Beautiful Disaster Page 5

  “Thanks. Oh, look at that . . . it’s like the Fourth of July,” she marveled, gazing at the natural spectacle that did dress the night sky in a festive mood.

  He grinned, wondering if she equated everything to a holiday. Surrounded by a pool of light, Flynn could see a relaxed smile on her face. He reached up and brushed back a strand of hair. “You do pretty well for June heat and a helmet.” It surprised him when she didn’t flinch, only a quizzical look. “Your hair. Most people would be a mess after a ride in the heat like that, but look at you . . . you’re beautiful.” He spoke casually, as if commenting on the weather, reaching around for the knapsack he’d retrieved from his bike. “It’s a little late for straight soda. Mind if I freshen up mine?” She shrugged and he felt her curious stare on him as he took out a flask-size bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Having emptied half the can he skillfully poured about a third as much bourbon into it.

  “No sense in drinking alone.” Mia held out her can, waiting for her share.

  “No way. I’m afraid it’s straight soda for you. I’m just going to have this one for the road, then I’m taking you home.”

  “Well, that seems unfair; you’re the one who’s driving, not me.”

  He hesitated, then nodded. “You’re right,” he said, putting the can aside. “Besides, I’ve seen what a few drinks do to you. Maybe Roxanne was right to be concerned.” But the bottle of Jack Daniel’s stayed in his hand. He was thinking that getting her really drunk would be a fast ticket to every smarmy fantasy that was rolling through his head and over her. But his mind kept curving all the way around, full circle, envisioning the way she’d look at him later.

  “Mmm, I suppose I’ve given her reason in the past. I’ve made my share of bad choices.”

  “Who hasn’t?”

  Mia didn’t hesitate. “Roxanne, for one.” The smile went away.

  “Yeah? What the hell brought you to that conclusion?” He laughed but stopped short, suddenly tangled in her serious expression, wanting to know why Roxanne got to pass on human error.

  “Not everybody gets Roxanne, that’s for sure. You can’t. Not unless you know the whole story.”

  “The whole story,” Flynn parroted, sure that any story about Roxanne centered on a scarring, unsuccessful bid for prom queen, or maybe a bad hair day.

  “Roxanne may come off as bossy and abrasive—”

  “May come off . . . ?” he said, cocking a brow. “I’ve known drill sergeants who were less tightly wound.”

  Mia laughed. “Well, I wouldn’t know anything about that. But trust me,” she said, “Roxanne’s attitude isn’t without reason.” She stopped, looking him over. “Let me ask you something. Are you exactly what you appear, for the reasons people assume?”

  And there she was, right under his skin again. But having been the one to pursue the topic, Flynn felt obligated to answer. “Um, no,” he said softly, “I suppose not. It’s more about getting from one day to the next—the assumptions just aren’t worth my time.”

  “Funny, I could say the same thing about Roxanne.” A curious glance rocked between them, and Mia smiled. “Circumstance elevated life to a whole different level for her. Every day is about succeeding, protecting the people around her. That’s a tough job,” Mia said. “No margin for error.”

  And that much he could relate to. Considering his own margin for error, Flynn picked up his drink and forced a single gulp down his throat. But it was the seriousness in Mia’s voice that spurred him on. “So what happened to taint somebody so young and—admittedly—beautiful?”

  “It didn’t happen to Roxanne. Well, not directly,” Mia said, taking the flask, pouring some into her can before he could protest. “Her older sister . . . Rory.” He watched as Mia’s thumb rolled through the condensation, hesitating, maybe deciding if he was worthy of her confidence. Drawing in a shallow breath, she sipped the drink, her gaze panning the night sky. Mia turned and looked at him. “It’s a very long story,” she said, “and not really mine to tell.” Clear code for it was none of his business; clearer still was her loyalty to a friend. “Let’s just say because of Rory, watching for the train wreck is what Roxanne does.”

  “I see,” Flynn said, guessing Rory must have slammed headlong into it. “So I suppose that makes me your train wreck.” The sound of soft, throaty laughter surprised him, gliding through the steamy night air. Mia shook her head, her long hair swaying back and forth as her eyes fluttered over him. It made his breath tremble and his insides go gooey in some way he hadn’t thought about since the eighth grade.

  “I don’t know, Flynn. So far, you’re just a guy who wanted to have a drink. It’s not a crime; it’s hardly cause for concern. Roxanne overreacted—I get that. Actually, the two of you are rather straightforward. It’s my motivation that’s less clear. I bet her that I could get you to buy me that drink . . . knowing of course you would. I brought you here, put myself in this position, and can’t figure out for the life of me why I did any of it. Well, other than to step away from an average existence. And that, I think you’ll agree, is not a great reason to take off with a stranger on his motorcycle.” She tipped her chin to the moonlight, turning her concentration to smaller things, like the universe. “You want the truth? If you kissed me right now, I wouldn’t be the least bit offended. Oh, I might slap your face—good posturing, you know? But I really wouldn’t mind.”

  His mouth turned down slightly. Flynn wasn’t sure what to make of her declaration, but he was fairly certain he didn’t want to get slapped. “That’s a lot to think about. But right now, I’ll let you finish your drink. I’m more sweaty pavement than skin. I’m going to take a quick shower.” He hopped down off the table and went inside, leaving the door open, leaving Mia to make her own choice.

  Mia sipped the drink. The bourbon slid down much easier when sugared up with a can of Coca-Cola. Her bulleted reasons for going with him didn’t include everything. Yes, it may have been reckless, a knee-jerk reaction to Roxanne’s control, but it wasn’t all impulse. She was drawn to him in a way that didn’t seem normal, but all the same felt quite natural. It struck her even before he approached, when she crossed the street downtown. She had smiled at him but wasn’t sure he’d noticed. There were all the obvious signs: the dangerous look, the hard liquor, the hard life—which he hadn’t mentioned yet, but Mia was certain it was there. It was a rare, combustible attraction, disturbing and beautiful, like that unexpected heat lightning illuminating a black, cloudless sky. At the time she thought that was all there was to it. The risky stranger on the bench, he hardly fit within the guidelines of her safe existence. But Mia felt a need to dig in when Roxanne balked; it wasn’t her choice to make.

  Before Mia realized she’d been thinking and walking, she was back inside his room. Her heart was the only muscle left moving; the rest of her stood there, wide-eyed and frozen, knowing it was somewhere she shouldn’t be. As Mia noted on her first trip through, the room was what she expected: cheap furniture, two double beds, no air-conditioning. She wondered what drove him to such a rogue existence, to spend day after endless day riding cross-country only to end up in a place like this. Timidly, she peeked toward the bathroom, where the water had just stopped running. She closed the door, but not quite all the way, in case there was need for a fast getaway. Of course, where would she go? No doubt the desk clerk had lapsed into a sugar-induced coma by now, as if he was any use in the first place. Mia molded her body tight to the wall, thinking maybe he wouldn’t even notice her and she could observe him, the proverbial fly on the wall. She took another gulp of her drink. Fine thing about whiskey, it always came with a shot of courage. Or stupidity.

  A waft of steam was the first thing out of the bathroom, followed by Flynn, wearing a pair of fresh jeans, towel drying a thick wavy mane that grazed the edge of his shoulders. She never really thought about long hair on a guy, not in that way. On him it was fascinating.

  “Well, if you aren’t the last person I expected to find in here.” He glanced a
t her, continuing to go about his business. “I would have figured on our friendly desk clerk puttin’ a chocolate on my pillow before you showed up.”

  “Yeah, funny, I was just thinking about him too.” Her eyes followed Flynn across the room, staring hard, as if he’d just invented nakedness. He was a mesmerizing mix of bathwater and clean sweat; a window fan blew a steady, hot breeze at him. There was no boy in him—he was decidedly different from what she was used to seeing around campus, not a thing left to fill out or grow into . . . all man. Flynn draped the thin white towel around his neck, hanging on to either end, his lanky muscles flexing the expected tattoo on his upper arm. It distracted her momentarily. Mia tilted her head, trying to place the shape. Some military emblem, she guessed. An angry looking scar zigzagged across his left shoulder, and she wondered, bar brawl or jilted lover? Her eyes gravitated to his bare chest and she caught herself staring just as he caught her looking. The heat rose in her face and her focus flicked away. He just took a shower. It’s a hundred degrees. What did you expect, long johns? Flynn reached for a black leather saddlebag. Mia’s breath was on hold, and she sighed louder than she meant to when a benign white T-shirt emerged and he slipped it over his head.

  “Would you like to search it?” he asked, making contact with her stark eyes, tipping the bag in her direction.

  “Search it?”

  “Yeah, are we having a language problem again?”

  “Language . . . Oh, I . . . No, I don’t want to search it.” Yes, I do, but that would be rude. “Besides, you were a Marine, right? You can probably hurt somebody just as easily with your bare hands.”

  The remark was intended to ease the tension, but his face went dark and distant. With a glare of agitation, far different from the one he’d used with the desk clerk, Flynn came toward her. Mia’s breath halted halfway between in and out, making it impossible to speak . . . or scream. His hands hit with a thud against the knotty paneling on either side of her head. Escaping through the solid wall seemed more likely than getting past him. She was trapped. It appeared the train wreck was imminent. Soft blue eyes turned steely as they met with hers, and she blinked hard at him. But the sound of his voice was quiet and sure.

  “I would never ever hurt another human being like that. Know that much.” His hands dropped from the wall, and he sulked across the room, picking up his drink. He stood with his back to her, finally speaking over his shoulder. “If you’re ready, which I’m sure you are, I’ll take you home now.”

  Mia peeled herself from the wall and tried to speak, but nothing would come. Instead she walked over and lightly pressed her palm to his broad back. His body grew rigid as her hand made contact and his head snapped to attention. “Flynn . . . I’m sorry about whatever happened to . . . Well, I’m sorry.”

  This time the shaky breath was his. As he turned, his fingers reached up and traced the outline of her cheekbone. His hands, they were the opposite of her skin, uncared for and rough. But his touch was gentle, like butterfly wings, and oddly Mia found herself at ease. What is that? In his face, his eyes, something I can see . . . but don’t understand. Something completely removed from her average existence. Mia fought a rush of involuntary tears—relief that evidently he wasn’t going to kill her, compassion for what she saw in his face. He started to say something. Mia leaned in, poised to listen, but instead found herself drawn into a long, sensuous kiss, and her average existence was over.

  Chapter 6

  Violent pounding erupted over the pre-dawn silence, vibrating through the flimsy walls, knocking a Kmart watercolor to the floor. Flynn leapt from the bed, a shockwave pulsing through him that he hadn’t felt since that drill sergeant blew a whistle in his ear at two a.m. He dove at the door, flinging it open, ready to pounce on whomever or whatever was on the other side. But he was forced to check his anger as his wild-man expression met with a stone-faced sheriff’s deputy.

  “That’s him! Where is she? Where’s Mia?” demanded a voice that was stuck in his head like gum on a shoe.

  “Hold on, Rox. I’ll handle this. Sir, would you step outside please?” Even though he was bare-chested, and the top button on his jeans was undone, Flynn obeyed, pulling the door shut behind him. “We have reason to believe that you were the last person seen with a young woman, Mia Montgomery. Do you know where she is?”

  “Maybe. What’s this all about? Did she do something wrong?”

  “Did she do something wrong? Would you listen to him?” Roxanne ranted, flailing a fist in his direction, so close he had to duck back. She looked damn angry; well, as angry as anyone who looked like her could. Roxanne took a hostile step closer, and the deputy held out an arm to stop her.

  “I’m just wondering, is this an official investigation?” He yawned, still trying to shake off the six a.m. revelry.

  “Would you like it to be? We’re just trying to locate Miss Montgomery. An official missing persons report can’t be filed for forty-eight hours.”

  “Missing persons? Wow, you do go right for the panic button, don’t you?” he remarked, squinting at Roxanne through the early morning light. “She’s in there.” He nudged a bare shoulder toward the door and stepped aside. Roxanne plowed past them into the room. Flynn pushed the door open all the way, inviting the officer inside as well. Then he stood at the end of the bed, his hands shoved in his pockets, marginally concerned about being arrested.

  “Mia, thank God. Are you okay? What did he do to you? What happened?” Roxanne yelled, jostling her a bit, hovering over a body tucked securely under the covers.

  A raspy voice finally croaked from beneath. “Mmm, what’s going on? Roxanne?” Lying facedown, Mia pushed up to her elbows, not comprehending the unfolding scene.

  “Your clothes, Mia. For God’s sake, where are your clothes?” she demanded.

  Mia bent her head forward, fumbling at her chest. She finally flipped over in the bed and pushed the covers back. “On me,” she stated, blinking with wide-eyed confusion. “Roxanne, what are you doing here?”

  “What am I doing here?”

  “Man, for a college town they sure have a lot of language issues,” Flynn said to the deputy, a small smile crossing his lips.

  “Oh, shut up! The fact that her clothes are on proves nothing! Mia, you didn’t call, you didn’t come home. You disappeared with a stranger who looks like a card-carrying member of the Manson family. I called the police. What did you expect me to do?”

  “The police?” Mia questioned, noticing the deputy. “Oh, you mean your cousin. Hi, Bobby.” She waved to him, a yawn spilling out before she could stifle it. The deputy returned the gesture, losing much of his threatening posture in the process. “And I did call you, Rox. Didn’t you get my message?”

  “No, what time did you call?”

  “Late . . . Maybe around two, I guess. When you didn’t pick up I figured you had turned the phone off and went to bed. Flynn and I were talking. It got so late. I guess I fell asleep.” Mia rubbed a hand across her sleepy eyes, finally focusing on him. A terrific smile broke across her face. “Hi.”

  “Hi, yourself. Do you usually draw such a large crowd before breakfast?”

  “Enough!” Roxanne shouted, shooting sharp stares at both of them. “I want to know what happened here.”

  “Mia’s fine. And not that it’s any of your business, but I slept in the other bed,” he said, motioning toward a second set of rumpled sheets. “I wasn’t aware that Mia had to have your permission to—” Flynn started in, but Mia held up a hand to stop him.

  “Like he said, nothing happened. Isn’t that obvious? I’m sorry you were so worried.” Mia pushed the covers back farther and pivoted her legs around. She started to get up, but her head seemed to weigh her down. She drew her hands up to her temples, massaging vigorously. “Do you think we could finish this conversation later? Like maybe after I’ve had a bottle of aspirin and remove the lint from my mouth?”

  Roxanne stood in the center of the room, her arms folded tight across her ch
est, looking as if she might implode. “Fine. Get yourself together and let’s go.” Her eyes darted to Flynn, who was attempting to remain a silent observer. Realizing the situation would not require a crime scene investigation, Roxanne’s sharp tongue took over. “At the very least, Mia, you should have had him vet checked before spending the night.” She opened the door and looked back at Flynn. “Tell me, exactly what is it you’re doing in Athens?”

  He returned the stare, but couldn’t stop the edgy bob of a deep swallow. “I’m auditing a class,” he answered deadpan, stone-faced. “International Relations and Comparative Trade Issues.”

  Roxanne snickered, opening the door wider, waiting for Mia to follow.

  “Flynn, I . . .” Mia started.

  “Mia, it’s okay, go ahead.” Flynn’s eyes and body moved toward his sleeping beauty, blocking out Roxanne and the thunder of unrest she brought. It had been so serene, those hours before. The less said, the better; she was making it ugly enough. The strap of Mia’s camisole slipped off her shoulder. He reached for it, adjusting what he could.

  “Will I . . . Will I see you again?” she asked in a whisper, as if they were a fragile secret.

  “I don’t know. We’ll see.”

  “But last night you said . . .”

  “I know, but last night was before this morning. We’ll see. You’d better go.” He tipped his chin toward Roxanne and cousin Bobby. Mia’s glassy doll’s eyes were full of disappointment, but not nearly as much as his heart.

  Mia ducked into the backseat of the police cruiser, feeling every bit the criminal. She could imagine Roxanne’s panic—albeit a few hours too late, and she never meant to cause such a problem. But there was no point in discussing it, at least not right now. Roxanne was too angry to speak. Mia could tell from the way she sat, stiff in the front seat, thrumming her nails against the console. The last time she was that mad she’d lost a twenty-dollar bet with Henry Wong over who could recite the periodic table of elements faster.