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“I promise not to try to figure you out too much,” he said, but it came out hoarse.
“Yeah, right. If there’s one thing detectives hate, it’s figuring stuff out.”
He paused, waiting for her to go on—hoping she’d keep talking. He loved the sound of her voice. A low alto, sexy as fuck.
Ronan shoved the thought aside. Stop it, Ronan. Stop it.
He really was an asshole. A stalker—Paddy had known that from the moment he realized Ronan had been inside the club. He should have told his partner that Waylon was the reason he’d started frequenting The Velvet Cage.
The brass had refused a search warrant, refused Ronan’s request for cameras. The chief had told him to leave it alone. But Ronan didn’t trust Waylon with the vulnerable woman in his charge—Waylon sniffed out weakness like a wolf hunting prey. Paddy would have understood that.
But Ronan also had a more selfish reason for going to the club: When he didn’t, he dreamed about Jenny. If he was lucky, her legs were wrapped around him, his dick buried deep inside her while she moaned his name. But it was the dreams where he saw her running from some unnamed assailant, her eyes wide with terror, that drove him back to The Velvet Cage. Could Mercer’s death be a part of what his gut had been trying to tell him for months?
Maybe. But good intentions weren’t enough to make you a good man. He’d do well to remember that.
“Why did you protect me?” he asked. “You told my partner that I wasn’t in the club. I assume you did that because you thought I might get into trouble for being there.”
“Turn left here,” she said, and he obliged. Was she avoiding the question? But then she said, “I mean… you protected me too. You didn’t say anything about the blood on my hands. I hope that means you believe me—I only touched him to see if he was alive.”
“I do believe you,” he said. But only about not being the one to stab that blade between his ribs. Whether she was an accomplice or just lying to protect someone else, she knew who had done this—he could feel it in his bones. She just didn’t trust him enough to tell him.
“I’m sorry if I overstepped,” she said quietly. “I just didn’t want you to get into trouble. I… like you. I mean, more than the other men at the club.”
“You like me, huh?” He chuckled, but the words heated his chest. “Is that why you didn’t know my name?”
“As you can probably imagine, talking to customers, let alone asking their names, is frowned upon. It can be dangerous.”
“Do you think I’m dangerous?”
Jenny blinked. Swallowed hard. Then averted her gaze, which was answer enough.
“Thank you for trying to help me,” he said. “Sincerely. And just so you know, I’m not a monster like the other men you probably deal with. I just want to help.”
But they all said that. His father had told his mother the same thing, but he didn’t care about her one bit so long as she kept quiet and did as she was told. If she got mouthy, he sent a courier to supply her with heroin. She hadn’t been safe until someone had murdered the man.
Jenny straightened, then pointed to a rambling building on the left side of the road. “This is it. Just take the path around. Room 314.”
He blinked at the sign—Broadway Lodge—then pulled in and followed the path to the lot, a crumbling square of pavement surrounded by a U-shaped building on three sides and a thatch of pine trees on the fourth. Nowhere near Broadway. Not even close to a proper lodge.
“You live in a motel?”
She shrugged. “It’s safer.”
Safer? Ronan scanned the building, the flimsy glass that wouldn’t withstand a fist, the doors that would burst open at the first kick. Dark back here, too—only a single streetlamp which stuck from the center of the lot like a needle.
He stopped in front of room 314 and slid the car into park, then turned to meet her eyes. “Who are you running from, Ms. Crandall?”
He probably should have asked her directly six months ago. Maybe then Jason Mercer would still be alive.
Her gaze locked on his, unwavering and unreadable. That was disconcerting. His entire career hinged on reading the thoughts of others, but with Jennifer Crandall, he was completely in the dark. And there was a part of him that… liked that.
The silence stretched. He opened his mouth to say something else, ask again what she was running from, or perhaps to ask how he might help.
But she raised her hand to his shoulder and squeezed. “Thanks for the ride, Detective.”
Ronan finally found his voice. “You have my card. Call if you remember anything pertinent.” He wanted to tack on or if you need help…
But she was already gone.