was a dying family member. Why did men get so attached to their vehicles? He hadn't once even asked if she was all right. Sadie understood his being upset, but this rage seemed excessive.

He ended his call without a glance at her and walked to his truck. Resting his hands on an undamaged portion of the hood, he hung his head.

She shifted on her heels, uncertain. In a town this size, the police should be here soon. Sliding behind her wheel, she reached into her glove box. She approached the man still slumped against his truck.

“Perhaps we should exchange insurance information before the police arrive.” She waved her insurance card under his nose.

“Son of a bitch!”

Sadie squeaked and ran around to the other side of the truck, ducking under the light pole on her way. Once the hood was between them, she stared at the man, breathing heavily.

“Oh, for Pete's sake, I'm not going to hurt you.” He slammed his fist down on the hood of the truck. “My insurance ran out. The bill got lost in the mail, and I forgot to pay. I called, and it should be resolved in a couple of days, but that doesn't help me tonight, does it?”

“Tonight wasn't your fault. I think my insurance will pay for it.” And would give her a hefty premium raise because of it, no doubt. One she wouldn't be able to afford.

The big man leveled her with a stare. “Oh, not just your insurance will pay, princess. You're going to pay, too. Personally. I
will
be pressing charges against you.”

Sadie swallowed hard. “That isn't necessary.” Could he even do that? “It was an accident.”

“Accidents don't just happen. People make them happen through their carelessness”—his lip curled—“or their stupidity.”

“I made a mistake, and I'm willing to make up for it.” Sadie clenched her fists, the nails biting into her palms. “What more do you want?”

A cruiser rolled silently beside them, its red and blue lights flashing through the night. It pulled over and a uniformed cop emerged.

The man glanced at the cop and back at her, smiling darkly.

Her stomach flipped.

His lips curled, lopsided, devilish. Combined with his scruffy face, he looked like a pirate. An obnoxious, sexy pirate. Like someone who wanted to do wicked things to her, things that his eyes promised she'd enjoy.

He opened his mouth, ruining the fantasy. “What do I want, princess? I want to see your skinny ass in jail.”

* * *

Sadie perched on the edge of a hard wooden bench in the old courthouse, awaiting her arraignment. The police officer the night before had insisted on taking her to the station to be booked for texting while driving and destruction of property, but was nice enough to allow her to sit, uncuffed, in the front seat of the cruiser on the drive over. She had been released on her own recognizance, under orders to show up for court the next morning.

She shifted on her seat, wishing the benches had a little padding. Bad enough she, someone who'd never gotten so much as a speeding ticket before, was now waiting to be
arraigned
, but by the time she left here she'd be nursing a sore behind, as well. Was that part of the judicial system's push against recidivism? Make the whole process from top to her bottom as uncomfortable as possible? The only thing that made this ordeal bearable was she wasn't there alone. After the fuss the big fur ball named Colt McCoy had made about her driving, she pointed out to the officer that perhaps Mr. McCoy shouldn't be tossing his verbal stones around so casually. He was, after all, driving without insurance.

On the other side of the empty courtroom and one row ahead, her co-arrestee sat stone-faced, arms crossed over his broad chest. He hadn't dressed up for court as she had, opting instead for cargo work pants and boots. In the light of day she saw that his facial hair couldn't quite qualify as a beard. Halfway between stubble and scruff, the man couldn't seem to make up his mind whether to grow it out or not. No matter that his jaw looked entirely too . . . pettable. His wannabe lumberjack appearance in a court of law was just one more nail in his coffin of rudeness. Remorseless, she loosely clasped her hands together. There was only so much apologizing a person could do, and she had reached her limit.

“All rise, the Honorable Judge Nichols presiding,” the bailiff bellowed. Sadie, Colt, and the local prosecutor stood. Both Colt and Sadie had declined counsel. The white-haired judge shuffled behind his podium and lowered to his chair, settling his robes about him. “You may be seated.” The bailiff walked to a desk beside the court reporter and sat, picking up a paperback book to read.

“Good morning, everyone. The criminal docket is especially busy this morning, with two violators.” The judge's blue eyes twinkled. “Mr. Johnson, what are the formal charges you are bringing against the defendants?”

The prosecutor rose to his feet. “Your Honor, both Mr. McCoy and Ms. Wilson have pled no contest to the charges brought against them. One count of driving while uninsured and one count of texting while driving and destruction of property, respectively. First-time offenses for both, and the prosecutor's office recommends community service.”

The judge shuffled through some papers on his desk. “Ms. Wilson and Mr. McCoy, please step forward.” Sadie and Colt rose and stood next to the prosecutor. “Do you both understand your pleadings? This will show up as a misdemeanor conviction on both of your records.”

“I understand,” they said at the same time, glaring at each other.

“Hmm.” The judge rubbed his hand over his round stomach, shifting his ebony robes. “I accept your pleas, and they shall be entered into the record. Now, as to your sentences.” He peered at his file. “Ms. Wilson, I see that you are a professional stager. That's when you decorate a house to help it sell better?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“And Mr. McCoy, you're a general contractor?” Colt nodded.

Sadie glanced down at his work boots. So he came by those scuffs honestly, at least, not as the local bully, kicking apologetic women when they were down.

“Well then,” the judge said, “I have the perfect solution to a town problem.” He rubbed his hands together, grinning. “Ms. Wilson, you're not local, so you might not be aware of our town's tradition of lighting a Christmas tree in the town square on the fifteenth of December. Last year our decorating committee ran into some . . . issues and it was decided, in the interest of public safety, to not allow the members of that committee to continue to decorate the town tree. However, no other town citizens have volunteered their services this year.” The judge pursed his lips and raised an eyebrow, an annoyed Buddha.

He looked at Sadie and Colt, and a knot of dread formed in her stomach. She knew where this was going. “I can think of no better team to decorate our town tree than a designer and a contractor. Therefore, I sentence both of you to forty hours of community service getting our town Christmas tree ready for action. We have about a week until the fifteenth, so when the mayor flips the switch on a successfully decorated tree, your sentences will be up.”