Chapter Three #2
“Obviously the woman. We’re running her image through a whole bunch of software to see if we can find out who she is. No hits so far. The two assailants don’t appear on it at all.”
“Damn.”
Carter and his partner, Officer De Luca, searched the premises, then took their formal statements.
“Given we’ve got no camera footage, we’re going to have to do this the old-fashioned way. Can you guys come down to the station on Monday? We’ll have one of our sketch artists work with you, have you take a look at some mug shots.”
Drea tensed. Cujo understood her fear of getting involved farther, but it was too late to go back. It didn’t make sense for the two of them to do it when he could draw it right now … before she had the chance to talk herself, and him, out of it.
“Could you get me a piece of paper, Shortcake? And a pencil, please?”
Drea ran to the back of the store, returning with a small stack of paper and other supplies. He eyed the eraser. “Really, what kind of amateur do you think I am?” A fucking eraser. Honestly. He chuckled.
“You can sketch?” Carter looked at the paper curiously. “Are you any good?”
Cujo closed his eyes for a moment, conjured a mental image of the guy Drea was now calling Snake. He slid his hand across the surface of the paper, picked up the pencil, and checked its weight and balance.
“Yeah. I am.”
He started with the basic face shape, more of a rectangle than an oval.
The subtle bump in the chin took some time to capture properly.
The lines of symmetry at the midpoint of the head were crucial for lining up eyes, ears, and cheekbones.
Proportions, Miss Murray, his old art teacher had said, were the key to understanding any artistic endeavor.
Coffee sloshed over the rim of the cup as Drea placed it next to his elbow.
He could feel the nervous energy rolling off her.
He looked up and winked. It was the only comfort he could give her right now.
Drea’s hand rubbed his shoulder, and he put his hand over hers for a moment.
“Thanks.” The coffee tasted as good as it smelled.
Cujo couldn’t resist looking at Carter. Yeah.
Her hand’s on my shoulder. Sucks to be you.
He continued to sketch, marking the location of all the key features and starting to add them systematically. A slight hollowing of the face exaggerated the cheekbones, which looked feminine on the guy.
He glanced up. She was leaning on the other side of the counter, directly opposite, watching his sketch come alive. Her chin rested on one hand, her pinky finger trapped between her teeth. Not biting, just holding—those pink lips soft and tender.
Her eyelashes flicked up and she pinned him with her gaze. Busted.
He started on the hair. If he’d had his pens with him, he could have added some color to it.
Miss Murray had always said his eye for color was the artistic equivalent of being pitch perfect.
It was why he had been accepted into the School of the Art Institute of Chicago.
Not that he ever made it to Illinois. He shook the thought away.
He definitely did not need to be thinking about that right now.
The dirty straw color and uneven curls took some time to capture the subtleties every shade of charcoal would allow.
“Done.” He pushed the drawing toward Drea. Her opinion mattered. “What do you think?”
Drea pulled the paper closer, turning it as she dragged it across the counter. Her eyes widened, pupils flared in surprise. “Oh my God, Brody. It looks just like him.” She studied the image. “You’re incredible.”
Carter took the paper out of her hands. “Thanks for this. Saves everyone the effort.” He put his cup down on the counter with a bang but delivered a forced smile. Drea jump at the sound. Perhaps he could piss Carter off and do something to ease the tension wringing Drea to pieces.
Cujo laughed.
“Something funny, Mr. Matthews?”
“Nah. Nothing at all, Detective,” he said then turned to Drea. “I was thinking … all that time I had you in the closet and never got a feel of…”
“Cujo,” Drea threw the dishcloth she was using to clean the counter at him. But she laughed. Briefly. And after the night they’d had, it was the sweetest fucking sound.
* * *
Drea breathed a sigh of relief. Her shift was over, the sun was shining, and she was finally outside.
Every time she’d walked past the damn closet, she’d thought of the previous evening and her pulse had raced.
José encouraged her leave early, seeing straight through her attempts to act normal.
Her coworkers offered their support while fishing for additional details she wasn’t ready or able to share.
Cujo pulled up outside the café at the time they agreed. She opened the truck door and handed him the two coffees she’d brought, and then climbed inside before fastening her seatbelt.
“Thanks for the coffee. How’d you sleep?” Cujo steered his truck away from José’s.
“Not the greatest. You?” Drea took a sip of coffee from her travel mug.
“Same. Sleeping with a baseball bat is one thing. Waking up with one is altogether different,” he said.
“Not a spooner?” she asked.
“It was when it kissed my neck, shit got real.”
Drea’s laughter broke free. “There’s a visual I don’t need.”
“Are you okay? We didn’t get much chance to talk once the cops got there.”
Drea didn’t like it when Cujo got serious, because she liked serious Cujo. Effed up logic all round, but when he was human and nice, not a jerk, he was … something she shouldn’t be thinking about.
“You got some protection at home? Good locks? A gun? Sounded like he knew where you lived.”
Drea shuddered at the thought of a gun. Yesterday was the closest she ever wanted to come to one. Instead, she’d triple checked all the locks and kept a kitchen knife handy.
“He took my driver’s license. He knew all that other stuff about me. I’d guess he pretty much knows my shoe size by now.” She chewed down the side of her thumbnail.
“Drea? I can help you get some better security stuff. Or Trent can when he gets back, but I don’t think you should wait that long.”
She hated pity, even when it was done under the guise of friendship.
“Or,” he said before she had time to answer, “you could come stay with me, or I could come stay over at your mom’s. At least until some of the heat dies down.”
“Honestly, I’m fine.” Even though she wasn’t. Even though her insides still felt like they’d been drawn across a rack and ironed. She couldn’t afford any better security. The side of her thumbnail was raw. Biting it when stressed was a childhood bad habit.
“Yeah, and I’m LeBron James,” he replied. “Not wanting to answer is one thing. Lying to me is something different.”
Cujo’s words stung, but putting on her game face had been her coping strategy for the last ten years. Pretending everything was fine was as natural to her as breathing.
Snake’s words replayed through her head all night. Dreams of a woman running, the back alley behind the café cast in darkness, a man with a gun, the bullet hitting the woman, only for her to turn into Cujo. Her brain was a confused mess.
She studied Cujo’s profile as he steered the truck off the northbound highway into the driveway of a beachside home in the exclusive neighborhood of Golden Beach.
Guilt racked her that he’d been sucked into the events of the previous evening.
It wasn’t right to drag him into her problems any further.
“Seriously, it’s nothing. Was nothing. I’m all good,” she said, her voice wavering unconvincingly.
She needed to pull herself together. Like she had this morning when she’d gone ahead with the interview José had arranged for her with a night shift manager from one of the large waterfront hotels.
Her finances depended on it, so she’d given herself a ten-minute pep talk in the toilet, and slapped a smile on her face.
How she’d remained composed was a mystery, but she was now officially a two-job woman.
Cujo parked up outside a magnificent home facing the beach and killed the engine. The cab settled into uncomfortable silence.
“You’re about as good as a train wreck, Drea.” He turned in his seat to look at her. “Look, I know we don’t always see eye-to-eye, but you know I’ll do what I can to help you.”
Sincerity radiated from him. If only she could rely on him. On anyone. Maybe if she pushed him away, he would be safer. She took a deep breath and steeled herself as she looked around the neighborhood.
“I’m okay. Seriously.” Across the street, iron gates slid open and a sporty red convertible roared out onto the road. “Why are we here, Cujo?” she asked, changing the subject.
He stared at her, hard, his brows furrowed as if he was trying to solve a puzzle. For a moment he didn’t speak, and that said enough. “You wanted a fancy location and I wanted a casual party. You’re miserable company when you don’t get your way. So let’s go.”
She watched Cujo step out of the truck, trying not to focus on the way his shoulders flexed under the black, long-sleeve Henley he was wearing. Cursing quietly under her breath, Drea opened the door to find Cujo waiting for her.
“Come on, Shortcake. I won’t drop you unless you nail me in the nuts.
” There was nothing she could do to stop the smile.
She leaned forward, and he gripped her waist as he helped her down from the truck.
The spark she’d felt days before in the studio returned, like a low-grade electric shock where he touched her.
Damn him for being such a flirt. They walked toward a large gate, bookended by whitewashed walls covered in crossvine. Drea gently brushed her fingers along the fragile pink flowers. Cujo pressed a button on the intercom by the gate.
“Cujo, man. Come on up, dawg.”