by Freya Barker
“Well, shit,” she mutters, looking down at pile of clothes.
I walk up behind her and slide a hand from her hip to her stomach, tugging her to lean her back against me. Then I bend my mouth to her ear.
“The walk-in closet is half empty, Ollie. Use it.”
Ollie
I watch his boxer-clad ass walk away from me.
It looks good—not as good as naked.
I must’ve been dead to the world last night. I can’t remember much beyond snuggling up to him and looking out on the river. Obviously, at some point, he must’ve taken me to bed. Unlike the last occasion, where I found myself without the first clue how I got here, he took the time to undress me, take off my limb, and don me in one of his shirts last night.
From the bathroom I hear the shower turn on, and my eyes drift down to the pile on the floor.
Right. I have a comfortably casual outfit to select and clothes to put away.
-
“Do you want to hold him for a minute, while I grab the coffee?”
Autumn, the fiery redhead whose sloppy attire and big smile were instantly endearing, plops the sleeping infant in my hesitant arms and disappears through the French doors inside.
I’m a little shocked at her easy trust. I remember when Trinny was a baby, even the nurses taking her six feet away to change her made me anxious. Grace was the only one I’d been comfortable with handling her.
The baby lets out a little groan and stretches his tiny fists over his head before settling back in the crook of my arm. Beautiful, flawless little boy with just the faintest hint of black fuzz on his otherwise bald head. His warm body and the scent of baby put a smile on my face. A moment of well-being in a rather chaotic phase.
It’s the little things that can give us the most pleasure.
There’s nothing little about this place, though. Nestled on the edge of a cliff, mostly hidden by trees, the large one-story log home is nothing to sneeze at. Nor is the breathtaking view from the large deck spanning the back of the house where Autumn immediately led me. In one word: phenomenal.
Keith had not been kidding when he’d mentioned it being secluded. We’re well outside the city proper and you can’t even see the neighbors down the road. Still, Joe assured me when introducing me, the house is secure and closely monitored.
“Here we are,” Autumn announces, carrying out a tray and setting it on the table between the two Adirondack chairs. “Oh, he’s out,” she says, looking at her son. “Wouldn’t let me put him down after his seven o’clock feed. I finally caved and nursed him again, and now he’s happy. Little glutton.” She reaches out and I lift the baby for her to take. “I’m just going to put him in his crib so we have our hands free.”
She’s gone and back in a flash. “You’re nursing?” I ask when she sits down and starts pouring coffee from the kick-ass chrome thermos.
“I am. Wasn’t sure at first—actually, I’m still not sure since my boy seems determined to detach my right nipple clear off my tit—but I have to say it’s a lot easier than messing about with bottles, formula, and sterilizing. That’d get old quick. It was a bit of a struggle to get him to latch right, but I think we’ve got a handle on it now.” She hands me a mug and gestures for me to help myself to cream and sugar. “Of course, now I’m wondering if I have enough milk, since this is the second time since yesterday he’s been hungry not long after feeding.”
I take a sip, happy to note she makes a good coffee. “It’s normal,” I give her. “He grows, he needs more, so he latches more. Your milk production will increase and he can settle back down in a normal schedule.” I look at her over the rim of my coffee. “Especially the first three or four months that can happen regularly. They grow so quickly. After that you almost don’t notice.”
She smiles at me. “Good to know. I gather you nursed yours? Keith tells me you have a daughter?”
“I did, and I do.” I smile back. “Her name is Trinny. She’ll be eighteen in a month.”
At that her mouth drops open. “Fuck me. You must’ve been a baby yourself when you had her?” I bite off a chuckle at her easy profanity. Another reason for me to like her, she has a mouth that apparently matches mine.
“Close. I’d just turned twenty-three when she was born.”
“Girl, that’s a baby to me. I’m twenty years older having a baby, and let me tell you, the years make a difference. In my twenties I still had a firm body that could snap back into shape like that. At forty-three all the damn elastic is gone.”
We spend the next half hour talking and laughing about babies, my daughter, aging, the amazing view, and we even have an argument over Chucks versus Keds.
Then she tells me how she and Keith met, only last year. Both not looking for anything but finding it in each other anyway. She recounts with tears in her eyes—prompting tears in mine—how she lost two of her friends to the crazy arsonist obsessed with her: her beloved cat, and the sweet old man unfortunate enough to have been her neighbor. I surreptitiously brush under my eye when she tells me their son, Aleksander, was named for him.
But the next moment she has me throw my head back, laughing out loud when she blurts out, “So what’s with the bum leg?”
Some people make too much of it, most try hard to ignore it, even if it’s as clear as the nose on my face, but Autumn just throws it out there. Direct, honestly curious, and fucking refreshing.
Which is why I don’t even think twice before launching into the drama that was, and is, my life. Given that she’s already shared a bit of her own messy phase with me, I don’t hold back sharing with her.
“So how’s your brother now?” she asks, after I finish getting her up to date.
“Alive and should be stable enough to be whisked off by the FBI to some unknown destination.”
“That’s good,” she concludes, and she’s mostly right.
“It is, but I need to brace myself because they’re going to issue a press release that their main witness in the case against Montenegro is dead. Even knowing it’s fabricated, it’s not going to be nice to hear.”
“Yeah,” she sighs, sliding down in her chair and putting her feet up on the banister. “That’s gonna suck.”
Totally a straight shooter and I love that.
I scoot down too, lifting both my leg and my prosthesis, bracing both against the railing as well.
It feels great.
“You know…” Autumn says, and I turn my head to find her staring at my artificial foot. “Hate to say this, but I thought I was in dire need of a pedicure. I’d recommend a wax treatment.”
The sound of my laughter echoes back from the valley below, and for this moment, my life is absolute perfection.
Joe
The fact I haven’t been in my office much is reflected in the piles of paperwork waiting on my desk.
It’s good Ollie is at Blackfoot’s place, means she’s not alone and I’m not tempted to duck out early and see how she’s doing. I keep my head down and my door closed; I can get a lot done.
I have no idea how late it is when Keith sticks his head in the door.
“Stopped at home for lunch,” he says, his eyes lit with amusement. “Girls are having a good time.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Get out of my truck and the first thing I hear is loud music. They’ve got my fucking living room furniture shoved to one side and are jumping around to something called Zumba along with the TV. Supposed to be exercise, but I have my doubts. Red got pissed I interrupted, barely gave me a chance to say hey to my boy, who was watching this shit from his bouncy chair, and brushed me out the door. I was in there all of three minutes. Damn music was back on and I could hear them giggling their asses off when I was stepping off the porch.”
“Figured they’d hit it off.” I grin, trying to form a mental picture of Ollie acting like a goof. It doesn’t come easy, mainly because from what I can tell she doesn’t let loose much. Good for her. She needs a little letting go.
&
nbsp; “That’s putting it mildly my friend. I’m thinking I’ll pick up some steaks, you guys hang around for dinner, and you can have a front row seat.”
-
Her neck arches back as I close my mouth on her clit and suck deep at the same time, twisting my fingers inside her. The moment I find her sweet spot, I can feel her walls clamp down on me and she cries out her release.
Not waiting for her to catch her breath, I flip her over, pull her up on her knees, ass in the air, and plant myself deep. After tasting her, watching her come with my mouth and fingers, it doesn’t take much before my balls draw up, my hips piston furiously, and I come hard on a deep groan.
This is after she tackled me to the bed the moment we walked in. I let her strip me, take me deep in her mouth—something she turns out to be very fucking good at—before I turned the tables on her.
Christ.
Sex with Ollie is unbelievable.
Sex with Ollie half-drunk is out of this world.
She hadn’t been drinking when I arrived. Three hours later, after a killer steak dinner, good company—Tony Ramirez showed up as well—and lots of laughs, she’d been half in the bag.
Keith was right, the two of them had hit it off in a way that made it hard to believe they were strangers when I dropped her off this morning. Like fucking peas in a pod.
I carefully slip out and roll off her. Propping myself up on an elbow, I take her in. One cheek pressed to the mattress, a strand of hair stuck to the other, and her mouth is slack, but her eyes are bright and her face is flushed. Real and beautiful—in my bed.
“I can’t move,” she mutters, barely moving her lips.
“Then don’t.” I bend my head and kiss her bare shoulder, rolling away and off the bed to get rid of the condom. I’m back a minute later with a warm wet washcloth and take care of her. She still hasn’t moved from her position and I run my hand over her round ass still in the air.
“Mmmm.” I smile when she purrs, toss the washcloth in the direction of the bathroom, and settle on my back in bed. I reach over, grab her under the arms and I haul her off her knees and onto my chest.
“Had a good day, baby?”
“Yeah.”
Two seconds, she’s fast asleep.
Chapter 21
Joe
“Morning.”
I look up from the paper, surprised to see Ollie walking in. It’s early—six thirty—and she’d still been out cold when I left the bed half an hour ago. She looks a little rough and her eyes are aimed at the coffeepot, heading straight for it and ignoring a very excited Bugsy looking for some love. She’s wearing the shirt I wore yesterday.
“Come here.”
She ignores me, filling a mug.
“Ollie?”
She takes a sip of her coffee before sliding her eyes to where I’m sitting at the kitchen table. “I’m not your dog.”
I grin. Definitely a rough morning.
“Olivia, come here.” She glares. “Please?” She rolls her eyes, but walks over. As soon as she’s within reach, I take her cup, set it on the table, and pull her down on my lap.
“Sleep well?” I ask, wrapping her up tight.
“Mmm.” She may not be in the best mood, but her body instantly softens in my arms. I rub a hand up and down her spine. “Mmm,” she hums again, burying her nose in my neck.
I could sit like this—Ollie’s ass on my lap, her hand on my shoulder, her nose stuck in my neck—for hours. Unfortunately, I have to get going.
“Have to get to work,” I murmur, my lips pressed to her messy hair.
Her hand slides around my neck and holds on as she tilts up her face. Slightly red-rimmed, heavy-lidded eyes, sleep-creased cheek, and a soft mouth. Beautiful. I cup the back of her head and lean in for a kiss, sweeping my tongue through her mouth for a quick taste to tide me over. I pull back and watch as her eyes blink slowly. “Gotta go, Sweets.”
“Okay,” is her soft response, and I gently put her to her feet so I can get up.
“I’ll call, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
I leave her standing by the table, tag my keys from the counter, grab my phone from the charger, and walk back to her for a last kiss.
“Ibuprofen in the cupboard over the stove,” I inform her as I head for the door. “Drink lots. Rest. I’ll take care of dinner.”
“Joe?” she calls when I’m about to step outside.
“Yeah?” I turn around. She’s still standing by the table looking sleep-rumpled and sexy in my shirt, a soft smile on her face.
“Yesterday was a really, really good day, honey. The best.”
Something warm unfurls in my chest—spreading.
“I’m glad, baby.”
-
It’s been a surprisingly quiet day, giving me ample opportunity to go over the substantial file I’ve accumulated on Ollie’s case. I realize the FBI probably have a complete whiteboard filled in with every detail, but for my own peace of mind—or sense of control—I started an evidence board of my own, except on two sheets of legal-sized paper taped together.
The left side shows the names of all main players, with lines connecting all known affiliations. The worrisome part is that most of those lines somehow connect to Ollie. The right side is a timeline of events, and any evidence resulting from those. Red lines run from left to right, when the evidence links an event to an individual. For instance: the partial fingerprint, which prompted a red line from the event to both Trivisonno and Rizzoli’s names. Unfortunately what little evidence was recovered in the arson is generic, it doesn’t help us, so I can’t attach that event to any individual but Ollie, who was clearly the target. The video feed is inconclusive, but Ramirez discovered a security camera mounted over the garage of one of the neighbors on my side. Sadly we’ll have to wait to get our hands on that tape until they come back from their Alaskan cruise. That is, if they even recorded it at all.
That part I worked on today, but sadly there aren’t very many red lines yet, just a whole bunch of question marks.
When I realize how late it already is, I fold my board, tuck it with the file in my desk drawer and lock it. I tug my jacket from the back of my chair and am in the process of pulling it on when my phone rings. Livingston’s name shows on the display.
“Update,” he says without introduction when I answer.
“Give me a second.” I toss my jacket on the visitor chair, grab a pen, a pad of paper, and sit back down. “Shoot.”
“Got a search warrant for Trivisonno’s place and finally had a chance to go through there yesterday. Within minutes of us arriving there, we were joined by a lawyer from Rizzoli’s firm, demanding to see the warrant.”
“Montenegro was watching,” I conclude.
“So it would seem. Which makes it safe to assume Trivisonno knows we’re on his ass. That’s the bad news. The good news is that it establishes a direct connection between him and Montenegro.”
“This is good.”
“Helpful at least. Now, Rizzoli is hanging in there. They have him in a medically induced coma for now. He stays stable like this, they may try to wake him up in a day or two.”
“Also good.”
“Brace—that was the last of the good news, my friend,” he warns me. “Rizzoli’s laptop was in Trivisonno’s apartment.”
“How is that possible? Didn’t you guys—”
“Of course we stripped Rizolli’s place,” he interrupts. “After we arrested him at his firm. Found a laptop in his briefcase, a desktop in his office, and never thought to ask him if he had more at home. Word must’ve spread quickly, because we had agents going through his place within an hour of his arrest.
“Enough time for someone to slip in and out,” I indicate as my mind processes the information, immediately landing on Trinny. “Let me guess, he pretended to be the uncle.”
“Bingo. We also found a notepad with the girl’s name, phone number, school, and address.”
“You fucking kidding me? How?�
� Suddenly the urge to get home is greater.
“Went through the history on his own computer. He opened up a new account under the name Christian Rizzo, been chatting up one of the girl’s online friends. Name of Kim?”
“Fuck. That’s the friend she’s off to Europe with.”
“Right. Played the uncle card, like he did with Trinity, gave enough information to gain some trust and mentioned Trinny’s upcoming birthday—which by the way—is plainly listed on her Facebook profile. Then he told her he wanted to surprise his niece, asked for her details, and swore Kim to secrecy. She gave out phone number, address, school—the whole fucking enchilada.”
“Good reminder never to allow my kids on social fucking media,” I growl.
“I hear you. In the meantime, you may wanna check in with Ollie’s daughter. See if you or Olivia can talk to the parents. From what I can see, the last communication was the message from Kim with the information. That was last Thursday, and nothing since.”
“I gotta go,” I say suddenly. “I’ve gotta get home. I have only one set of eyes on my place.”
“Agent Barnes, I know. Already talked to Gomez and he’s making sure your girl is covered, but in a way that doesn’t draw attention to your house.”
“Appreciated, but I’d like to get my ass home all the same.”
“Don’t blame you, my friend,” he says, amusement in his voice.
I walk out of the office at a fair clip when Mike Bolter calls my name.
“On my way out, Mike,” I call over my shoulder, but his next words stop me in my tracks.
“We’ve got a hostage situation.”
Ollie
Midday, topped up with a fresh pot of coffee, some toast and two more ibuprofen, my headache finally lifts.
After Joe left, I spent most of the morning curled up under a quilt on the couch, mildly entertained by a few old episodes of Supernatural on Netflix in between naps.
My head better, I finally haul myself upstairs and into the shower, feeling almost human again when I come out. I make my way to the bed, pull on my last clean sock, attach my leg, and walk—otherwise naked—into the closet. I forgot about the full-length mirror mounted on the inside of the door.
