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“I’m done talking for the moment. You and your case can go snuggle somewhere else.” My annoyance with him remained.
Accusing me of murder.
Ha!
More like his hatred of Mahoney clouded his view. Apparently, me owning the same property and rebuilding Junkdog’s bike had him conflating me with his nemesis.
Finally, it hit Brayden that he’d gone too far. “Don’t be mad. I only want to protect you.”
“You have a funny way of showing it.” I opened the door and pointed. “Good day, Detective.”
“Don’t be like that. Are you crabby because you’re still on your period?”
I arched a brow. “I am going to pretend you didn’t just say that. Go.”
He sighed. “You know how to get in touch with me.”
Yes, but I wouldn’t. I didn’t plan to be the kind of weak woman who needed a man in her life. Even if it was a hot detective. I refused to date a man who thought me capable of murder. I slammed the door shut and locked it for good measure.
“Glad now we never slept together,” I murmured as I headed to the living room and the only male I needed for true happiness.
My dog.
“What do you say I make a whole package of bacon for breakfast?”
Blade agreed wholeheartedly.
CHAPTER22
While the bacon fried,I propped my tablet on the counter to check out what was being said online about Sawyer’s murder.
The news websites had the bare facts, mostly pertaining to my assailant. Accused of assault and robbery and in and out of jails since he turned eighteen. The article stated Sawyer had been found dead of apparent stab wounds. A kinder way of saying he’d been gutted.
They went on to claim they suspected it was drug-related. No mention of me. Could it be Brayden had kept my name out of the mix? How, though, if witnesses claimed to have seen me? Or at least seen a woman. I’d never taken off my goggles or hood.
The bacon crisped, and I threw some on a paper towel to degrease it for me but left the rest in the pan for my dog. I dumped in some dry food. I know, not the healthiest thing, but it did wonders for his coat. I’d take sleek over frizzy and dander-shedding any day.
As I indulged in my breakfast of champions, that featured eggnog snared at the grocery store since Thanksgiving neared, and dried banana chips because the real thing tended to rot forgotten, I flicked through a few more articles all stating the same thing. Basically, the piece of shit got what he deserved.
Munching on bacon wrapped around a banana chip—don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it—I hit social media for my entertainment—someone’s animal doing something cute, people being assholes to each other, every minutia of life caught on film for those who wanted to watch and mock…because, let’s be honest, other people’s misery gave us that rush we didn’t want to admit: that sense that we were better than someone.
Deny it. Go ahead.We both know that pretending you don’t feel such a base emotion feeds your always hungry sense of self-righteousness.
The meaningless images flowed past without drawing my attention. I changed to another social media channel, and the hashtags #redhood and #steelwolf immediately caught my attention, especially since they appeared to be trending in the Ottawa Valley.
I clicked and gaped at the post someone named Poke-Me-Sally shared. Apparently, Sally had been one of the tweakers gathered around the barrel last night. She’d typed out a vivid and imaginative story about my encounter with Sawyer. I read with a brow lifted in disbelief.
…she came barreling out of nowhere, riding this big black wolf with blazing red eyes. The color of rubies and blood, just like her cloak. I never saw her face on account the hood covered her head, but I seen inside enough to realize she wasn’t human with those black, bottomless pits for eyes.
The more I read, the more my jaw dropped. I finished with a disbelieving snort.
…as the Red Hood raced off, she cried out, “The night is mine.” Then disappeared on her steel wolf. But she’ll be back now that she’s had a taste of blood. Tainted blood being her favorite. Which is why this is day one of sobriety. I have to stay clean to live.
Sally had added a blurry image of what might have been me on the bike if someone had added a Hell filter. Like, seriously, the whole thing emerged as a swirl of reds and oranges streaked with shadows. The flames in the barrel, a portal to Hell. My bike’s headlights shone with a fire I didn’t recall, illuminating the man being threatened.
Sawyer—or so I assumed by the smudge that might be a face.
The good news? No one—other than Brayden—would ever associate that person in the picture with me. Just like no one in their right mind would believe that overwrought crap Sally had written. Only it turned out a segment of the population wanted to.
