Chapter 19
Nineteen
Cole
I chuckle, taking the phone from her. My dick stirs in my shorts at the image on the screen.
A twenty-three-year-old Lacey is facing the mirror in what is quite obviously the bathroom of a cheap, rundown apartment: Laminate counters, builder-grade sink, pitted, stained, rusted faucet, mildewed plastic shower curtain on rusted rings, and a pressure-style rod installed at a cockeyed angle.
She's standing with her legs shoulder-width apart, weight to one side so her hip is popped.
Her left hand is stabbed into her hair—long, loose, wavy blond tresses kinked from being in an overnight braid hang around her slender shoulders.
Her breasts are full and heavy and, yes, hang low on her torso, streaked with stretchmarks from swelling during pregnancy and then shrinking again.
She's smiling at the camera, but—perhaps only because I know her so well—I can see the nerves and tension in her expression. It’s in the crinkle of the corners of her eyes, a hint of the smile not quite reaching her gaze.
It's in the lopsidedness of the smile—her genuine, joyful grin is unmistakable, and that ain't it.
Her thighs are full and thick, and while I can’t see her ass in the shot, I'd wager a guess it's pretty juicy. Her belly is much as it is now—flat and tight, albeit a little bunchy and streaky. And perfectly normal and utterly beautiful, like everything about her.
"Anyone who could look at the smokeshow in this fucking shot," I growl at her, holding her eyes, “and sees the stretchmarks as detracting from your beauty is…" I shake my head. "I don’t even fuckin' know. What I want to say would only come out offensive or possibly homophobic, and that ain’t me."
"Cole—"
“You’re sexy as fuck," I say. "And I feel damn lucky to be the only one to see this."
Her eyes shut for a moment. "Thank you, Cole."
"Just telling the truth, honey."
She reaches up and pinches to zoom in on her belly. "He hated that. Hated. Always."
I toss the phone aside, push her to her back, and shove the hem of the tee up past her belly. She instinctively covers her stomach with her hands, eyes squeezed shut and leaking tears. "Cole, please."
I kneel above her, snag her hands, shove them up over her head and bend to kiss her stomach. I dot slow, tender, open-mouthed kisses all over her stomach, carefully avoiding her breasts or sex.
She hisses in emotional overwhelm. "Cole. Fucking stop."
"No." I caress her flesh, kiss, nuzzle. “You're perfect." I release her hands and she clutches at my shoulders, turning her face to hide her tears in my bicep. "You are, Lacey."
"Ugly," she breathes. “Wrinkly and ugly. Who'd want to fuck someone with that right in front of you?" She's quoting, goddammit. "So fucking ugly. Can't you do anything about it? I bought you a cream, Lacey. Apply it every day. And what happened to the five pounds I told you to lose?"
I slash my mouth over hers and silence her with a scorching kiss. "He’s not here," I snarl. "The only voice you should ever hear again is mine."
"I wish it were that easy, Cole," she breathes.
"I'll just have to be that voice until it is all you hear." I leave her tee bunched just under her breasts, find her hand, and guide it to my semi-rigid cock. "Feel me?"
She moans. "Yes, but—"
I kiss her belly, run my tongue over the streaks and grooves, tasting the salt of her flesh. "Does it feel like I'm turned off by this?
“No," she whispers.
"Your tits are covered. You're not doing anything to me. Right?"
"Right," she breathes.
"What does it feel like to you?"
"That you're turned on."
"By?"
"Me."
"You how?"
“Exactly as I am."
I cup her cheek, kneeling astride her, gazing down at her.
"Look at me now, Sweet Thing." Her wide, wet blue eyes flick open, find mine.
"I'm all too aware that I can't just erase that voice by pure force of will, but I'm damn sure going to try.
And what I need from you, my sweet, perfect, sexy little wildcat…
" He grins at the affectionate term I'd all but forgotten he used to call me back in high school, since, you know, our mascot is a wildcat; it just makes me cry all the harder, but it's a good cry, a sniffling, laughing, smiling sob.
"It’s a simple promise. Can you give me that? "
"What promise, CoCo?"
"Fight that bastard's voice. Every time you hear that voice in your psyche, tell it to shut the fuck up and try to replace it with my voice."
"Saying what?" she asks, sniffling.
"That you're perfect exactly as you are."
"No one is perfect, Cole."
I snort. "I'm not getting into a religious debate with you, Lacey Grey. You—are—perfect…to me."
She sobs again, another half-laugh, half-sob. "Cole."
I roll to my back and collect her in my arms. "Here's what I'd like. You want to know?"
She nods.
"I want us to go into town and get you a proper phone. And then, instead of me sitting here and scrolling through this treasure trove of unholy hotness, I want you to send them to me at random. Whenever the mood strikes you."
She huffs a laugh. "I could do that." A pause.
"You have to return the favor in kind, though.
"I grumble, a groaning half-laugh. "I was afraid you'd say that.
I don't know how good I'm gonna be at that.
And I can't risk taking selfies of any kind during work, let alone that. But in my off-hours, well…"
She nuzzles my jaw with her nose. "I don't want or need anything fancy, Cole. Just you and your hot fucking body. Shirtless, clothed, naked, hard as a rock, not. Just you and your beautiful body and ruggedly handsome face."
I chuckle. "I'll take ruggedly handsome."
She lifts up on my chest. “How’s-aboo-oo-oot…” she echoes the vaguely Canadian way I said it earlier. "Stone-cold fox? Beefcake? Mr. Big?"
I huff at that last one. "Mr. Big?"
"Sex and the City?"
"Don't watch TV, babe."
She blinks at me. "You don't? Not ever?"
I shrug, shake my head. "Nah. I'm not against it, I just don't. I don't have time. I work a ton of hours, and when I’m not working, I'm usually out with the boys or chilling here."
"And when you're chilling here, what does that entail?"
I shrug again. "Uh? Drink a beer or whiskey, check socials, go through emails, text the guys, sleep, make and eat food, putz in the barn, tinker with my truck."
"Sounds peaceful, to be honest."
"It is. That's part of why I'm still here. I mean, yeah, sure, maybe there's a psychologically and emotionally stuck-in-time component. But I like it out here. I couldn't live in town—too noisy. Too busy."
She laughs softly. "Oh man, CoCo, you'd hate it downstate, then. We lived in a quiet, gated, upscale neighborhood with minimal traffic noise, and I'm still getting used to how quiet it is up here."
We lapse into silence for a while, just lounging together on the stripped bed.
My phone rings, jarring us both out of a quasi-nap state. I grab it, peer at it.
"Sorry, gotta take it," I say. "You mind?"
"Mmmm," she hums drowsily. "Of course not. Do I have to move?"
I huff a laugh. "No, baby." I kiss her temple as I slide to answer. "Mosely. What's up?"
“Jared Beasley was seen getting cozy with Amber Brunner at The Borderline less than a week before her disappearance.”
“He what?” I bark, adjusting my grip on the phone.
“The Borderline is—”
I interrupt him. “I grew up here, Carter. I know what the Borderline is all too well.”
“Right, right. Obviously. Amber was underage, so the bartender I spoke to—a…” a pause, paper rustling as he consults his notes; I can see what he’s really doing is trying to find a tactful way of IDing Barb without her name while he looks it up in her notes.
“Barbara?” I suggest, taking pity on him. “Biggest chest you’ve ever seen in real life?”
“Uh, yes, sir.” He sounds embarrassed. “She was a brand new waitress back then, but she remembers Amber—they went to school together. Amber was a year ahead of Barbie. She knew Amber was using a fake ID, but didn’t say anything at the time. They weren’t friends, but—”
“Carter, focus on the pertinent details, please.”
“Right, yeah. She didn’t know Beasley since he was a good ten years older than her, but she described the person Amber was with quite clearly, and it was absolutely Jared Beasley. Right down to the birthmark on his left temple in the shape of a lopsided heart.”
“No shit,” I breathe. “Amber Brunner was dating Jared Beasley. We have a connection.”
“It’s tenuous, still, but if I could go through the files, I may be able to make a few more connections.”
"I can't let you take them home, Carter. I don’t take the materials home myself. I can’t risk even a hint of procedural mistakes that could torpedo the case, if I ever make any actual motherfucking progress."
"Well, sir, I have no problem coming in early or staying late."
"Why are you so invested in this, Mosely?" I ask.
A pause. "I dunno. It's a fascinating mystery and I have a compulsion to solve mysteries, I think."
"Well, Mosely, let me do some thinking about this over the weekend, but…
" I sigh, thinking. "Warnicki is my only full-time detective, and he's spread too thin.
I've been thinking of hiring, transferring, or promoting someone to help with that caseload, especially since Warnicki is only a few years out from retirement. "
"Sir, are you suggesting—"
"I'm considering it, Mosely. Considering putting you on the detective payroll as Warnicki's apprentice and replacement. He gets help with his caseload, and you get on-the-job training from a man who's been a detective for twenty-five years."
"So he was here when your father was killed?"
“Yeah. I've talked to him about it at length, and he's maintained in every conversation I’ve had with him and in every report I've seen that he wasn't even in the county when the accident happened—he'd been on vacation up in the U-P with his brothers, fly-fishing the Two Hearted. His brothers are both gone now, so I can’t verify it.”
"I don't know what the Two Hearted is," Mosely says.