Chapter Twelve #2
Looking back, knowing what had come after, James and Anna Winters’ murders marked the beginning of the end for all of us. Echoing my thoughts, Cooper murmured, "What kind of sick fuck would send you this?"
I shook my head. "No fucking clue," I admitted. "The case is closed. It's been closed for nineteen years. What's the point in dragging it up now? If someone wanted to get a reaction out of me, they should've given it to me in a public place, not slid it under my door."
"Anything you're involved in that might lead back to this? New business deal? Someone you haven't worked with before? Anyone who owes you money?" Evers asked. I shook my head.
"I've already thought of that," I said. "The only thing new is Abigail. But this seems a little subtle for Big John."
"I agree," Cooper said. "Digging up a crime two decades old just to fuck with your head is not Big John's style.
A rocket launcher into your living room, maybe.
Running your car off the road and shooting you in the head, definitely.
But this? I don't think this has anything to do with Abigail or Big John. "
"Is it worth checking for fingerprints?" I asked.
Cooper busied himself putting the photograph away. None of us wanted to look at it any longer than we had to. Cooper and Evers had been young, but they'd known my aunt and uncle. Seeing that picture couldn't be easy for them either.
"We'll check and see if we find anything. I'll get it back to you when we're done."
"Fine," I said. Checking the time on my watch, I realized I had a conference call in twenty minutes that I didn't want to miss. "I have to get back to the office."
"I'm sending Griffen up to watch your door for now," Evers said. "We'll get a regular rotation on it starting tonight. I'll also increase security on the stairwell access and the lobby elevator."
Nothing was foolproof. I knew that, but increasing security was a start.
"Thanks," I said as I turned to leave. "Keep me posted."
I headed back to my office, trying to get my mind on my upcoming call. I was in the middle of negotiations for a plot of commercial real estate I was hoping to buy from the original investors at a steep discount after they'd completely fucked up the first stages of development.
I had to get my head back in the game. Since when was my personal life more distracting than business? Never.
Now that I'd dealt with the security issue, all I could see in my mind was the pain in Abigail's face when I'd yelled at her.
I'd yelled at her. I called her stupid and yelled at her. What the fuck was wrong with me?
She'd been scared enough by some fucked up intruder slipping stuff under the door without me losing my temper. She didn't need that kind of shit.
In the past two weeks, I'd seen her relax as the specter of Big John had faded. A steady diet of orgasms and safety had wiped away the pinched look in her eyes and the stiffness in her shoulders.
Despite the way we'd begun, I refused to accept Evers's implication that she was pretending to be happy because she had no other choice. Abigail wanted to be with me. She wasn't looking for more, and neither was I. Evers was completely off base.
Abigail and I were fine. Or we had been.
I'd taken pride in being the reason she was finally starting to be happy, and then I'd gone and fucked it all up. The sad thing was, I had no idea what to do about it.
Had I ever apologized to a woman before?
Maybe, over small stuff, but not like this. It had never mattered. I'd never cared if they accepted my apology, never really cared that they were pissed in the first place, except as it might inconvenience me.
With Abigail, the memory of that look in her eyes, that stomach turning combination of fear and sadness, pity and hurt . . . I had no idea how to fix it.
I thought about asking Rachel to order her flowers, then threw the idea away before it could fully form. Flowers wouldn't get the job done. Neither would jewelry or any other stupid clichéd gifts.
Abigail wasn't my girlfriend. She was supposed to be a pet. She was supposed to be uncomplicated and simple.
So what the fuck had happened?
I managed to banish Abigail from my mind for the rest of the day. I'll admit, though it makes me a prick, that when a minor crisis came up at five thirty, I opted to handle it myself rather than delegating it.
Call me a pussy, but I couldn't bring myself to go home and face Abigail. I texted her to let her know not to hold dinner, aware I was an asshole as I hit Send.
I should have tacked on an apology. Anything to let her know I was sorry for the way I'd behaved, but I couldn't get the words out, even in text form.
I was still trying to figure out how to make it up to her when I let myself in the penthouse just after midnight.
As the Sinclairs had promised, there'd been a guard outside my door—one who'd forced me to show ID and clear my palm print before he let me in.
I'd laughed about it with him, hiding my relief at one more layer of armed protection between Abigail and the rest of the world.
I didn't know what was going on with the picture, with Big John, or with Abigail. It meant more than it should have to know she was safe.
She was asleep, the lights out in the penthouse except for the foyer and the kitchen, which she left on but lowered, leaving me a dim trail to the note on the island.
Jacob,
Dinner in the refrigerator if you're hungry. Put it in the microwave for three minutes, 50% power.
A
A weight in my chest lifted, just a little. She might be pissed at me. She should be pissed at me, I'd been an asshole. But she couldn't be that mad if she'd left me dinner and a note.
I found her asleep in her bed, face down, one knee hitched up, the covers pushed down to her feet, leaving her body exposed.
She was alluring like that, revealed in sleep as she never was when she was awake. A part of Abigail was always on her guard.
I didn't mind. I respected that she was smart enough to try to protect herself. Tonight, I wanted her like this. Defenseless.
Stripping off my clothes, I climbed into bed beside her, sliding my hands beneath the silky nightgown, stroking the curve of her hip and the soft skin of her belly and cupping the weight of her breast.
She let out a moan and shifted against me, arching her back to press her breast into my hand. She whispered, "Jacob," and I was lost.
I needed this. I needed Abigail like this, soft and willing. Half-asleep, she let me open her to my touch, her warm brown eyes cracking a slit as I hooked her leg over mine and grazed her pussy with my fingertips.
My lips fell on her neck, tasting, closing my teeth on the tendons in a grip of possession. I couldn't stop myself. This body was mine. Abigail was mine.
She was wet after only a few strokes of my fingers. I could have fucked her like that, wrapping her in my arms and sliding into her from behind, but that wasn't what I wanted.
Not this time.
I needed to see her face. I had to look into her eyes, languid and sleepy, as she came on my cock. I wanted her to know who was fucking her.
Untangling our limbs, I rolled her to her back, covering her with my body as I pushed my cock into her tight, sweet pussy.
Her arms came around me, fingers digging into my shoulders as I started to fuck her, slowly at first, then with rising urgency. Being inside her was too good to hold back.
"Jacob," she breathed in my ear. That was it. No begging, no words but my name. Jacob.
She knew who was fucking her. She knew who owned her body.
That should have been enough for me. If I doubted that her desire for me was an act, her sleepy welcome assured me. Abigail wanted me. Why couldn't that be enough?
It wasn't. I had her body. I shouldn't need more. But as I felt her come, her slick, perfect pussy clamping down on my cock so hard she tore my orgasm from my control, I knew her body would never be enough.
I wanted all of Abigail. She'd given me her body, but I wanted her soul.