Point Blank (Love Undercover Book 6)

by LK Shaw

  Seeing nothing resembling real food, I peeked in the freezer and found a couple frozen pizzas and a bottle of top shelf vodka. I was too hungry to wait for the oven to pre-heat, let alone the time it took to bake the pizza. Instead, I opened the pantry and scanned the shelves. More vegetables, only canned ones this time.

  And for god’s sake, did Oliver own stock in protein bars? I’d never seen so many boxes in my life. All different flavors. Spotting several cans of tuna fish, I snatched one up before continuing the treasure hunt. I still hadn’t found the chest of gold, and based on the last five minutes of searching, I wasn’t going to.

  In the far back, on a lower shelf behind a big box of cereal, I discovered an unopened bag of potato chips so I grabbed it as well before shutting the door. Seemed like I was going to have to make do with that. I went back to the fridge for some bread and mayo and soon I sat at the kitchen table, nibbling on a tuna fish sandwich and chips. Not the healthiest meal, but considering my limited choices available I wasn’t going to complain.

  Based on everything I’d seen, or rather hadn’t seen, I was going to guess that Oliver ate out a lot.

  “I see you found food.”

  A small screech flew from my mouth, and I spun around in my seat in surprise. “You scared the shit out of me.”

  “Sorry,” he said, striding over to the fridge. He reached inside, the colorful tattoos covering his arm shifting and twisting with each muscle that moved, and pulled out one of the bottles.

  He popped the top with the bottle opener he pulled out of the drawer nearest the sink. The back of his hair was also damp, and there was a wet patch on his t-shirt smack dab between those broad shoulders. My eyes moved downward to the small wet spot at the base of his spine. His shirt was boxy, but something told me that those same muscular shoulders of his tapered down to a narrow waist giving him the perfect v-shape.

  Then there was his butt. Before I could get a truly admiring look, he turned and leaned against the counter, taking a swig of his beer, all the while staring at me. I fidgeted under his steely glare and rose from my seat. Being seated felt too much like Oliver was looming over me.

  “Why did you come looking for me?” he asked.

  Chapter 5

  That had been the burning question ever since I saw her standing in the lobby of the precinct house. Why come to me? Charity picked up her sandwich and took another bite, whether because she was still hungry or because she was trying to formulate her reply, I wasn’t sure. All I wanted were answers. Well, there were a few other things I wanted, but for the moment I’d take a response from her.

  She set her food down on the plate and returned my gaze. The intensity of her stare unnerved me a little.

  “Because I trust you. I feel safe with you,” she finally said.

  “You don’t even know me,” I shook my head. “I understand that you’re scared. You’ve gone through something no woman ever should. I’m sorry for that. Truly, I am. But there’s no reason you can’t return to your life. Everyone in that house was arrested. With the evidence we have against them, as well as your testimony, and the other women’s, there’s a good chance they’ll be put away for a very long time. You have nothing to worry about.”

  A low growl erupted from Charity’s throat. “Of course you can say that. You’re not the one who was grabbed off the street while walking home from her shitty-ass waitress job. That was me. I was the one beaten. Toyed with. Raped.” Her chest rose and fell with her rage. “I was the one they collared and chained, naked, to a wall like a fucking dog.”

  I tried not to wince at her tirade. Her anger was well deserved. I’d been the one to find her in that basement. I’d seen the condition she’d been in. The way she’d been treated. The blood. If anyone had a right to be scared, it was her.

  “You were the one who kept telling me that everything was going to be all right. You promised,” she ended on a whisper.

  “Charity,” I began, floundering for…something. A placating remark? A reassuring platitude?

  She slapped her palm down on the table, the plate rattling and skidding a couple inches under the vibration, and glared at me. “You promised, Oliver.”

  “Of course I promised,” I barked back and slammed my beer on the counter, trying to tamper my own anger. “I was doing my fucking job. You were freaked out. Traumatized. Definitely not in your right frame of mind. You wouldn’t let go of me. Even after we got to the hospital, you clung to me, terrified, until the nurses had to knock you out. What did you expect me to say?”

  Charity sucked in a sharp breath and her expression shifted from anger to pain. “I see. So you were really just lying to me, then.”

  She picked up the bag of potato chips and folded the top half over the back to close it. Then she returned it to the pantry, quietly shutting the door behind her. Meanwhile, I could only stand there, watching her move around listlessly, neither of us saying a word. She finished the last couple bites of her sandwich and rinsed off the plate before stacking it in the dish drainer. Her face was expressionless.

  I hadn’t lied to her. Everything was going to be all right. Except, why did I suddenly feel like the villain?

  Charity headed toward the living room, her shoulders straight and head held high, but at the entryway she stopped and pivoted to look back at me. “Thank you for the shower and clothes, as well as the food. I won’t take advantage of your hospitality any longer. I’ll just run upstairs and get my things, and then I’ll be out of your hair. While I’m gone, if you could have a garbage bag ready for me to carry them in, I’d appreciate it.”

  She turned, and I called her name, but she ignored me.

  “Son of a bitch.” I wanted to throw my bottle across the room, but I curbed the urge. How had everything gone to complete shit? After dumping the rest of the contents down the sink, I tossed the glass into the garbage.

  I wasn’t giving her a fucking trash bag to put her clothes in. I rummaged through the pantry until I found a folded brown paper grocery bag. It was large enough to put her belongings in.

  I set the opened bag on the table and waited for her to come back downstairs. A tiny prick of something like guilt continued to pinch me, but I shoved it aside. I wasn’t doing anything wrong. The one warning Cap had given me before I’d left was not to fuck up the Los Lobos case. Having Charity, a key witness and victim of the gang leader, Ricardo Morales’, crimes, standing in my house would most definitely fuck it up.

  This wasn’t me just being a heartless asshole. This was my job. My life we were talking about. It was also about justice. If she and I were seen together in any capacity besides a professional one, it could jeopardize the whole case. I needed to get her to understand that. This wasn’t personal.

  A few minutes later, Charity’s faint footsteps padded down the stairs, the creak of the single stair echoing around me. Then, she stood just outside the kitchen, looking forlorn and beaten. There were dark circles under her eyes and a tightness around her mouth. Another stabbing pain of guilt hit me, but I pushed this one back as well.

  “I got you a bag for your stuff.” I gestured to the brown paper sack sitting on the wooden table top.

  “Thanks,” she said, monotonically, moving over and placing her things inside it. Carefully, she folded down the top edge several times before picking it up and, with a clutched fist, held it against her side.

  She stood tall, or at least as tall as her barely five-foot frame allowed. It somehow gave her an almost child-like appearance if not for the gentle curve of her hips and the noticeable swell of her breasts.

  “Do you have some place you want me to take you?” I asked a little hesitantly.

  “You can just drop me off at Brenda’s House on Roosevelt, if you don’t mind.”

  “Brenda’s House?” That couldn’t have been what she’d said.

  A mulish look appeared on her face. Along with a slight flush above the neckline of her borrowed t-shirt. “Is that going to be a problem?”

  I
shook off my surprise. “No, not a problem. I just…are you sure?”

  Her expression shifted and this time she looked at me like I was an idiot. “You’ve made it glaringly obvious that I can’t stay here, and since I have nowhere else to go, then yes, I’m sure.”

  She’d said she didn’t have a home, but I just thought she’d meant she’d been staying with different friends. Bouncing from house to house, like the couch-surfers I’d heard about it. I didn’t realize she’d meant it literally. That she was, in fact, homeless. Fuck. It really did make me feel like an asshole. I was torn. She couldn’t stay here, but could I really just drop her off at a shelter?

  “Look,” I shifted with uncertainty, running a hand over my face. “Maybe I can put you up in a hotel for a week. You know, give you time to find a friend you can stay with. Or maybe a relative?” I asked the last with a bit of hopefulness.

  Charity released an exasperated sigh and actually rolled her eyes. “While I appreciate the gesture, I told you already. I don’t have anyone to call. No friends to stay with. No family. It’s just me against the world.”

  “Surely there’s someone?” I nearly begged.

  Her laugh was hollow. “Not everyone is as lucky as you are, Oliver. We don’t have the luxury of a nice house or car. The luxury of waking up in a soft bed every morning. We don’t even have the luxury of friends or family who give a shit about us. The kinds of things most folks take for granted. People like you don’t know what it’s like for people like me.”

  I’d lived in Chicago my whole life. I wasn’t unaware of the amount of homeless people the city had.

  I’d also been on the force for nearly a decade, and I’d started out as a beat cop. My job put me in touch with every type of person imaginable. The things I’d seen over the last ten years would give most people nightmares. Just because I lived a life of privilege didn’t mean that I didn’t know the struggles she faced. I understood more than she gave me credit for.

  “I’m sorry for that. I am.”

  Charity shook her head and the look she sent me was so full of disappointment. “It doesn’t matter. Can we just go, now? Please?”

  I nodded. “Of course.”

  With her following sullenly behind me, I led us back out to my car for the second time today, only this time, my pace was slower. I wasn’t fueled by annoyance. In fact, my steps were almost hesitant. I went to open the passenger door, but Charity quickened her stride and reached it before I could. She wouldn’t even look at me as she dropped into the seat, closed the door, and clutched her brown paper bag tightly to her chest.

  I blew out a frustrated breath and then moved around to the driver’s side. Within minutes, we left my neighborhood behind, heading back into the city. Charity sat quietly in the passenger seat, her temple resting against the glass, as she stared out the window, effectively shutting me out. Any words I wanted to speak kept getting stuck in my throat. I opened my mouth several times, but snapped it shut every time, because there wasn’t anything I could say that would make either of us feel better.

  I made my way through the streets, and with each mile that drew us closer to the shelter, the more I questioned my decision. I stood by my statement that everything would work out. She was safe. At least as far as Los Lobos was concerned. With Morales and his crew behind bars, Charity didn’t have anything to be worried about. She’d be fine.

  Keep telling yourself that, Garrison.

  Chapter 6

  There wasn’t a chance in hell I was going to let Oliver see how utterly terrified I was. My mouth watered like it did when I had to throw up, but I kept swallowing it down and praying I didn’t disgrace myself all over his nice, clean floorboards. If that wouldn’t be the perfect way to humiliate myself even more. The cold air blowing from the vent soothed my heated skin, and dried the sweat pebbling my forehead, helping the nausea a little.

  ‘I was doing my fucking job.’

  Those words were all that kept playing inside my head over and over again. I was so stupid. When would I learn? Someone took care of me while I was hurting, and it was like a switch flipped in my brain that said they would continue taking care of me. Stupid fucking trigger.

  Considering my actions, Oliver probably thought my anger was directed at him. It wasn’t though. Not really. It was directed at myself. I knew better. Wasn’t that what Dr. Caplan said during one of our many therapy sessions? My fucked-up brain often misconstrued kindness. Oliver found me in a horrific situation and took care of me for a short duration, because I had been abused and traumatized. I’d clung to him. In my mind that meant safety, which automatically tripped the wire that said he would always take care of me. Like my mother had, because I didn’t know how to take care of myself.

  Only my mother hadn’t been taking care of me. She’d slowly been killing me, and I hadn’t known any better. God, stop thinking of her. She’s gone and can’t hurt you ever again.

  The sights of the city flew by without me truly seeing them. The itching along my skin kicked up, but this time I let it go. It was a reminder that I needed to do better at controlling my emotions. To stop falling back into those bad habits of clinging to people that were nice to me and thinking that it meant more than it actually did.

  I wanted to reassure Oliver that he was most likely right, and everything would be fine. If Los Lobos tried looking for me, what were the chances they’d actually find me? There were millions of people in this city. I was just another face in the crowd. An unlucky face, yet just another random person who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  There was no way I was going to be able to go back to work at the diner, though. I’d have to find a new job. One within walking distance to the shelter or on a direct bus line. I couldn’t walk the same streets where I’d been grabbed. Not yet, anyway. Maybe never. Which all sounded so much easier than it was going to be. I’d had a hard enough time getting Pete to hire me. Don’t think about it. All I needed to worry about was getting through the rest of the day.

  Before I was ready, we were pulling in front of Brenda’s House. Nearly fourteen thousand square feet, it was one of the latest state-of-the-art homeless shelters the city had been building over the last couple years. The drab, gray concrete exterior didn’t give off a warm, welcoming vibe, but inside was a different story.

  “Thank you for the ride and for everything else. I’ll, um, try to find a way to get your clothes back to you.”

  He shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. You can keep them.”

  My eyes darted away in embarrassment. “Thanks.”

  Oliver reached out and laid his hand over mine that still held the paper bag in a death grip. I flinched at the contact, and he quickly withdrew with a murmured apology.

  “Listen, if you see anything suspicious or something that makes you nervous, I want you to call me, okay? It doesn’t matter what time it is. If someone bothers you, let me know.” He reached into a small overhead compartment and pulled out a business card.

  “That’s the direct line to my desk phone at the precinct. If I don’t answer, you can leave me a message and I’ll call you back.”

  I had no intention of ever calling him, but I took the card from his hand anyway, careful not to touch him. Only because it wasn’t worth the argument. “Thank you.”

  “I’m serious, Charity. I know it hasn’t seemed like I care, but I do.”

  “Don’t worry, I get it. You’re just doing your job.” Ouch. That had come out a bit snarkier than intended, especially given Oliver’s barely discernible wince. I wasn’t going to apologize though.

  When I’d woken up in the hospital this morning, well before sunrise, all I could think about was getting to Oliver, because he would make sure I was safe. He would take care of me. Hours later, I couldn’t wait to get away from him. I yanked on the handle and threw myself against the door, halfway out of the vehicle before it was even fully open.

  Without another word, I slammed it shut and hurried up the sidewalk, n
ot sure if I was hoping he would call me back or not. It didn’t matter, because there was nothing but silence until I reached the front door of the building. I fought the urge to glance over my shoulder in case Oliver was still sitting there. With more strength than was needed, I yanked the glass door open, the familiar scent reaching me.

  Unexpected tears hit, but I sniffed them back. I wasn’t going to let anyone in this place see me cry. Not if I could help it. Too many weepy women in here already. I refused to join their ranks.

  “Holy shit. Where have you been, girl?”

  I turned my head. Shoshana rose from behind the desk, her long, gray-blonde hair bouncing around her shoulders, and came rushing toward me. Bracing myself, I only had seconds before she threw her arms around me. She was actually one of the only people in this world I’d call a friend. Her familiar, cocoa-butter scent wrapped itself around me. I joked that she should buy stock in it, considering how many bottles of lotion she kept stashed in her desk drawer.

  Needing to break the connection, or I’d burst into tears whether I wanted to or not, I pulled back. She didn’t let me go far, her hands locked around my upper arms, as her gaze scanned me up and down. “Let me get a good look at you. I haven’t seen you in over a week. Are you all right? I’ve been worried as hell about you.”

  “I’m fine, Shan.”

  Shoshana was the self-appointed den mother of all us women. I put her around mid-fifties, although she could be anywhere from forty to seventy. She was the type of ageless person that kept everyone guessing.

  Someone had once asked her how old she was, and she’d given them an evil eye, as well as a cursing out, to rival them all. No one ever asked her that question again. She’d been a volunteer here at the shelter for as long as I’d been staying here and had always been kind to me.

  She released me and took a couple steps back, crossing her arms. “You look like shit. You know that, right? Whose clothes are those?” She waved her hand in my general direction. “Those look like men’s shorts. Definitely a man’s t-shirt. Have you been shacking up with some sexpot and forget to tell your old friend, Shan? And where the fuck are your shoes?”