Lori Armstrong - No Mercy

“No.” I gripped his forearm. “John-John will freak out and blame himself.”

“Maybe he should. It ain’t right, letting a pretty woman wander out here alone at night. He don’t have the most trustworthy customers.”

“Except you, apparently.”

Trey grinned. “He should’ve asked me to escort you to your truck. It would’ve been the high point of my night.”

I blinked. “You flirting with me, Cowboy Trey?”

“Yeah. Is it getting me anywhere with you?”

I didn’t answer. I felt too crappy to flirt back.

Encouraged, he scooted closer. He plucked a piece of dried grass out of one of my braids. “You’re in no shape to drive home, Mercy.” Trey stood, stuck his hands out, and jerked me to my feet.

The second I was vertical… hello, vertigo. I fell right into him.

“Come on. My rig is over here. I’ll take you home.”

“You know where I live?”

“Everyone knows where you live.”

I frowned at his odd comment. He helped me into the passenger’s side of his truck.

Next thing I knew, Trey shook me awake. I sat up, as stiff as if I’d suddenly developed arthritis. Even after a short nap my head felt like a cannonball teetering on my shoulders. I squinted at the darkened windows of the kitchen. Would it have killed Sophie to leave a light on?

On the porch, Trey said, “Key for the door?”

I snorted. “Please. Like everybody else in this county, we don’t lock the door.”

“Makes it easy. Whoa. Steady. Where is your room?”

“Upstairs. The one in the far left corner.”

“I’d offer to carry you-”

“Not necessary.”

We trudged up the stairs, Trey following behind me in case I fell backward. I insisted on stopping in the bathroom first, where I downed two codeine-laced Tylenol I’d hoarded for emergencies. With the way my head screamed, this qualified.

I stretched out on the bed. The last thing I remembered was giggling as Trey pulled off my boots.

The mattress jiggled. I cracked one eye open at a time. Bright sunlight burned through the blinds, creating a cockeyed pattern across the patchwork pillow. I raised my gaze.

And saw a naked man roll out of my bed.

Holy cow. A muscled back and an excellent backside were inches from my face. The second I saw those lean hips swivel, my eyes snapped shut. As much as I wanted to see the front side of his body, I was too embarrassed to look.

“Mercy? You awake?”

I groaned. What had I done last night? I rolled over. Looked down at what I was almost wearing: a white lace camisole that doubled as a bra and my bikini panties with big red lips and the words kiss my ass printed everywhere. “What time is it?”

“Almost eight.”

Clothes rustled. I peeked over to see Trey sliding wrinkled jeans over his smoothly muscled naked ass. “At the risk of sounding like an idiot, what happened last night after we came up here?”

“My ego is crushed you don’t remember.”

I think I stopped breathing.

“Just kidding.” He gave me the million-dollar smile that’d so thoroughly charmed me last night before I’d knocked back a hundred shots. “Nothing happened. You undressed yourself to what you’re wearing now. I bunked down with you because you were really out of it.”

Passed out next to a strange man. In my own bed. Yeah, I’d taken stupidity to a whole new level. I kept it light; wasn’t his fault I was an idiot. “Sorry you had to babysit me.”

“It’s all right. Wish it’d turned out different. Maybe next time it will.”

Flattering, that he wasn’t scared off by my haggard morning appearance. So why in the light of day did his megawatt smile seem forced?

“You want me to run you back to Clementine’s so you can get your truck?”

“If it’s not too much trouble. Let me hop in the shower first. I’ll meet you downstairs.” I snagged my robe and made a beeline for the bathroom.

Clean, dressed, and in need of caffeine, I was in fairly decent spirits considering the knot throbbing on the back of my neck and a hangover… until I realized I’d sent Trey downstairs without warning him about Sophie.

Crap. I wouldn’t have put it past Sophie to whack him over the head with the cast-iron frying pan and tie him up with the clothesline cord before asking questions.

But the kitchen was empty. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee lingered in the air. I’d sort of expected Trey to be sitting at the table, patiently waiting for me. I peeked into the living room.

The toilet flushed, the old pipes rattled, and the bathroom door creaked open. Sophie stepped out in a cloud of rose-scented air freshener and frowned at me. “What?”

“Ah. Have you seen-”

“If you’re looking for that young feller, I think he’s out by the barn.”

I refused to blush. Dammit. I was a thirty-eight-year-old woman. This was my house. I would not feel guilty for having an overnight male guest in my own house. I blurted, “Nothing happened.”

She rolled her eyes, clucked her tongue, and shuffled to the sun porch.

Back in the kitchen, the screen door slammed as I filled my coffee cup. I turned around as Trey trooped into the kitchen with Sheriff Dawson trailing behind him.

I managed not to choke on the hot liquid. What was Dawson doing here at eight thirty in the morning?

“Good. The coffee’s done.” Trey sauntered over, snagged a cup from the rack, and poured, acting like he’d been in my kitchen dozens of times. He glanced over at Dawson. “Sheriff?”

“No,” Dawson said curtly. “I didn’t come here to drink coffee.”

“So why did you darken my doorstep this morning?”

His hard gaze zoomed from me, to Trey, and back to me. “Because when I drove past Clementine’s this morning, I noticed your truck was still in the parking lot. I wanted to make sure everything was all right and you made it home okay.”

Trey and I exchanged a quick look. I didn’t give a crap if Dawson misread it. “Thanks for your concern, but as you can see I’m fine.”

When Dawson continued to stare, I bristled. “Is there something else you need, Sheriff?”

“The other reason I stopped by was to ask you some questions about what we talked about last night.”

“Refresh my memory. Some things from last night are a little fuzzy.” I smiled coyly at Trey. I didn’t care if Dawson misread that look either. “And some things not so much.”

“Fuzzy from too much to drink?”

“No, fuzzy from someone smacking me in the back of the head with a tire iron.”

Dawson was by my side in two steps. “Where were you hit?”

“Forget it.”

“Like hell. Where?”

“On the left side of my neck.”

“Let me see.”

The words fuck off danced on the end of my tongue. I bit them back and angled my neck so he could look.

Dawson’s dry fingers lightly traced the swollen spot. I withheld a shiver at his touch. “Did someone look at this?”

“No.”

“When did it happen?”

“About half an hour after you went into the back room.”

“Why didn’t you report this?” Dawson’s gaze lasered into me. “I was right there in the bar.”

“After you made a big point of telling me you were off duty?”

His mouth tightened. “I’m on duty now.”

“I’ll go get the truck ready,” Trey said, and vanished.

What a little chickenshit.

Dawson pointed to a chair. “Park it. I want to talk to you.”

I sat.

“Last night you talked about digging for answers in the Yellow Boy case. I’m here to ask you to stay out of it.”

“Why?”

“A number of reasons.”

“Give me two.”

“First off, I’m not convinced this is a homicide. The county coroner’s report was inconclusive as to the nature of death. But she’s tagging it as accidental.”