Exclusive Excerpt from Crossing the Line

by Jeanne St. James

Cross lifted his hand to knock on the motel room door, but as he did so, it swung open. A man stepped out, wearing a baseball cap low, his head down and his hands shoved deep into his pockets as he elbowed past Cross.

Cross had to take a step back so he wouldn’t be bowled over. As he watched the man jog down the stairs at the end of the second-floor landing, he heard, “What’re you doin’ here?”

His gaze swung back to the open doorway where Nash had his hand planted high on the corner edge of the door and was leaning into the door jamb, his shoulder pressed to the molding.

Nash wore no shirt, even though it was November. Without his belt, his jeans rode low on his narrow hips. His feet were bare, and his messy hair hung loose.

Cross turned again and watched the man who had rushed out of Nash’s room get into what he would consider a road hazard on four wheels and drive away.

“You shouldn’t be here,” came the low rumble.

Apparently.

“You don’t fuckin’ give up.”

Cross wished he could. Some days he’d wished he never saw Nash across the bar at The Cockpit. He’d never been like this with anyone before.

He needed his fucking head examined. No doubt about it.

“Why?”

Cross met Nash’s hazel eyes and told the truth. “I wish I knew, then I’d be able to give you an answer.” He jerked his head toward the now-empty parking spot Nash’s “friend” had vacated. “You fuck him?”

Nash ignored the question, turned on his heels and went deeper into the motel room but left the door open. Cross took that as an invitation.

After stepping inside, he closed and locked the door. He watched Nash’s lean muscles ripple as he tugged an Ocean City Bike Week hoodie over his head and slide his bare feet into a pair of old sneakers, not bothering to lace them up.

He grabbed something off the small desk and kept walking to a sliding glass door on the other side of the room. Then he disappeared outside.

It took a few seconds for Cross to unstick his feet. When he did, he stepped out onto the small balcony where the air felt a little warmer than normal for fall since that side of the motel room was engulfed in the afternoon sun. That motel room was also located in Virginia where it was a little warmer than back home in Pennsylvania.

Nash probably thought Cross was desperate since he tracked him down two states away.

But it hadn’t been hard to find him. All Cross had to do was look online for Dirty Deeds’ tour dates. It also wasn’t hard to locate the motel once he contacted the band’s manager and asked where Nash was staying, saying he needed the info for a police matter.

Once again, the man who now was settled into a lounge chair made him lie.

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