Ruthless Creatures: Chapter 8

Heart pounding, I stare at the key. It’s nondescript, completely average looking. There’s nothing unusual about it that I can tell.

I turn it over. Engraved on the other side at the top is a series of numbers: 30-01.

That’s it.

There’s no note in the envelope. There’s nothing else but this damn silver key, which could open anything from a front door to a padlock. I have no way of knowing.

What the hell, David? What is this?

After several minutes of staring at it in confusion, I rise and head to my laptop. It’s on the kitchen counter. I have to step over Mojo snoozing in the middle of the floor on the way.

I fire up the Mac and google “How to identify a key I found.”

The search returns more than 900,000,000 results.

The first page has advice from locksmiths and key manufacturers, along with images of various types of keys. I click on the images, but a quick scan reveals nothing that looks like the key in my hand. The manufacturer websites aren’t helpful, either.

I think for a minute, then turn to the junk drawer and pull it open.

An extra set of house keys is there, along with duplicate keys for the padlock to the shed in the backyard, my locker at the gym, my classroom key, my car key, and the key to the small safe in my bedroom where I keep my social security card, title to the house, and other important papers.

None of them look anything like the key from the envelope.

My first instinct is to call Sloane, but having told her not ten minutes ago that I needed to stop relying on her so much, I don’t.

I stand in the kitchen rubbing my thumb absently back and forth over the key as I think of possible explanations.

David wasn’t prone to whimsy. He wouldn’t mail me a key as a game. He was serious, mature, an altogether responsible adult. A little too responsible, in fact. I often teased him that he was old before his time.

There was a ten-year age difference between us, but sometimes, when he was in one of his funks, it felt like fifty.

He was an only child whose parents had both died in a car accident when he was right out of high school. He had no other family but me. He moved to Lake Tahoe from the Midwest a year before I met him and took a job working the ski lifts at Northstar Resort. In the summers, he took tourists on lake tours for a boat rental company. He was in great shape, a natural athlete, and loved the outdoors. He exercised as much as he could.

It helped him sleep better. On the days when he had to skip a workout, he’d be restless and agitated, pacing like a caged animal.

Those nights, he’d jolt out of a dead sleep, shaking and drenched in sweat.

I made more money than he did, but neither of us cared. He had a knack for saving and investing, and both of us were frugal, so we got along fine financially. My parents left me the house when they retired to Arizona to live in a condo on a golf course, so I was in the fortunate position of having no mortgage payment.

After our honeymoon, David was going to move in with me.

Obviously, fate had other plans.

When the knock on the door comes, I nearly jump out of my skin. Mojo lets out a yawn and rolls over.

Then the doorbell rings, and a voice comes through the door. “Natalie? You home?”

It’s Chris.

Dumped-me-over-the-phone Chris, who’s now dropping by unannounced as I’m having a meltdown over a mysterious unidentified key my missing fiancé mailed to me from the past.

He always did have shitty timing.

When I open the door and see him standing there in his uniform, holding his hat in his hand and smiling sheepishly, my heart sinks. I can tell this isn’t a conversation I want to have.

“Hi.”

“Hey, Nat.” His gaze sweeps over me. His smile falters. “You okay?”

Cops and their damn sharp eyes. Though he’s a sheriff, not a police officer, he’s got that law-enforcement heightened-senses thing. That high-alert watchfulness that assumes everyone is about to commit a crime.

My cheeks are dry, but he can probably smell the tears on me.

I smile reassuringly. “Yeah. Fine. How are you?”

“I’m good, thanks.” He shifts his weight from foot to foot. “I just wanted to check up on you.”

Wondering if that busybody Diane Myers pestered him into this, I lift my brows. “Really? Why’s that?”

He glances bashfully at the ground for a moment, chewing his lower lip.

It’s an adorable, boyish look. He’s got the whole Clark Kent cute-nerd thing going, complete with glasses and a cleft chin. I feel a vague twinge of regret that I never felt anything for him, because he’d make someone an awfully good husband.

Just not me.

He looks up at me with his chin still lowered. “I feel bad about how we left it the other night. I think I was kind of a jerk.”

Oh. That. I’d already forgotten. “Don’t be silly. You were a total gentleman.”

He examines my face in silence. “Yeah? Because you look upset.”

It’s amazing how men assume any emotion a woman is feeling must somehow be directly related to them. I’m sure I’ll be suffering from a menopause hot flash one day twenty years in the future and the idiot in line behind me at the grocery store will think I’m red-faced and sweating because he’s too hot to handle.

Trying not to sound unkind, I say, “This is usually the weekend I get upset every year, Chris. Yesterday would’ve been my fifth wedding anniversary.”

He blinks, then his eyes widen. “Oh. Shit. I didn’t even—”

“Don’t worry about it. Seriously, I’m okay. But thanks for checking in with me. That’s thoughtful of you.”

He’s wincing like he just kicked something and broke his big toe. “If I would’ve known it was this weekend, like yesterday, I wouldn’t have…I mean I would’ve… Fuck. That was really bad timing.”

“You couldn’t have known. You didn’t live here when it happened, and I never told you. So please don’t beat yourself up about it. We’re cool, I promise.”

We stand there awkwardly, until he notices the envelope in my hand.

I whip it behind my back and swallow, curling my fingers around the key.

When he glances back up at my face with an eyebrow cocked, I know I look guilty.

Shit.

“I was just, um, going through some drawers and I found this, um, key that I think my parents must’ve left.” My shrug tries for nonchalant, but probably looks shifty as hell. “I was trying to figure out what it might be for.”

“You could text them a picture, see if they recognize it.”

“That’s a really good idea! I’ll do that. Thanks.”

“Though it’s probably just a spare house key. You’ve got a Kwikset lock and dead bolt.” He nods at the door. “Their keys are all a standard size and shape. Did you try it yet?”

“No. I literally just found it.”

“Let me have a look.” He holds out his hand.

Unless I want to look ridiculous—and guilty of something to boot—I have no choice but to hand it over.

He takes it from me and holds it up. “Nope. This isn’t for your front door.”

“Oh. Okay.” I reach for it. “I’ll just take that back, then—”

“It’s for a safety deposit box.”

My hand freezes in midair. My voice comes out high and tight. “A safety deposit box?”

“Yeah. You know, at a bank?”

My heart pounds. The urge to snatch the key from his hand and slam the door in his face is almost overpowering. Instead, I tuck my hair behind my ear in an attempt to appear as if I’m not going completely insane.

“At a bank. Uh-huh. And how do you know that?”

“I have one just like it. Same size and shape, with that square top. Even the numbers on the head are the same.” He chuckles. “Well, not the same same. That’s the box number.”

Because I’m having a hard time concentrating on not going cross-eyed with impatience for him to leave, I make a noise that’s supposed to mean Oh, I see, how very interesting.

“Actually, it’s probably from the same bank as mine. Wells Fargo. Different branch, though, maybe. But these kinds of keys are standard to whichever bank they’re made for.”

My pounding heartbeat falters.

David didn’t have an account at Wells Fargo. He banked with Bank of America.

Even if you could rent a box at a bank you didn’t have an account with…why would you?

Chris holds out the key. I take it from him, my mind going a million miles per hour.

“Great, thanks. I’ll call my parents and let them know I found it. They probably don’t even remember they had the box. When they moved, my dad was going through a lot of health issues.”

“Yeah, you should definitely let them know right away. If those box fees go unpaid long enough, the bank opens the boxes and sends the contents to the state treasurer or auctions it off.”

He chuckles. “I mean, assuming it’s not just a bunch of dirty pictures. Then they just get shredded.”

I don’t ask how he knows all about the rules governing safety deposit boxes. I’ll be in for a thirty-minute monologue. I just nod and try to look impressed and grateful.

“I’ll call them right now. Thanks again, Chris. It was nice to see you.”

I’m about to close the door, but he stops me by blurting, “I think I made a mistake.”

God, why do you hate me? Was it something I did? Do you disapprove of all the vibrators?

I exhale a slow breath. Chris exhales a hard one.

“To be honest, I thought breaking up with you might, you know, light a fire under your ass. Make you realize that maybe you shouldn’t take us for granted. I mean, we get along really, really well.”

Yes, we do. I also get along really well with my dog, my gay hairdresser, and the eighty-year-old librarian at school. None of whom I’m interested in having sex with, either.

I say gently, “I think you’re a great guy, Chris. And that’s the honest truth. You were right when you said I was living in the past—”

He closes his eyes and sighs. “That was such an asshole move.”

“—and I don’t blame you for not wanting to waste your time with someone so…so damaged. In fact, I was thinking maybe I could set you up with my friend Marybeth.”

He opens his eyes and squints at me. “The one who looks Amish?”

I’ve got to talk to that woman about her wardrobe.

“She’s not Amish. She’s really great. She’s smart and sweet, and I think you guys would hit it off. Do you think you might be interested?”

He’s giving me a strange look. I can’t identify it, until he says crossly, “No, Nat. I’m not interested. I came here to tell you I still have feelings for you, and that I made a mistake in breaking it off.”

Well, shit.

“I’m so sorry. Um. I don’t know what to say.”

“You can say you’ll let me take you out to dinner tonight.”

We stare at each other in uncomfortable silence, until I say, “I think I’m going to have to pass.”

“Tomorrow night, then. Tuesday night. You name it.”

I say softly, “Chris—”

Before I can finish that sentence, he steps forward and kisses me.

Or tries to, anyway. I manage to turn my head at the last second so his lips land on my cheek as I’m gasping in surprise.

I recoil, but he grips my shoulders in his hands and doesn’t let me pull away. Instead, he yanks me against his chest and keeps me there.

Into my ear, he says roughly, “Just give me another chance. I’ll take it as slow as you want. I know you’ve been through a lot, and I want to be there for you—”

“Let me go, please.”

“—for whatever you need. We have a connection, Nat, a special connection—”

“Chris, stop it.”

“—and you need someone to take care of you—”

“I said, let me go!”

I shove against his chest, starting to panic, feeling bruises forming on my flesh where he’s gripping me so tightly, but freeze when I hear someone say, “Take your hands off her, brother, or lose them.”

The voice is low, male, and deadly.

Chris looks over his shoulder to find a bristling Kage standing a few feet away, staring at him with the flat, killer look of an assassin.

Flustered, Chris jerks away from me. “Who’re you?”

Kage ignores him and looks at me. “You good?”

I wrap my arms around my waist and nod. “I’m fine.”

He looks me up and down silently, his eyes hard and assessing, searching for proof that I haven’t been hurt. Then his icy gaze slices back to Chris.

He growls, “You have two seconds to get off that porch before you won’t be able to walk off under your own power.”

Chris lifts his chin and sticks out his chest. “I don’t know who the hell you are, but I’m a—”

“Dead man, if you don’t fuck off. Right. Now.”

Chris glances at me for help, but he’s on my shit list at the moment. When I stare at him, shaking my head, he looks back at Kage.

He takes a nice, long, look, taking in the powerful shoulders, the clenched fists, the murderous scowl. Then he does the sensible thing.

He picks up his hat from where he dropped it on the ground, jams it back onto his head, says to me, “I’ll call you later,” and runs away.

I fold the envelope into thirds and slip it and the key into my back pocket.

Watching Chris scurry off toward his sheriff’s car, parked at the curb, I say drily, “You have a very interesting effect on people, neighbor. Even the ones carrying a gun.”

He prowls closer, his jaw as hard as his eyes. “He’s lucky I didn’t rip off his head. You sure you’re okay?”

I smile. “And you claim not to be a knight in shining armor.”

“Furthest thing from it,” he says, his voice low. “But a no’s a no.”

“He’s harmless.”

“Every man’s dangerous. Even the harmless ones.”

“Do you have such a low opinion of your own gender?”

He lifts a shoulder. “It’s the testosterone. Nature never made a more deadly drug.”

Or a sexier one. All the male pheromones he’s exuding are making me dizzy. I look away, flustered.

“So I thought about what you said. Last night.” I clear my throat. “You know.”

His voice goes husky. “I do. And?”

“And…” I take a breath, gather my courage, and meet his eyes.

“I’m flattered. You’re probably the most attractive man I’ve ever met. But I haven’t been with anyone since my fiancé, and I’m in a weird headspace right now, and I don’t think a fling with a hot stranger would be good for me. Fun and amazing, but ultimately not good for me.”

We stare at each other. He looks serious and intense, his dark eyes locked on to mine.

Just when I’m afraid I’ll burst into hysterical laughter from sheer stress, he murmurs, “Okay. I respect that. Thank you for being honest with me.”

Why am I sweating? What’s happening with my heart? Am I having some kind of medical emergency?

Wiping my sweaty palms on the front of my jeans, I say, “So we’ll just be neighbors, then.”

He draws a breath, rakes a hand through his hair, and glances toward his house. “Not for long. The house will go on the market in the next few weeks.”

Why that should make me feel so deflated, I’m not sure. After all, you can’t get your money laundered if you don’t sell the real estate you’re trying to launder it through.

I’ll think about why that knowledge doesn’t bother me later.

“I’m out of here tonight, anyway.”

“Tonight? What about your job?”

He meets my eyes. In his own, I see heat, darkness, and too many secrets to count.

“Job’s done.”

“Oh.” If I get any more deflated, I’ll be a flat tire. “I guess this is goodbye, then.”

“Guess so.”

I stick out my hand. “It was very interesting to meet you, Kage.”

He gazes at my hand for a moment, his lips curving into a smile. Then he takes my hand, chuckling to himself. “You keep saying that word.”

“It fits.”

“Fair enough. It was interesting to meet you, too, Nat. You take care of yourself.”

“I will, thanks.”

He pauses for a beat, then says, “Hold on.”

He pulls a pen from an inside pocket of his leather jacket, a business card from another pocket. Flipping over the card, he writes something on the back, then hands it to me.

“My number. Just in case.”

“In case of what?”

“In case of anything. In case your roof leaks. In case your car breaks down. In case Deputy Dipshit tries to kiss you again and needs his ass beat.”

Trying not to smile, I say, “You can handle a leaky roof, huh?”

“I can handle anything.”

He’s very serious when he says that, serious and a little melancholy, as if his strength is a burden he bears.

I get the strange feeling that his life hasn’t been an easy one. And also that he’s resigned himself to the fact that it never will be.

Or maybe that’s just my hormones, on the fritz from his proximity.

He turns and starts to walk away, but stops when I blurt, “Wait!”

He doesn’t turn around. He simply turns his head to the side, listening.

“I…I…”

Oh, fuck it. I run up to him, grab the front of his jacket, stand on my toes, and kiss him on his cheek. My words come out in a breathless rush.

“Thank you.”

After a beat, he says gruffly, “For what?”

“For making me feel something. It’s been a long time since someone did. I wasn’t sure I could anymore.”

He stares down at me, dark eyes burning. He cups my face in his big hand and gently sweeps his thumb over my cheekbone. He inhales slowly, his chest rising. His brows pull together until he’s wearing an expression like he’s in physical pain.

Then he exhales, drops his hand from my face, and walks away toward his house without another word. He slams the front door behind him.

Five seconds later, I hear the steady whump whump whump of his fists hitting the punching bag coming from inside.