by Rebecca Ryan
"It’s me," I whisper, and still, he seems confused. "Claire."
Though he sighs and drops back into sleep, this begins a second worm of insecurity.
Chapter Fourteen
Finn
I haven’t slept with anyone since Allison died and we didn't sleep together the last month of her life. I want Claire to know this, to understand how special this is, she is, but it seems like a weird conversation to have first thing in the morning.
Especially after last night.
I'm just happy to lie here and watch her sleeping. Her skin is rosy and cool, and when I put my hand on her shoulder, it seems too cool. I pull the blanket up to her chin and she guides the edge of the comforter into a tuck underneath.
Last night, when she whispered, "Let go, Finn," a piece of me did. I let go of loving Allison on one plane of existence. She is gone, as Nic keeps reminding me. But I'm not. Letting go of the guilt of being alive when she is not, was what happened last night. At least in the moment.
I hate the fact that I'm thinking of Allison now. But I didn’t think of her once last night in the middle of lovemaking. And that's exactly what it was: lovemaking. I'm sure Claire thinks she fucked me. But I've been fucked and I've done the fucking. That wasn't a fuck.
This was something different. This was as close to love since . . .
I have to stop thinking of what happened.
Claire shifts again under the blankets and I give her a soft kiss on the forehead. Her eyes open, bright sparkly blue, and for just a moment I see a vulnerability there that breaks my heart. There's something she's afraid of. Then something happens and a little veil drops.
She blinks and rises on one elbow. "Good morning," she says and smiles. "Were you watching me sleep?"
"Yes."
She flops back on the bed. "Well, touché."
I have no idea what that means, so I tilt a little to kiss her.
"Oh no," she says, clapping a hand over her own mouth. "Dragon breath. I need to brush."
I call after her as she walks to the bathroom, "That's dragon's breath. Dragon's, possessive."
She's naked and her body is beautiful in the morning light. Lithe, strong, graceful, and her ass is high and tight with enough to grab.
Later, watching her from the kitchen window, working with Salty, coming in, blowing off her hands and finger combing that mane of blond hair as she talks and pours more coffee makes me feel both oddly settled and really aroused. What seemed like a mundane Monday morning, was anything but.
Shit.
The more commonplace the morning routine, walking to Weaver's Grocery store, reading the paper, bringing in wood, having the electricity flick back on, the two of us hurrying to turn off lights, the radio, resetting clocks on the microwave and stove, the more aroused I grow.
Just getting close to her, feeling her near me, leaves nerves firing. At one point, when she leaned forward at the kitchen sink to look out the window and announce another truck had pulled up at The Inn with two guys in it, her breasts moved slightly under her tight T-shirt, her hair catching sunlight again, and I couldn’t breathe. Oblivious to her power over my erratic vitals, and mistaking my gasp for something else, she asked if I needed a Percocet.
After dressing quickly and shrugging on a heavy coat with Claire's help, I leave her sipping coffee and walk the short distance to meet up with Nic and Bryce. I’m almost glad for the relief.
In another few minutes, I would have carried her back to the bedroom.
***
"You sure did a number here," says Nic.
The four of us had turned off the few lights left on in The Inn after the power came back on and now we're standing in the third-floor attic bedroom, looking at the hole in the roof. Ice and snow have filtered in, and we brought up plastic bins to scoop as much out as possible.
Bryce Tucker, a big guy, taller and broader than me and Nic, stands in a winter down jacket, hood up, an earring flashing from its depths. "Fuck me. And she found you? She's a cucumber."
She's anything but cool, I want to tell him.
Pulling back the hood, Bryce grabs a broom from the corner and starts jabbing at the pieces of wood jutting down.
"And the roof's still coated in ice." Jackson Sterling's question is more of an statement. For a kid, he has a lot of confidence.
"I’ll tether from the chimney," says Bryce, rubbing his short, clipped beard. A man of few movements, he continues with his hands stuffed in pockets. "Plate that with some flashing—"
I make a face at Bryce.
"—Shit yeah, a lot of flashing. We got our blackjack and thirty-pound felt and I brought shingles."
Nic bends over suddenly and holds up the piece of rebar, still dark red and wet with blood. He kicks ice away from where I landed two days ago and blood seeps into the ice. His spidey senses are tingling, causing him to treat this like a crime scene.
Bryce wipes his face and his glance from the rebar to me is as dark as his eyes. "Is she like an EMT?"
"Vet," I clarify.
Bryce tilts his head back a little. "What branch?" Bryce is ex-Seal, though he trains like he's still in boot camp. The guy's a machine.
I shake my head when Nic cuts me off. "She's a veterinarian."
"Her name's Claire. Claire Russo," I say.
Now Nic and Bryce share a smile. Jackson claps my on my good shoulder.
"You don’t say," says Nic.
"He said the last name," says Bryce.
"Yeah he did," chimes Jackson.
"I got that." Nic is a little too smug.
***
It takes the three of them about two hours to patch the hole. I'm frustrated because there's not much I can do. Bryce climbs up like a pro, tossing a lead around the chimney while he stays with the ladder. Using clips, he makes sure the line and he are both secure and then starts prying up shingles. In beat Jackson's right beside him.
Young, dark and handsome, the kid cuts a figure against the sky. He's smaller than the rest of us, but nimble as a goat. I've seen him do a high wire act, securing a suspect on a building ledge, that was scarier than hell to watch. The guy has some innate sense of where his body is in space.
Four cuts with the circular saw and there’s a nice flat spot to gum up the flashing with blackjack. Nic tosses Jackson the felt and flashing before the hole is closed. I belay hammer, nails, extra blackjack, and some silicone caulk. Nic carries up the box of shingles, not a lightweight job, but he makes it look simple. The guy is slim but strong. To anyone watching, it probably just looked like three guys working on a roof.
And though they wouldn't be wrong, it certainly wasn't where the story ended.
I've known Nic since college and met Bryce four years ago when he first came to work for us. We needed a personal security escort for several high profile clients. That's when he came on. Nic and I handled corporate security, and we had our team, but we lacked enough personal bodyguards. When the shit hit the fan with Megan Connelly—the film star, with the threats against her and a car-jacking—the studio she was tied to contracted with Colton Security.
Bryce had just been separated from service by anOther Than Honorable Conditions discharge that left him without a G.I. Bill, benefits, or salary. But he was big and quick and understood the lexicon and syntax of the job. After a three-week background check and a call to a friend in the FBI, I decided to take a risk. Something in my gut just told me Bryce was gold.
And he is.
Four years later, the guy's saved my life two times—once in the field, once when I contemplated taking my own. And I took a bullet for him three years ago. According to Bryce, that makes us even.
Jackson was with us just four months before Allision and Kenny were killed so I'm sure he has a warped view of who I am. I don't care though. He here. He's helping out. He can visit his dad later and kill two birds with one stone.
By the time we're done, it's lunchtime and they want to check out the deli and indoor picnic tables at Weaver's. B
ryce would go for a beer, Nic might but would prefer a martini. I'm sure Weaver's doesn’t serve martinis, and certainly not at one in the afternoon.
The little bell jingles as we walk in and order cold meat sandwiches.
The girl behind the counter turns around, and it’s Laurel. For a second, I feel slightly exposed, like I need to fess up to sleeping with Claire. These Russo sisters are everywhere. I exhale as matter of fact as I can, remembering small towns are like this. Everyone wears a dozen hats.
"What can I get you guys?"
We settle in on the indoor picnic tables, glossy with heavy coats of polyurethane. Red plastic baskets lined with shiny paper hold huge sandwiches stuffed with turkey, avocado, tomato, onion, lettuce, and apples. Laurel seems surprised by our substitution en masse of fries for fruit, but we train hard. Well, I used to train with them at the gym in our building down off Beacon Street in Boston. Now, I do my own thing. It's why I set up the basement first. I'm sure the town thinks I'm crazy and not really working on the place.
It does feel good to be here with them, talking and eating, Bryce laughing hard at some stupid shit, and Nic quiet, until he guesses the punchline. The guy's brilliant. And then Jackson. Quiet, as always, in public places.
As usual, before we had sat down, I checked for soft perimeters, egresses and exits, the height of windows, the position of sprinkler heads, and checked out everyone who stepped in the door, assessing if they had a weapon, and if they did, if they were a threat.
Nic is just grabbing the baskets when Bryce glances over, laughs, and wags a finger at me. "You need to dial that down. She doesn't know what you’re doing, and neither do those people," he says, pointing first at Laurel and then an older couple holding a loaf of bread. "But I do. In a place like this, I'd bet the threat level is like point zero two."
Jackson shakes his head. I'm with him. There's always a threat.
I look at Bryce.
Nic's face gets dark as he slips on his bomber jacket and shades. "I'd up it."
Suddenly Bryce looks at Nic. "What the fuck. He's out?"
Jackson's gaze drops to the floor. He can sense a charged moment.
I feel my jaw clench.
"Steven Miller was paroled last week," Nic says.
Bryce slams his fist on the table, drawing attention from Laurel, the older couple, and a teenaged girl who’s just stepped inside.
Nic's voice is quiet, as if he’s talking about the weather. "Miller was released a week ago last Friday, so nine days ago. The order that Colton Security would be invited to the parole hearing and that we'd be notified again when he's released was never filed properly."
"So, that's it? We've missed the window? Fuck, Nic, you should've told me immediately and I'd have found him." Bryce is saying the things I wish I could say.
"I didn't find out until this morning. Sophia texted," Nic says.
Sophia’s our office admin, thirty-something, and pretty, curvy, and very Italian. She's had a crush on Nic for five years. Not the pining, handwringing type or a brutal kind of self-destructive crush, but the lingering love that just never goes away and flares around the edges of friendship, waiting to ignite.
My stomach churns. "I need to get back to Boston."
Nic lays a hand on my shoulder. "That's the last place you should be. Frankly, I'm more concerned that the asshole seems to have gone off the map."
My hands turn to fists under the table. Good thing Laurel can't see.
Nic goes on. "Listen, the guy's gotta show up weekly to report in. That'll be this Thursday. Once he shows up, we'll trail him. Make sure we know where he is."
Bryce crunches ice from his giant cup of water. "All this because why? You arrested his brother for burglary?"
"Yeah," I say quietly and flick a glance to Nic.
***
On the walk back, the breeze has kicked up again and we stroll down to the pier where we stand in the little bay, watching small white caps bounce the boats around. Most are lobster boats, a few are nice retiree boats up from Massachusetts, and only one sticks out like a sore thumb. Some rich guy's yacht, a sixty-five-footer with five satellite receivers that towers over the rest of the boats. Small dinghies, like the one I saw Claire climb out of, rise and sink with surges.
"It stinks here," says Jackson, digging his hands in his pockets. "It reminds me of home."
I've grown to love the salty, fishy smell of the bay. It smells alive, potent, and raw.
I glance to the left at The Inn on a hill above the bay. It’s weathered and beaten, a few shutters hanging at odd angles, but it's mine. The clinic—tucked around the side, just visible from where we stand—sits next to it.
"I'm going back," I say, shoving my hand in my pockets.
"Like hell you are." Nic's voice is low. When he turns to face me, his blue eyes burn. "You walked. I believe you said, 'there's nothing for me here.' So no, you don’t get to come back. We'll monitor the fucking asshole. He'll get what's coming to him. He'll slip up."
"I'm going back to The Inn, Jesus." I pause and stare out at the bay for a moment longer.
All I can remember is Steven Miller's face as his sentence was delivered. He was thirty-two, five-ten, a hundred and fifty-five pounds with a trimmed mustache, sandy hair, deep brown eyes, and a cleft chin. A charmer. A murderer. When the sentencing came down, three years for breaking and entering my home where my wife and unborn child also died, he stood and looked remorseful and told the judge had he broken in earlier, maybe he would have been able to save them. The bailiff took him by the arm and as Miller rounded the table, he stared at me for just a second.
And winked.
My stomach tumbles again. As much as Nic and Bryce and Jackson are my friends, my brothers, being with them always brings up Allison. The trial. The inability to make evidence stick. The sickening feeling we were being played, that I was being played, in some grotesque revenge scenario.
Because that's what it was: revenge.
Steven Miller did have a brother. A twin, who died in prison and I put him there.
***
"They left already?" Claire's scanning the empty side yard between the two buildings from her place by the kitchen window. She breaks away and sits on the shorter sofa.
"They're heading up to Searsport to see Jackson's dad," I tell her.
"You have a friend from around here?"
"It's how Allison found out about The Inn. He recommended it," I admit. "Jackson grew up in Searsport on a lobster boat."
"So he's close to his dad?"
I force a smile. "I wouldn't go that far. This is more like an obligation."
"Well, I wish I could've met them," she says, almost coyly. "Especially a native Mainer. We're rare." She's wrapped in a blanket, sipping tea, and looks amazing.
I want to have her right now on the floor. But instead, I say something practical. "They'll be back tomorrow."
"You know it’s okay to talk about her," she says suddenly. "I mean, you should talk about her."
Instead of feeling chagrined or embarrassed, this only makes me want her, but in a different way, a softer way. "I know, but maybe not to you though," I say, and she shivers. "At least for now."
She nods, knowing on some very basic level that I'm right. She rises and busies herself with work stuff at the computer and I know I should head home and go back to The Inn, but this feels like home now.
I settle where she was sitting, tossing the throw to the other side of the sofa, and try to read my book. But I’m getting sidetracked every time she sighs or rises for more tea.
Finally, Claire turns around on her little stool and says, "I watched you guys out there with the roof. What a team."
"We are." I correct myself. "We were."
She starts to come toward me and I set the book down. My heart begins to beat hard. She's moving slowly, deliberately. She's wearing floral tights that accent her calves and thighs, and a long T-shirt and no bra. Her breasts swing underneath the material. Her hair is long
and loose and now she holds it off to the side in one hand.
I watch her as she rounds the sofa, leans over me from behind, and slowly releases that mane. She turns her head and brushes her lips to mine. I try to rise to kiss her but she's got her arms on my shoulders and holds me in place. Claire tips my head back, comes in for another kiss, and this time she lets us connect. Stroking my throat with her hand as my tongue moves deep inside her mouth—she tastes warm and sweet—I can feel her hand on my collarbone, my throat. We start breathing heavily and a hand begins to slide down my chest, slowly, under the collar of my shirt, kneading my pec before she gently pinches my nipple.
I can hear myself groan softly, and she tilts my head farther back.
She gasps a little when she breaks away from the kiss and looks at me, her eyes heavily lidded. "You're gorgeous. All of this. All of you."
I'm as hard as stone. Taking her forearm, I guide her around the end of the sofa until she faces me. Every time I try to speak she touches a finger to my lips. I want to tell her how beautiful she is, how completely perfect she is, but I'm afraid I'll ruin it if I don’t respect that warning finger.
Reaching up, she slides the tights off and I can smell her—skin and lotion and wetness. I pull down my pants just enough to let my erection free and take off my shirt. Still standing, she straddles my thighs and I reach down to touch her bud. It’s swollen and her vagina is so wet, my fingers slip right inside. I curve my index finger around her pubic bone and gently, rhythmically, rub that tender spot while my thumb swirls her clit.
"Oh my God, Finn," she gasps. Her trembling thighs make me even harder.
My cock is slick with precum. She hands me a condom and I rip the wrapper open with my teeth before rolling the condom over my cock.
Then she leans in for another kiss as she sits on the tip of my cock and eases down, but only partway. She tears her lips from mine, looks right into my eyes, gripping me with her sex, and pulls up then runs down the entire shaft in one move.
Her back arches as she sinks down into my lap, my cock inside her. I can feel her around me, and she cries out a little.
