Chapter Fourteen
Jonesy
The waiting is the hardest part. We won’t have access to Maddox’s backyard, which has become the crime scene of the year, until they’re certain all the remains have been removed.
Then there will be autopsies, although given the state of decay, I’m not sure autopsy is the right word.
I’ll have to ask the she-devil for the correct terminology.
Speaking of which, we’re sitting around her kitchen island, drinking coffee and having an okay time.
And by that, I mean we’re not clawing at each other’s throats or making snide remarks.
Sure, we’re not cuddling with my fingers stroking the undersides of her tits, but we seem to have found a middle ground which is uncharted territory for us.
We’re both quiet, probably to avoid bursting the mutually respectful bubble we’ve somehow created in the last few weeks.
Most of the work we can do has been done, and we’re currently on standby.
I should head back to base to catch up on my regular duties, but honestly, I don’t want to face another interrogation from Colonel Rogers or Sergeant Major Tilly.
My presence in this case is purely symbolic.
I’m not adding anything useful except a second pair of eyes.
I take a sip of coffee, watching Katie flip through the interrogation notes from the initial interviews.
Taking a look around her unfinished kitchen, I keep thinking about how maybe she would sleep a bit better if her environment weren’t a construction site.
Half-built walls, exposed wooden beams, no tiles behind the stove, rooms unpainted.
It’s a mess in here, and I wasn’t kidding when I said it looked like a dump.
Whether she likes it or not, this is going to take a lot of work.
“What room are you working on at the moment?” I ask, curious, as every room needs work.
“Oh, well, I called off the renovations after The Poser case started. I was too busy to oversee anything, and I just delayed it.”
Jesus, she really has been living in this space for a year with all this equipment lying around. “So, what were they working on at the time?”
“They were doing the kitchen. It’s basically done. I just need to fix the wall, plaster everything, and then it’s pretty much all cosmetic.”
Right . . . she just needs to fix a wall.
“Do you have the materials?”
“Yeah, I mean that wall isn’t a supporting wall; it just needs to have the plywood secured, and then I can add the drywall, plaster it, and then I can prime it and paint it.
But it’s just finding the time to get it done.
” Her tone is calm, as if it’s not a big deal to do all of those things, but if that were true, why hasn’t she done it?
I glance around the space again, spotting the plywood. “We have this afternoon.”
“Right now?” She scoffs, her eyes rolling.
“Why not?”
She pauses, looking between me, the wall, and the materials, biting her lip.
“Obviously, we can’t do everything today.
We could just fix the wall,” I say softly.
Maybe it’s the enormity of the project that’s bothering her.
Maybe it’s that I’m the one suggesting it.
I want to ask her why she hasn’t made any progress in a year, but more than that, I want her to offer up the information freely to me.
I don’t want to have to pry the information out of her like she’s the one under interrogation.
“Okay,” she concedes, lifting her chin with determined grace. “Let’s attach the plywood.”
She jogs upstairs to change into something appropriate for construction, and I take the time to roll up the sleeves of my uniform and inspect the materials.
The plywood is a little dusty, and I wipe down the top of it with my thumb.
She’s got a nail gun and, fortunately, all the nails we should need.
Given that the structure of the wall is built, it's just a case of nailing in the plywood, which appears to be cut to size already. This should only take a couple of minutes to attach. Maybe more if she were doing it alone, but still. It wouldn’t have taken more than an hour.
The drywall and the plastering will take time as they’ll need to dry out, but again, once it’s done, you’ve just got to plug in a dehumidifier and let the dry air do its thing.
I hear her shoes clomping down the stairs and turn to her.
She’s wearing skin-tight leggings and an old flannel shirt unbuttoned, a tight white tank top beneath, her ample cleavage providing me with just enough of a show to give me a construction kink.
Damn, she looks good. She’s tied her wavy red hair back, but the shorter strands at the front have fallen loose, framing her face.
“Have you done anything like this?” she asks, tucking the loose hair behind her ear.
“I worked construction with my dad when I was in high school. This should be a piece of cake.”
“Okay,” she says, her voice hesitant. “Will you tell me what I need to do?”
I smile, knowing how hard this would be for her. To admit that I know more than her about something, especially her project.
“Okay, first day on the job, you can refer to me as sir or boss. Up to you.” I smirk, trying to avoid letting my gaze dip down to her chest.
“You’re out of your mind if you think I’m calling you that.”
“Do you want my help or not?”
She throws her hands up. “I didn’t even ask for your help.”
I step toward her, and she backs up toward the kitchen island, which desperately needs a coat of paint.
“Jonesy,” she whispers, her back hitting the counter as I grip the marble, caging her in.
“Indulge me, princess? You get the royal title. I just want to be in the realm of your existence. Just this once.” Sir will do it.
If she called me that right now, I can’t guarantee I won’t lift her by the back of her legs and place her onto the counter so I can pull down that skin-tight top revealing what I really want.
Pointed nipples so hard I could pinch them through the thin fabric right now if I weren’t sure she’d slap the smirk clean off my face for doing so.
“Fine . . .” She bites the inside of her cheek, her jaw jutting to the side as if it physically pains her to be so agreeable. “Please, can you show me how to attach the plywood to the wall . . . sir.”
A shit-eating grin breaks out across my face, and I can’t resist brushing the tip of my nose against hers. God, I could kiss her right now. It would annoy her more than the sir comment. More than anything I’ve done in the last fifteen years.
Her brows knit together in confusion as her eyes drop to my lips.
This tension that’s been building between us for the last ten days is reaching a point of no return.
But I don’t want her to desire sex. I want her to desire me.
I want to be the only one who can give her relief, even if someone else is offering it.
So I step back, watching her suck in a deep breath before pushing her shoulders back, her defenses up.
“Happy?” she snarks.
“It’s a start, princess. Imagine what I could make you say after helping you with the flooring.”
“Fuck you,” she hisses, hopping off the counter.
“I keep offering, but you keep turning me down.” I laugh. “Come on. This isn’t going to take long.”
I fold up an old towel, placing it on the unfinished floor, and then slide the first piece of plywood into position, indicating for her to kneel on the towel. The nail gun is loaded and ready for use, too.
“I’m going to hold it in position. We’ll use the spirit level to make sure it’s all good, and then you can use the gun.”
“Okay.” Determination takes over, and she purses her lips together.
Once we’ve done our checks, she lines up the gun, biting her lip as she does.
“Wait,” I say. I remove one hand from the wall and use my thumb to pull her bottom lip from between her teeth. “There’s gonna be a little recoil. I don’t want you hurting yourself.”
What the hell is wrong with me?
I’ve never wanted to see her actually hurt, but making your lip bleed because you bite down too hard would be funny.
At least it would have been two weeks ago.
Now concern settles in my chest. I want her to enjoy this.
Because then she might want to do other things around the house and get it fixed up so it’s a good enough home for her.
Regardless of what we’ve done to each other in the past, I’d never want her to be miserable.
And I think this house is a contributing factor to making her life harder right now.
She nods lightly, her eyes dreamy and dazed. How quickly she goes from biting mad to sex eyes. God, I want to bite her lip for her. Fuck the wall, fuck the plywood, nail me instead. Let’s get this unsettling amount of sexual tension dissipated, and we can move the fuck on with our lives.
“Come on, princess,” I murmur.
“Right.” She shakes her head. Lines up the gun and pulls the trigger. The loud pop widens her green eyes as her eyebrows nearly hit the top of her hairline.
After a few seconds, she turns to me and grins, her face lighting up in a way I haven’t seen in years. I grin back, a warmth spreading through my chest that I helped her feel that way.
“Next one,” I say, pleased to see her genuine smile aimed at me for a change.
She’s quicker with the next set. Finishing the first piece of plywood quickly, as she gets used to the feel of the gun.
After the first board is done, we make quick work of moving to the next, following the same process of fitting it into place, double-checking the level, and Katie powering through, punching the nails into place.
After twenty minutes or so, the wall is finished.
I mean . . . aside from the drywall, plastering, primer, and painting.
But hey, the first item was ticked off the list.