EPILOGUE TWO

Ava

I hate the laundromat. Hate it. It takes me back to my childhood, back to scraping together change so my brother and I could have clean clothes for school, of having to ask people if I could borrow a cup of detergent because I "‘forgot'" ours, when the truth was we couldn't afford to buy it. I swore that would never be me again, that I'd never be that girl again. And yet, here I am, almost nine o'clock on a Thursday night, dragging in a giant load of drenched bedding because my own dryer picked that night, of all freaking nights, to give up the ghost.

Logically, I know better. The appliance did not have it out for me. It did not break down just to inconvenience me. It's fifteen years old, bought second hand, and it's been limping along for the last two years.

The basket is so heavy I can't carry it. I have to drag it in, but it gets stuck on the threshold. Turning around, I'm bent over, tugging the damn thing through the steel‐framed door. A door that I have to hold open with my ass, no less. If there's anyone in the laundromat, they're getting a hell of a view because I didn't bother to change out of my "lounging around the house" clothes. So I'm out here in an ancient T-shirt and a pair of shorts that don't cover nearly enough of my substantially sized rear end.

I am aware that this is not the best place to be. The only other laundromat in town closed an hour ago. This one is in a strip mall nestled between one of Bellehaven's seedier bars and an even seedier check cashing place.

The sooner you get this shit dry, the sooner you can get back to your white-bread, suburban condo.

All of a sudden, the weight of the door just vanishes. I look over my shoulder and immediately feel my face heating.

Call it daddy issues if you want, but I've always been drawn to older men. Not in the creepy, predator way. Since college, I've only ever dated older men. But this guy—he's not a guy you date. But he is a guy you'd fuck. Holy sweet hell, would I. Dark hair with just a hint of gray, a neatly trimmed beard. He's wearing jeans and the standard biker gear—black T‐shirt, boots and there's a jacket nearby, I'm betting because he smells like leather.

"Thanks," I mumble. I'm not doing this. I'm not hitting on some stranger because he was polite enough to hold a door for me. I'm not lusting after some random guy just because he manages to look distinguished and like a badass at the same time. I might want to, but I won't.

"No problem," he replies, his voice deep and gruff. A little rusty even, like maybe he doesn't use it that often. The strong, silent type on top of everything else—he's my kryptonite in every possible way.

Moving past him, ignoring the desire to either give him my number or just wrap my legs around him, I head to the dryers. After hefting the comforter and sheets into the barrel, I get change from the machine and feed the quarters into the slot. When it starts to turn with a reluctant groan, I give a sigh of relief. It would be just my luck to pick the one broken dryer out of the bunch.

I turn around and realize that me and Mr. Daddy McHotness are the only people in the place. Not good. Well, not good if I plan to be good. And I need to be good. This is my year of change—my year of breaking bad habits and manifesting the stability I've always craved and tried to get from other people. It sounds corny even in my own head. Sometimes I think all the psych classes and the counseling degree, while it helps me help others, has just fucked me up more. With that depressing thought, I commit myself to a solid fifty-five minutes of crushing sparkling candies on my phone until my bedding is dry, and I can retreat back to the safety of my condo.

I look around but there are no chairs anywhere in the place, but up by the front window, there's a long counter that looks sturdy enough to sit on. Heading that way, I have to walk past Him. He's avoiding looking at me the same way I'm avoiding looking at him. We're both obvious and it's awkward as hell. Yeah, it's gonna be a very long hour.

Forty minutes into the drying cycle, Raucous laughter booms outside. I look up and see a group of men exiting the bar next door. They split up, two going one way across the parking lot and one heading our direction, walking right past the door.

My heart stops. Oh, this is not good. The last time I saw that face, I was testifying in court that he was a danger to his children. Which, to be fair, he legitimately was and is. Wade Bartlett puts the psycho in psychopath—and that's not just hyperbole. That's an actual diagnosis.

He's staring at me, the wheels turning. The moment recognition dawns on his face, the hair on my arms stands up. Two seconds later the door is swinging open and he saunters in. He smells like spilled beer, stale sweat and smoke. He smells like my childhood. All those years of repetitive trauma, of abuse and neglect and poverty and all the horrible shit people said to us and about us comes crashing in on me and I just freeze.

"Ms. Stanfield… I almost didn't recognize you," he says. "I kinda figured you'd be a wild one if you ever let down your hair. Not so buttoned up and conservative outside of the courtroom, are ya?"

Even in my half frozen, PTSD triggered state, I can't forget the HIPAA rules that have been drilled into my head. I don't say his name. But I've pressed nine and one on my phone. "You need to leave."

His fist hits the door frame in an abrupt movement. "You don't fucking tell me what to do, you lying bitch. I told you I'd teach you a lesson. Time to make good on that promise."

Fight or flight manages to break through my current freeze mode. I hop down off the counter and start backing away. There has to be another exit. Barring that, there has to be a bathroom I can lock myself in and wait for the cops to show up.

My hands are shaking so bad I can't even press the second one. I miss the key and hit the star button. I'm trying to clear it off and start over, as Wade advances toward me, but then someone steps in front of me. Puts himself between me and Raging Bull.

"You still have the option to walk out of here. You touch her, you're gonna be leaving alright but you'll be doing it on a stretcher." The deep rumble of his voice is pitched low and the tone is almost conversational. Like he didn't just issue a significantly violent threat.

"The fuck you say, old man. I'll knock you on your ass and do what I want with her," Wade retorts with a laugh.

The sound is cut short. The man in front of me moves quickly. So quickly I don't see anything but the aftermath. Wade collapses to the floor, blood pouring from his nose.

Daddy McHotness looks at me over his shoulder. "Go ahead and call the cops. I'll stay 'till they get here."

Still shaking, I press the numbers again, this time not messing it up. It goes through to dispatch and I tell her my name and where I'm at and that I was threatened by Wade Bartlett. And then we all just wait in silence, listening for sirens.

It takes less than fifteen minutes. Two of Bellehaven's deputies, younger guys that I don't know by name, have loaded Wade into the back of a squad car. They've gotten my statement and that of the man who intervened. Then they're driving off and I'm still sitting there, shaken and more scared than I've been in a very long time.

An alarm blares, the sound sharp and discordant, making me jump. Before I can even register that it's the dryer cutting off because my clothes are done, the man is over there. He opens the dryer door, bundles my dry bedding into the basket and walks to the door. Then he just stops.

It takes a minute, but I finally put it together that he's waiting for me. "Sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry for," he says. "Unlock your car and I'll put these in for you."

I do and I watch as he loads them into the trunk. Then he opens the door, and beckons for me. When I step outside, there's a chill in the air. Or maybe it's just me.

"I'll follow you to make sure you get home okay. You look pretty shaken up," he offers.

I feel like a complete jackass. "You've already done so much. I'm sure you have better things to do than babysit me."

A half-smile curves his lips, barely visible with his beard and the dimly lit parking lot. "Not really. Just get in and drive." He hands me the keys.

I slide behind the wheel and close the door, starting the engine. The adrenaline is still pumping, my body still trembling with it. Somehow, I manage to get back onto the highway and drive the fairly short distance to my condo. I park in the driveway and get out. He's been behind me the whole way, on a loud‐ass motorcycle that will undoubtedly piss off my neighbors.

He cuts the engine. "You need help getting everything inside?"

"No. I can manage. Thank you—I don't know your name." He literally saved my life, and I don't have a clue who he is. I don't have a clue who he is and I let him follow me home.

"Ranger."

"Ranger what?" I ask.

"Just Ranger. Good night, Ms. Stanfield."

He climbs back on his bike, revs it up and then drives off into the night.

Just Ranger. The whole thing has played out like an eighties action movie, minus the requisite boob shot.

"What a fucking night," I whisper. Then I grab the laundry basket from the trunk and haul it into my house. I let it drop to the floor right there in the foyer. I don't bother making my bed. It's more trouble than it's worth. Instead, I just lay down on the couch and pull the afghan off the back of it over me. My grandmother made it, and somehow, through everything, I've managed to hang onto it. As a kid it made me feel safe. As an adult, it makes me feel grounded. And I need that right now. Because I'm shaken to my toes by everything that's happened.