by Freya Barker
I catch a glimpse of myself, stop, turn, and scrutinize my body, top to bottom. I don’t look at myself much, other than to check my hair. Certainly not naked. Not really on purpose, I just happen to think my body is what it is, and that is definitely not perfect. No use picking myself apart when there’s no way in hell it’ll ever be.
Hourglass, I guess, if you’re an optimist. Big boobs that announced themselves as such when I was just twelve years old. A royal ass and what one might call good childbearing hips, although I’d find that arguable, since it took me twenty-five hours to expel tiny, six-and-a-half pound Trinity from my body. Tits and ass, and all of that used to be balanced by a waist a man’s hands could span. These days it would require a crew. Still, the shape is still there, albeit more generously so. The one clear improvement is my right leg, which is more toned now than it ever was.
Or maybe it just looks thinner next to my prosthesis.
My perusal is more analytical than anything else. It’s clear Joe enjoys what I bring to the table. All…of it. I indulge recalling the way his hands and mouth mapped every inch of my skin last night. The effects of tequila shots Tony Ramirez served me—and I willingly tossed back to Autumn’s great hilarity—may have blurred some, but certainly not all that went on.
Even as I’m remembering the rough texture of Joe’s fingertips on the inside of my thighs, my body responds. A deep flush starts on my chest and crawls up my neck. With nipples pulled in tight peaks, my hands come up to lift both breasts.
Now I look wanton.
Shaking my head clear, I turn to my clothes—which I hung up, as per Joe’s insistence—opposite his in the closet. Since I’m not going anywhere, I grab my Oshkosh cutoffs and an old Rolling Stones tee. It’ll do.
Back in the bedroom I get dressed quickly and pick up the dirty clothes we seem to have dropped on the floor. I also strip the sheets off the bed and grab the towels from the bathroom. At the top of the stairs I look toward the other end of the landing where the boys’ rooms are. Might as well grab those sheets too. Being used to Trinny, I’m shocked at how smelly boys can be.
It takes two trips to get the piles downstairs, where I sort it by color on the kitchen floor. Then I shove all the sheets together in the large washer, move the remaining piles to the floor of the laundry room, and pour myself another cup of coffee.
I’ve just gone through two more episodes of Supernatural, switched the sheets to the dryer, and stuffed the whites in the washer, when the home phone rings. Checking the call display I’m surprised to see Grace’s name—and then suddenly I’m not. We’d promised to call her with my new phone number, except I didn’t have a new phone yet, because shit keeps happening.
“Hey, Grace. I’m—”
“Alive, thank God! Been worried sick about you, young lady. Sick, I tell you. Waited a few days for your call, then called the police station, but that got me nowhere in a hurry. You promised.” The sniffle that follows her tirade makes my insides twist with guilt.
“Honey, I’m so sorry. It’s just that things have been kinda crazy here. We’ve barely had time to breathe, let alone get a new phone.” I sound like I’m making excuses, so I quickly add, “but you’re right, I should’ve called you and I didn’t. I’m so sorry.”
“You should’ve,” she grumbles, before adding, “kinda crazy?”
I briefly consider lying but since it’s a definite possibility Grace will hear about the fire at my house another way, I decide to go with the truth.
“Sonofabitch,” she whispers, when I’ve outlined the events of the past couple of days. “Your truck?”
“Total loss,” I reply matter-of-factly. We’ve already talked to the insurance adjuster. He’s supposed to examine the truck—which was towed to the garage at the police station—drive by to have a look at the garage, and would call Joe as soon as he had a report. “Monday was a bad day, but yesterday was good.”
“What happened yesterday?”
I launch into a detailed description of the Blackfoot’s beautiful home, the cute as a button baby, and the phenomenal view. I also tell her about the impromptu barbecue on the large deck, the laughs, and the tequila.
“A good day,” she mumbles, this time with a smile in her voice. “It’s good you find yourself some friends your own age. I’ve been worried.”
Just like that my eyes start burning. “Never could find a better friend than you, Gracie. Love you lots.”
“Don’t you get mushy on me,” she cautions sternly, but she does it sniffling.
“God forbid,” I tease her. She likes to pretend she doesn’t appreciate shows of affection, but I know it’s just a front. “By the way—how did you find Joe’s number? He says it’s not listed.”
“Pffft. Piece of cake. After that lug nut answering the phone at the station wouldn’t give me what I needed, I called Ouray. Nice boy, that—took him all of two minutes to find me the number. I know who I’m calling next time I’m facing a crisis. Entered his number under 9-1-1 on my phone.”
I shake my head and bite down a chuckle. Trust Grace to prefer calling a motorcycle club in an emergency over the Durango PD.
A beep in my ear indicates a call waiting and I quickly look at the display. Benedetti calling.
“Grace, I have to go. Joe’s on the other line.”
“Tell him I have a bone to pick with him.”
“I will, honey. Talk soon.” I quickly switch to the other line. “Hey, Joe.”
There’s a sharp inhale, and then a very hesitant, female voice says, “Is my son there?”
Oh shit. Shit, shit, shit.
“Uhh…I…no. I’m sorry he’s not home from work yet.” I wince even as I’m saying it. Dammit.
“Oh. Well, this is Joey’s mother, Rita. And you are?”
What do I say? I’m at Joe’s house, calling it home, answering his phone. I can hardly tell her the truth.
“Uhh…a friend. My name is Olivia, but everyone calls me Ollie.”
“Ollie? It’s nice to meet you.” Her words are followed by a rustling sound and I imagine her pressing it to her chest when I hear her muffled voice in the background, “Sal! I think Joey’s got a girl!” followed by more rustling.
“Mrs. Benedetti? Hello, Rita? I don’t want to—”
“Now I’m even more excited to see him,” she says, clearly pleased. I’m not so sure how pleased Joe will be though.
“Mrs. Benedetti, I feel I have to—”
“Rita. For you the name is Rita. If you would tell my Joey to call me back as soon as he gets in?”
“Of course, but—”
“I’m thrilled. No. I’m ecstatic! Look forward to meeting you, Ollie. Such a wonderful name.”
The next thing I hear is a sharp click in my ear. She hung up.
My first instinct is to call Joe, but a glance at the clock shows it’s already close to five. He should be home shortly anyway.
I know he said he’d take care of dinner, but just in case, I check the contents of the fridge. The moment I open the fridge door, the dog comes wandering in, shoving his metal bowl over the floor. Right. The dog needs dinner. Bugsy twists around my legs as I try to get his kibble from the big bag in the pantry, almost making me trip. I’ve barely set the food down on the floor and he dives in. In less than two minutes, he’s licking the bottom of the bowl.
“You’re a glutton,” I tell him when he lifts his head up, staring at me with pleading eyes and tongue lolling. “Just a little more.” I grab a scoopful from the pantry, drop it in his bowl, and firmly close the door. “That’s it. No more.”
I’m about to do another laundry switch when the damn phone rings again.
Benedetti calling. Determined not to make the same mistake twice, I answer much more cautiously this time.
“Hello?”
“I’ve had an emergency come up.” This time it really is Joe, but I don’t get a chance to give him a better hello, because he keeps talking. “I’m gonna be late. Could you feed the dog, le
t him out, but make sure you lock back up after. No idea when I’ll be home. I’ll check in later.”
“Joe, I—”
“Sweets, I can’t talk. Gotta run.” Another click announces the end of this call too.
Well, guess dinner is on me after all.
It ends up being a grilled cheese sandwich—a quarter of which I feed to the dog, because his pretty-please face is irresistible—after which I settle in on the couch, with a beer and more Sam and Dean Winchester.
I wake up when something wet touches my face. The moment I open my eyes, Bugsy starts whining. I must’ve dozed off. It’s dark outside and a quick glance at the clock shows it’s past nine o’clock. Fuck, I never let the dog out. He must be ready to explode.
I rush to the back door, sliding it open and Bugsy darts outside. I close it—lock it as instructed—and go to put the last load in the dryer. Grabbing the clean laundry, I take it upstairs, quickly make the beds, and put the rest away as best I can.
Bugsy still isn’t back at the door fifteen minutes after I get back down and I walk over to the window, trying to peer into the backyard. Hard to see anything but the reflective river beyond. I slide the door open a crack and call for him. Still no Bugsy.
Finally, I step outside and walk over to the railing, squinting my eyes in the dark. Nothing. I walk down to the lawn and to the back of the yard and open my mouth to call again.
An arm wraps around my throat and a gloved hand covers my mouth, smothering any sound. I struggle, kicking back and digging my nails in his arm, when my body is suddenly lifted and slammed down hard. The air is knocked from my lungs when I land on my back and a large figure sits down on my chest, wrapping both hands around my neck.
I never get a chance to take that next breath.
Chapter 22
Joe
“Thomas Powers!”
My voice carries through the neighborhood.
I’m standing in the open door of one of the cruisers on scene, trying to establish contact with my suspended officer, holed up inside the older two-story home along with his two young children and a gun.
I depress the button on the microphone again.
“This is Chief Joe Benedetti—Joe,” I add to bring this standoff down to a more personal level. “Tom, I’d like to talk with you. Find out what’s going on today. See if I can help you.”
I look over to the ambulance where paramedics are treating his wife for what is luckily just a graze wound. When I got here a while ago, she was refusing to be taken to the hospital. I can’t really blame her—she has two little girls inside that house with her estranged husband, who has clearly come off the rails.
Guilt sours in my stomach. I should’ve paid closer attention. The man had a clean record up to the end of last year when he started making some questionable judgment calls. Until finally he showed up drunk on the job and I suspended him. I should’ve done more.
From what I can tell from Jill, his wife, she left him eight months ago, when she discovered he’d been unfaithful, and took the girls with her. He did not take this well. Today he’d apparently picked their daughters up from school when it wasn’t his scheduled day to have them. She came to his house, he opened the door drunk, toting a gun and barely able to stand, and shot her. Now he’s holed up in that house, drunk, with a six and an eight-year-old, wielding a gun. Not a good scene.
“Tom, why don’t you answer your phone so we can talk?” I nod at Ramirez to try his number again and I look around the crowd forming on the sidewalk. “Colter!” I call out to one of the officers barricaded behind another cruiser. He jogs over immediately. “These people are supposed to be on the other side of the tape you guys put up. I get you wanna help, but crowd control is what we need. Clear the road and sidewalks. Anyone in any of those houses stay inside, off the damn porches, and away from the windows. Don’t want any innocent bystanders hurt should this not go down well.”
“Yes, Chief.”
“Anything?” I ask Tony, who shakes his head, and I click the button on the microphone again. “Tom, it’s Joe. I don’t know what it is you need unless you talk to me. Please answer your phone.”
There has been no movement and no sound from the house, which doesn’t really tell me much. Shots would’ve been heard, but there are other ways for a full-grown man in a drunken rage to do harm to a couple of little girls.
“Joe,” Tony whispers, holding out the phone.
“Tom?” I can hear crying in the background and the sound has me on full alert. If I can get those girls out unharmed, they’ll need some serious counseling.
“She deserved it,” he slurs and then explodes in a way I need to pull the phone away from my ear. “She ruined everything!” The girls’ cries and whimpers intensify in the silence that follows.
“Tom,” I try in my calmest voice, even though my body is wound tight like a coil. “I can hear your little girls. They must be scared.”
“They won’t stop. They won’t stop crying. I don’t know what to do to make them stop crying.” The hair on my neck stands on end. This does not sound promising, and I know we need to get those kids out of there—stat. I cover the phone with my hand and turn to Ramirez. “SWAT team?”
“In place, waiting for your go-ahead.”
“I’d like to help you with that, Tom. I know you’re upset, but I also know you love your girls. I understand, I have two young boys myself. As good fathers we don’t like seeing our kids upset or scared. Am I right? We do everything we can to make it so they don’t have to be scared, isn’t that so?” I earn a barely distinguishable grunt to that. I’ll take it. Fuck, I’ll take anything. “So what if I help you make sure they’re not scared? How about I promise you, father to father, I’ll keep your little girls safe if you let them walk out that door?”
I listen with fear in my heart as the man dissolves into gut-wrenching sobs before the line goes dead. My own phone starts buzzing in my pocket.
Shit.
“Just say the word,” Ramirez prompts me.
“Wait.” I hold my hand up. The moment we send SWAT in, we force Powers in a corner and I don’t have a good feeling about that outcome. That said, he might well be so far gone already he’ll harm those girls now. But something tells me to wait and cross my fingers that at least some of what I said penetrated.
My phone starts buzzing again; I’m busy staring intently at the front door, which is slowly opening. Two little girls, arms around each other, come shuffling out of the house.
“Chief!” I hear my name called but ignore it. Without thinking, I shrug off my jacket, unclip my holster, and with my hands raised, start walking in their direction.
“Jesus, Joe!” I hear Tony behind me, but I’m already committed.
The girls are clearly scared out of their wits, not just by their father inside, but the floodlights blinding them.
“It’s okay, sweethearts,” I say softly as I get closer, keeping half an eye on the door. “I’m going to take good care of you.” I go to my knees and lift a girl in each arm, and as I turn my back on the door I feel their little arms hold on tight.
I walk them straight to the ambulance and hand them off to their very relieved mother.
Two down, one to go.
“Chief! It’s urgent!” I turn around and watch one of my officers jog up. “Agent Gomez is trying to get hold of you.”
I immediately fish my phone from my pocket and check the screen. Two missed calls from Gomez in quick succession. Something ugly coils in my stomach. I hit dial even as I’m jogging to my vehicle.
“Fuck, Joe,” Gomez jumps right in. “Where the hell are you?”
“Gettin’ in my truck. What’s happening?”
“Trouble at your house.”
-
“Here,” I bark in the phone when I pull up to my house. A bevy of vehicles, including two of my patrol cars, a fire truck, and an ambulance, are blocking my driveway.
“Out back,” Damian answers and immediately ends the call
.
It had taken me less than five minutes, tearing through the streets of Durango, to jump from the frying pan into the fire.
The moment my feet hit the pavement, I run—full tilt—up my drive, through the open gate, and into my backyard where I find a crowd of officers, firefighters, and FBI agents assembled.
“Where the fuck is she?” I growl, elbowing my way through indiscriminately.
“Joe?”
The EMT in front of me steps to the side and then I see her, sitting on the bottom step of the deck. I drop down on my knees in front, hands frantically running over her body to check for injuries.
“I’m fine, Joe,” she says, her voice hoarse.
My eyes catch the discoloration on her neck and anger explodes.
“How the fuck did this happen?” I bellow at no one in particular.
“Joe,” she pleads, but I’m too far gone.
“Where is the son of a bitch?” I jump to my feet and scan the crowd.
“Settle the fuck down.” Keith Blackfoot steps in front of me and puts a hand in my chest, which means my rage is now focused on him.
“He put his hands on her. Fucking strangled her. And you want me to fucking settle down?” I’m yelling in his face but he doesn’t even blink. “Where the fuck was everyone when a hired killer attacked the woman they were supposed to protect!”
“Joe!” This from Gomez, who comes walking out of the trees behind my neighbor’s yard, carrying my dog in his arms.
Ollie
Poor Bugsy.
Agent Gomez had found him wandering along the water’s edge, tripping over his own paws and disoriented. Likely drugged with something. One of the officers took him into the emergency animal clinic where he’s being kept for the night.
I look around the room at all the tense faces.
