Secret surrender, p.21
Secret Surrender, page 21
Something indiscernible snapped within her, and before she could think, her legs propelled her forward and toward the grappling men.
“Let him go.” The words flew from her mouth. “You’re hurting him. Let go.”
Blaine’s fist slammed into Dean’s face. She screamed, a sound so utterly unlike her, so wild and heartsick—all while blood welled and spilled from the new split above his left brow.
Sheriff Marlin pushed between the men while Blaine shoved back. Dean merely stared, not defending himself, a man all too accepting over what unfolded.
Why? Why wasn’t he fighting?
She threw herself at him and latched onto his arm. He moved to shove her behind him, clearly not eager to have her defense. Amongst the fray, someone’s elbow connected with her cheek, the forceful impact sending her to the ground.
She slapped a palm over the searing pain of her face—her eyes stinging, warm liquid coating her fingers. Not tears. Blood.
Stunned, she mused at the glossy red on her hand.
“Sarah.” Blaine’s voice tore her focus to his pinched stare, his drawn expression hinting something akin to regret. Maybe his elbow had struck her?
Dean pushed forward, as though he’d finally found his fight and meant to go to her, but Blaine swung around and shoved him into the already splintered door. “Don’t you fucking talk to her. Don’t you fucking dare.”
Blaine’s voice was a low growl, even the obscenities so unlike him. She’d known this man for years. Never would she have guessed him capable of so much anger and resentment.
“Blaine.” A sharp pain twisted and dug at her heart. She just wanted to understand. She wanted this to stop. “Let him go.”
He grabbed the front of Dean’s dark blue shirt and shoved at him again. “Let him go?” The door groaned, suggesting the wood frame might shatter completely. “This man deserves to rot in prison.”
Why would he say something like that? To a man he’d never met?
Blaine didn’t understand. Dean had come to mean the world to her and right now her world was imploding.
“Please.” She lifted her voice, wanting nothing more than for all the violence and hatred to stop. “Please, I love—”
“No.” Dean’s voice boomed over hers, harsh and commanding, enough to fracture her delirium. “Don’t!”
Don’t?
Hot blood trickled down her neck, and pain still cracked her focus. She hadn’t admitted to those feelings yet—not to herself, not to Dean, not to anyone—but she’d been ready to declare her love for him to a room filled with everyone she knew. All to defend him.
Don’t?
Dean’s response was… don’t?
She glared up at him and shook her head. How could he be so cold?
“Now, you boys break this up.” Once more, the sheriff squeezed between Blaine and Dean. “Or by God, I won’t hesitate to stick the both of you in my holding cell tonight.”
Blaine released his hold on the front of Dean’s shirt, only to give him one small and final push.
Blaine turned to her, shoulders dropping as though he’d cooled down some, his gaze soft and suspended somewhere between surprise and pity. Meanwhile, Emilia’s muffled sob overpowered any silence, her reaction to Dean having been nothing short of terrified. Why?
Sarah refocused on Dean. His eyes creased at the corners, his taut stare on her expressing intense sorrow. Or maybe an apology. She’d always considered herself a strong judge of character. Had she read this man completely wrong?
“What did you do?” Her question poured out on an unrecognizable rasp, so hollow and grave.
His gaze fell to the ground, and he said nothing.
Blaine stabbed his thumb over his shoulder in Dean’s direction, the sheriff holding him back from instigating another fight. “This piece of shit helped Anthony take Emilia from me ten years ago. Dean here attacked me. He split us up. That’s how I wound up back here in Harlow, instead of staying in LA. Sarah”—he paused, shaking his head in a slow and pleading sort of gesture—“please don’t tell me this is the guy you’ve been seeing?”
Her mouth fell open, an instinctive move to answer the question, though no sound came out. She turned to Dean, seeking denial, but his attention on her stayed hollow and unreadable.
The sheriff turned to Dean. “Is all that true?”
He pulled his focus from her and nodded, his gaze falling to the ground. She gaped at him, the denial coming from her, not him. A surge of bitter bile pushed past her throat and coated her tongue while her whole world froze.
Or maybe her heart froze.
If only that were possible, death would yank her right out of this moment. Out of this excruciating intersection of lives. Her. Blaine. Emilia. Dean… She didn’t want any of it to be true. That love could fool her twice. This second time was even worse. This man she loved, so rotten to the core.
The sheriff stepped closer to Dean. “I’ll spare you the handcuffs if you come quietly now.”
Dean nodded again, and the sheriff cupped his palm over Dean’s shoulder, turning him through the door.
Save for the door’s dull thwack, the room maintained its long and shocked silence, the hiss of low whispers developing a slow, but distinct build. Those whispers. All about her. Her failure. Her life once again on display.
She stared at the ground, trying to block it all out, only for a pair of red suede shoes to step into view. She peered up. Blinked against the lights. At Ally frowning down. She didn’t so much as reach out a hand to help Sarah stand.
“Good for you.” Despite the seeming praise, Ally’s voice spun a flat delivery, her expression just as cold. “Maybe it’s not so bad that I’m a wallflower, after all.”
Thirty-Six
The holding cell at the sheriff’s office was the smallest one Dean had ever been in. A narrow cot sat sandwiched, end to end, between two brick walls, the cell’s metal bars less than a few yards ahead. There were no clocks, but if he had to guess, he’d been in this steel cage for close to two hours.
He lay his half-beaten body on the sheetless cot, nothing but the mattress with its cold blue plastic cover pressed against his skin. The tiny, bare room shouldn’t have been a surprise. In a town like Harlow, filled with good people who probably did little wrong, chances were, this cell didn’t get much use.
This town and those people, they served up a stark contrast to him and his current predicament. The cell’s unwelcoming metal toilet and soulless gray walls were an apt reflection of where his life sat. But hadn’t that always been the way?
Except for those blissful few weeks.
Sarah.
The look on her face when she realized the truth.
What I’ve done… Who I am… I deserve this misery and more.
He dabbed at the weeping gash above his brow with a ball of scrunched-up tissues. Blaine Callahan, for all his injuries, packed a mean right hook. No doubt being a carpenter gave the man’s hands an unusual amount of strength.
Where was the sheriff? This room was all too quiet and unfamiliar, though perhaps this was his way of biding time for Dean’s thoughts, and thus nerves, to run wild. Deprive him of human contact. Get more information.
Well, at least this time he was guilty, but never had he guessed how gut-wrenching real guilt was.
His body ached, but that pain paled in comparison to the crushing agony clutching at his heart. Then there was the sickening churn of his stomach and the hollow growing within his ribcage. What had he done? To Emilia. To Blaine. To Sarah. He’d always told himself that his actions boiled down to mere survival. The world was a cruel place that had never been kind to him, so why should he care?
But he’d come to care all the same. And he was just one man, whose survival had hurt many. Unintended or not, he’d taken his sore lot in life and inflicted his screw the world attitude on innocent people.
And the irony, that of all the fucked-up things that had happened to him, he was the cause of his greatest downfall. The loss of his second chance. Once more in a cell, his freedom gone.
He’d entered Maynard’s believing Blaine and Emilia wouldn’t connect him with Anthony’s appearance in town. The mutual recognition based on an incident from ten years ago—the details of which he’d mostly forgotten—came as a shocking sore statement on the damage he’d caused.
This end was inevitable. Sooner or later, he would have landed in this cell. In no time at all, he’d be logged into the prison system and Luciano would know. When that happened, some connection or another would find Dean and take him out of this hellhole world altogether.
So be it. He should never have stayed here in town, allowed his feelings for Sarah to grow or take over. Not because those feelings brought about his downfall. No. His broken heart and his incarceration he could handle, but the truth had broken her. Truly broken her. After he’d spent weeks pretending he was someone worth trusting…
Why? Why did I do that?
Because I took one look at her and lost my fucking mind. That’s why.
I lost my mind and fell in love.
And everything he’d ever loved had ceased to be. He should never have expected anything different.
Because of love and hope, I didn’t have the strength to walk away. I should have walked away.
A derisive scoff burst from his lips. His weakness hid behind a facade of strength. A man everyone looked at as some big and all-encompassing monolith. An intimidating model of masculine control.
But he was just as breakable as any other.
He’d had dreams and deficits. A little boy palmed off so his mom could keep the peace and his dad could keep drinking, a little boy who grew into a railroaded young man, one imprisoned for his naivety. And now to the man he’d become…
He’d needed love. Always needed love. Just like everyone else. And time and time again, he got the same result. Rejection. And each rejection left him more and more alone.
I should just take the hint…
A sharp, metallic screech came from his cell door.
The sheriff pushed the metal bars open. “Follow me.”
The sheriff had changed into his uniform, his face now pale and drawn. He stood aside, making room for Dean to pass, once again not using the handcuffs, as if he grasped Dean’s lack of will to fight.
He dipped his chin, and followed the sheriff toward his office, an office Dean knew well since he’d carried out repairs there not that long ago.
“Take a seat.” The sheriff pointed to a wooden chair before his small metal desk, and Dean sat.
“That was a pretty impressive showdown at Maynard’s tonight.” The sheriff groaned and took a seat at his desk, a couple of tall metal filing cabinets behind him, all with locks to secure whatever hid inside. “I’ve talked to Blaine and searched some records pertaining to his version of events. Now I want to hear yours.”
The sheriff picked up a cheap plastic pen, ready to record whatever Dean had to say.
Dean didn’t meet the sheriff’s gaze, instead choosing to stare at the pen. “I’m sure whatever Blaine told you would be close to the truth.”
The sheriff let out a sigh. When Dean peered up, the man’s brow formed a hard line. “He says you and Anthony ran him out of LA ten years ago in an unprovoked attack. While he confirmed you didn’t hit him, he says you pushed him into a car window and prevented his escape. Is that correct?”
Dean bowed his head and nodded, the churn in his belly intensifying. “Yes.”
A tide of memories swept through his mind. That night. Emilia and Blaine were not much younger than himself. A supposedly non-violent intervention instigated by Anthony, which had ended in blood. The screams still rang vivid in his ear.
“And Anthony Stucco.” The sheriff’s voice drew Dean’s attention. “He wasn’t married to Emilia at the time, but he attacked Blaine with a knife and proceeded to kidnap her?”
Dean squeezed his eyes shut and pulled a quiet breath, centering himself, before nodding. He’d known the situation was unfair but was new to the job. New to working with Luciano. Needed the work and knew he had little room to protest. Frankly, he’d also become numb to helping in a crisis.
On the surface, in light of his years in the service, the whole event seemed insignificant. Two little boys, inexperienced with true misery, scuffling over a girl. Even if he had intervened, by that point, he had more to lose than his job and freedom. Chances were, he’d end up with a bullet in the head and a shallow grave in some deserted part of town. Luciano would have made sure of it.
The sheriff leaned back, his chair creaking while he blew out a hard breath, his narrowed glare sweeping over Dean. “How did you know Mr. Stucco?”
“I didn’t. I was hired to help him.”
The sheriff’s expression dropped. “Hired?”
“Yes, hired. I did what I was told and within my limits.”
The sheriff leaned in, his elbow propped into the desk, his stare hyper-focused. “What limits were they?”
“I never murdered anyone if that’s what you’re looking for.” Dean returned the sheriff’s stiff stare.
The sheriff responded by pressing his back into his seat again. “So that’s what you meant when you said your time after the military involved doing ‘odd jobs’. You weren’t fixing leaking roofs and broken mail boxes. You were muscle for hire. Is that right?”
Dean shrugged. “I had a special knack for finding people. It’s just a bonus that I look like I might hurt them while I’m at it. But I never went out of my way to hurt anyone, certainly not on command.”
“And that’s what brought you to Emilia and Blaine’s doorstep ten years ago, and again more recently? Money for finding people?” The sheriff’s gaze searched Dean’s face as though he saw him in a whole new light. Not a surprise, really, but Dean had never learned to dull the sting of that look.
He peered around the desk, trying to escape the sense of judgment, a sense he deserved, but coming from the sheriff, it hurt even more. Dean could handle disgust and indignation, but the sheriff—in all his fatherly and good-natured glory—gave none of that.
He peered up, wanting to end the aching silence. “Aren’t you going to ask who I was working for?”
The sheriff didn’t answer right away, though his brow dipped and formed a stiff line, suggesting thought. “I guess a more important question would be whether you’re on the job right now?”
An impulsive laugh escaped Dean. Maybe because working for the syndicate felt like a million years ago, like he was a different man after just mere weeks away from it all. But he shook his head anyway, answering the sheriff’s question. “Would it make you feel safer to hear I quit the job the night Anthony went rogue on me?”
“Rogue?” The sheriff lifted a brow, though the rest of his face didn’t move.
“I had no clue Mr. Stucco had a gun that night, much less that he would use it. As you recall, I wasn’t even there.”
The sheriff continued his stillness, though he offered a slight and repeated nod. “I’m less convinced with what you’re saying, Mr. Holloway, so much as your actions, thus far. Your intervention with the Chadleys, maybe I could figure was just you playing the part to fit in. But your reaction tonight, not retaliating against Blaine, and your interaction with Sarah”—he shook his head through a long pause, his stare unwavering—“that was something else, now, wasn’t it?”
“Why?” Dean lifted his chin, trying to escape the swelling pain from within at hearing Sarah’s name. “Because I didn’t beat the shit outta Blaine Callaghan?”
The sheriff shot out a short laugh. “Less that, more the look on your face when you had to tell Sarah the truth. That look was more than guilt over getting caught. It was something less easy to fake. Frankly, I’m starting to think it wasn’t Anthony’s off-script behavior that had you looking for a different life. It would have been a million times smarter to disappear somewhere far away from Harlow, now wouldn’t it, Mr. Holloway?”
Dean held the sheriff’s gaze, his insides stiff and buckling that he was so easy to read. So openly pathetic. So unrecognizable to the man he’d been. Not a bad thing, maybe. But to what benefit? He would be in prison within hours.
“That’s mighty trusting of you, Sheriff.” His tone came out flat and lacking in life, so not all that removed from him after all.
The sheriff shook his head, as if somehow disappointed, all while he tapped the end of his pen against the mostly blank page before him. “Cut the bullshit, Holloway, and while you’re at it, maybe tell me who you were working—”
“His name is Luciano Conti.”
The sheriff’s face turned still and pale, as though he hadn’t expected to get the answer so easily, or maybe because he recognized the name. Still, just to be sure, Dean added, “He’s the ringleader for a West Coast crime syndicate. Though believe me, any kind of half-hearted digging will show that syndicate is much bigger than just Luciano.”
“Why are you telling me this?” The sheriff’s expression hardened again. “I would have thought you’d bargain for some kind of legal leniency before you offered that information.”
“You think one name is all the information I have?” Dean drew his jaw tight, a dull pain radiating through his teeth.
Even if he was unlikely to survive his next prison stint, he wasn’t about to take any extra hits protecting an asshole like Luciano, not when he could take the man down with him. The man had knowingly put him in an unstable situation with Anthony. Twice. All for greed. All to add more money to his already ludicrous pile. And then the audacity to hurt anyone who no longer wanted a piece of that action… Luciano was spineless. A bully.
Dean relaxed his jaw, resigned to explaining further. “I’ve seen eight men try to leave the syndicate and die for their trouble. Luciano can rot in hell as far as I care, but a prison cell will have to do. If it makes more sense to you, then call this my last chance to make the world better for having had me in it.”
The sheriff held a pensive stare before peering down and scribbling in his book. “Seems Mr. Stucco did most of the dirty work in both your interactions. I’d also say there’s a statute of limitations that’s probably lapsed from your work with him from ten years ago…”
