Page 64 of Deadly Blooms (Psychic Unraveled #1)

It wasn’t just a “fuck her and forget her” like the usual. I made love to her— and somehow, that’s a hell of a lot worse. I cracked myself open. Let her in. How the fuck could I be that stupid?

“Son of a bitch!” I yelled, slamming my fist into the seat.

I jabbed the key into the ignition and twisted. The engine sputters once, twice—then nothing.

No. No, no, no.

“You’ve never done this before,” I muttered, flicking the key halfway to listen for the fuel pump. Silence. “Aw, come on— baby, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. You did nothing wrong.” I twisted the key again, listening. “Come on… come on…”

The engine stuttered, and then finally, she growled to life.

I slumped back in the seat, dragging a hand down my face.

“Yes! That’s my girl!” I said breathlessly, hugging the steering wheel like a war hero reunited with his best girl before backing out of the parking lot.

I lived next to the bird sanctuary on Crescent Cove, so the drive home gave me time to cool off.

I shouldn’t have snapped at Shell, but dammit, she pissed me off.

She had no business sticking her nose in like that.

I didn’t ask for her opinion. And even if I had, let’s be real—I wouldn’t have listened.

Apparently, I liked pain the way a dominatrix liked nipple clamps.

Shit.

I parked the truck in front of my shop and stared at the log cabin I called home.

But home didn’t feel like home anymore. Sure, it was tucked away in the woods, secluded from prying eyes, and I liked my privacy.

But it was lonely . I could light a hundred fires in that place and still never feel the warmth I felt when I was with her.

I couldn’t just abandon her because Nettles said I was off the case. She could still be in danger. Christ—was it time? Was I really about to don the metaphorical leather and become the anti-hero?

I sighed and leaned my head back against the headrest.

Fuck. Shell was right. I didn’t risk my career for just anyone . I was the goddamn poster boy for bad decisions, with a gold medal in emotional constipation. I risked my job every damn day by opening my mouth before flipping on the self-awareness filter. That was just who I was.

I drew a long breath and pulled my phone from my pocket.

Ready for bad decision number eighteen-thousand six hundred and seventy-four?

I dialed Derek.

“Hey, man. What’s up? How’s Maggie?” Derek asked.

“Hey, buddy…” I dragged it out, trying to sound endearing. “She’s fine.”

“Good.” He sounded genuinely relieved.

I shifted gears into full ass-kissing mode. “Sooo, I’m gonna need a really big favor.”

“O-kay…” suspicion thickened in his tone.

“You’re good with computers, right?”

Silence.

“Like… hacker-level good?”

More silence.

“Look, I know you’ve weaseled your little ghost-diddling fingers into the precinct’s database before I transferred here.”

“That’s never been proven,” his voice came out all high and squeaky.

“Calm down. I’ve known for years. I’m not gonna turn you in. But I do need your help.”

“We talkin’ official business here, or…?”

I sighed and stepped out of the truck. “Dude, I got pulled off Maggie’s case. Suspended. So yeah, we’re deep in unofficial territory.”

“Suspended. Damn.”

“Yeah—look, I need you to hack into the precinct again. They ID’d the vic.

Morty Planchette—Silas’s tax attorney. I need everything you can dig up on him.

And if we could get our own copies of the case files?

Even better. Anything linked to Portia Valmont, Jonathan Belvedere, or anyone else the files mention. ”

I shut the truck door, startling a blue-gray kestrel from the tree above my shop. Male. Sharp wings. Looked like he had somewhere more important to be—same.

“Whoa, woah, whoa. Jesus, man!” Derek’s voice pitched even higher than before.

“I can’t just magic that shit into existence.

The precinct’s beefed up their cyber security since the last time I poked around, and I don’t know if I’ve got the rig—or the time—for a deep-dive like that. And if we get caught?—”

“What’s it gonna take?” I asked, dead serious. “Tell me what you need. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right. I’m not sitting this case out because the stick up Nettles’ ass grew roots.”

Silence.

He was probably tallying how many times I’d saved his ass from Nettles to see if it was worth it.

“Well… cash for starters. No way I’m using my own setup. They’ve already got enough on me to lock me up ’til I’m past gray. If I get caught again, you’ll have to start paying E-girls for conjugal visits.”

“…E-girls, huh?”

He didn’t answer. Derek wouldn’t touch a sex worker with a twenty-foot pole. But oddly, I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.

“Hate to break it to you, bud, but there are no conjugal visits in Massachusetts.”

“What?! No way. I’m out, man. Can’t help you.” Derek laughed under his breath like this was some kind of joke.

“Derek, please.” I let out a long sigh. “If they catch you, I’ll send you to New York?—”

“Oh, hell no. If I go down, you go down.”

“C’mon… we’ll be fine. If I get you the cash, can you get the rig up by… tonight?”

He went quiet. I heard soft mumbling on the other end—like he was already making a mental list, gears turning behind the static.

“Well… I’d have to call in some associates. Run wires. Build the rig…” His voice trailed off again. “Yeah. There’s a possibility we could be operational tonight. But where? I’m not doing it at my place, and your Wi-Fi out in the boonies is practically powered by squirrels on treadmills.”

“I’ll check with Maggie. Maybe we can use her attic.”

“Okay.”

“But Derek—don’t tell her I’m suspended. Or off the case. Got it?”

“Why not?”

“Just… don’t.”

“She’s gonna find out eventually.”

“Yeah. Just not now.” I glanced at the time. “Gotta run. We’re heading to that bonfire tonight, so I need to get ready.”

“Dude, it’s not even 10 A.M.”

“You worry about yourself, and getting me those files. Text me what you need and I’ll Venmo you.”

“That’ll look suspicious. I’ve got enough cash for today, I’ll give you the total when we meet. Just withdraw it in small amounts, different days. Spread it out.”

He paused.

“Oh—and there’s my fee. If I’m putting my paranormal investigator gig on hold for this, I need compensation. That’s how I pay my bills.”

“Yes, yes. I’ll make sure the princess gets her coin. Besides, you’ll probably still get your phantom jollies with this one—Maggie’s having premonitions, now and Silas is still around, pulling his usual bullshit.”

I clicked off the call and shoved the phone back in my pocket.

Once I reached the front porch, I kicked off my boots and left them by the door.

The cabin was small by luxury standards, but it was just right for me.

The kitchen sat to the right as soon as you walked in, complete with an island and a pretty sweet light fixture above—if I said so myself.

I’d made it from an old red canoe I brought back from Colorado.

Nothing special, just something I found at a flea market—what caught me were all the travel stickers the last owner plastered across it.

Half a dozen from Oregon, a few from Minnesota, and a slug from Canada and the Boundary Waters.

I’d flipped the canoe upside down and suspended it with a black chain. Three old gallon whisky jugs, each fitted with an Edison bulb, hung from it, illuminating the island and casting warm light across the living room and massive black stone fireplace.

I made a pit stop at the liquor cabinet and grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the cupboard.

Spun the cap off—muscle memory—and took a swig.

The golden burn cut down my throat, but the smooth blend of hazelnut, citrus, and vanilla lingered.

Sweet, bold. Liquid courage. I left the bottle on the island and pulled out my phone.

Is it okay if Derek sets up some stuff in the attic to help with the case?

I moved to the dark leather couch and sank into it, leaving the whiskey behind.

Jesus Christ. Am I really doing this?

If I failed… my job was gone. Prison—a real possibility. For me. For Derek.

But Maggie… fuck.

She’d be the one to pay the price. The final one.

No, not on my watch.

I was doing this. If it all came crashing down— I’d take the fall. Derek walks. Maggie lives.

Fucking hell.

I rested my feet on the wooden coffee table, crossing my legs at the ankle as I sank deeper into the couch, getting comfortable.

Just as I was about to Google Morty Planchette, my phone dinged.

Maggie:

Sure, that sounds fine. Hey, question—what exactly does one wear to a beach bonfire?

Hell if I know. Gets cool at night, but sometimes the humidity kicks up.

Well… what are you wearing?

I snapped a selfie—me, reclined on the couch, tongue out, shirt lifted just enough to show a strip of bare stomach. Let her play with that image a while.

Mmm, sexy

Now it’s your turn.

A few moments passed.

Then it hit.

A photo of her perched on the edge of her bathroom sink, facing the mirror. She wore an oversized black and white sweater that had strategically slipped off one shoulder—and nothing but a black thong beneath it.

My pulse spiked. Dick too.

You show up wearing that and I won’t be able to keep my hands off you.

I was thinking of adding skinny jeans and my bejeweled sandals.

Cute. But I’d rather see you in nothing.

She sent another picture.

This time, she was sprawled on her bed—sweater bunched above her tits, thong tossed to the side.

You mean like this?

Jesus. Fucking . Christ.

God, you make me so hard.

I wanna see you touching yourself.

Well, okay then.

I unzipped, slipped my hand down, and snapped a photo—just enough to tease.

Sent.

She hit me back instantly.

No, I want to see your dick. Rock hard. Stroking.

Shit. So this is happening.

Only if you do it too.

Sliding my hands forward, I pushed my pants down and freed my cock—already thick, already leaking, already completely under her spell.

Video chat?

Wait—what?

Mutual masturbation?