19. Smooth Talker
NINETEEN
smooth talker
There’s a buzz sounding in my ear. I feel it vibrating against my chest. Not too strong, but strong enough to pull me out of my hazy sleep. I’m barely aware of anything except the sensation happening in my core. And then the recognition of warmth all around me breaks through.
Finally.
At every sensation, my mind declares it. Finally. At the hum, at the warmth, at the sense of someone else so near her every movement touches some part of me. Brianna’s in my arms. Her slow breathing presses against my chest. The rise and fall of her shoulders touches my chin, and the slight buzz of her snore reverberates everywhere.
Last night, when I intended to give her my bed and sleep on the couch, she grabbed my hand. Her eyes pleaded with mine, Don’t go . There was nothing more I wanted than to lie next to her all night, my arms wrapped around her. But I wasn’t sure if she was ready, so I didn’t ask.
I didn’t have to. After she grabbed my hand to keep me with her, I pulled her to the bed, where we lay facing each other, simply looking into each other’s eyes for a long time. Not a word was spoken out loud, but so much was said. We fell asleep with eyes on each other, hands clasped together. But waking up with her curled against me, nothing could be better.
And that little snore . . .
I’ve never loved a sound more. I want to stay here all day, my arms wrapped around her, listening to her sweet snoring. It’s just dainty enough to be cute.
But my peaceful joy is disrupted by a much louder buzzing noise. Thankfully, it’s not from Brianna. It’s coming from the kitchen, so I’m guessing Jacob. I barely nodded to him last night when we got here. He’d just gotten off work and was dead on his feet, not interested in conversation.
I check the time, and it’s later than I thought. Char will be here in an hour with Brianna’s bags, and then I’ll head over to gather what I need. I’m not looking forward to it. I don’t really want to see what that sick bastard left for her.
With how even her breathing is, Brianna must still be in a deep sleep. I don’t want to wake her, so I slowly slip out of bed and walk as quietly as I can out of the room. I slept pretty well. Actually, the deepest night’s sleep I’ve had in a long time. I can only hope Brianna’s was the same.
I get to the kitchen, shocked to find Jacob making a smoothie. On second thought, I’m kind of impressed. Maybe he’s finally trying to get healthy.
“Never thought I’d see the day,” I say, leaning against the counter. I have an odd sense of déjà vu from the day I got Brianna’s callback. Jacob and I were standing right here, our positions reversed. So much has changed since then ...
“What, milkshakes for breakfast? You make ’em all the time, dude.” Jacob scoffs at me, still focused on his breakfast.
Milkshake? I guess some things haven’t changed at all.
“No, I make protein shakes.” Which this is obviously not. I can smell the chocolate now that I’m waking up.
“Same thing. ”
“Not even close. Mine has whey and soy. Yours has sugar and fat.”
Jacob continues to pour his breakfast into a giant plastic cup. “Yeah, but yours tastes like dirt, and mine tastes like”—he lifts the cup to his mouth and takes a drink—“heaven. Ahhhh.” He puts the cup down and wipes off his chocolate mustache with the back of his sleeve.
Still a pig, I see. Regardless, he’s been a good friend.
“Thanks for letting us crash here last night, bro. Appreciate it.”
He shakes his head. “It’s not crashing if you’re still paying rent, man.” He takes another giant gulp of his shake, once again wiping his mouth on his shirt.
I toss him a napkin, then I grab the blender and rinse it out. I think I left some of my protein powders here when I moved out. Might as well make the healthy version.
Jacob watches in disgust as I add the ice, milk, and banana and then dump two scoops of powder over the top.
“Smells like the garbage disposal.” He practically gags as he insults my shake.
“Nice. Thanks a lot.”
“No prob.” He goes back to swigging his heart-attack special.
We don’t speak while I blend my drink, but after I grab a glass and fill it with my mixture, Jacob speaks up.
“So ... is she okay?” His tone turns serious for once. It changes the whole vibe of the room, and suddenly, all the drama from last night rushes back. I feel like shit all over again.
“I think she will be. When Char gets here with her stuff, I need to head back and pack a bag.”
“Escaping?” Jacob asks completely seriously, not an ounce of his usual teasing detectable in his tone.
“Hitting pause on this nightmare, more like,” I answer.
He nods, thinking over everything, I guess. I’m shocked at his next words.
“The bummer about hitting pause is that eventually the thing gets going again.”
Leave it to Jacob to sum up this disaster we’re trapped in.
Before I can respond—as if I even have a response for that—Brianna walks into the kitchen. She’s disheveled from sleep, her hair is a wreck, and she’s wearing one of my old workout shirts. God, she’s beautiful.
She stands next to me and eyes my glass. “Whatcha got there?”
“Protein shake. Want some?” I tip the glass in her direction.
Brianna takes a sniff and grimaces. “Nah, I’m good.”Then she glances over at Jacob’s massive cup full of chocolate shake and raises her brows—a silent question directed at him.
“Chocolate milkshake. But I’m not sharing.”
Brianna pouts like a little kid—or like her onscreen diva persona. I start to laugh, but Jacob sighs and turns toward the cupboard to grab another cup.
What the hell?
Instead of laughing, my jaw drops. I look back and forth between the two of them. “I thought you weren’t sharing your chocolate monstrosity.”
“What?” Jacob asks. “She’s got good taste in milkshake.”
I can’t be too irritated with him when I see the smile on Bree’s face. That’s all that matters.
Walking back through Brianna’s door actually makes me sick. My stomach rolls at the images playing through my mind of what did happen, and whatcould havehappened. When will this nightmare end? When will she finally be safe ?
I’m only half-surprised to see a swarm of activity in the main rooms of her house. I know Clinton’s on top of the investigation, but part of me figured they’d be done by now. Char said nothing about it this morning.
That’s probably because, rather than packing a bag, she called in a favor at one of Brianna’s favorite boutiques and scored practically an entire new wardrobe. “What’s the fun in being a pampered pop star if you can’t enjoy the perks once in a while?” she said. But now I’m back in this house, I wonder if it had more to do with not wanting to bring Brianna any reminders.
Jacob wasn’t impressed. He made a face, sucked down the rest of his milkshake, and stalked back to his room. Something went down between the two of them when Char knocked on the door. Neither of them will say what it was, but the tension was strong.
I’m brought back to this miserable reality when a cop steps into my line of sight. “Can’t come in here. This is an active crime scene.”
Before I can protest, Clinton walks into the room. “It’s okay, Brad. I got it.” He puts a hand on the cop’s chest and eyes him for a second. Some silent cop language, I guess.
Brad turns and heads back to where he came from, collecting whatever evidence he’s found.
Clinton gives me a grave look. “How is she?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Sometimes fine, sometimes lost in thought. I’m just glad we got out of here before she had to see anything. That would have been much worse.”
“Could have been. But sometimes it’s the not knowing that’s worse.”
I don’t want to think about it. I can’t second-guess any of my decisions. I know for a fact that will mess with my head more than is good for me.
Instead I ask, “You been here all night?”
Clinton nods and looks around the open space of the living room. “On and off most of the night, yeah. That’s how it goes.”
Morning light pours in through the expanse of windows. If it weren’t such an emotionally dark morning, I might be able to appreciate how great the view is, how nice of a day it will be. But I hardly notice the view over the movement of investigators everywhere I turn.
“What do you have so far?” I hate to ask, but I can’t shy away from the information Clinton may have gained after last night’s intrusion.
“Lots of prints. The perp wasn’t slick enough to use gloves, so we’ve narrowed his prints down from the rest. He left a letter and some flowers. I doubt we’ll be able to trace much of the items. Sometimes a perp will leave an item we can trace back to a location of origin, giving us a way to hunt them down. Not in this case.”
Flowers and a letter. I’m really glad she didn’t see those. But my stomach drops when I wonder if this person was here when we were.
Something must cross my face, because Clinton puts a hand on my shoulder, grabbing me to get my attention.
“Were we here when ...?” I can’t finish.
“No. He was long gone when you two got home.”
I nod in relief but urge him to continue. His stance becomes stiff, as if he’s going into police mode, not just being Clinton, the guy from the dojo.
“I’ve reviewed surveillance footage taken at the entryway, the back gate, and the side of the house near her bedroom window. It appears he arrived right after the two of you left with the driver for the event. A male, approximately five foot ten and two hundred pounds, black hoodie and jeans.” Clinton reads the notes from a tablet. “He entered through the back gate, jumping the fence after three tries. The video isn’t clear, but from his approach and the dirt stains on his pants, my guess is he descended the hill before jumping the fence.” Clinton pauses. “There’s no sign of forced entry, and on the tapes he can be seen with what looks like a key.”
“What the fuck! How the hell did he get a key?”
“That’s still under investigation. The locks are already being changed per Char. ”
Thank God I’ve already planned to get Bree out of here. There is no way she’s coming back until he’s caught.
“Listen. We have a face, some prints, and another letter. The fact he has a key is disturbing enough, along with the other evidence, to file for a restraining order. Char is contacting Brianna’s lawyer to get that started.”
I feel sicker. This has gotten so much worse than a letter. What could be next?
“I need to grab some stuff.” I point toward my room.
“Leaving?”
I nod. “Yeah. For a while. Until she’s safe.”
“She is safe.” His hand is on my shoulder. “Neither of us will let anything happen. But I get it. Take care of her.”
I nod again. Words are useless right now.
Clinton has me put little booties on over my shoes and gloves on my hands so I won’t destroy any evidence. I head to my room. Bree’s bedroom door is still open. I see the mess of papers, along with rose petals, on her bed. Red. Blood-red. I close my eyes and turn to my room, trying to block out the sense of dread building in my gut.