Mercy Kill_ A Mystery - Lori Armstrong [115]
He didn’t look thrilled for a man who’d just handed me my ass in my own damn county.
I stopped about ten feet from him.
“You didn’t pull a gun on me,” he said dryly. “I think that’s a first.”
“Geneva wouldn’t let me carry on election night.”
“She’s such a spoilsport.”
Silence.
“What are you doing here?”
He didn’t blink, or move; he just watched me.
“Shouldn’t you be whooping it up with your committee?”
Dawson kept his hands shoved in the front pockets of his jeans. He looked every inch the cowboy—new Wranglers, a gray pearl-snap shirt, a black leather vest, scuffed black cowboy boots. He wasn’t wearing a cowboy hat or championship belt buckle.
Shame, really.
“Dawson?”
“Yeah, I probably should be popping a top with the crew.”
“Then why aren’t you?”
A heavy sigh followed another pause. “Here’s the thing. I’m damn happy that I won.” His eyes searched mine. “But the truth is, you’re the only one I want to celebrate with, which sucks, since I suspect I’m the last person you want to see right about now.”
I studied him. A sharp ache—a combination of guilt and need—moved through me. Dawson could be anywhere, with anyone, and yet here he was. With me. Waiting on me. I shoved my hands in my pockets, mimicking his stance, unsure what to do.
“Do you want me to go?”
I shook my head, expecting he wouldn’t accept my silence. He’d verbally push me until my words erupted like a geyser. But Dawson just watched me patiently. That unnerved me even worse.
“You know what bugs me about this situation? Here it is, not even an hour after I lost, and I’m not all that upset that you beat me. I’m . . . relieved. And that pisses me off. It pisses me off that I’m not spitting nails at you for winning.”
“Why?”
“Because . . . fuck, I don’t know. Maybe it was all about the competition. Maybe I was trying to live up to expectations that aren’t mine.”
“Sounds like an excuse, and you ain’t the type to Monday-morning quarterback, Mercy, so try again.”
“Fine. The truth? My dad picked you because he trusted you.”
“And?”
I struggled, trapped by the weight of my pride. “Despite claims to the contrary, if my dad was alive, I believe he’d still consider you the better candidate. He’d back you for sheriff, even against me, his own daughter.” I laughed. “Took me a while to realize this, and even longer to admit it, but the crazy thing is? I do trust you, Dawson. You are qualified, immensely so, and the comparisons I’ve made between you and my father aren’t justified and aren’t fair.”
He lifted a quizzical brow. “Meaning?”
“I was wrong.”
“So you don’t think I’m a complete and total fuckup?”
I shook my head. The glint in his eyes kept me from elaborating.
“You’re withholding something.”
Jesus, Mercy, just fucking say it.
“And . . . I-I’m sorry. Okay? I’m just . . . sorry.”
“You sure your tongue ain’t bleeding after choking those words out?”
“Ha-ha. Don’t be a jerk, Sheriff.”
His answering smile was a little slow, a little smug, but he’d earned it. “Apology accepted, Sergeant Major.”
“So now what?”
“You tell me.”
I threw my hands up. “I don’t know. Do we kiss and make up? Do we just go on as we were before?”
Dawson shook his head. “That’s not enough for me.”
My face heated. “You saying I’m not enough for you?”
“No, I’m saying it’s all or nothing.”
The part of me that didn’t like ultimatums bristled. But it wasn’t strong enough to make me walk away. “I don’t know how to do this.”
“Do what?”
I gestured at the space between us. “Be in a relationship.”
“You think I don’t know that this is uncharted territory for you? You think I don’t know you’ve been fighting me every goddamn step of the way?” Irritated, but attempting to stay calm, Dawson shifted his stance. “Hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but we already have a relationship. It’s as dysfunctional as I’ve ever seen, but it’s there.”
Relief swept through me that I hadn’t completely screwed this up. “I know that now.”
“Do you?”
“Stop bouncing everything back to me as a question,” I snapped. “This is hard.