Trouble on Tap (3 page)

Hands at ten and two and one foot riding the brake, Mateo Garcia rounded the bend on Highway 28. The rainstorm had gone from a low-level pain in the ass to white-knuckle worthy three curves in the road ago.

What he wouldn’t give for a Humvee and night-vision goggles. Even on high speed, windshield wipers couldn’t keep up. The police-department-issued SUV’s tires hydroplaned every time he ran over a puddle. Worse still, he had two miles of twists and turns to traverse before he hit the straightaway into Salvation, Virginia.

“Out-fucking-standing,” Mateo grumbled.

His headlights reflected off an abandoned yellow car half a click ahead. The tail end stuck out onto the roadway, forcing anyone driving by to slow down.

His heart clogged his throat, expanding until he couldn’t take in any air.

An explosion of lightning lit up the area, showing the rugged Afghanistan countryside instead of Salvation County’s lush rolling hills.

Mateo blinked and the raindrops turned into blood splattering against the windshield.

The thunder became an IED explosion, a roar louder than anything he’d ever heard before, followed by a deafening silence.

His team was dead, their bodies torn apart by the blast, and it was all his fault. If he’d followed protocol instead of his gut reaction, Ferrante and the rest of them would still be alive.

A high-pitched whine jerked him back into the present time and location. The scroungy mutt he’d picked up as a favor to his sister, the Salvation Humane Society director, cowered in the passenger seat.

“Just a car stuck in a storm. Nothing to worry about, dog.” He reached over and scratched behind the pup’s floppy ear, the action calming
his
nerves as much as the dog’s, and slowed down to take a closer look at the car as they passed. “Looks like somebody ran into trouble.”

The headlights were on. He couldn’t see any damage from his angle. Stuffing his jangling nerves into a dark hole, he turned on the cherry tops and pulled the SUV over.

Shining his searchlight at the vehicle, he couldn’t see any movement or sign of anyone inside.

He grabbed the in-dash radio. “Dispatch, I’ve got an eleven-ninety-six on Highway 28.”

“I thought you were off tonight, Chief.” The Salvation Police Department’s lone night dispatcher, Simons, could be heard loud and clear over the static.

“Affirmative.”

“No rest for the weary, I see.” Simons easily fell into the informal rhythm of small-town policing. “Need backup?”

“That’s a negative. Looks like they got stuck and abandoned it.” With front tires deep enough in the mud he could only see the top part of the hubcap. How did that even happen? Idiot drivers.

Lightning bounced across the dark sky and the dog whined. “Sounds like you got backup already. Is that the dog from the kill shelter?”

“Affirmative.”

“Dog” wouldn’t have been the first word he’d have used to describe the skittish, forty-pound ball of matted fur. Mateo’s scarred reflection in the rearview mirror snuck into his peripheral vision and he averted his gaze. Not that he had room to talk.

“Be sure to bring him by tomorrow.” Simons sighed. ‘My granddaughter is dying for a dog.”

Mateo nodded. “Ten-four.”

He replaced the radio and leveled an assessing look at the yellow Fiat. The rain had tapered off to merely an annoyance. Pushing open the door, he grabbed his flashlight, holding it close to the base, and stepped out onto the rain-drenched pavement.

Cold spring rain snaked its way down his neck and under his black T-shirt as he approached the car. It was just an abandoned vehicle, not a potential IED, but the double-fisted death grip on his gut didn’t abate. Knowing and
knowing
were two very different things. He tried the handle—locked—and shined his light through the window. The car was empty except for three bright-blue suitcases covered from wheels to handles with some fancy designer logos.

Figures.

He pointed the flashlight up what used to be a dirt driveway and now looked like a good excuse to go mud skiing. Well, that explained how the car got stuck. No way were those tiny tires getting any traction.

Still, he couldn’t leave the car’s ass out in the road. Another vehicle coming around the bend could easily clip the Fiat’s fender and spin out.

Time to break out the hitch and the four-wheel drive. Of course, he needed to make contact with the vehicle owner first.

He pivoted to return to his SUV and his flashlight illuminated the mailbox next to the driveway. Written in bold black letters across the side was a single word.

Sweet.

The Sweet triplets were nothing but trouble wrapped up in bodies built for sin, with smart mouths and quick brains. They’d provided more private torment for men of a certain age in Salvation than there were days in the year. The older two had been in town for months now. Miranda drove a Lexus. Natalie had some fuel-efficient subcompact.

Mateo glanced back at the yellow Fiat with the fancy luggage in the back.

That left Olivia. Just her name was enough to recall the smoothness of her skin, the taste of her kiss…and the look on her face when he’d turned down her offer for a more permanent relationship rather than just a long, hard fuck in a fancy hotel room when their paths crossed.

Now the last woman he’d touched was going to see the beast he’d become.

His gut twisted. Of all the Sweets in Salvation, the car had to belong to Olivia. “What a clusterfuck.”

As tempting as it was to drive off, it wasn’t an option because even though he hadn’t always, he now understood the importance of following the rules—written and unwritten. He’d learned that lesson the hard way and would never forget it again.

Grumbling under his breath, he stormed back to the SUV, yanked the door open, scooped up the ragamuffin pooch and humped it up the driveway.

Her ear still ringing from her sisters’ surprised squeals, Olivia emerged from the bathroom with freshly washed feet, her long hair tied back with a borrowed ponytail holder and wearing a dry pair of yoga pants from Miranda and a T-shirt from Natalie.

“The three musketeers, back together again.” Miranda handed her a glass of beer from the Sweet Salvation Brewery, which they’d inherited from their uncle, along with the house. “With a few additions, of course.”

Logan Martin and Sean Duvin raised their beers in a toast. Logan and Miranda were getting married in a couple of months, and Sean had declared his love for Natalie on national TV. Saying her sisters were off the market was putting it mildly.

And she was the fifth wheel who didn’t belong.
Nice
. Unease crept across her skin. “Sorry for crashing the double date. I would have called first but—”

“Don’t worry about it.” Miranda gave her a quick squeeze. “We know to always expect the unexpected with you.”

Right about now, Olivia would sure love a hell of a lot less of the unexpected.

“So what got you here early?” Natalie narrowed her gaze, her blue eyes as questioning as always. “Is everything okay?”

Damn. Natalie never missed a thing.

“Why would you think it’s not?” Telling her sisters what had happened was going to be embarrassing enough—nothing like having to admit how low she’d fallen to feel as though she really was the devil-may-care pretty girl who lived off her looks everyone thought she was, instead the motivated woman with a brain she really was. There was no way she’d be spilling her guts in front of the dudely duo of Logan and Sean. “Can’t a girl surprise her favorite sisters?”

“We’re your only sisters,” Miranda deadpanned.

“Lucky me.” Even to her own ears, her words sounded strained.

Natalie focused her gaze as if Olivia was a puzzle to be solved. Miranda opened her mouth, no doubt to start the questions, but a sharp rap on the door saved her from a full-on, spotlight-in-the-face interrogation.

“I’ll get it.” Olivia practically sprinted to the front door. Whoever was on the other side was her new favorite person in the whole wide world.

She flung it open and the chilly wind brought in a smattering of raindrops that pelted her cheeks.

A man holding what looked like the end of a mop—if mops could shiver and whine—stood half in the shadow. The lighting kept his face mostly in the dark, but something about his take-no-shit stance and the breadth of his wide shoulders tickled a memory and jacked up her heartbeat.

“Hello, Olivia.”

That voice. Deep and low, it poured over her like warm honey and reignited a fire she’d thought she’d put out years ago. “Mateo.”

After his little sister and her best friend, Luciana, had told her about the roadside explosion while he and his team were on some hush-hush mission, she’d left messages at the VA hospital and sent e-mails and care packages. He’d ignored them all. She’d tried to visit but the nurses turned her away, saying she wasn’t on his approved visitors’ list. After a year, she’d given up. She wasn’t the smartest Sweet sister but she wasn’t an idiot either. “It’s been forever.”

"Close to it." His large hand rubbed behind the dog's floppy ear. "That your Fiat at the bottom of the drive?"

"I got stuck." Nodding, she looked past him into the darkness beyond, but her gaze returned to his tall outline and the dripping dog in his strong arms. “Do you want to come in and dry off for a bit?”

His only acknowledgement of her invitation was to take a half step farther outside of the porch light’s reach. “You gotta move the car. Another driver could get hurt."

Annoyance flicked her skin. After years as a model, she should be used to people assuming her head held nothing but fluff, but it still rubbed her nerves raw—especially coming from someone who knew better. “You don't think I tried?"

"That would explain why the tires are half-buried." He sighed. “Do I have your permission to tow it out of the mud and onto the shoulder?"

"My permission?"

He stepped forward enough that the light touched his broad chest, and then pulled his jacket open to reveal the Salvation Police Department logo imprinted on the T-shirt. "Yes or no?"

A meow sounded as Handsome wound his way through her legs in figure-eight fashion.

The fat feline temptation proved too much for Mateo's dog. The little guy sprung forward, landing with a wet thump at Olivia's feet.

Handsome hissed and smacked her front paw against the dog's nose before sprinting out into the night.

She grabbed the dog's collar before he could take off after the mean kitty. Handsome might only have three legs, but she still had serious cat ninja skills. The dog’s collar abraded her fingers as it twisted in attempt to break her grasp and give chase.

“Here, let me.” Mateo stepped forward and scooped up the dog. The movement brought all six-foot, four-inches of him fully into the light.

Her focus followed the dog’s course as Mateo lifted it. Past muscular thighs developed on the football field back in the day and honed to perfection in the Marine Corps, over the form-fitting jeans that hugged his narrow hips and perfect ass, and up the T-shirt covered abs that surely were just as delicious as her memory recalled. She closed her eyes, and in that heartbeat, his face flashed in her mind, the square chin, dimple dipping into his left cheek, the hazel eyes that went from hazy green to warm amber depending on his mood.

She’d spent most of the past few years surrounded by gorgeous men in the world, but none had met the Mateo ideal. Really, could anyone compare to a girl’s first love?

No.

The certainty of it whooshed through her and she opened her eyes, her gaze firmly on Mateo’s face. But it wasn’t his face anymore. At least not the one she remembered. Luciana hadn’t told her about the extent of his injuries and she hadn’t pushed for details—knowing he was alive and doing well was all her heart could take after his no-bullshit brush-off.

But now, she couldn’t look away. An angry two-inch-wide scar wound its way across the left side of his face, from his temple to his square jaw, like a crooked river of agony. Most of his left ear was gone and what remained looked as if it had been formed in clay by an angry toddler.

Olivia couldn’t stop the surprised gasp that escaped.

Mateo went perfectly still.

Shame set her face on fire. Of all the idiotic responses, she’d had to have the worst. If anyone knew what it was like to have people overreact to how someone looked, it was her. “I’m sorry…I…” She reached out for his hand, but he evaded her touch with the ease of a man always aware of his body in relation to others.

His hazel eyes turned the color of murky river water on a cold morning and a bitter smile twisted his lips.

“Not exactly what you remember, huh?” He turned to fully display the scarred left side of his face to her. “Look your fill. I don’t give a rat’s ass.”

She jerked her chin down so she couldn’t see his shredded face. An invisible fist squeezed the air from her lungs and twisted them into knots. The urge to turn and bolt rose up like an undeniable tidal wave pushing at her to just move already. The need to escape the gut-wrenching reality of his pain made her pulse frantic and kept her gaze locked on the porch’s floorboards. She’d spent most of her life as the object of rude stares and abject curiosity. How could she subject him to that cruel scrutiny?