24
I decided to stay at Cormac’s place, but just as I was about to message him, I hesitated and talked myself out. Now, I’m rethinking as I sit in the sports science auditorium gazing at the cowslick at the back of his neck. This class is always so attentive, hanging off ex-Olympic sprinter Ed Willard’s every word. Still, my concentration is failing today, swinging from listening intensely and jotting down notes to daydreaming about Cormac and his father and the man who fell to his death.
The blond with a Glock called Til. Even though she hasdirt under her fingernails from working in the garden, lilac flowers tangled in her hair, and her nose is pink from sunburn, that’s how dangerous I am. Evil laugh. And sexy, real sexy.
My finger twitches over my phone screen, treacherously close to messaging Cormac with a yes. I probably won’t sleep well because I rarely do when I’m in a foreign bed, and for added grievances, he’s likely to snore like a jackhammer. And will he be able to keep his hands off me? It”s most unlikely. But I still have this everlasting urge to be held, to listen to the heartbeat of another, and to be told that everything will be okay.
It won’t be okay, though, until I make it okay. It’s down to me. But I can escape into a night of bliss under the guise of make-believe and sweet nothings with the hope of a new day. Finally, I override my apprehension and type: Yes. Tonight.
Our phones are switched to silent in this class, so he may not notice the message until afterward. Naturally, dread arrives like a fanged blob made of acid, and instantly, I regret sending it, but it’s too late now. Unless I make an excuse later on, I don’t want to muck around with Cormac for more than one reason.
My phone flashes Cormac’s name, and I study that cowlick head to see if he turns around before reading the message.
Cormac: Stoked. R u bringing Til?
Me: That was a joke. There is no gun called Til.
Cormac: Sure, Rae.
The class ends, and I realize I’ve barely written any notes, or at least any that make sense. Cormac glances back at me with a lowered brow and a little smirk that hints at the dark satire that lies within. He waits for me at the bottom of the auditorium steps, and his hand finds the small of my back to ease me through the crowd of clambering students eager to head to their next class.
“I might need to borrow your notes tonight,” I tell him, gazing up at the impressive jaw that is always cleanly shaven for streamlined sensation in the pool. “My concentration wasn’t great.”
“No problem. Anyway, I’ve messaged you my address. I’ll be home from training after 8 PM, so you come over any time after then, and we can study for a bit if you want.”
I didn’t hear my phone beep, so I reached into my bag to look. He mentioned over breakfast that he lives in a frat house on campus, and I cringed a little because I’ve never been big on the whole ‘college experience.’ I’m more interested in coming to class and leaving again unless I have a shift in the uni gardens.
“I’ve got to head to my next class,” Cormac adds, seizing my arm and leading me into an alcove free of students, where admin offices are.
Before I have a chance to react in wonder as to where he’s taking me, his mouth has claimed mine, and that mighty body has caged me against the wall. My instinctive reaction is to panic from the confinements of his bodily cage as my chest grows tight and my breath is restrictive. I don’t like being held down, and the hallways stuffed with chatting students only add to my anxiety. I wrestle against my captive, and he pulls away, looking confused. He’s kissed me before, but not like this.
He licks my taste off his bottom lip and whispers, “I’m guessing you’re not keen on open displays of affection.”
“I’m not sure that fucking my mouth with your tongue is categorized as open displays of affection,” I growl, hoping that he gets the message.
He grunts like one of life’s greatest mysteries finally makes sense. “Point taken,” he states, then steps away, and I take a deep breath to calm my nerves. He glances at the crowd of students walking by, then back at me. “But just for educational purposes, is fucking your mouth with my tongue perfectly fine in private?”
My nostrils flare, stifling a smile because I enjoy how his mind works. “Yes,” I answer swiftly, and he celebrates his accomplishment by holding his fist with his big hand.
“I made you smile,” he says, leaning forward to kiss my forehead, “that makes my day. I’ll see you tonight.” He turns his back and walks away, and I wait a few seconds before stepping out into the crowded hallway, still feeling his touch on my lips and his taste in my mouth.
Once I am outside in the fresh air, with the summer heat on my cheeks, my anxiety settles, and life seems less monstrous again.
***
With a bathrobe wrapped tightly around me, I scour my tiny, cluttered closet for something nice to wear. My hand sweeps the skirt of a lemon-yellow floral sundress I bought last summer and never had the guts to wear out on my aunt’s ranch on my day off. It has shoestring shoulder straps, which require the wearer, me, to either go braless or wear a strapless bra. I can’t find my strapless bra, so I”ll go braless if I wear this tonight. I bet that’ll get Cormac horny.
I remove it from the closet and drape it over my bed, contemplating whether to wear it. Outside, the sun is falling, and the warm lights from the apartment building across the road are beaming from their living rooms. My mind goes to the elderly lady who had the unfortunate demise of being in the wrong place at the wrong time when the assailant climbed into her apartment. I hope she’s okay and has family nearby to comfort her.
My attention is diverted by footsteps along the corridor outside my door. Since my apartment is at the very end of the stairwell that no one ever uses unless the elevators are broken, I’m always suspicious when I hear noises. Their feet shuffle and hesitate near my door, and I glance at the drawer that hides my handgun, considering grabbing it for protection. My rational mind tells me that the person might be lost or be friends with the people who live in the apartment opposite, yet as I wait for a knock at their door, I grow suspicious of this stranger’s intentions.
Tiptoeing to my door, I peer through the peephole and briefly spot a tattooed arm in a black T-shirt, but that’s all I can see before whoever it is walks off towards the elevator. Their steps are heavy and confident, and even though I have an urge to open the door to get a better look at him, I talk myself out of it. A flint of a memory stirs, bringing nausea with it.
The tattoo.I saw it only briefly, so I might be wrong. No, I want to be wrong, but it looks awfully like the tattoo of The Crow, number three on my list. I call him The Crow because of the emblem crow tattoo on his arm of the professional football team he belongs to, the Angleton Crows, a city neighboring Torres Island if you travel north away from the coast.
I open the top drawer in my dresser and take out the photograph The Pig left in my bag. I’ve kept it out of sight since Z came over when I forgot to hide it. She said nothing about it, so I’m hoping she missed it.
Closely examining the four men, The Crow is the huge one with a thick, ruddy neck and hair shaved to the scalp. He’s quietly spoken but had the highest sex drive, I assume due to steroids he injects into himself, and he had his way with me more than the others. My eyes run over his massive biceps, and I spot the crow with wings spread wide and sigh in relief when I notice it’s different. The crow on the guy in the corridor was more prominent and had more color, blues, and reds to texturize the black feathers. At the same time, The Crow’s tattoo was flat black and smaller.
There is one man in this picture I struggle to look at: The Snake. He is beyond cruel, and his last name is on my list as he will be the most difficult to confront. But for now, I focus on number one—the Lion.
Time is flying, and I toss the photograph back into my drawer and step to my window to pull the blinds. I assess the lemon-yellow floral sundress again and decide it’s too flirty. I trade it for comfort clothes—white shorts and a vintage black Metallica T-shirt. I rub my underarms with deodorant and brush my long, thick, golden hair before tying it back into a swinging ponytail.
I find a strawberry lip balm in my bag and apply it to my lips, puckering them, then apply mascara to my long eyelashes. I throw a faded T-shirt into my bag for sleeping in, a pair of panties (actually, I better toss in two pairs if I decide to let Cormac slide between my legs), and my sports science study material from Willard’s class.
It’s after 8:09 PM, and it’ll take me approximately thirty minutes to get to his frat house. I”ll take my sweet time because I don’t want to appear too keen.
Grabbing my keys and phone, I step to the door, fling it open, and gasp in fright at the man standing there looking at me. I press my hand against my chest to calm my racing heart, but it does little to help.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” he states in his usual calm, friendly manner, yet my heart won’t stop hammering against my ribcage.
“I didn’t hear you,” I tell him apologetically.
He smiles and glances briefly down at my bare legs in short shorts, but not in a sleazy way because Detective just call me Gabe is far too classy and cool to perv over a woman’s legs openly. “I didn’t knock,” he informs me.
“No, I mean, I can usually hear footsteps before they arrive, but I didn’t hear you.”
There’s a moment of awkward silence where his blue eyes latch onto the bag over my shoulder and the door key in my hand. “Are you about to head out?”
“Yes, I’m not in a hurry and don’t have to be somewhere at a certain time,” I babble because this man does that to me. Then it occurs to me, “How do you know where I live?”
“I saw you from the street below the other day.” He’s talking about when he inspected the building opposite before they raided it last night. “And figured out what floor you’re on.”
“Oh, Gabe,” my heart gallops in anticipation, “is that poor elderly lady okay?”
“That’s why I wanted to talk to you,” he glances down the hall at the sound of a door shutting. “Do you mind if I come in?”
“Sure, but I apologize in advance for how cramped it is. Apartment built for one,” I stutter slightly, showing my nerves.
His cologne and his body heat and size infiltrate my small space. He’s about 6 feet 2 and in excellent shape going by those firmly fitted black pants and white buttondown. His neatly cut wavy salt and pepper hair is a damn sexy accessory to that square jaw and self-assured demeanor.
His hand slips into his pant pockets before I have a chance to search obsessively for a wedding ring, even though that day, when he came to campus to find me and hugged my wet body until I cried, he wasn’t wearing a gold band then either.
“This is nice,” he says, glancing about as he steps to the window and removes his hand from his pocket to open the drape to peer out.
“It’s enough for me, and the security is good here, too,” I tell him, wondering if he wants to assess the scene of last night’s incident from my side.
Gabe nods his silver head in understanding and meets my eye, “Good. I noticed the security guard downstairs in the foyer and the swipe card entry system on the main entrance.”
“Yeah, that’s either Larry or Carl who shares the shifts,” I say. “They’re good, friendly men.”
“Do you mind if I go out?” he gestures, pointing to the sliding door leading to the tiny balcony.
“Be my guest,” then panic when I remember leaving a blunt on the side of the pineapple experiment pot.
Gabe unlocks the glass sliding door and opens it, stepping outside. As I predicted, he immediately looked down at the apartment the man fell from and then up at the apartment directly opposite mine and the floor above.
“What happened to the man who fell?” I ask him, wondering if he’ll give me an honest answer or a ‘protective dad’ type answer.
Gabe turns and leans against the railing, folding his arms across his chest, and glances down at my cherry tomato plant before saying, “He died.”
“I know. I could tell.” The cracking sound of him landing on the car roof replays in my mind, and a shiver runs down my spine. “I mean, did he slip?”
“He let go,” he states firmly, and I wrestle internally with what I thought I saw: Gabe letting the man go.
“Oh,” I decide not to dwell on that part of the conversation. “What did he do to be arrested?”
“He’s not a nice man,” he says, and I know this is code language for a sexual predator.
“And is the old lady okay?” I’m eager to know this.
“Yeah, she was medically assessed and given a clean bill of health and moved in with her daughter for a few days.” His hand finds the back of his neck as those wise eyes lock onto my tomato plant. “She’s a tough woman, but the shock from trauma strikes after the dust settles.” He lifts his eyes to meet mine and twinkles from the light inside. “As you know.”
I don’t want to talk about that, and I don’t want Gabe to remind me of the worst time of my life. “Do you still work in the Sex Crimes Unit?” I ask curiously since that’s how I met him.
“Yep,” he answers with a sigh and glances at my bare legs again, placing his hands on the rail on either side of his fit body.
“Must be horrible?” I’m trying to console him to open him up, but he’s not so easily fooled.
“Someone has got to do it, or else…” he shrugs. “How have you been, Rae?”
I smile, loving how he utters my name in that smooth, deep voice. “Really good. I love living here, and schooling is good, and everything is good.” I just said the word ‘good’ three times because my vocabulary had shrunk by 90% in the presence of this fine man.
He nods slowly, holding his gaze, before speaking, “I wanted to make sure you weren’t upset by what took place last night.”
“Um, well, I did think a lot about it during the night, but if you say he was a bad man, then maybe it was a good thing he fell to his death,” I speak breathlessly as his direct, assessing stare is making me shaky and if only I could read his mind.
He shifts his stare to the tomato plant again, still showing little reaction to my comment. Now, I wonder if he thinks I’m soiled, permanently marred, and never to be clean again. “You’ve grown up,” he finally says after several long seconds, and I know his words have more than one meaning.
“Yeah, I have,” I answer awkwardly. “I spent two years on my aunt’s ranch in the middle of nowhere where there are more cattle beasts than people by a country mile. I learned to ride pretty well, too.” I laugh nervously, grasping my hands together to stop them from shaking. “And I have a cowboy hat.” Why did I just say that? I’m acting like a twelve-year-old.
His handsome, chiseled face creases into a proud smile, and my heart drops slightly when I suspect his fondness of me is because he views me as a daughter figure. “I’d like to see you in a cowboy hat,” he states evenly, but I’m unsure how to interpret that. “Anyway, I’m holding you up.” He narrows the space between us with one step so our faces are only a couple of inches apart, and a sigh escapes my lips from the intensity. “Don’t you have to be somewhere?”
“Huh?”
He points to the bag, still over my shoulder. “Don’t you have to be somewhere?”
“Oh yes,” I gasp in embarrassment, then realize like a stupid fool that he stepped up to me because I’m blocking the way. I stumble backward so he can sweep past, and he does so with a hint of curiosity in those eyes. I’m acting like a dithering fool, and I need to get my shit together.
It only takes a couple of strides for him to be at my door about to leave. “So, that was the reason for your visit? To check on me?”
“Yes,” he smiles, “since you were a witness to a grisly death.”
“I’m not weak,” I snap with the urge to start an argument because I don’t want him to leave. Can the real Rae Haines please stand up? “You’re expecting me to crumble like a child.”
Pausing with his hand on the door handle, he turns to look at me squarely. “I know you’re not weak,” he agrees. “And I can see that you’re not a child. But you are young, what, nineteen or twenty?”
I nod as self-loathing rears its slimy head at the assumption that he sees me as a child but is being nice.
“It’s not something I would want anyone of any age to witness, Rae,” he explains in a mature tone that nails me to the floor.
I wonder how old he is. Maybe forty, twice my age. I’m acting like a stupid kid with a dumb, unrealistic crush. There’s no way in hell he’d consider me for anything but a daughter. Why am I even thinking like this? I need to concentrate on more important things than hot older men.
My cheeks blush to piss me off, and now I want to hurry up and leave so I can catch my breath. “Well,” my voice catches in my throat, and I clear it, patting my chest, “thank you for coming over to see if I’m okay. I appreciate it.”
He turns away from me to open the door and stalls, returning to me again. That gaze examines my face, and I’m confused by the vibe he’s giving off and the force behind his eyes.
Before I have a chance to think, he’s here before me, only a foot away, dangerously close, that I can feel the warmth of his breath on my cheek. His hand finds a lock of golden hair that has come loose from my ponytail and curls it behind my ear as his blue eyes run over my hair, eyes, and lips. I’m struggling to find the words to fit this moment, and he doesn’t seem to want to speak either; instead, he uses his hand and eyes to communicate.
Communicate what, though. What does this mean?
His warm hand cups my cheek, and I gaze up at him, watching unflinchingly examine my face, hoping to see a hint of desire or longing. Those blue eyes assess my lips with a second of contemplation before he leans forward and presses his lips against mine.
An explosion shatters through every cell in my body as moisture floods into my panties. His scent, touch, and mood stir a glorious, vivacious dance inside my body.
When he pulls away from the kiss, cutting the cord between us, I stumble backward, and he seizes my arm to stop me from collapsing.
“Sorry,” I breathe, placing my fingers against my lips, noticing the mood in his eyes has changed, showing regret.
He turns his back, steps to the door, and opens it, and as he’s about to disappear, I state, “I’m dating your son. Cormac.”
His body freezes, his head bows slightly, and a hot temper peels from his body and swirls about like a hurricane in my tiny apartment.
Without a word, he shuts the door behind him, and I wonder if I will ever see him again.