Page 22 of Rags's Awakening
When Curtis returned, he set the book on the counter, saying, “Raven said you’d find this interesting. She’s got quite an affection for stories about the dead.”
Casey gave a small laugh, trying to break the strange gravity in his voice. “Yeah, she mentioned you two took a drive out to Silver Plume last month. She said you toured the old hotel there?”
“Yes.” His eyes lifted to hers, muddy, unblinking, with a calm so still it felt unnatural. “It’s a place that remembers things. Some of them not fondly.”
The words hung between them. Casey’s fingers tightened around the book’s cover. She wasn’t sure if he meant it as a joke.
“Right,” she said, forcing a light tone. “I’m looking forward to spending the night with the stories.” A nervous chuckle spilled from her lips.
Curtis didn’t answer. He slipped the book into a paper bag with the same care he might handle a relic. Then he looked up and held her gaze. “Raven will be glad you stopped in… she worries about you.”
That caught her off guard.What the hell is this weirdo talking about?
Casey blinked. “Raven’s worried about me? She’s never said anything to me.”
“Of course, she wouldn’t.”
For a long minute they stood staring at each other. Then Curtis nodded once. “About you being alone,” he said, voice low. “With everything that’s been happening.”
The words landed like a cold drop down her spine. She knew exactly what he meant. Hell, anyone in town would have known. The news hadn’t let anyone forget the murders that had haunted the town in the past few weeks. Two women, all dark-haired, all local. Theories bloomed like weeds on every street corner, whispered between friends in the bakery line, murmured at stoplights and dinner tables. Casey had tried not to let it get to her, but sometimes the stillness of her townhouse at night made her skin crawl.
“She’s sweet to think of me,” she said, trying to keep her tone even.
“She cares deeply,” Curtis said, studying her in that detached way of his, his brown eyes steady, unreadable. “She said youreminded her of one of the actresses she used to work with, the same sharp cheekbones… and that beautiful dark hair.”
Casey felt the back of her neck prickle.
Curtis slid the bagged book across the counter, his pale fingers brushing the paper. “Be careful, Casey,” he whispered. “Some people are drawn to what’s dark and striking. They can’t help themselves.”
For a moment, the only sound was the low hum of the heater and the faint hiss of incense burning itself out.
“Okay, then…,” she murmured, clutching the bag. “Thanks for holding this for me. I’ll see you around.”
He gave the smallest nod, but his eyes didn’t leave her until she opened the door. The bell chimed faintly as a rush of mountain air swept in, scattering the incense smoke and carrying a flurry of leaves across the floor. She stepped out into the bright, cold afternoon and drew a deep breath.What does Raven see in him? He’s so damn odd.
Casey pulled the door shut behind her, and started down Main Street toward her office, her encounter with Curtis still clung to her, gnawing at her nerves with a cold, quiet dread she couldn’t shake.
The low rumble of a motorcycle reverberated off the brick walls of the storefronts, blending into the hum of the street. The sound gripped her before she even saw him, the vibration running straight through her chest. Her pulse jumped, confusion giving way to something sharper, warmer.
Even before she spotted him, she knew who it was—Chase. She recognized the easy command of the handlebars, the tilt of his head, the unhurried confidence that made him seem fused to the machine as he glided past the storefronts. When he came fully into view, sunlight flashed off the chrome and the light brown sweep of his hair, and for a heartbeat, everything else faded.
Excitement surged through her before she could stop it.Don’t stare. Keep walking. So, it’s him. Big deal.But her eyes refused to listen, staying locked on him. He was all power and ease, a man who carried danger the way others carried charm, and damn it all, it looked good on him. She chewed her bottom lip.He’s so good-looking.The sharp cut of his jaw, the strength in his shoulders, the way his hands moved on the handlebars with casual command all sent a flicker of heat through her.
Her mind pulled up the image of Clara, and how he was with her, his softened expression, the affection in his eyes. It had been real. There was warmth in him somewhere, buried beneath the roughness.And that makes him even more dangerous.
Because she knew men like him. She’d loved one once. A biker with a smile that could melt a woman’s reason and lies that could hollow her out. He’d promised Casey forever and left her with nothing but broken edges. She’d clawed her way back from that wreckage, rebuilt herself piece by piece, and sworn she’d never fall again.
And yet here she was, heart racing, breath unsteady, drawn to Chase like a moth to a flame.
He slowed as he passed, the engine purring low, his face shadowed by the dark lenses of his sunglasses. For a heartbeat, she could have sworn his gaze found hers. Heat flared through her fast, reckless, and traitorous. Then he was gone, the sound fading down the street, leaving her heart thudding too fast.
Casey drew in a steadying breath and forced her feet to move. All at once, the street hummed with life again. Shop doors opened, laughter spilled from a small bistro, and a gust of wind lifted the edges of a banner strung across Main Street readingFall Festival: Next Weekend.
By the time she reached her office her breathing had steadied, but her thoughts hadn’t. She unlocked the door,stepped inside, and inhaled the familiar scent of paper, coffee, and the faint trace of her favorite cinnamon candle.
Casey placed her purse on the desk, the brown paper sack from Black Moon Hollow beside it. For a long moment she just stood there, staring at it, her thoughts drifting between Curtis’s cold stare and Chase’s shadowed eyes, between chill and heat, dread and desire. Then she exhaled, sat down, slipped the book from the bag, and opened it. At this point she’d do anything to silence the echo of that engine and the dangerous longing it had left behind.
The book’s cover was matte black, the title embossed in silver:Ghosts of the High Country.The writing was straightforward, almost journalistic, but something in the tone unsettled her, a detached fascination with how the dead left their mark on the living.
