Page 9 of Now to Forever (Life on the Ledge Duet #2)

I look away from him as he talks, focusing on the cuffs and not the searing pain in my chest the memories bring.

Because yes, I knew Zeb was in deep. His calls had gotten erratic, talking in circles and barely making sense.

He’d ask for money—which was laughable since I was a poor college kid at a nothing school on scholarship.

Every single night I’d lie in bed, feeling the anxiety like a vise around my chest and throat, convinced the next call I got about him was going to be the worst. He’d be in jail or dead.

Little did I know how accurate all my late-night worst-case scenarios would become.

Little did I know how much more I should have been doing to help.

“I tried talking to him about it, but we were just kids,” he continues.

“Twenty-one. And I’d been off at college—we’d drifted a little—but every time I came home it was like more and more of him was gone.

He was playing music at the local bars—” He pauses, eyes toward the sky as he chuckles softly, dragging a hand down the side of his face. “He loved that guitar, didn’t he?”

I look at him but don’t say anything. I don’t need to.

We both know how much Zeb loved music. From the guitar that was always with him, to the music notes tattooed down his spine, to the late nights he spent in dive bars playing songs he wrote.

I have two things from my brother: his Bronco and his records he played constantly.

When Ford realizes I’m not going to say any of this aloud, he keeps talking.

“I drank, smoked a little pot, but the things he was into . . .” His voice trails off as the vessels of poison fill my skull like they filled my brother’s body. Pipes. Needles. Pills. Powder .

Every destructive thing I couldn’t stop him from doing.

Ford steps toward me, lifting a hand to hold my chin so I’m forced to look at him.

“The day he got arrested, I was home for the weekend, helping my parents on the orchard. The tractor broke down on the last row of trees—stupid detail to remember, but I do. I picked him up at his apartment to go grab a beer, and he asked if we could make a stop. I never—I didn’t know. ”

My chin held in place by his thumb and forefinger, we stare at each other, and I see in his eyes the same hurt that lives in me. I hate him more for it. Hate myself more for it.

“And what?” I demand. “You just stop at a random house and let him out? No questions asked?” I scoff. “Was he high?”

He drops my chin, blows out a breath, and closes his eyes. “I didn’t know what he was doing until I watched him walk up to the house, and instead of knocking on the door, he broke a window. And . . .” He looks at me again, a battle in his eyes. Like he’s at war with himself.

“The cops were there,” I supply, not bothering to hide my bitterness.

He says nothing.

We’re quiet as the story gets slightly rewritten in my brain, but only just barely. Because though he didn’t know what Zeb was doing, he still left. He told me he loved me then he disappeared, leaving me to deal with every single hard thing that came next. Alone.

“Where have you been?” I ask, less heat in my voice as I lean against his car. “You just vanished. ”

“Atlanta. I finished school in Raleigh, went to the academy. Moved to the city. Worked for the Narcotics Unit for years.”

Ironic. Ford loses his best friend to drugs and spends his life putting people in jail because of them.

“Why’d you come back?” When he hesitates, I add, “And don’t tell me some bullshit line about birds.”

“Redemption, for one. I have a lot to make up for—to a lot of people. And . . .” He swallows, opens his mouth, closes it, swallows again. “I have a kid. Thought it would be better here. Closer to my parents. Slower.”

“A kid?” I whisper, the idea of it sucker punching me to near speechlessness. “Who you raise?”

He chuckles with a slight nod and a soft voice. “That’s usually how it works, Scotty.”

It takes all of my energy not to drop like a sandbag down the side of the cop car. “Girls in Atlanta must be hard up to procreate.”

He doesn’t take the bait.

“That the boss you were talking about?”

He chuckles. “One and only. Ben says that because kids call the shots.”

My eyes find his left finger. Empty. “The mom?”

He says nothing.

I click my tongue; his silence frustrates me way more than I like. “Boy or girl?”

He shakes his head. “Not sharing that one.”

I snort, shifting my cuffed hands behind my back. “Scared of what I’ll do to your kid, Ford? ”

He puffs out a breath, slightest of smiles creeping onto his eternal baby face. “Scared of what you’ll do to me , Scotty.”

“Explains the cuffs.” I tug my hands away from each other and the chain clinks.

“So, you and Kid Doe move back to Ledger for a slow life on your parents’ orchard. How perfect for y’all. I hope you eat apple pies until your shit smells like cinnamon. Bet your mother loves that.”

He chuckles but doesn’t make a move to release me. “How did you end up doing this?” He nods toward the crematorium.

“Ah.” I study the back of the old brick building. “Seemed like a good place to get rid of the bodies of men who handcuff me. Which”—I rake my gaze over his uniformed body—“I’ve had better.”

He laughs; it tickles like a feather in my belly. “You’re as much of a pain in the ass now as you were twenty years ago.”

I grin. “Thank you.”

The door of the crematorium swings open, and Wanda goes wide-eyed as she takes in the scene. “Scotty? You okay, honey?”

“Just peachy,” I reply, gesturing toward Ford with my chin. “Trying to figure out what size urn would be required if we cremated someone with such a small dick.”

“Wanda,” Ford says without missing a beat as he spins me around and pushes me harder than needed against his car.

I grunt as he presses against me and works to unlock the cuffs.

He stays that way, him against me. The warmth of his breath at my ear, the spice of his cologne in my nostrils, his fingers working at my hands.

I look at him over my shoulder, and his eyes meet mine.

I could swear his breathing stops. Could swear mine does.

He steps back, giving Wanda his attention.

“Would you believe me if I told you she begged me for it?”

He slips the cuffs off my wrists and hooks them back onto his belt.

“Well, I can see why,” Wanda replies with a wink to Ford before looking at me.

“I’ll be right in,” I tell her as I rub my wrists.

She disappears back inside, keeping the door slightly ajar.

Ford and I regard each other, a tension in the air.

“Friends?” Ford asks, hopeful lilt to his voice.

“With benefits?” I ask with a smirk, taking the few steps toward the door, turning to face him as I wrap one hand around the knob.

He shrugs. “Depends on the benefits.”

My eyebrows raise, unable to get a read on him. What he wants or why he’s here. “Fine,” I relent. “Friends.” Then a caveat: “In public.”

“And in private?” he says it smooth and with a smile. Like he’s teasing. Maybe even flirting.

I open the door fully and turn to look at him one last time. Ford Callahan in a police uniform. His dark hair is a little longer on top, familiar face somewhere between clean shaven and scruffy, and bright blue eyes are so very appealing yet wasted on the man I once loved who once left.

“I have no intention of ever seeing you in private again,” I say. “And I have a feeling you wouldn’t know how to handle me anymore if you did.”

I step inside and the door slams behind me, shutting him out of my life—where he belongs.