8. Julie
eight
Julie
Istood at my kitchen counter in a robe that still smelled like the package it came in: silk, black, one size smaller than advertised.
My hair was damp and starting to frizz at the edges.
Both hands cupped a mug, the kind you get as a Christmas gag, and the coffee inside was past cold—room temp, slightly bitter, perfect for a postmortem.
I hadn’t moved in several minutes. The rest of the house was pristine.
Dish towel folded into thirds on the oven.
Succulent on the windowsill, three leaves, one scarred from a dropped bowl.
Case files were stacked by the table, arranged in color order, red on top for urgent, yellow for pending, blue for show.
Both the body and its blood were gone. Not a single trace. Mom had left shortly after midnight, mumbling about how she would get them back. She was always trying to get them back.
Now, the only thing out of place was me.
I heard the first knock before it landed.
The second was softer, maybe a courtesy tap.
I wrapped my right hand tighter around the mug, set it down on the counter, and wiped my palm along the silk before heading for the door.
I considered the Glock in my purse but had a feeling about the knock and who it might be.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want him here. When a man saves your life, your entire view of him changes, especially when you start to compare him to the other men around you.
He was standing on the porch, the silhouette familiar and impossible, stitched together out of things I didn’t want to see up close.
Bram Jackson, in full daylight, looked more like a statue than a man.
The club cut was thrown over a long-sleeve shirt, the left hem stained a pale rust where blood had wicked through the night.
His face was paler than I’d ever seen it, like he’d drawn the color straight from the wound and left the rest empty.
Even so, he was upright. He made sure I saw that.
“Morning,” he said.
I didn’t answer. I braced the frame with one hand and blocked half the door with my body. “You shouldn’t be here.” A lie.
He didn’t blink. “I need a word.”
“About what?”
He rolled his left shoulder, winced, pretending it was nothing. “The Scorpion at your mother’s place. Was he working solo?”
How the fuck? “Does it matter?” I kept my voice low. “He’s dead. Ruiz handled it. Nobody’s coming for my mom, not now.”
He shook his head as if that could make the conversation last longer than I wanted it to. “That’s not how this works. There’s always a replacement.”
He waited for me to fill the space. I let silence do the work.
“Why are you really here?” I said.
He looked past me, at the corners of the house, at the windows, and then the street. “You were at the bar last night.”
“You noticed,” I said.
“Yeah, and I believe I saved you.” He shifted his weight, a slight adjustment but enough to make his boots creak on the concrete. “Don’t go back.”
I almost laughed. “That a threat or a favor?”
“It’s a request.” His eyes were steady, pale gray, and locked to mine. “You’re on a list, Julie. You always have been. That bar’s not safe, and neither is your office, not until this shakes out.”
“Let me guess.” I crossed my arms. “You’re offering club protection, free of charge.”
“No,” he said. “I’m telling you to keep your head down. It’s the only thing that keeps people alive.”
I chewed on that and watched the way he kept his bad side away from the railing. “You should be in bed,” I said, a little softer. “You lost a lot of blood.”
He shrugged again. “I’m fine.”
I let that settle between us. “You’re not fine, Bram. You’re a man.”
“I don’t need your pity, Julie. I’m here to make sure you’re safe.”
“For fuck’s sake.” I rested my hands on my hips. “I can take care of myself.
He watched me. I could feel the pull of it, the way he was waiting for me to cave, to say something that gave him an opening. I didn’t. I’d been trained by better men and worse ones. I stood my ground, moving my hand to the frame, one bare foot blocking the inside threshold.
“Situation’s handled,” I said. “If another Scorpion comes for my mom, I’ll handle that, too. You don’t have to worry about me.”
He took a breath, shallow, and let it out like he was about to say something honest. He didn’t. Instead, he said, “Is your mother here?”
I shook my head. “She left early this morning. Her hands hurt, but she cleaned the whole kitchen before she left.”
“I bet she did.” He looked at me for a long time, a little longer than you’re supposed to. “You should go stay with her, for a while. It’s going to get ugly.”
I held his stare. “I can handle ugly. I’ve prosecuted ugly, remember?”
He didn’t argue. “I know.” Then he said something I wasn’t prepared for. “Why are they targeting you and your mother? What’s the play here?”
I shrugged and lied, sort of. “They just want the city.”
He wasn’t buying it but said, “Makes sense. But they know the Jackson Brothers MC is coming after them. Seems like they’d be more concerned with us.”
He glanced at my robe, at the coffee mug just visible through the crack behind me. “You look tired,” he said.
“You look worse,” I said.
He smiled again, wider this time. “True.”
Neither of us moved.
“Go home, Bram,” I said. “Sleep it off. Whatever this is, it’s not going to end today.”
He nodded. “Not yet. But I got a gut feeling this is something.”
I knew what he meant, but now wasn’t the time or place.
Or was it?
I didn’t step back. Not until I felt the sting in my fingers where they pressed the doorframe. Then, just as slow, I took my hand away and let the door swing open, just wide enough for him to step in.
He did.
The door hadn’t even finished closing before I turned, and he was already there, hand at my jaw, his thumb rough against the hinge of my cheek.
There was nothing delicate in it—nothing at all.
I grabbed the front of his cut and yanked him in, and the first kiss landed like a punch: teeth, tongue, the back of my head against the drywall, the edge of the jamb digging in above my spine.
His mouth tasted like blood and whiskey, and the pressure of it made my knees lock.
I dragged him closer, until his body covered mine, and for a second, I just let myself exist under that weight.
He took two stumbling steps forward, and my feet gave.
I caught myself on his shoulder, and the pain in his side must’ve been nuclear, but he didn’t show it.
I twisted my fingers under the hem of his cut, yanked the lapels until he nearly lost balance.
I walked him backward, out of the foyer and into the living room, the silk of my robe sticking to my thighs, sweat already running at the hairline.
“Fuck, I need you,” he said, words I’d never heard before. Yeah, men wanted to fuck me, but I’d never heard a man say he needed me.
“Don’t stop, Bram,” I said, knowing it should stop. That I should send him on his way. He was too old for me. Biker trash. Dangerous. He checked every box about a man women should avoid, yet here I was.
“Let it happen, baby,” he whispered, his lips gently tugging on my ear.
“Dammit,” I whimpered.
I pressed my hands flat against his chest, felt the slow, hard drum of his heart, and for a second, I thought I might break it, right there through the ribs.
He hit the edge of the sofa and steadied, then pressed forward until my shins hit the frame.
I let go of his jacket and reached for his belt.
He caught my wrists in a not-very-gentle way.
His eyes were an inch from mine, and for a second, I thought he might actually say something, ruin it with a line or an apology. He didn’t.
“Fuck, I bet you're wet, baby. I can almost taste your wet pussy, Julie.”
“Soaked for you,” I said, letting my apprehensions go. I needed this just as bad, if not worse, than he did. I grabbed his cock and moaned, the thing pulsing in my hand.
I pulled him down to me, felt the weight and the heat and the not-asking.
I twisted a hand in the collar of his shirt and got my fingers up under it, scraping over the raised, raw skin at his side.
The suture line was swollen, a thread of angry red running beneath his ribs.
I stopped, fingers hovering, and looked up.
He looked back at me, breathing through his nose, jaw locked so tight I could hear the click in his molars.
“It’s fine,” he said, and pulled my hand down over the wound, made me feel it, like he needed the pain to keep him present.
“I’ve wanted this for far too long to let a little scratch get in the way. ”
My lips parted, and our tongues met, the taste of him delicious, his touch firm in a way that said, at least for now, I belonged to him, and nothing else mattered. I broke the kiss and stared into his eyes, finding his soul, sharing mine. “What happens after this?” I asked.
“Honestly, babe, whether you want to hear this or not, you’re gonna belong to me. You’re gonna be taken care of, protected, treated the way you should be treated.”
“I’ve heard that before, from other men, Bram.” It sounded like an asshole thing to say, but it was true, and every time it had been a lie. I was tired of the lies and the games.
He placed a finger beneath my chin and held my gaze. “Don’t ever question my devotion to you, babe. Ever. You got that? I take care of what’s mine.”
I nodded. I was buying what he was selling. “You have to promise me this will never end. I don’t want to be used and let down again.” I hated the way that sounded, but it was true.
“It won’t end, Julie.”
My name on his lips made my legs Jello.
“Believe this. I’d crush this fucking world for you.”
“You might have to, Bram.”