Page 31 of Soft Flannel Hank

“Last night was fun. It’s good to see you.”He might even lean casually against a doorframe. “How are you settling in? Do you need any help around here?”

Just a cool man making small talk with a woman who made him taste colors not forty-eight hours prior. Definitely not a raggedly held together man who had felt his heart absolutely pulverized under a pair of oxblood Doc Martens not twenty-four hours prior. And definitely not a former detective talking to a maybe-murderer at his surrogate mother’s rental.

Hank’s voice was gravelly and rough and Meatloaf’s range was higher than his, but he pounded on the steering wheel and sang anyway as he drove down the gravel road feeling like maybe he could be more than a moping shit sack, although Nadja had clucked her tongue at him when he’d called himself that in therapy yesterday.

He saw the cabin ahead and slowed down. Not to delay the inevitable, he tried to convince himself, but because he really liked this song.

His phone dinged in the cupholder, and a quick glance down showed a message from Nat.

Hank parked the truck in front of the cabin next to a Prius that had definitely seen better days. He thumbed his phone open and clicked on the message icon.

Hey, buddy. I’ve got a picture of our suspect.

Sometimes Nat did this. He had a vault below his house for day sleep and was no doubt in it, but sometimes he was restless and texted Hank during the hours he was supposed to be asleep. Three dots flashed at the bottom of the screen as Nat typed. Another ding, and Hank found himself staring into a face he recognized vividly.

Esther stared back at him from his phone. A headshot. Maybe for an employee profile. She wore a black tank top that was so low-cut that the swells of her cleavage showed. Her hair, which had been in the bun inside the hoodie almost all night, was a vibrant red that reminded him of the bursts of color in autumn, shot through with gold. He saw an absolute riot of curls.

He’d read that expression before in a romance novel, one of his mom’s that he’d picked up one afternoon by her bedside to pass the time.A riot of curls, he remembered thinking.What the fuck does that mean?

Now he knew. Esther’s curls were big and untamed, and even though she’d broken his heart, even though he had even more reason to hate her now, he couldn’t help but feel a kick in the cock as he imagined shoving his fingers into those curls and getting them tangled around his hands, pulling them, hard enough to force her head back and expose her throat, to make her gasp and then moan.

Goddammit.

Three more dots flashed below the picture. Hank followed the trail of Esther’s freckled chest to the latest message.

Her name’s Esther MacLaren. She’s a witch. Not to be underestimated. Poisoned fifty some-odd vampires via their human blood consorts.

Hank heard the music in the background as if he had closed the door to a club behind him. He could make out the melody. But it was muffled, as if a steel storm door separated him from it. He had been calmly resigned to play it cool. And now his guts churned. Gone was the sadness. Gone was the despair. All he was left with was an absolutely consuming fury.

Of courseshe had used him.Of courseshe had used him and abandoned him. He was lucky she had only done that considering what she’d done to dozens of people. Vampires.Whatever.

Hank turned the car off and threw open the door. He cracked his neck and rolled his head side to side. The anger from the day before was back in full force, more potent even because it was backed by justification beyond himself.

But he’d learned some important lessons from his time as a detective, and the first one was that you never entered a scene until you had your emotions in check. You sent someone else in. You were a liability if you didn’t have yourself under control.

Hank didnothave himself under control. He didn’t even know where he mightfindhis control.

And so he paced in the gravel driveway. Back and forth from one end to the other. He didn’t stomp as much as he hurled his body forward.

You need to get out of here. You’re acting like a lunatic right now, and you’re going to tip her off and ruin everything,he thought.The voice inside his head was right. He needed to leave. He could work on this anger. Workouthis anger. Compose himself. And then come back with Nat and haul her in.

After all, he didn’t know where he was supposed to detain herto.It was sheer, dumb luck that she’d fallen into his lap today. Just as it had been sheer, dumb luck when she’d done it the other night. He would leave. He would call Nat with an update, work out the details, and come back later.

No sooner had Hank placed his hand on the handle of the truck door, the front door of the cabin opened.

“Hank? Is that you?”

Hank squeezed his eyes shut.

Aslividas he felt, he hadn’t been prepared for the sound of her voice. Her boots made heavy thuds as she jogged across the platform deck toward him.

He took a deep breath in through his nose, releasing it out his mouth. Again. She was right in front of him now. And she was goddamn radiant.

The weak sunlight made her hair shimmer like a new penny. The unruly tendrils begged for his fingers, and he felt his knees go a bit weak with the desire to grab her and pull her against his chest because she’d just felt so damn good there the last time he’d seen her, smelling of coconut and cotton.

She smiled brightly up at him. “How did you know I was here?”

She looked… happy to see him. Hank’s brain couldn’t reconcile that.