Savior or Sinner: Dangerous Liaisons, #2

1

SHEPHARD

Irun like the devil himself is coming for me. My lungs burn. My legs ache. I need this. Need to feel something other than the empty hole in my life at not having my girl, Harper, at my side.

She’s my running partner. My life.

Was my running partner. Was a big part of my life. Now she belongs to some other guy. A fucking douchebag. No, Ryker Conway’s not a D-bag.

Damn it, he’s her knight in white armor, and I’m the dark lord who wronged her, keeping her for myself when I should have encouraged her to fucking live.

And that’s what she’s doing. Without me. She moved in with Ryker after the attack that almost took her from me.

I almost lost her.

Lost my girl.

What will I do without Harper in my life? She’s been my constant.

Sweat trickles down my forehead. Slides down the side of my face. Gets in my eyes. I run faster, welcoming the burn and the ache.

A vision of her overlaps with the rundown houses and concrete buildings I run by. Jet-black hair. Sparkling light-blue eyes. Beautiful when she smiles. Just as beautiful when she cries, the freckles on her cheeks and the bridge of her nose standing out on her pale skin.

I run and run. My breaths condense in the cold October air. Above my breathing, footsteps edge closer, coming up from my rear. Shit, the runner is fast.

But the guys who shoot past me aren’t pounding the pavement to forget what they lost. They’re running to catch up with someone.

I pick up speed. Why the fuck did I leave the safety of the neighborhoods near Prescott University to come run in the shittiest part of the city? What am I, a glutton for punishment?

Am I looking for a fight? To get jumped? To have the excuse to beat the shit out of someone? In southeastern Prescott, there will be screams, drug deals going down in plain sight, and fucking out in the open. There is no shame. Only violence and depravity.

The guys hang a right. I run past the alley they disappeared into. Would’ve kept running, but above the pounding of my heart in my ears, I pick up what sounds like a woman’s voice. I stop and backtrack to the mouth of the alley.

Hunching over, I slow my breathing and listen. I’m right. The punks are arguing with a woman. Drug deal gone sideways? The men’s demands are forceful.

Hand it over.

Stop. Don’t. Give back the necklace. Timid. Weak.

The guys laugh.

Give up the rest.

A sharp edge underlining those words. Refuse and there’ll be consequences.

The rest?

Her voice trembles. I imagine her bottom lip is too. I should walk away. I’m no one’s hero. But at one point in my life, I was Harper’s. A tearing noise cuts through the silence.

Please, no. No!

My body stills, my mind taking me back to the day I found Harper on her knees with a gun to her head and . . . more. Shit, I can’t take the more I see in my nightmares.

Baring my teeth, I call out, Leave her the fuck alone.

Or what? You gonna do the fucking?

I stride to where they have her cornered near a dumpster overflowing with black garbage bags, take-out containers of rotting food, and stained pieces of clothing. The smell of piss is overwhelming.

The woman is on the ground. Or is she a teenage girl? She’s small, and her face is hidden by a curtain of coal-black hair that falls past her shoulders, the tips brushing her chest.

She’s clutching the front of her shirt. The long-sleeved shirt is torn down the middle from collar to hem. Her attention is fixed on the tops of her knees. They’re propped up and clamped together. She’s protecting herself from being violated by these POSs.

Yeah, that’s what I plan on doing. I slide the pad of my thumb across my jawline. Give the shitheads a head nod. Show them teeth.

It’ll cost you.

I reach behind and pull bills from the running pack around my waist. Take out my concealed weapon too. Setting the bills on the ground, I gesture with the Glock for them to grab the money.

I don’t want no trouble. I paid. We’re good. You got that?

One of them swipes the bills. They leave without a backward glance. What pieces of shit. I put away my gun and approach the scared woman with my hands in the air.

I won’t hurt you, I promise. I edge close. Closer. In front of her, I get down on my haunches. Are you hurt anywhere?

Just my pride.

Humor in the face of danger. I chuckle.

Except more than her pride is hurt. Her hands fall from her shirt and rest on her knees. Her knuckles are scraped up. Her fingers shake. She clenches and unclenches her hands. Sharp intake of breath.

Can I see your hands? I pull out my cell.

Please don’t call the cops. I don’t want any trouble. Her voice is soft. Barely above a whisper.

I won’t, I reassure.

Without looking at me, her long coal-black hair a veil over her face, she sticks out her hands. The way they hang in front of her, with her wrists pointed down, is jarring, taking me back to the days when I was a cop with the Chicago PD, putting on and removing handcuffs.

Shaking my head to mentally clear my mind, I turn over her hands. I use the flashlight app on my cell and inspect her skin. There are pieces of glass and gravel.

Damn it, they chased this harmless teenage girl and pushed her to the ground. Strewn on the pavement are pieces of glass from smashed beer bottles. Dumb kids or shitty adults getting drunk, then pissing in these back alleyways.

I should get these out. Do you live nearby?

I do, but it’s not a good idea. I live in a . . . in a group home.

She must be young. Difficult to tell when I can’t see her face.

How about my place? I’m not expecting her to take me up on the offer after what happened. And if you need a spare shirt, I can get you one of those, too. You and my friend are the same size. She stays over sometimes. Leaves clothes behind. I doubt she’ll miss her old shirts.

I don’t want to get you in trouble with your girlfriend, mister.

She must’ve misunderstood or misheard. I don’t blame her after the scare she had.

She’s a friend, I say again. And believe me, she won’t mind loaning a shirt to someone in need.

Okay, your place is fine. Thank you.

Name’s Shephard. What’s yours?

Glancing up, she swipes the strands aside. Thin face. Pale skin. Light-blue eyes. Full red lips set in a pout. My mouth goes dry. My heartbeat accelerates.

Fuck’s sake.

No.

No.

This cannot be happening.

This woman, this girl, she could be Harper’s twin.

Harlow. Harlow Voss. Nice to meet you, Shephard.

2

SHEPHARD

Watching her look around my place takes me back to the day Harper and I moved to Prescott. Has it been four years since we moved to Oregon from Chicago for Harper’s education and to get her help for what happened to her back home?

Full disclosure, my friend’s favorite color is black. So if you’re hoping for something bright . . . I shrug, my lame attempt at putting her at ease.

Black it is. Thanks again.

A small smile from her. I shouldn’t be rubbed the wrong way by her soft and timid voice. She was attacked, for fuck’s sake. But her small voice and the way she can’t meet my eyes . . .

I’ll be right back. My tone is sharp to my ears.

I march to the bedroom. A woman should be strong. Shouldn’t let men chase and push her down. She should fight back. Punch. Gouge. Do everything she can to never be a victim of violence.

But I’m asking too much of this stranger. I’m projecting onto her how I see Harper. Before her trauma, Harper was strong, inner and outer. After her trauma, her strength wavered, but she fought her way out of the darkness. The reason I admire and care deeply for her.

I grab a shirt from the bedroom closet, return to where she’s waiting by the door, and shove the shirt into her outstretched hands. She bites down on her bottom lip. Peers at me through long, dark lashes. Ducks her head when I look her in the eye. What is with this girl? What the fuck did I get myself into?

The bathroom’s to your right. Change. Afterward, I’ll pick the pieces of glass and gravel out.

You’ll be gentle?

No, I’ll be rough. Hurt her. What the hell kind of question is that?

I blow out a breath. Yes.

Um, does your friend have a pair of pants I can borrow? She clears her throat, her attention fixed on the floor. I might’ve wet myself.

Her bottom lip trembles. She sniffs. Oh, fuck, no, this girl is going to cry. No one cries on my watch. I cross my arms. Decide it’s a bad idea. I let my arms hang loose at my sides. Force my face to relax too. A scowl won’t do me any favors.

Crossed arms and a scowl can communicate I’m done here. I should be. I’m a sinner, a bad guy for how I treated Harper. There is no place in my life for a timid and scared girl like Harlow. I like strength and backbone in my women.

The silence stretches on. I rack my brain for something nice and comforting to say, but I’m drawing a blank. This isn’t me. I can talk my way out of a situation. Her pissing herself threw me for a loop.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I’m sorry. I’m an inconvenience. She sets the shirt on the small table by the door. Thanks again, she mutters.

Shoulders slumped. Head down. She shuffles out my door. I don’t go after her. If she’s able to walk out on her own two feet, she’s more than capable of finding a ride home.

Sighing, I hang Harper’s shirt in the closet. This one has the word Faith on it.

Why did I offer some other girl a part of my girl? Those shirts aren’t Harper’s old, forgotten shirts. They’re her favorites, ones I gave to her for her birthdays.

So why didn’t she come back for them? Why aren’t the shirts in her closet at Ryker’s place? I grab my cell from my running pack and check my messages, trying my damnedest to get the weak and timid girl out of my head.

Harper: Come jump tomorrow. U need more fun and laughter in your life

Harper: U can’t avoid me or me with Ryker forever. The only way is if you move out of Prescott

I’m not planning on going anywhere, but Harper will.

Ryker is slated to be picked up in the first round of the NFL Draft. He risked his future football career when he willingly involved himself in Harper’s messed-up past. Harper will go where he goes.

She’ll leave me and the life we’ve built in Prescott behind. After she graduates with a college degree in criminology next year, she can also go anywhere, without me.

Without me.

Those empty words again.

My empty life.

I glance at the time on my cell.

It’s after eight. I call her. I need to hear Harper’s voice. Fuck Ryker.

Hello.

Hey, love.

You shouldn’t call me that.

Does it piss him off when I do?

I test her. Test what they feel for one another. I’m a sinner. A bad guy.

Honestly, no. He and I are solid, Shephard. He knows where you stand with me.

On the other side of a deep divide, that’s where.

You didn’t answer my texts.

I was planning to.

When? It’s been two weeks.

Two weeks since my psycho little brother rammed down the door of her place, shot me and her up with drugs, and tied us up.

I needed time, Harper, okay?

For what? You’re my friend. Ryker and I went to the hospital to get you, but you were gone. I was worried, Shephard. The blood on your shirt⁠—

A superficial knife wound.

She makes a rude noise under her breath. It better be, or else I’ll be having words with the doctors for letting you go so soon.

You and Ryker needed space, I point out, refusing to come undone by her concern.

You obviously needed your own, too. I went to the gym. Brittany said you left the city. Something about needing a vacation. Why couldn’t you have told me yourself?

I tunnel my fingers in my hair. Put the call on speaker. Strip as I listen to how I failed the woman I care for.

How come I had to be there but you didn’t when they sent Sam away?

Again.

The word hangs in the air between us.

My little brother was sent back to prison, but a different one until I hold up my end of the bargain. I don’t give Harper the truth of what happened to Sam.

The less she knows of my deal with the Prescott PD, the safer she’ll stay. Ignorance is bliss. For Harper, ignorance is her path to a happy and bright future with her new guy.

He’ll make her happy. Make certain she’ll never want for anything either. Ryker Conway is loaded. Good family, too, from what I’ve searched on him. Decent parents with a stable marriage. Money and influence.

I check off everything I wanted Harper to find in a guy. That guy isn’t and was never meant to be me. The reason I gave her up so easily as soon as I saw her with Ryker.

They’re the perfect fit.

Doesn’t mean I have to like it.

Like losing my girl.

Is it true what Sam said? That you planned on proposing?

Yes, Harper.

What you said pissed him off.

So pissed off he ordered your father’s murder, yeah?

Don’t.

Don’t what, little one?

Don’t make yourself out to be the bad guy. You’re not.

How can she say that with conviction? Harper’s father lost his life because of my selfishness, thinking with my heart instead of with my brain.

Did Ryker demand you stop living your life? Demand you not go to campus parties? Not speak to a guy? Or threaten to hurt any guy who dare speak to you without permission?

I did that. All of it.

No.

Point made. I am the bad guy here, Harper.

Then make the effort to change. Live. Make your life less about protecting me and more about what you want.

That’s the thing. Protecting her and wanting her went hand in hand.

What if I want you back?

"Shephard."

"What if I want you the fuck back? What do I need to