Page 2 of Only the Wicked (The Sinful State #1)

Chapter One

One month later

Rhodes

It’s Tuesday morning and there’s not a soul around.

Clouds in the distance, winds from the southwest, a slight chill in the shade, and enough heat to break a sweat in the open sun.

I lean on the railing, taking in the famed three-hundred-and-sixty-degree Blue Ridge views.

A need for solitude brought me to these mountains from my youth, bum elbow and all.

Miles was right—I needed distance from more than just the boardroom pressures.

It took weeks to get away, but I’m finally here.

I close my eyes and inhale, breathing in the fresh, crisp air.

High-pitched chirps punctuate the quiet.

A vision of my office and the white board with red and black scrawls infiltrates my inner sanctum, and I open my eyes, choosing the real-life view before me.

The canopy of leaves provides shade from the sun and a sense of wilderness, the feeling that undeveloped lands exist and flourish.

It’s a perfect, languid summer day. Back in San Francisco, summer lost meaning.

But here, I feel the season in my bones, or at least, I remember what it used to mean, before. ..

Miles was right to shove me out the door and insist I take time to recharge. Besides, if one of us didn’t step away—give some space to our disagreements—we might have resorted to blows.

A falcon flies overhead, flapping its wings until it hits an air stream and coasts high above. Fast, fierce, and powerful, falcons are a symbol for Horus—an Egyptian god who represented the sun, the sky, healing, and protection.

If I had my phone, I’d refresh my memory of the falcon-headed god.

Protection and healing—exactly what I came here seeking.

But my phone connects me to the world and with that connection I am inundated with messages and emails.

No phone is good. This is what I need. An electronic detox. Space to decompress.

I close my eyes once again, resting my thighs against the banister. The breeze cools my skin. Behind me, the unmistakable sound of footsteps on wood breaches the quiet. My muscles tense.

The Yellow Mountain fire tower is on almost every North Carolina hiking map. A beautiful summer day like this, others were bound to come. And you don’t hike the trail without taking the time to take in the view.

With one last glance across the Smokies, I turn to cede the tower to the recent arrival. A dark-haired woman, hair pulled into a ponytail that swings slightly with her movements, climbs the ladder, her back to me.

“Ow. Fuck.” Her progress stops, and as if sensing she’s not alone, the woman turns her head, giving me a view of cheeks flushed with exertion. She’s not sweating, but it’s not that hot—yet.

Did she take the steep shortcut like me?

Two paths to the top. One easy six-mile trek, or a steep mile-and-a-half climb.

The way she’s frozen in place, stuck in a trance, reminds me of a deer in the forest, evaluating the need for flight.

“Hi there,” I say, stepping back from the hold, giving her more space, letting her know I’m not some sicko.

Which, come to think of it, is she alone? I only heard one person approach.

“Hi.”

She resumes her task of climbing the ladder. It’s a wooden ladder, the kind a person might attach to a tree house, only this one ascends into the tower through a cut-out on the deck platform.

I watch closely as a lithe, fit body rises.

With each push from her right leg, she mutters to herself, lower this time, presumably to prevent me from hearing her cuss.

Her legs are lean, the muscles flexing beneath smooth, lightly tanned skin.

Either she spends her days outdoors or she’s naturally tan. She could be a park ranger.

But no. A park ranger wouldn’t wear those sporty short shorts.

Lots of the girls in my high school wore shorts just like those, loose at the leg openings, designed for running, and while parents frowned, I did not.

That was a long time ago. Maybe the styles have changed. Or maybe I stopped noticing.

She reaches for the banister, her feet on the second rung, and my southern upbringing kicks in, prompting me to step forward and offer my hand.

“Thank you.” Her voice is light, the words automatic.

More weight than I expected presses down, but I easily take it, offering balance as she climbs out of the hold. A bloody spot on her right knee catches my attention. A thin stream of dried blood forms a line from her knee to the base of a thick hiking sock.

“You okay?” I ask, although, it’s not like I have a first aid kit. I don’t even have my phone.

“Oh. I’m fine.” Her right knee bends, and only the right toe of her hiking boot touches the deck.

Her gaze travels over the perimeter, captivated by the view.

For her to turn her back on me, I must come across as trustworthy.

As she studies the horizon, I examine the woman’s profile. Smooth skin, tiny silver studs for earrings, no visible tattoos above the neckline. Her chocolate brown hair shimmers with healthy shine. She’s younger, but I’d guess she’s late twenties, maybe.

It’s a Tuesday and she’s not working. Unless… Internal alarms ring and I take a second look over her frame, hunting for what? A camera?

You’re full of it, Rhodes. No one here knows who the fuck you are. And that right there is why you’re here.

Still, the paranoia Miles accuses me of having makes me scan the tree line once more. No one. Just mountains and sky.

The woman steps forward to the railing, still entranced.

I’m halfway down the ladder when a board creaks from her one-legged hop. She’s injured and alone.

Rhodes—

I stop my grandmother’s lecture before the replay.

Fine, Nana. How exactly am I going to help her? Walk with her down the six-mile return trail?

What else are you going to do? You have the time. Unplugged. Remember?

What am I supposed to say? She said she’s okay. If I insist on staying to help her, I’ll come off as a misogynist ass.

You’re really going to leave an injured woman to manage a six-mile trail to the parking lot on her own?

She’s the one who went hiking by herself.

So did you.

The woman twists around, one hand on the railing, her right leg bent. At this angle from the floorboards, I’m offered a clear view up the back curve of her thigh. The hem of her shorts juts out from her ass, shading the path higher, revealing a mere glimpse of white cotton panties.

“Are you okay?”

Of course she’d wonder given I’m hanging on a ladder and gawking like a teenage perv.

“Yes. Ah, I’m just wondering… Did you park in the lot? Cloud Catcher Lane?”

“Yes.”

Of course she did. Where else would she park?

“Ah.” I bend my head, a gesture that sometimes disarms. “How are you planning on getting back with an injured leg?”

She looks down at her bloody knee and shrugs. “I’ll be fine. I’ll find a stick in the woods.”

“And you’re going six miles,” I say, more to myself, wondering about the stats for the likelihood of being attacked if injured. Without my phone, I can’t check them, but logically a woman would be at greater risk.

“Six miles?” Now it’s her tilting her head, only she’s doing it to imply I’m wrong. “It’s a mile and a half, tops.”

“You’re taking the shortcut with an injured leg?”

“I’m not walking six miles on it.”

She’ll break her neck if she attempts the steep decline without help.

She smiles, amused by my question, not offended, I think. Her brown eyes are warm, a deep hue with golden flecks, her pupils small from the abundant sun. She comes across as a good person, like maybe a schoolteacher or a nurse. A nursing schedule could explain her freedom on a Tuesday.

“I’ll be fine,” she insists, brushing me off and returning her attention to the view.

Rather than disagree, I give a quick nod, descend the ladder, and wait on the ground below the tower.

It’s not a big deal. I’m unplugged and have all the time in the world.

When she’s had her fill of the view, I’ll help her down the decline.

We’ll be slower, but I’m not in a hurry.

If anything, slow is good. Once I’m back, I’ll check my phone.

Although, I really shouldn’t. If the boss can’t take a break, then he chooses employees poorly. And I hire the best—I’ve built a system that runs perfectly, even without me. Or at least, I’m about to discover if that’s true.

This break is overdue. Fuck the naysayers. The board. The investors. The constant inquisition surrounding projections and growth and purpose.

About five minutes later, she descends the ladder.

“Are you waiting for me?” She sounds incredulous—not scared. I suppose that’s a good thing.

“Figured you could use some help.”

“I told you I’m fine. I’m an expert hiker.” She pats her backpack strap like it’s got all the world’s answers.

I give her an agreeable nod. “And I’m sure you are. But all the same, we’re headed back to the same place. I’m better than a stick.”

She sizes me up, a hint of a smile playing on her lips.

I hold my hands up in the air, the defensive gesture to convey I’m not a threat. “You can trust me. Eagle Scout here.”

“You’ve got to do the right thing.” Her smile spreads wide, revealing a set of straight white teeth and natural, sun-kissed lips, and I’m reminded of how much I like the small-town girl vibe.

It’s not the clothes or even the smile; it’s the warmth and unguarded friendliness that’s rare in a big city like San Francisco.

“I can do it alone, you know?” Her question is a singsong tease, laced with independence.

“Oh, I know.”

She smiles in response, and I return the stubborn woman’s smile.

She’d go down that mountain without me if I didn’t insist on helping—an unwise move, but she’s fearless. Is a sense of immortality a small-town or big-city characteristic? Perhaps it’s not so much a sense of invincibility, but overconfidence. Could be both, I suppose.

Doesn’t matter. I’ll get her down safely. And I can rest easy, knowing for once, Nana would be proud. Maybe doing the right thing isn’t always about business decisions and board meetings.