by A J Sherwood
Lord, that was a heady feeling.
Kurt also looked a little unnerved at the expression on Donovan’s face. That must have been quite the glare Donovan sported. Still, Kurt shook himself free of it and sat down across from Goddard. “Goddard, we have a simple question for you. Answer, and you can go back to the library. Jesse Thorpe. Did you molest him?”
Goddard stared at me defiantly.
I knew that look. Not everything could be read with pinpoint accuracy—emotions didn’t come with address labels, I couldn’t always see the cause of them—but I knew that reaction. Criminals who knew what I could do wore it all of the time. They knew lying was useless, so they preferred not to answer at all. Of course, they didn’t know that I couldn’t read minds. I could see he was guilty of this particular crime, although not how many victims he had. But I never explained to a criminal all that I could do; it allowed me to play little tricks on them. “Yes. He did.”
Snarling like the twisted animal he was, Goddard jerked away from the table, the cuffs on his wrists jangling as he moved. “Stupid, fucking prick! I’m already in here for the next sixty years, what’s it to you if I had another kid?!”
“It means you’re likely going to be in here another twenty, that’s what,” Kurt snapped back. He looked angry but resigned at the same time as he stood again. “Well. That answers that.”
Part of me wished the answer had been no, the part that hoped a child hadn’t been hurt in such a way. But another part of me was glad that it had been Goddard, simply because the man was already in prison. He couldn’t touch another child ever again. Shaking my head, I turned, careful not to bump into Donovan. He turned as well, giving me the room to head for the door.
Before I could reach the door, I heard the rattle of the handcuffs again, saw the alarm in Kurt’s eyes, and instinctively knew that Goddard had just lunged for me. I jerked, frantic to protect myself from him, but didn’t get even halfway around.
Donovan moved like a shadow, so much faster than a man of his size should be able to. His hands caught Goddard and spun him around like a ragdoll. Before I could blink, he had Goddard pinned with his arms stretched taut over the surface of the table, his head jerked back, windpipe pressed against the edge of the table, threatening his supply of air. The criminal rolled his eyes, silently pleading, but he couldn’t speak more than a croak.
I stared at the arrangement, floored. Holy hell. I hadn’t even heard Donovan move. And look at him now, just standing there calmly, pinning Goddard like a flea. Like some annoying thing that needed to be handled but not worried over.
Damn, that was hot.
I found my tongue and managed, “Thanks.”
The man just winked at me, saucy. “Mr. Bowen, want me to throw him somewhere?”
“Just hold onto him for another second, I’ll get two guards to throw him into solitary.” Kurt pulled out the walkie-talkie on his waist, snapped out instructions, then clipped it back on again before giving Donovan a considering sweep of the eyes. “Tell me, Mr. Havili. Are you interested in being Jon’s anchor?”
I put up both hands, protesting this. “Stop, stop, you’re giving the man the wrong impression. Geez, you and Jim are the worst worrywarts.”
Kurt gave me a flat look. “Yes, wonder why.”
Fortunately, the guards arrived, saving me from trying to deflect the rest of the conversation. They were quick to grab Goddard and haul him out. Goddard, wisely, did not try to wrest free or go for me again. Which was kind of a pity, as I would have enjoyed seeing Donovan take him down again.
Just because I refused to date didn’t mean I was dead, okay? And watching Donovan Havili move in such a controlled, efficient way was sexy as hell.
“Well, that was more entertainment than I’d planned on.” Kurt gave me an apologetic look. “I’ll lock the next one down better than that. I thought handcuffs would stop him, stupid me.”
“That’d be good,” I agreed, as I didn’t know if Donovan would still be with me by my next visit here. I’d learned not to have much faith in people’s staying power. “Otherwise I start charging you hazard pay.”
“Hardy-har-har,” Kurt shot back. “Alright, I’ve got to go write this up and report to the warden. I’ll email Marcy the invoice, same as usual.”
“Thanks. We’ll get out of your hair, then.” I had to wait for Donovan to keep the door open for me, of course, but I was just as glad to leave. My heart still thumped and jumped around like two cats tied up in a sack.
Donovan grew suspiciously quiet as we handed in badges, said bye to Ellen, and then headed outside. In fact, he didn’t say a word until we sat in the car, seat belts on.
“Bane.” He kept his eyes straight forward, over the empty field.
“Yeah?” I braced myself, literally no idea what he would say next.
“Really. Be honest with me. How often do you get attacked in a week?”
“I don’t really have a weekly average,” I hedged.
“In a month?” he countered instantly.
I sighed, already half-resigned. This man might have been in the army for fifteen years, but that didn’t make him immune to violence. And surely after everything he’d seen, lived through, he would want a more peaceful life from now on. Hearing my answer would not convince him to stay. “Two or three times a month someone usually takes a go at me. But most of the time, someone stops them. Either me or one of the cops on scene.”
“I see,” was all he said. Then the protective line of his meridian flared hot and wild, more intense than I’d ever seen.
I stared at it, doubting my eyes for a moment. He heard that I got attacked on a semi-regular basis and that didn’t put him off? Instead he felt a very strong urge to protect me? I couldn’t figure out if his survival instincts were that low or if his protective instincts were that high.
Sensing my stare, he turned to meet my eyes levelly. For the first time in my life, I desperately wished to be a telepath, because I really wanted to know what thoughts ran through his mind just then. His meridian lines didn’t change, giving me no further clues. “Can you see that I don’t like that thought?”
“I can see that you’re feeling very protective at the moment,” I refuted hoarsely.
Those golden-brown eyes of his narrowed thoughtfully. “And that surprises you.”
“Most people, in your position, choose to make a break for it.” I carefully bit back the words: They don’t choose to stay near me. “Which is understandable. I don’t blame them. It’s kind of an insane job.”
His expression remained enigmatic, eyes not leaving mine. Finally, he said, “I’ve got your back, man.”
That simple statement was backed by an incredibly strong rush of emotions on his part: loyalty, respect, protectiveness. I swallowed hard because, even if I couldn’t read his thoughts, it was obvious what he felt. He looked at me and saw someone worth protecting. Coming from him? This gentle giant of a man? That was amazing. Only very rarely did someone look at me that way. Flushing, I had to look away, or risk being emotionally overwhelmed. “Thanks. Come on, let’s go back to the office and clock out. I think we’ve had enough of a rollercoaster for today.”
4
By the time we made it back to the office, it was just hitting three, and I had little else to do that didn’t involve running around, talking to people. I walked Donovan around the office and showed him where everything was, then gathered up the paperwork that he would need to fill out for insurance. “Okay. I think that’s it, everything else can wait for tomorrow.”
“Then see you tomorrow,” Donovan agreed, gathering up the forms in one hand. With a smile, he exited out the back door, heading for home. I gathered up my bag, intending to do the same, stopping at the receptionist’s desk on the way out. “I’m taking off, Marcy.”
“No, wait,” she returned, looking up from her computer. Fortunately, a thick wall of wood blocked me from touching it. Jim had purposely bought her a desk with a high wooden back to prevent any a
ccidental grazes on my part. “I have two messages for you and an emailed invoice that I already sent over to Sharon.”
She handed over the two sticky notes and I observed that one of them was from Borrowman, the other from my sister. “Good, thanks.”
Lowering her voice, she whispered, “How’s your new partner?”
“Working out really well,” I assured her, not bothering to lower my voice. “In fact, he saved my bacon earlier. One of the inmates took a lunge at me. He shut him down so fast, it was a thing of beauty. Although I’m worried about that office chair he’s sitting in. I don’t think it’s meant to support a man of his weight. Maybe let’s order an executive chair for him?”
“Sure, I’ll look some up tomorrow and put in an order,” Marcy promised, although she still wore an expression of doubt. “He’s really not….”
Not sure where she was heading with that sentence but able to guess, I shook my head and assured her, “He really, really isn’t. Life’s thrown him some curveballs, that’s why he looks so rough. Oh, and Marcy,” I leaned in to confide, “those tattoos you saw? Aren’t tattoos at all. They’re scars.”
Her brown eyes blinked several times. “Scars?”
I knew very well that what I told her would make it around the office in fifteen minutes but acted like it was a confidential secret anyway. “I don’t have the full details, but he was hit with an acid attack a little over a year ago while protecting someone else.”
A hand went to her mouth, eyes wide behind her glasses. “No. That poor man. How badly was he hurt?”
“Covers most of his back and arms, from what I can see.” And I saw everything. “Like I said, I haven’t heard the story, and I won’t ask until he’s comfortable sharing it.”
“No, of course not,” she agreed rapidly, still stunned. “Is that why you said he’s amazing? Because he protected someone like that?”
“That’s part of it.” With a smile, I disengaged from the conversation, letting her think about that. “If Jim comes looking for us, tell him we’ll both be back in the morning before we follow up on our cases. It’s kind of a light week, I figure we’ll spend most of it catching Donovan up to speed.”
“Alright. It’s probably best anyway to start him off slow. You can be intense.” She winked at me to show that she was joking.
Shrugging—I really couldn’t refute that—I stopped into my office to return the phone calls. Borrowman just left a note to call him back, which I’d do in a minute. Natalie’s message was a request to tell her if Skylar could stay with me over the weekend. My lovely niece was always welcome, but I did appreciate Natalie asking first. Since her phone call wouldn’t take more than five minutes—my sister breaks out into hives if she has a phone call last over that time, I swear it—I called her back first. My office had a rotary phone similar to the one I had at home, with special EMP shielding inside the hard plastic casing and another shield around the outlet it was plugged into.
Two rings in, she answered, “Hello, little brother.”
“Hey, big sister,” I responded, kicking my feet onto my desk and relaxing back into my chair. “Skylar is more than welcome.”
“I’ll drop her off after work, then. Feed her something aside from ice cream and pizza.”
“You are a buzzkill.”
“Bye, Jon.”
Sisters have an amazing talent for selective hearing. Or, at least, mine did. Shrugging, I hung up and reached for the other sticky note and dialed in that number, not recognizing it, which meant it wasn’t Borrowman’s cell.
Unfortunately, the man himself did not answer. I shrugged, not bothered, as I played phone tag with people a lot. When it went to voicemail, I said simply, “This is Jon. Tag, you’re it.”
With nothing else to do, I went home.
Due to the nature of my very interesting abilities, I found living in a regular house or apartment challenging. Most apartments these days had electronic locks on the doors, which I’d never figured out how to deal with effectively. The majority of a house’s layout I could live with, but the main trouble I had was the kitchen. All the appliances were highly susceptible to me and went bzzzt very quickly.
Six years ago, I’d come up with a solution of sorts. I’d bought an old pizza joint that’d specialized in stone-baked pizzas and renovated it over into a living space, with the city’s formal permission. The huge brick ovens didn’t have anything to do with electricity, I could bake all sorts of things besides pizza, and that way I didn’t have to live on takeout. It worked out well, especially since my place sat six blocks down from the office, saving me on commute time.
Even for me, I did have a few electronic things. Fridge, microwave, TV, sound system, and a Google Home to run the last two. I never touched any of them directly—my niece Skylar acted as my IT support. Not that I didn’t still fry things, somehow. Skylar was on a monthly paycheck from me, she had to come by so often to fix things.
I parked out back in the very narrow parking space allotted to my building, then entered through the back metal door, not surprised when I heard someone moving about in the main front room. “Hey, Sky!”
“Hey, Uncle Jon!” she called back cheerfully.
Cheerful was good. That meant I hadn’t accidentally broken something. Coming out of the narrow back hallway, I dropped my keys in the basket next to the door, hanging my bag on the small foot bench as I passed. The kitchen didn’t have a door to it, so it was easy for me to peek in and see that a certain ginger teenager had managed to find the last of my moose tracks and eaten me bare. The empty carton sat next to the big farmhouse sink, although no dishes sat on top of the white counters. She’d semi-cleaned up after herself, then.
Coming around the dividing wall between kitchen and living room, I spotted my quarry. Square in the middle of the plush rug sat Sky, her back to me, sitting on the floor with the Google Home in her hands. “Whatcha doing?”
“Update came out last night,” she explained, tilting her head to look at me. She wore her red hair in a ponytail today, blue eyes accented by the very pale blue tank top she had on. Of us all, Skylar had inherited the lion’s share of the Irish genes. “It has better voice recognition now.”
“That’s great,” I approved whole heartedly. I sometimes had a real argument with the system because it didn’t always understand me. Unlike other people, I couldn’t resort to a remote when that happened. Coming around, I perched temporarily on the edge of the sofa, making sure to keep some distance between us. Fortunately, it was a large room, and even with the TV stand, a sectional, couch, bean bag, and the pool table on the far end, I had enough room to keep a healthy distance. “So, how’s your day been? Do I need to cook dinner for you?”
“Mom’s coming home late, so that would be great,” she enthused, lighting up.
I loved my sister, we all did, but no one would claim her to be a good cook. “I was going to do seared salmon with veggies, sound good?”
“You know I love fish.”
“That you do.” Heading toward the open kitchen, I snagged my clawed pole from the counter and used it to maneuver the ingredients onto a moving metal island, then pulled the island to me and safely away from the fridge.
Skylar monkeyed with the system a bit longer as I put the ingredients together and fired up the oven. Then she came around and sat on a barstool at the high counter, leaning her forearms against it. “You look happy. Good day?”
“Got a partner today,” I informed her, unable to restrain my grin.
“Wait,” she threw up a hand to stop me, “I didn’t think you were dating anyone?”
“Not romantic partner, work partner,” I corrected her. It never failed to amaze me how much faith Skylar had that I would be able to find someone despite my oddities. She knew better than most how difficult living with me was, but she still had rock solid faith I’d find someone.
She looked a little disappointed, as all teenage girls would, then perked up again. “But that’s good, you’ve wanted
a work partner for a while. What is—he? she?—like?”
“He. Donovan Havili is his name. And he’s incredible.”
Her eyebrows waggled up and down in a way that no fourteen-year-old should know how to do. “Reaallly?”
“Stop,” I ordered her firmly, putting the last touches on the salmon.
“Is he gay?”
“Bi, and that doesn’t matter.” As soon as the words left my mouth I realized my mistake.
Skylar pounced on the statement. “But he’s bi, right? You have a chance, then!”
“How come you only heard half of that? Skylar, think about this. The man will have to work with me forty hours a week. Yes, he’s amazing, he’s very patient and giving, but still. He’ll have to put up with me forty hours a week without giving in to the urge, at some point, to strangle me. Do you really want to test his patience by making him my boyfriend too? He’ll end up murdering me or fleeing for the opposite side of the country.”
She openly pouted. “You always give up too soon without even trying.”
I’d learned the hard way how impossible people found me to be. My dad had left on my seventh birthday, before my abilities had really shown themselves, because he couldn’t handle living with both me and my mother at the same time. My mother had politely found a way to send me out of the house at seventeen because I’d strained her patience and bank account past the breaking point. Natalie was the only one who’d really managed to live with me, and my sister had the patience of a saint, as well as the best stress management I’d ever seen. Even she’d had to admit defeat when I was nineteen, although she’d at least stuck it out long enough to help me renovate this place.
Of course, I didn’t say all that. Shrugging, I said lightly, “Trust me, kid, I can read enough about people to know when to try. What I need is some star-aligned romance, but odds aren’t good I’ll get one. I think I missed that part in my childhood where I was supposed to have a cute boy as my best friend growing up and we ended up falling for each other as adults. I want a do over.”
