7:27 AM

So much for sleeping in. Of course, he wasn’t surprised. One, he usually got up around six to get ready for work and out the door so he made it to the station by seven. Two, no matter how many times he used the blackout curtains on his days off, they never worked. He could never manage to get past seven thirty, and he was lucky if he even got that close.

Sleep never came effortlessly. He could go to bed at ten and not manage to fall asleep until two—if luck was on his side—and wake up at six on the dot. Most nights he tossed and turned, hoping for a good solid hour of sleep, knowing he wouldn’t get it.

He’d tried it all. Meditation, staying away from caffeine, no alcohol, putting his phone away an hour before bed. Not watching TV. Then he switched gears and tried numbing his mind with alcohol, getting so drunk he’d pass out. Nothing worked. His mind wouldn’t shut off and let him rest.

Not since he got shot ten months ago.

No matter how many times he told himself to move on and forget what happened, he replayed it over and over. What could he have done differently? Why didn’t he call for backup? How could he have been so stupid? Each time, he didn’t see a better answer. He was an idiot for letting Wayne Barten get the jump on him, and it didn’t make a difference what anyone said.

Not that anyone tried to convince him otherwise. Because he didn’t talk about it. He didn’t tell anyone about his struggles. They didn’t inquire, assuming he was okay. Not the sheriff, not his friends. Definitely not his family. His mom and dad would only worry if he said he was having trouble moving on. And Carson, his brother, Bolt hadn’t talked to him in four months, since the last brief call asking if Deke and Charlotte could use his cabin.

But he was good. He was fine. He’d get through this all on his own.

Bolt sat up and flicked his lamp on, welcoming the light and hating it all at the same time. Because it meant he was getting up to start a new day instead of sleeping in like people loved to do on their day off.

No sense in sulking over it. He swept the curtains open, wanting to smile at the sun shining, and settled for a short grin that lasted a few seconds. A shower came next and then breakfast.

Eggs and toast with a large cup of black coffee. Quitting caffeine for three weeks had been tough. To make up for it now, he drank as much as wanted as strong as he wanted.

He had no plans for his day off. A beautiful sunny Saturday in late July. It’d be hot and humid again. Maybe he’d run down by the lake and then take a swim. He grabbed his coffee mug from the table, put his dirty plate in the sink, and refilled his mug. It felt like a two-cup kind of day.

He’d gone to bed around midnight after bingeing a few episodes of the latest crime show he was watching, barely catching any sleep. Typical night for him. With his insomnia, he didn’t mind working late into the evening or being on call more than Pepper. She had Seth to go home to. He had no one. It didn’t bother him to keep his energy and time focused on work. Living in such a small town—and a small county—they didn’t get a lot of late-night calls to respond to a crime in progress, a disturbance, or someone needing help.

Of course, in the past four months, since the last showdown with the Cheetah gang, things had settled down. They’d found all the bunkers on Mr. Barten’s residence and shut them down. No more drugs running in and out of Lucky. Brett Nelson, one of the Cheetahs who tried to kill Charlotte and Deke, died a month ago. He’d lain in a coma for three solid months before his neurological signs deteriorated. His sister made the difficult decision to pull the plug. Nobody was sad about it in his circle. As far as Bolt knew, Brett’s sister wasn’t that heartbroken about it either. She’d seemed irritated she had to fly out to Minnesota to even acknowledge her brother. Odd family dynamics, although Bolt wasn’t going to judge. He didn’t have the best relationship with his brother either.

Mr. Barten was still sitting on drug charges and looking at serious time. Bolt didn’t think he’d be getting off. It was only a matter of time before his trial finally came and he was found guilty and sentenced. And his only remaining son, Evan, pled guilty to aiding and abetting when he tried to lead everyone to their deaths on Brett’s orders. Being his first arrest—and his reason behind it to help save his girlfriend—the judge went easy on him. Gave him one-year probation and thirty hours of community service. Evan was still around, running the only garage in town, yet not many people were friendly with him anymore. Especially not Seth, his former best friend.

Life was back to normal—for everyone else.

Bolt felt stuck in limbo. Locked in his own personal hell that he had created. If he hadn’t been careless and gotten shot, he wouldn’t be where he was now—trapped in his own personal hell.

He took his mug outside to the porch and sat in the old rocker his grandfather had built. Solid and sturdy. Just like the man himself. He had passed away three years ago, and it hit everyone in the family hard. He’d like to think him most of all, but he knew Carson had also been close to their grandfather. Back then, they talked. Acted like brothers.

The light breeze brushed over him, soothing in a way, until it disappeared and the already high temps saying hello rushed in and attacked him. Yep. It was going to be a scorcher today. Since he woke up so damn early, it’d be better if he got his run over with before the day was too hot to handle.

He finished his coffee, changed into his running outfit, locked up, and jaunted down the steps, heading down his driveway. He lived on the outskirts of town, nestled in the woods. Long driveway, no close neighbors. Plenty of privacy. He had to drive about a quarter mile of dirt road from the main road before he hit his driveway. From there, the main road leading into town could be found. About another half-mile down that road was a nice lake. That’s usually where he ran. No need to drive, and it was a great workout. From his house to the lake and then circling it, then back to his house, it was about two miles overall. He loved the sweat that rolled down his neck and back. The ache in his muscles. The feeling that he was strong enough, powerful enough to make the run. In the beginning, after recovering from the gunshot wound, it had been pure hell. Intense torture he’d never dealt with before. But he persevered. He worked hard to get stronger, to get even better than his former self had been.

Getting shot had taken more out of him than just his ability to sleep. It had knocked him down completely. Mentally and physically. He’d never let anyone get the jump on him again. And he hadn’t. He took charge when Joshua Barten—Wayne’s half-brother—tried to kill Danny and Kat in the cabin. Bolt didn’t hesitate to fire his weapon. He took a life with one squeeze of a trigger. He figured he should be struggling with that too. But nope. He wasn’t that sorry Joshua Barten was dead. He’d been a bad guy with no morals. He had tried to hurt Bolt’s friends. He’d never feel sorry for saving his friends.

He hit the road and turned right toward the lake. Left would’ve taken him to town. He didn’t get very far before he saw an old beat-up yellow car sitting on the side of the road with the hood up and the finest legs he’d seen in a long time.

The woman peeking under the hood wore shorts so short, it showcased her asscheeks in a very arousing way. She had on a bright-pink tank top and white flip-flops with silver rhinestones covering the threads. And long blonde hair that trailed down her back and on her shoulders in gentle waves. When she turned at the sound of his feet hitting the ground, oh, boy. He nearly tripped in his stride. High cheekbones. Lovely red lips. And green eyes that sucked him right in. Those eyes pulled him in so hard, he knew he’d do anything for her. All she had to do was say the word.

The woman was drop-dead gorgeous and not from around these parts. He would’ve remembered seeing her somewhere for sure. Not necessarily would’ve talked to her, but he would’ve taken a second look. Or three. Or four or five or as many as he could without her noticing. Bolt wasn’t one to chat up women. Talk about fumbling every single time.

He slowed down, breathing heavily, and stopped in front of her.

“Car trouble?”

Well, no, shit. He was a deputy, for goodness’ sake. Figuring crimes out was part of his forte. It didn’t take a genius to figure out she was having problems. He couldn’t believe he said that, although wasn’t surprised. Women had never been his strong suit. He either got tongue-tied or said the stupidest shit. People didn’t think he was the best deputy, and they knew he wasn’t smooth with the ladies either. He was a joke. To everyone.

“Yeah, it started smoking and making this weird…” She made a funny face and then laughed. “I don’t know. It sounded like it was dying. And I think it did. Because it won’t start now. I stopped when it started smoking, but maybe I should’ve kept going until I hit town. If I’m close to it, that is?”

She looked hopeful, yet defeated.

He nodded, smiling. “About five more miles and you would’ve been driving down Main Street in Lucky. But it’s better you didn’t keep driving with it smoking like that. Want me to take a look? Not that I’m a super huge car expert, but…” He shrugged. He didn’t want to make it seem like he knew better than her. Some women didn’t like that—men acting all superior and macho and like they had to save the world.

She waved a hand toward the hood, a smile in her eyes. Good sign he hadn’t offended her.

Yeah, he really wasn’t a car expert at all. But the engine looked old with cracks here and there. It was still smoking, and the fact it wouldn’t start didn’t bode well. He plopped to the ground and took a look under the car. Yep. Not good at all. Oil was leaking from below.

He stood back up. “There’s already oil pooling on the ground. I think your engine went kaput.”

“Kaput?” She frowned. “Like, you don’t mean died? Like never going to work ever again kind of kaput?”

He winced. “I’m not a mechanic, so I can’t say for sure, but everything you told me, with the oil on the ground says it’s an engine problem. That’s never good. I can give you the number to the garage in town and they can tow it for you.”

She bit her bottom lip. “Can you call them for me? You’ll be able to explain things better anyway.”

“Yeah, sure.” Bolt tilted his lips into an easy grin, hoping to ease her discomfort. He knew it didn’t work by the severe frown still puncturing her beautiful face as she stared at the engine.

He pulled out his phone from where it was strapped around his forearm and dialed Barry’s Garage. Now Evan’s after Barry was murdered and left it to him, but he hadn’t changed the name yet. Bolt had no idea if he intended to. Not that he ever planned to ask.

He said a short hello to Evan when he answered, offered a rundown of the problems, and then threw another optimistic smile toward the woman.

“He’ll be here shortly.”

She shoved her hands in her back pockets, which thrust her boobs toward him, making him take notice. Hell, he was a man and couldn’t help but look, especially when she made such a movement as if daring him to.

He could feel his cheeks burning as he looked around, trying to get his mind off how beautiful she was and how much he wanted to kiss her. He’d never had such a strong reaction to a woman before. It was odd. Sure, he’d look and envision things, but not this hardcore. Not to the point where he could feel himself getting hard by one simple look at her boobs pointing directly at him as if she wanted him to touch them.

“So, Bolt, is it? Like the movie with that dog and little girl.”

He met her gaze once again. Wow. He was fantasizing about kissing her breathless and his cock getting so hard it was so damn painful, and she had to compare his name to a kid’s movie.

This was why he didn’t date much. Women never saw him as more than a pathetic loser.

Copyright © 2023 Amanda Siegrist.

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