Clusterf*@k (Life Sucks Book 4) Read online

  Especially on her side of downtown.

  The restaurants—a couple of which even stayed open until nearly ten (gasp!)—were on the opposite end of Main Street. Tangled closed most nights at six, sometimes seven if she had a class, and her end of downtown was retail, most of which closed at five. Not to mention, the space next door had been empty for quite a while.

  All that to say, it wasn’t exactly hopping when she got out of her car.

  She dug into her purse for her keys then tugged them out, unlocking the door to the shop and pushing inside before closing it and flicking the dead bolt behind her. Leaving the lights off, for fear of drawing attention (or Mrs. Hutchinson happening to drive by and seeing her inside), Mist moved into the back room, snagged her clipboard from the hook on the wall, and started going through her stores.

  First the yarn, noting which of her most popular blends she was low on, which she was out of altogether (only one variety, since she tended to be an over-orderer, but she’d had a new client come in and clear her out on a gorgeous periwinkle merino blend to crochet a blanket for her grandmother). The yarn was always the most fun—she loved feeling it, stroking it, working with it—but the rest of the items (needles, hooks, baskets—and Chance would probably find that hilarious, considering what he thought of her basket obsession—patterns, scissors, and more) were also fun to order.

  She liked to stock the basics, but it also fed her soul to order colorful, pretty items that she knew her customers would love as much as she did.

  Case in point, a bedazzled crochet hook—size seven—and a bright purple knitting basket with hedgehogs on it.

  One, sparkles.

  Two, hedgehogs. Was there a cuter animal on the planet?

  Convince her otherwise.

  Ha.

  Maybe a baby platypus or a pangolin.

  But they didn’t have pangolin-printed knitting baskets. Or at least, she hadn’t come across one yet. Though, she did make a mental note to keep an eye out for one. A knitter never knew when she might need a pangolin-printed knitting basket. It was as simple as that.

  Giggling to herself, she made a couple of notes on her clipboard and hung it up.

  She was just pulling out her phone to turn off the audiobook blaring through her earbuds when she heard it.

  Crash.

  One loud enough that she heard it through the rumbling male voice playing on her earbuds. Frowning, she hit pause and the audiobook stopped.

  Then she heard crunching.

  Crunching?

  What the hell?

  She poked her head out the doorway and had to immediately stifle a gasp. There was someone in her shop, and the front door had been shattered.

  It was safety glass.

  It wasn’t supposed to shatter like that.

  But it had.

  And she saw the reason why.

  Fuck. She didn’t dare say the word aloud, not when she saw the tall figure moving toward the register, a baseball held in his hand. The shadows were thick, and she was cursing herself for not having turned the lights on, risk of Mrs. Hutchinson or not.

  She’d take the surly old bat over a baseball bat any day of the week.

  The figure—she made a guess by the shape of the body—appeared male, though she couldn’t see his face, and she supposed he could be a slender, tall female. But there was something about the way he moved that screamed man.

  Then he made it to the register, trying to force open the drawer and growling in a voice that was definitely male, and her suspicions were reinforced.

  A man. Probably almost six feet. Slender though. She’d guess he was only twenty or thirty pounds heavier than her—so putting him at one-seventy or one-eighty. Enough weight on her that even her Wii Fit Kickboxing classes probably wouldn’t do much to protect herself.

  And protect?

  Fuck, she had her phone in her hand.

  Why wasn’t she calling 9-1-1?

  The door to the storeroom didn’t have a lock, and if she wanted to get out the back door, she’d have to risk moving through the store and by that man with the scary bat.

  A bat he now put to use wailing on the register, still trying to get the drawer open.

  The cash was all locked in the safe.

  He wouldn’t get anything, not that him stealing petty cash was the top of her priorities. Namely, priority one was staying safe and alive and away from that baseball bat.

  So, taking advantage of the noise he was making—and she was cringing at the sound of more shattering—this time of her glass cabinet where the register sat, and the register itself—she carefully shut the door, shoving a chair under the handle, and then shifting some of the heavier boxes next to it. She did this as she dialed the number for emergency services, holding the phone to her ear and whispering who she was and what was happening.

  Hopefully, Stoneybrook being so boring would mean the response time was rapid.

  Was instant.

  Then the storefront went quiet, and she froze, setting down another box she’d been trying to use as a barricade as quietly as possible.

  She flicked off the light, hoping the man on the other side wouldn’t notice the sliver of light disappearing from beneath the door, and darted behind a stack of boxes, trying to cram herself into the shadows behind the old table she had stored there and the extra supplies.

  “…Misty?” came the voice in her ear. “You there?”

  “Yes,” she breathed. “I can’t talk.”

  Because she heard it then.

  Footsteps.

  Coming her way.

  “He’s coming,” she whispered.

  “Police on their way, Misty,” the dispatcher said. “Stay calm.”

  The doorknob rattled.

  “He’s trying to get into the room where I’m at.”

  “Can you get out?”

  A sob hitched in her throat, and she swallowed it down, unwilling to let the sound give her away. “No, I can’t.”

  “Stay hidden, Misty. The police are on their way.”

  The knob stopped rattling and turned. The door started to push open, only to get stuck on the chair.

  Please. Please, God, let it stop him.

  Quiet.

  It went quiet again.

  She released a breath. “I think—”

  The door exploded inward, the chair toppling backward, the boxes scattering. The noise made her jump, a scream lodging in her throat. Then she didn’t have time to do anything.

  The lights flicked on, blinding her for a moment.

  And then the man was in front of her, bat raised.

  Bat…descending.

  She ducked, tried to dodge.

  But she was too slow.

  The world went fuzzy, and she fell to the floor.

  16

  Main Street

  Chance

  He’d forgotten to text Misty.

  He’d gotten his shit done, hit the road, and then had immediately spent the better part of the drive on the phone, dealing with details for his last two remaining cases in Atlanta.

  One, not drug-related but a favor to an old high school friend whose ex-husband was trying to fuck her over on child support payments. He’d gotten the break he needed the night before, his searches turning up plenty of money for those payments to be made, and he had to break the news, email her the information, and then arrange for her to meet the courier he’d set up so she could also bring paper copies of what he’d unearthed to her attorney.

  Two, drug-related but also a favor. This one for a former client whose son was in a bad way, and she wanted to know if he was using.

  He was.

  Which meant that Chance had to break that news and try to do it gently.

  But there wasn’t an easy way to tell a woman who’d been a single mom to three kids, who’d gotten fucked over by her ex-husband, who’d struggled and fought her way to a good life, that her son was an addict and things with him weren’t looking good.

  That c
all had taken a while.

  And after he’d let her cry it out, did his best to comfort her, even though it was fucking difficult to comfort someone over the phone, he’d driven in silence for a bit.

  Then he’d turned on the radio, lost himself in some music.

  Then he’d remembered he was supposed to text Misty.

  By then he’d been forty-five minutes from Stoneybrook and figured he’d surprise her by showing up at her house, and if she wasn’t back from Rob and Soph’s house—where he knew they’d been having dinner together, something that would also be a perk of moving to town, actually getting to see his sister on the regular (and getting to be an awesome uncle to his soon-to-be niece or nephew)—he’d go to Soph’s place and play the role of annoying older brother.

  And then, perhaps he’d play the role of annoying boyfriend, dragging his woman out of there because he missed her after four days and calls and texts weren’t even remotely a good replacement.

  But he didn’t get that far.

  Because as he turned on Main Street to drive by her place, he saw her car was in front of Tangled.

  The damned woman worked too hard.

  So, he’d go in, drag her out, play annoying boyfriend who softened that annoyance by kissing her senseless and promised cinnamon rolls in the morning.

  He pulled into the spot next to hers, turned off the ignition, and got out, his eyes drifting to the door.

  The door.

  Fuck.

  Moving before he fully processed that the door was shattered, glass glittering on the sidewalk, Chance sprinted for the front of the shop. His hand was in his pocket, pulling out his cell, calling 9-1-1.

  The dispatcher picked up.

  He rattled off the situation as he pushed through the door, and then hung up, pulled out his gun, ignoring the woman’s orders to stay outside and that someone had called it in already and police were on the way.

  Mist didn’t have an alarm.

  No one was around.

  If the police were coming, that meant Mist had been scared enough to call 9-1-1—or fuck, he hoped she was okay enough to call because he knew she was smart enough to do it if she wasn’t hurt or—

  Cutting that line of thought off, he moved.

  He wasn’t waiting. He’d proceed cautiously, silently, but not fucking slowly. Not when Misty was in danger. Not a fucking a chance.

  He stepped through the glass on the concrete and littering the nice hardwood floor inside, wincing at the noise. His gaze flicked around the space. The large table where she held her classes was empty and untouched, along with all the wicker baskets on the shelves. Her register and the glass case beneath it were obliterated, computer parts everywhere, pieces of the drawers and case scattered.

  No sign of anyone, however.

  There was a noise in the storeroom, and he immediately shifted that way, gun raised, moving through the shadows, trying to get a glimpse of what was happening.

  He got that glimpse.

  And then promptly lost his shit.

  Or at least, he lost cautious and silent.

  Chance slammed through the door, already half-hanging off its hinges, a wooden chair tossed to one side, its back cracked, one leg missing. There were enough boxes scattered everywhere to tell him that Misty had been scared enough—and smart enough—to try and barricade herself in after she’d called the police.

  Those details he’d noted on a cursory glance as he barreled through the debris, moving across the room with rage boiling beneath his skin.

  That was enough for him.

  Because Misty was cowering in the corner, blood pouring down her face.

  She was conscious, breathing. She was also fucking terrified, one arm above her head, as though to fend off another blow, her other held close to her body and at an odd angle.

  “Open it!” the man screamed, raising the bat.

  “Drop it,” Chance barked, drawing the man’s focus, not willing to risk taking the time to get close enough to disarm the fucker, not when it might mean the man might get another opportunity to take that bat to Misty.

  The man growled, stepped toward Chance, and thankfully away from Misty.

  “Drop the fucking bat,” Chance ordered, keeping his gun raised as he moved closer, as he tried to keep the man’s attention, tried to make sure he wouldn’t swing at Misty again because Chance couldn’t get between them, was too far away to deflect the bat if the intruder tried to hit her again.

  “Fuck you,” the man snapped.

  His eyes were wild.

  His eyes were glassy.

  His eyes were desperate.

  Fuck.

  The man was going to do something stupid.

  And not even a heartbeat after that, the man did do something stupid.

  He swung the bat down. Swung it toward Misty.

  Chance fired. Once. He didn’t aim for the leg or arm. He aimed for the torso. He aimed to take the man down. He aimed…to kill. Because this wasn’t a fucking movie. His woman was bleeding and huddled in the corner, a man who’d already hurt her between them and swinging a bat. She was terrified out of her mind, and this lunatic was responsible for it, wasn’t backing down, was trying to hurt her again.

  So, he did his best to eliminate that threat.

  The man dropped.

  Chance kicked the bat away, holstered his weapon, and turned to face Misty. She was pale, so fucking pale, and her hair was stained bright red, so fucking bright. He moved to take her in his arms, but she skittered back from him, cramming herself back even further into the wall, trying to disappear between the desk and the boxes.

  Fuck.

  He crouched, extended a hand slowly toward her. “It’s me, Cloudless.” She was in a ball, trembling, her stare not seeming to process him. “You’re okay now. I’ve got you.”

  She shook her head.

  He kept an eye on the man behind them. Alive and groaning. Bleeding on Misty’s floor.

  “Fuck,” he whispered.

  Sirens sounded.

  Loud and close.

  “I’m going to touch you, Cloudless. It’s me. It’s Chance.” Slowly, he reached for her, lightly resting his hand on her foot. She jumped. “It’s okay. It’s Chance. I’m here. You’re safe.”

  Finally, she blinked. “Chance?”

  “Yeah, baby.”

  Her eyes filled with tears, and she launched out of the corner, throwing her arms around him. Or at least one arm. The other she immediately dropped to her chest.

  “Careful,” he said, picking her up and angling her away from the man.

  He heard boots in the front room, voices calling out, “Police.”

  “In here,” he called back. “We need an ambulance!”

  Not that he gave a fuck if the asshole who was groaning and bleeding on the floor died, but Misty didn’t need that happening in her shop, and she needed someone to look at her injuries.

  Two officers came through the space, guns drawn, flashlights on, blinding him, fucking with his night vision.

  “Intruder is down, needs medical attention,” he called.

  One officer nodded, moved toward the man.

  The other flicked on the lights to the storeroom, causing them all to blink again, and then made the call for additional responders on his radio.

  “Misty is hurt, needs it, too,” Chance said. “My gun is in my holster at my right hip. I’m Chance Jackson. Licensed P.I. Misty’s boyfriend. ID in my back pocket.”

  The officer who’d flicked on the light came forward and removed Chance’s wallet, took his gun. “Don’t move,” he ordered, staring at Chance’s ID. “What happened?”

  “I saw her car out front. Then the broken door. Came back here, saw the intruder with a bat over her. Tried to get him to back down, but he went to hit her again. I fired once when he tried to hurt her again, and he went down. Wound in the upper torso.”

  A nod.

  The tension the officers had been holding since they’d rushed the storeroom d
issipating slightly.

  “I’m going to run your ID.”

  Misty was shuddering in his arms and too damned pale as she clung to him. “Fine. But I’m taking her outside,” he told them.

  “Don’t go far.”

  Chance nodded then added, “Ambulance doesn’t get here in the next few minutes, I’m driving her to the hospital.”

  That got him a nod in return.

  Then he was moving, blinking as he went back into the dark, navigating through the glass and shattered register pieces and taking Misty to his SUV. He opened the door, sat her on the passenger’s seat then started to tug her arm away from where it was still holding tight, intending to retrieve a blanket from the trunk.

  But when he tried to pull her free, she panicked.

  “No!”

  “I’m not going anywhere, baby,” he murmured, trying to stroke a hand down her hair then immediately stopping upon finding it matted with blood. His temper flared, and he wanted to go back inside and shoot the fucker again. The only thing that was stopping him was the fact that Misty needed him. “I’m just going to grab you a blanket. You’re shaking.”

  “No!” she cried again, clinging to him with one arm, reaching with the other and then jerking it back again, a sound of pain that made his temper rage again.

  It took everything in him to rein it in.

  He gritted his teeth, jaw clenching so tight it felt like the bones would crack.

  Then, instead of arguing with her, he just swept her into his arms again, carried her to the back of his SUV, and hit the button to open the tailgate. He sat there with her in his lap, sliding his arm around her waist, using his other to grab a blanket, fumbling to wrap it around her.

  By the time he got her covered, another cruiser had pulled up, an ambulance on its heels.

  The paramedics ran inside, pushing a stretcher as they went, bags loaded on top.

  Misty was still shivering, her face in his neck, her breaths shuddering.

  He knew she needed to be checked out, needed a doctor or a paramedic or a trip to the ER. But he didn’t think anything was critical and knew that even more than getting that treatment, she needed to be held, to be made to feel safe.