Set Me Free (23 page)

“Miranda,” Owen said, his voice pitched low, “can we talk? Outside?”

I glanced up at him and nodded, taking in the fatigue and tension etched across his face. I couldn’t see it in his expression, but I was sure he was angry with me.

Outside, in the dim light of the lantern over the door, Owen fell back against the pub’s wooden siding and dug his hands into his hair. “James Emory! You know he was the first person to hire me when I started my business? He recommended me to all his rich friends. Without him, the business would’ve failed. I don’t know what I would’ve done.”

“I’m sure you would’ve thought of something.” I refused to believe that James had done Owen any favors.

Owen shook his head. “I can’t see it.”

“You are smart and talented,” I insisted. “You would’ve made something of yourself without his help.”

Owen cast me a sad smile. “You believe in me more than anyone. More than I ever have.”

“That’s right.” I smiled back, even as my eyes filled with tears.

“How did you know about the paintings?” The words were strained and intense. Our argument in the attic felt all too recent.

I chewed on my lip, trying to think of the words for how I’d felt about Suze’s work. “The first time I saw her paintings, I thought there was something strange about them. They weren’t just beautiful—they were sort of descriptive. As if they were records of her life. Especially that portrait of you. It was her way of telling you how much she loved you. And its mate, the one in your house, was her way of apologizing for being the way she was. She knew how flawed she was, but in her own way, she did love you. She loved you as much as you loved her.”

Owen looked back down at the black asphalt, his expression sobering.

“And there was more,” I said. “She documented her love for the island, Scott’s obsession with her, her friendship with Kaye and Violet. She even recorded whatever’s been going on between Kaye and Andy all these years.” I sighed. “That’s why I knew, in my heart, that there would be something. If there was someone else that she cared about, or that she feared, or both, she would’ve painted him.” I trailed off, thinking of the painting of James on the bow of the yacht. “And she did.”

“I should never have doubted you,” Owen said, his voice husky. “Forgive me, Miranda.” He took me by the hand.

“Forgive me first,” I shot back, even as my fingers involuntarily tightened around his.

“Already done,” he said. “I could never stay mad at you. Not for anything. And especially not for this. You cleared my name. It’s more than I ever could have imagined.”

“But I made you relive what happened with Suze.” I was testing him, I knew I was, but I couldn’t stop myself. I felt prickly all over.

“M.” His dark gaze, lit with reflected stars, searched my face. “My life is yours. My past, my future. It’s yours to do what you want with.”

“No.” I shook my head, tears stinging my eyes. “It’s not, and that’s—”

He caught my face in his strong, gentle hands. “Listen to me. I got so used to being closed off to everyone and everything, I didn’t know how to be open to you. But that was wrong. I should’ve trusted you with everything, the way you trusted me.”

“It’s
okay
, Owen,” I insisted, pulling free of him and starting towards the door. I’d cleared his name, but I didn’t have his heart. We still couldn’t be together. I would have to make my peace with that, somehow.

Straightening up from the siding, he called after me: “I donated Suze’s self-portrait to the Graveside Gallery. That’s why I came here tonight, originally. I wanted to tell you that.”

The words went through me like lightning, shocking me from my head to my toes. I turned around to stare up at him. “You donated it? Why?”

“Because you were right. Again. About me. I’ve been obsessed with Suze this whole time. But I wasn’t… It wasn’t because I was in love with her. Not after the first couple years. It was more like I had to keep punishing myself for what I’d done, and keeping her there… Keeping her portrait there, I mean, in my old music room, was to remind myself how badly I’d screwed up.”

I couldn’t absorb what he was saying. “Then…you’re not in love with Suze.”

“No. I’m not.”

My pulse raced. I didn’t dare to hope.

“It’s you, Miranda,” Owen said. “I only love you.”

My breath hitched. “You don’t mean that.”

“I’ve never meant anything more.” He came towards me slowly. “I’ve loved you from the first moment I saw you, standing in my mom’s shop, looking like you’d just fought a war. The fiercest, most gorgeous creature I’ve ever seen. I’ve never met anyone like you—you’re all courage.” I started to deny it, but he just laughed. “It didn’t even occur to you to stay away from the bomb.”

“I would’ve broken your door down if you hadn’t answered,” I admitted.

“Exactly. My brave, beautiful Miranda.” He lifted my hand to his mouth and kissed my palm, the inside of my wrist. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” My heart felt like a flower unfurling in a time-lapsed video, blossoming, growing huge and radiant all at once. Another tear fell, but I didn’t try to stop it. He loved me.

“I wanted to tell you ages ago,” I said. “When I saw your workshop, or maybe even earlier, I knew you were what I wanted, and needed, even if it was crazy—too fast, and the timing all wrong.” I laughed, and so did he, as he pulled me in towards him and kissed me on the mouth. I could feel him smiling at first, until we both forgot where we were and deepened the kiss. I had to stop myself from reaching for his belt. “God, I’m still at work, aren’t I?”

“Mmm…” He nuzzled my neck. “Come over tonight, and I’ll show you how much I love you, one kiss at a time.”

T
his week
, we’d brought more than just a bouquet of flowers to Suze’s angel monument. I’d brought a print of my finished portrait of her, too, framed as durably as I knew how. The real thing was hanging a block away at the Graveside, in the entranceway to Mrs. Gautier’s Suzanna White exhibition. Mrs. Gautier had loved it. She had practically smiled at the sight of it. Even I had to admit it made the perfect entrance to the exhibit, hanging beside Suze’s own self-portrait.

I placed our bouquet next to the print and spared only the quickest glance for the decaying white lilies, tied with a single red ribbon. They always used to be fresh and glowing, but I had a feeling I knew why that had changed. They were from James. Now he was in jail, waiting for his trial. His last bouquet had died, and there would be no new ones to take its place.

I looked up at Suze’s serene, marble face. I didn’t know why Suze had made Owen wait as long as she did—why she’d made both of us wait. Maybe it was in her nature to allow a certain amount of suffering. Or maybe some things had always been outside her control. It didn’t matter anymore; I could only be grateful to her for bringing us together, after all this time.

Owen’s hand found mine, and I squeezed his fingers possessively.

Ferdy bounded up to Owen and me and nosed at my pockets. Smiling, I slipped him another biscuit.

“That dog is becoming your shadow,” Owen remarked.

“My huge, fluffy, drooling shadow.”

We walked out from underneath the pine boughs onto the sunny sidewalks of Church Street. The rest of the day spread out before us like a fresh canvas. We had many days like this now. Sometimes we went to the beach or hung out at the pub with Kaye and Andy, and maybe Rusty or Muscles. Even Miserable Margot joined us every once in a while, though she wasn’t quite so miserable anymore.

Other days, I would paint while Owen tinkered with one of his instruments. We often went outside, since Owen was still rebuilding his workshop, and since Fall Island had so many pretty little meadows to work in. But sometimes we stayed in. Owen had framed a few of my paintings—I was slowly building up a portfolio for my application to art school—and he had hung them on the walls in Suze’s old room. It felt like a real room now, a cozy, happy place that you wanted to spend time in. So we did. I thought Suze would have been glad about it.

“You know,” Owen said, as we turned onto Main Street, “you don’t have to take your easel back with you every time you leave my place.” 

“What if I want to paint in the middle of the night?”

With a laugh, he pulled me close and kissed me. “Only you would worry about that.”

I tugged away from him and walked nonchalantly down the block. “Did I tell you Kaye is moving out in September? Andy is talking about getting his own place when that happens, maybe downtown.”

“Yeah?” I could hear the tension in his voice.

“I was thinking I don’t want to find three new housemates. But that means I’ll need a new place to live,” I continued airily. “I’d be sad to leave my little attic, but I suppose the right place could be worth it.”

“Miranda…”

He stopped walking, and I turned to face him, my cheeks warm with joy.

“Are you sure you’ll be ready?” he asked me quietly. “I don’t want—”

“I’m sure. I’m absolutely sure.”

He seized me by the shoulders and kissed me hard, dazzlingly. When he drew back, a smile crooked the corner of his beautiful mouth.

A little breathless, I realized that we were standing in the middle of Main Street, with Ferdy snuffling around our feet. A group of tourists, huge topo maps in hand, pointed and giggled at us.

“Is there room for a huge, fluffy, drooling shadow?” I asked, ignoring the tourists. “Your mum said she wants to give him to me, when he’s better trained, but I—”

“Of course there’s room,” Owen said. “It’s getting hard to separate you two, anyway.”

“And you can tolerate how messy I am?” I asked, with a pang of worry.

Owen laughed as he kissed my ear, sending a shiver of pleasure down my spine. “I’m sure you’ll make me crazy, with paintbrushes and lipsticks everywhere.” He moved from my ear to my neck.

“And you’ll make
me
crazy,” I told him, grinning and wrapping my arms around him, “using a T-square to make sure your carpet is laid out straight.”

“I don’t even own a T-square.”

“You
totally
do,” I said, and he laughed again, his breath warm against my neck.

“I actually have several.” He kissed my collarbone. I tried to wriggle out of his grip, aware that Bob the grocer was giving us an annoyed look, but he held me in place. “Miranda,” he murmured, into my throat, “I want to sleep next to you at night, and make
mallorca
with you in the morning, and trip over your sketchbooks. I want to live with you more than anything, no matter how messy you are or how many dogs you bring home with you. But only if you’re ready.”

“I’m ready,” I told him again. And I was. But I loved him even more for wanting to be sure.

“Get a room, you two!” someone called out good-naturedly, and Owen and I both laughed. I glanced over and saw the woman who ran the liquor store waving cheerfully at us, next to a few more grinning, pointing tourists.

We waved back.

T
hank
you so much for reading
Set Me Free
! If you enjoyed this story and would like to see more from me, you can
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I would love to hear your thoughts on any aspect of this story or whatever else strikes your fancy. You can reach me at
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Set Me Free
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Set Me Free
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Set Me Free
is a standalone, but I have a few series in the works. Read on for Chapter One of my dark, gritty erotic romance,
Breathe
, the first book in my Grenton PD series (written as L. Setterby, because it is just too smutty for complete first names).

Thanks again!

xoxo,

London

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.S
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T
he Chief
practically shoved him out the door, insisting Simon get some rest, but Simon couldn’t go home. Not yet. Not until the case was finished, if it would ever be finished. Instead, he walked in circles around their tiny town, wishing he’d set up a paid detail, subconsciously tracing his beat. Eventually, he stopped by his house to change into civilian clothes, but his feet took him right back out, away from the small liquor store next to his duplex towards the town proper.

The lake, then. Sometimes the quiet out there helped him think. If nothing else, he could at least do that.

The paths through the pine trees were serene, with even Simon’s heavy tread softened by snow. He passed a few people he knew. Red-faced and smiling, they waved hello as they stamped by on snowshoes or cross-country skis, usually with a couple of dogs frolicking at their heels. Simon reached the frozen lake—its vast expanse as white as the sky—and made his way toward a bench on a snowy knoll, under a sweep of pine boughs. A dark form huddled on the bench. Ray Waller. Fifties, with a graying patch of stubble and shabby clothes. All the guys at the station, including Simon, took turns picking Ray up for public intoxication and letting him sleep it off in the holding cell overnight.

Simon stopped beside the bench, ankle-deep in snow, and frowned at the thin sleeves of Ray’s sweatshirt. “What’re you doing out here, Ray?”

“Old lady kicked me out again.”

“Where’s your coat?”

“Forgot it.”

With a sigh, Simon sat down on the bench beside him. “You can’t stay out here. You’re gonna get hypothermia.”

Ray shrugged. He looked worse than usual, Simon thought, like he didn’t care if he got hypothermia or not. Slouching forward, Simon rested his forearms on his knees and gazed out at the snowy lake.

At the sound of crinkling paper, Simon glanced over to see Ray uncapping a bottle half-hidden inside a paper bag.

“You can’t drink that out here, buddy,” Simon said, suddenly very tired.

Ray’s bloodshot eyes widened. “You gonna book me again, Labelle?”

“No.”

Ray nodded, his face pinched. “When’re you gonna solve that case? The bombing?”

“Dunno.”
Never
, Simon thought, his hands tightening into fists.
God damn it.

“Here.” Ray offered Simon the paper bag. The just-opened bottle of cheap whiskey smelled utterly benevolent. The bag trembled slightly in Ray’s hands. His gloveless fingers were pale with cold.

“I’ll trade you,” Simon said, standing and unzipping his coat. He tossed the coat onto Ray’s lap. “Go see the pastor. He’ll let you sleep in the church basement. Promise me you’ll get out of the weather.”

Ray gazed down at Simon’s coat. “You’re giving me this? Why?”

“Merry Christmas,” Simon said, sitting back down on the bench. “Get yourself cleaned up. I’ll take that.” He pulled the booze from Ray and stuffed the bottle into the bank of snow at his feet.

Ray pulled Simon’s coat on over his thin frame. “Thanks, Labelle.”

He wandered away, back towards the town. For once, he hadn’t argued with Simon about confiscating his booze. Simon should’ve been glad. Instead, he stared at the frost glistening on the bottle’s mouth and thought about his case: the same endless rounds of thoughts he’d had for months. The Chief was right—he needed to rest, but when he went home, he lay on his couch or in bed and stared at the darkness, and peace felt further away than ever. At least when he was at the station, he could keep up the pretense of doing good.

Simon’s gaze drifted towards the bottle again. He rubbed his knuckles over his jawline, his heart racing. No one was around. No one had to know. That wasn’t why he’d taken it, but…

Simon pulled his phone free from his jeans pocket and dialed the station. Keene’s direct line.

“Bryan Keene.” The man shouted every damn word he said.

“Keene, do me a favor.”

“God damn it, Simon, what the hell is your problem? You’re supposed to be taking the day off, for fuck’s—”

Simon interrupted Keene’s ever-present stream of cursing to ask him to check on Ray, make sure he got to the church all right. Keene immediately agreed, before launching back into his lecture.

“I’m fine,” Simon insisted. “Seriously. See you tomorrow.” Simon hung up and jammed his phone back into his pocket.

Quickly, before he could change his mind, he leaned forward, snatched up the bottle, and took a swig. The whiskey flooded his body with warmth, banishing the cold from his fingers. A sense of relief rendered him momentarily breathless.

Fuck, it was cold out. He should go home. At least he, unlike Ray, had a home to go to.

Stuffing the bottle back into the snow bank, Simon slid his palms over his wool hat. He imagined the long walk home, the empty afternoon, the night. Days like this, the future was a crushing weight of unmet expectations.

What if he didn’t go back? What if he just stayed here?

“Simon? Or should I say Officer Labelle?”

Shit.
Dragging the back of his hand across his mouth, he glanced across the field of snow to where Leona fucking Chaisty was standing just off the path, dressed in black spandex running pants and a tight black fleece, her fair skin glowing with exertion.

She hadn’t spoken to him in so long, he’d sometimes wondered if she’d forgotten his name. Not easy to do in a town of five or six thousand, especially since there were, including him, only six cops. But Leona had kept to herself even when they were kids. Now he hardly ever saw her, unless he was walking by her shop on his beat.

It figured the one time she sought him out, he was at his worst.

Leona glided towards him, hardly indenting the snow under her feet. With her long, black hair and ever-present smirk, she had always reminded him of a fairy—an evil one, who might curse you just for fun, or steal your first-born child if you forgot to leave a saucer of milk out one night. That smile, he’d always thought, was dangerous.

“You all right?” Leona asked, one dark eyebrow arching.

“Fine.” It was all he ever said these days. “I’m fine.”

“Why don’t you have a coat?”

“Gave it to Ray Waller.”

“Why?”

“He didn’t have one.”

“But now
you
don’t have one.” Her wide, expressive mouth quirked. “You see how that works.”

“I get it, thanks.” His tone was acidic, but his heart gave a pathetic little flutter as she moved closer to him, her slender hips swinging. She walked up to his bench and sat down delicately beside him, crossing her long legs.

“That your whiskey?”

His neck burned under the soft collar of his fleece. “No.”

“All right.” Leaning forward, she plucked the bottle out of the snow and took a swig, her white throat arching.

“Leona.” Simon couldn’t contain a sound of hypocritical disapproval.

Her unrepentant gaze turned towards him, assessing him, as if she could unspool his soul from his body and examine it in her hands.

“I’ve never seen you like this,” she said.

“Like what?”

Instead of answering, she took another sip of whiskey. There was something obscene about watching her drink, the way she swallowed—it set his blood on fire. Every time he’d seen her over the last ten years or so collided together in his mind in a carousel of erotic imagery. That old longing burned in him.

She handed him the bottle, and its scent struck him again, almost as difficult and as thrilling as Leona’s presence.

“First of all,” Leona said, raising a finger, “I hardly ever see you out of uniform. And even when I do, you’re always… I don’t know. Helping little old ladies cross the street or something. Right now you’re practically loitering.”

“I am not
loitering
,” Simon snapped, taken aback.

“What are you doing, then?”

He opened and closed his mouth, then shook his head, frustrated. He didn’t know. That was the problem.

“What are
you
doing?” he managed finally.

“Well, I
was
jogging, but now…” She shrugged. “Loitering, I suppose. You must be corrupting me.”

“You don’t need my help with that,” he said, and immediately regretted it. He knew nothing about her personal life and never had. She was intensely private, almost secretive, which had always just made her more interesting to him.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “That was rude.”

“You’re right. It was.” Leona’s gray eyes glittered with amusement. “But it’s also accurate.”

The bottle of whiskey sat, untouched, on the bench between them. Falling snow had begun to stick to the brown paper bag, and to the sleeves of Simon’s blue fleece.

“It’s getting dark,” Leona said. “You should go home.”

“I’m fine,” Simon said automatically.

“Are you?” With a quizzical tilt of her head, she leaned in close and traced one gloved fingertip down his cheek like a tear. He couldn’t look away from her eyes, luminous in the fading daylight. This close, he could just catch her scent, mixing into whiskey and new snow. She was bright and sharp and spicy, like ginger.

Leona pulled away and stood, brushing snow off her chest and arms. “Well, you might be immune to the cold, but I need to go home.”

Disappointment flashed through him. The one time she spoke to him—

“You should walk me there,” she said.

“What? Why?”

“Because you’re a compulsive do-gooder and I’m a little buzzed.”

“Jesus,” he muttered.

“On your feet, soldier.” She reached for his arm, as if to help him up, but he brushed her away. He didn’t need her help. He was only leaving because she was right about him—he hadn’t felt right about letting Ray walk off alone and he didn’t feel right about letting Leona do that, either. He couldn’t even call Keene to check up on her like he could with Ray.

“Come on,” he said gruffly. Picking up the whiskey bottle, he made his way back towards the snow-packed path. All the outdoor enthusiasts from earlier had gone home to their wood stoves and hot chocolates, leaving him and Leona alone in a world of snow and gathering darkness.

It suited her, he thought, glancing over his shoulder. Even dressed for jogging, she was a fairy queen, presiding over a twilit netherworld.

“How do you jog all in this snow?” he asked, when she joined him on the path.

“Sometimes I have to put spikes on my sneakers,” she said cheerfully.

“And you’re not freezing?”

“Not when I’m moving.”

“Fair enough,” he grunted. For him, standing had only highlighted just how cold he’d become, sitting on that bench. Not just his hands or his feet, but deep in his joints.

They passed a trashcan and Simon chucked the bottle of whiskey into it. Good riddance. He should never have opened it in the first place. If anyone else had caught him with it, apart from Leona… At least she didn’t actually think about him often enough to think less of him. That was something, he told himself, though he struggled to believe it.

They followed the trail through the pine forest to a road on the outskirts of town. Soon, they reached tiny, downtown Grenton, where the Christmas lights lining Cascade Street cast a gentle glow across the covered bridge, the handful of art galleries, and the retro chrome diner. Only Piper’s Pub showed signs of life, with a gentle buzz of activity behind its warm, golden windowpanes.

“Where do you live?” Simon asked. He was pretty sure she lived on the main drag, not far from her shop, but he’d made a point over the years not to find out exactly, to give her the privacy she obviously wanted.

“Up there, on Cascade. But I actually have to stop by the liquor store,” she said, with a wide-eyed, innocent glance at him.

He rolled his eyes. He’d be helping her with her grocery shopping next. “Fine.”

They left Cascade Street for the even darker, quieter Pine Road. Leona peered into the forest lining the road, smiling to herself.

“Aha!” She stopped at the entrance to Simon’s driveway. “This is yours, isn’t it? This duplex? I thought I remembered seeing a police car parked here. And here it is.” She pointed up the long, dark driveway to where Simon’s cruiser was parked in front of his duplex. He let his tenants use the garage, so he parked his cruiser outside when he brought it home.

Leona looped her arm through his, dazzling him, once again, with her scent and her closeness. His elbow bumped her ribs, the underside of her breasts. Sparks shot up his arm.

He told himself to pull away, but instead he said, “I thought you had to—”

“It was a ploy, Simon. It takes a lot more than a sip of whiskey to get me buzzed.”

She pulled him up along the driveway to his front porch. His tenants must have strung white Christmas lights along their door sometime while he was out this afternoon, casting that same soft glow across his porch as the lights downtown. The light shimmered on Leona’s black knit hat, her glossy black hair, her sinful mouth.

“Go inside and warm up,” she told Simon, releasing his arm. “I don’t want you dying of hypothermia. Then the town would have to hire a new cop. What a pain.”

“I can’t believe you tricked me,” Simon said, torn between irritation and embarrassment.

She patted his cheek. “You’re only human, darling.”

No kidding.

She turned away, glancing back over one slim shoulder. “Good night.”