Chapter Seven #2
“I’m going to hang out in the studio,” Harper said, excusing herself quickly.
As she had with Harper, Drea filled Cujo in on the continuing conversations she’d had with Gilliam. He said very little, but the tick in his cheek was probably not a good sign.
“I spoke to Gilliam last night. Did you talk to the Canadian police yet?” she asked Carter.
“I put a call into the RCMP. The detective in charge is going to give me a shout today. Why?”
“Because Gilliam spoke to MacArthur’s wife, and he was heading to Fort McMurray where all the big oil companies are. He was investigating the mining permitting process.”
“Drea. I appreciate you want this closed, but you’re speculating. We still don’t even know the woman was abducted or that any of this has anything to do with her.” Carter moved to the table and sat down.
“But doesn’t the fact she hasn’t come forward or made a report show she was?” Drea tried to bury her frustration.
“No, it doesn’t. About forty percent of violent crimes go unreported.”
Gah. Frustration bubbled like hot water in a saucepan. There had to be a way to find the woman. She couldn’t spend the rest of her life picturing the woman’s face, it was going to drive her crazy.
She stomped to the window, then to the door, pacing back and forth until Cujo grabbed her arm. His frame was rigid, but his hand was gentle. As much as she tried to resist, he slowly tugged her back toward him until she was standing at his side.
“How hard can this be to figure out?” Drea sighed with exasperation. “I can barely sleep. It’s killing me, not knowing if she is okay.”
“Look Drea,” Carter said softly. “We are working through the files. We’ve connected with the RCMP, the Canadian police.
I’ll even call your contact if you want to give me his number.
” He stood and walked toward her. “We canvassed your neighborhood, fingerprinted the cup, circulated the drawing Mr. Matthews did, and a whole list of other things. I assure you, we are doing everything we can.”
Drea sighed heavily, tossing her hair over her shoulder. What Carter said made sense, but somehow it still didn’t seem like enough.
“Nobody would like to solve this for you more than me.” His eyes softened and Cujo’s grip on her arm momentarily tightened then released to link their fingers. “I hate that you’re not sleeping and I wish I could fix it for you.”
“I know,” she said. “I’m sorry to keep bothering you.”
“You’re not. You know that, right? Anytime.” Carter glanced at her hand in Cujo’s. He tilted his head, his gaze steady on hers.
Like it or not, there was a spark between them. It simply wasn’t the explosion that occurred when she was with Cujo.
“Drea. Mr. Matthews,” Carter said with a nod, then left.
It felt as though someone had sucked all the air out of the room.
“I don’t know whether to spank your ass for not telling me what was going on, or kick his for looking at you like you’re an all-you-can-eat buffet.” Cujo growled finally.
“Oh for God’s sake—” Drea pulled her hand out of his, embarrassed she wanted to leave it there.
“Don’t give me that shit, Drea. This actually concerns me. Why didn’t you tell me about this?”
“Don’t you have a client you need to get back to?” she replied.
“I do. But this is more important. You are more important. Seriously, what the fuck, Drea?”
Her heart soared traitorously at the comment. She checked the time on her phone. She was due at José’s in less than fifteen minutes. But he was right. He deserved to know what she’d been doing. She’d be pissed as all hell if he had done the same to her.
“I should have told you. I’m sorry.” But now he knew everything, there was little left to say.
“Don’t fold so easily,” he said, tugging her toward him. “I want to be mad at you for a little while longer.”
Without a doubt, he was one of the most handsome men she’d ever known. His flawless complexion marred only by the wrinkles of concern creasing his forehead.
“Don’t kick Carter’s ass. He’s a good guy.”
“He asked you out?”
Drea nodded in response.
“Did you say yes?” He pulled her body flush against his.
“I rain-checked.”
His shoulders dropped in relief. “Good.”
“Cujo. We aren’t … you don’t—”
“My mom’s in the hospital,” he said, changing the subject. “And of all the fucking irony, she has amnesia. Doesn’t remember everything she did to us.”
Drea wrapped her arms around his waist, grabbing the soft fabric of his shirt. “I’m sorry, Cujo. Can I help at all?”
“Just tell him no. Please.”
* * *
“Okay, I gotta ask,” Trent started, and Cujo looked up from the series of bouncing love heart candies he was drawing onto transfer paper for a cute blonde from Toronto. “You say nothing’s going on, then I see the two of you wrapped up tighter than a pretzel after the cop left. What’s up, man?”
Drea had left as soon as he’d let her go. He’d watched her leave with Harper. The distance was supposed to feel good, a relief. Instead, he felt like a piece of him was missing.
Cujo let out a tight laugh. “Sometimes I think we’re like Mentos and Diet Coke. We irritate each other half the time.”
“And the other half?”
Cujo paused, uncertain of the answer. He respected her, even admired her. The double shifts, caring for her mom, looking out for others. And without a doubt, he wanted to strip her naked and see what else she could do with all that fire pent up inside her.
Trent coughed. “I seem to recall you ripping on me when I was like this with Harper.”
Cujo frowned. “There is no me and Drea. Nothing happened. Like seriously nothing. No bases were touched.”
Trent raised an eyebrow.
“Okay, fuck. I kissed her. Once.”
“Well, you guys have some pretty crazy energy.”
Cujo slammed his pen down on the table and clasped his hands on the top of his head.
“Fuck. I don’t know. She deserves a better relationship than I can give her.
And she’s Harper’s best friend. And she has all this shit going on in her life.
And I get why she’s pissed off half the time because I would be too if I had been dealt such a shitty hand.
” He sighed and leaned forward, placing both hands on the edge of the table.
His head drooped and he rolled his neck from side to side to let the tension out.
“She needs someone solid. Someone who will be there for her, and I can’t be that guy. That shit isn’t for me.”
“I thought that, too, before Harper. When Yasmin left, I thought I was done,” Trent said, referring to his first and only serious relationship prior to Harper.
“But that’s different, man. Getting married and having kids is something you’ve always wanted. I’ve adjusted to the idea that it isn’t going to happen for me, not when I can’t guarantee I’ll be there for them.”
“You’ve passed all the big milestones, Cuj. Your chances of being around as long as the rest of us are pretty good.”
Yeah, to watch them walk down the aisle and worry about saving for college educations. It wasn’t fair to ask someone to commit to what could ultimately end up being half of a forever.
“My mom … I … she’s back…” Silence filled the room.
“Cuj?”
“She’s in the hospital.” He explained the situation. “And she can’t remember a fucking thing.”
“Shit.”
“Hit on the head so hard, her brain bled.” Cujo frowned. “She says she doesn’t remember us.” He walked over to the window. Dark thunderclouds rolled across the sky, a fucking poetic accompaniment to his mood.
“Fuck, man. I’m sorry. You don’t believe her?”
“I don’t know. She’s beat up real bad. It’s a shit show.
Dad’s beside himself. Devon wants to get to know her, Connor can’t decide, and I’d rather be anywhere than another fucking hospital.
” Cujo turned and punched straight through the plasterboard wall with his left hand.
Pain radiated through his knuckles as dust drifted down to the floor. “Fuck!”
He pulled the office door open and marched to the kitchen. The fridge wobbled as he yanked open the freezer door and grabbed an ice tray. Turning it upside down, he slammed it hard against the counter and cursed as cubes spilled on the floor.
Pixie walked in and patted him on the back. Without a word, she popped the ice-cubes into a clean dishcloth and wrapped them around his hand.
“Even mad, you remembered not to use your tattooing hand. Do I need to call a contractor?” she asked.
“Probably.”
“Do we need an ambulance for Trent?”
He laughed sadly. Like he’d ever hit his best friend.
These guys were his family. Even Pixie, who they’d found sleeping rough in the doorway to Second Circle on the day they got the keys.
She’d never told them where she’d come from or what had happened, but he thought of her a sister all the same. He shook his head.
“Okay, then. My job here is done,” she said, kissing his cheek.
By the time he had composed himself, Trent was busy doing a walk-in tribal band, which showed how desperate he must be to work again. He hated tribal bands and tramp stamps, and he refused to tattoo “you are the wind beneath my wings” on anyone.
Two hours later, it was getting near to closing time. Pixie had left for the evening. Eric, one of the other tattoo artists, had finished early, and Lia was just wiping down her workstation.
Trent put two pieces of paper in front of him. “Can you do this for me?”
Cujo looked at the images. A quote. L’amore che move il sole e l’altre stelle. The second, a picture that could only be described as outer space. All spiral swirls, in shades of slate gray and moss green, with hints of pink splattered with brilliant stars, almost like a watercolor.
“I want it. The text on top of the picture. And I want you to do it.” No one had tattooed Trent since their mentor, Junior, had covered Trent’s arms and back with scenes from, Dante’s Divine Comedy.
Seriously one of the most beautiful pieces of tattoo art he’d ever seen.
And sadly, Junior had been gone a couple of years now.
“What does it mean?”