Afraid to Die

by Lisa Jackson

  “Good to have for a nondate,” she’d said.

  “Exactly.”

  Now, Alvarez walked past the garage and onto the front porch, where she unlocked the door and, once again, let Dylan O’Keefe into her house.

  It was beginning to become a habit, she decided, and found the thought surprisingly comforting. Which it shouldn’t be. She found plates and flatware while O’Keefe turned on the fireplace and the gas logs began to hiss softly. Jane threaded her way between Alvarez’s legs. “Yeah, I know. I love you, too,” she said, taking the time to pick up the cat and stroke her before Jane hopped from her hands and went into the living room by the fire.

  O’Keefe cracked open a beer, held a second up for her but she shook her head. “Maybe a glass of wine.” Why not? He was right. It was Saturday night and it had been one helluva day ... make that one helluva week. She needed to relax and kick back.

  “You got it.”

  After parceling out the sandwiches and small side salads, he retrieved a plastic container from the sack. “Looks like we got a bonus.” She couldn’t help but smile at the slice of chocolate mousse pie, a specialty of Sandi’s.

  As they dove into their meal, O’Keefe said, “I talked to Aggie again today. She’s been in contact with the lawyer who set up Gabe’s adoption.”

  Alvarez’s stomach tightened. “And?”

  “He’s going before a judge, or something. The bottom line is he’s going through the motions of opening up the adoption.”

  “That could take months.”

  “The Helena PD is adding pressure.”

  “Does it matter?” she finally asked. “I mean, of course it matters to me and maybe to your cousin and her husband as well as Gabe. But for his alleged crime, it’s pretty irrelevant.”

  “Just another lead. And I think it’s more than alleged.”

  “We haven’t heard his side of the story yet,” she pointed out and he looked up at her sharply, not saying what they were both thinking, that she was defensive, acting like a mother.

  She glanced out the sliding door, where the snow was piling against the glass, and wondered about the boy out in the elements. Was he shivering in the freezing cold? Had he found a place to hide? He could be long gone by now. It had been days since there had been any sign of him.

  Except for the earring.

  She picked at her sandwich and sipped the chardonnay, didn’t argue when O’Keefe refilled it. Earlier, she’d been ravenous, but now, she wasn’t hungry and the melted cheese on whole wheat had lost its appeal.

  Not so for O’Keefe, he’d polished off his ham on rye and was eyeing her leftovers. “Be my guest,” she offered, shoving her plate across the glass top of the table.

  “Really?”

  “Absolutely. Just leave room for the pie, it’s really to die for.” As he bit into her sandwich, she said, “So have you talked to the Helena PD?”

  Nodding, he said, “Of course, they’ve got their own people trying to track Gabe down.” She nodded; she’d heard as much from Trey Williams. “But, unless they’re lying, they don’t have any more than I do; his trail’s gone cold.”

  She knew this as well and suspected the reason that the cops in Helena and the state had worked with O’Keefe at all was because he was dogged, determined and savvy from his own years on the force. Besides, their departments, like the Pinewood Sheriff’s Department, were stretched thin, more crime than cops.

  “I was hoping he might show up here again,” he said, then washed his last bite down by almost finishing his beer.

  “So that’s why you’ve been hanging out.”

  “One reason.” His gaze found hers and she saw something in his eyes she’d rather ignore, something that reminded her of a time when the sun shined and she had hope of love.

  How stupid she’d been then. Still a little idealistic and naive. Ever hopeful. Even after what she’d endured. She cleared her throat, pushed aside the memories of palm trees, and warm winds and O’Keefe’s touch. She noticed his split lip and that one of the deeper scratches beneath his eye had decided to bleed again, tiny drops of blood forming along the line of his cheekbone. “You know ... you might need stitches.”

  “That bad?”

  “You’ve looked better,” she said, and felt one of her eyebrows arch, as if she were baiting him, or worse yet, flirting.

  “Thanks.” Despite his scrapes and bruising, she thought him too good-looking for his own good. Or maybe hers. He grinned, that crooked, irreverent slash of white she’d found so beguiling years before. “What do they say, ‘it’s not the years, but the miles’?”

  “Is that what ‘they’ say?”

  “Something like that.” He laughed, then winced a little before draining his beer.

  “Well, I’m saying you should have had a doctor look at your injuries.”

  “Now you’re the expert.”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  He grinned again, testing her, then shrugged.

  “Oh, for the love of God, I’d forgotten just how mule-headed you could be. Look, I’ve got some antiseptic cream and a butterfly Band-Aid ... upstairs.” Before he could protest, she kicked back her chair and headed upstairs to the bathroom off her bedroom where she kept all of her first-aid supplies. In the drawer, she located a box of Band-Aids that she’d had for years and a small tube of Neosporin. She grabbed them, shut the drawer, then looked in the mirror, where she saw her reflection, her eyes shining a little, her cheeks pinker than usual. From the wine? Or some emotional reaction she just couldn’t control? That’s ridiculous. You’re in charge of yourself. You know that. You’ve proved it time and time again ... Uh-oh.

  She heard his footsteps on the stairs seconds before he appeared behind her, his image filling the mirror.

  “Oh, good,” she said, nervous as a schoolgirl and trying to control her suddenly wildly beating heart. “Take a seat”—she pointed to the toilet—“and Nurse Alvarez will fix you right up.”

  Hesitating a second, catching her gaze in the reflection, he grinned. “So are we going to play doctor and nurse?”

  Swallowing back a smile, she said, “How about ER? Just be thankful you don’t have serious head trauma, because I don’t think the staff could take care of it. Okay?”

  He’d settled onto the commode and looked up at her expectantly.

  “Let’s see ...” She scrounged in the drawer again and came up with a package of antiseptic wipes, then washed his face with warm water and a soft cloth. “Close your eyes,” she ordered, not because it was necessary for her ministrations, but so that she could look directly at him without him staring at her as she gently cleaned his face. She noticed the way a few wrinkles fanned from his eyes and the bits of gray showing in the hair at his temples. He smelled all male, but she disguised that all too enticing odor with the smell of the antiseptic as she gently cleaned his wounds, running the cloth over his skin, then allowing it to dry and finally applying a touch of Neosporin to the area.

  Working this closely to him, leaning down to tend to him, was a little unsettling, but she ignored the fact that he was so damned near. “This shouldn’t hurt,” she said. “The cream claims it’s got a pain reliever in it.”

  “And here I was believing the ‘no pain, no gain’ theory.” His eyes opened and she found herself nose-to-nose with him, her hand on his cheek, her body leaning forward so that, should he look down, he could see the tops of her breasts and bra past the neckline of her sweater. “God, you’re beautiful,” he whispered and the phrase was like a caress, warm and welcome.

  “Well, you’re ... you’re not,” she forced out. “Ugly bruises and cuts and—”

  “And sexy as hell.”

  “I was going to say ‘easily distracted.’ ”

  His grin turned devilish as his eyes strayed to her neckline. “You know what, Selena, you’ve got that right.”

  Before she could respond, he wrapped his arms around her, pulled her so close she almost fell over and kissed her, hard,
on the lips. She nearly fell directly on him, but somehow he stood, pulling her up against him, his mouth warm and encouraging, the hands upon her back making warm impressions through her sweater.

  Don’t do this, her mind warned and she, involuntarily, molded her lips against his and opened her mouth when his tongue pressed against her teeth.

  Desire, pulled from the deepest part of her, curled through her veins, heating her blood, causing her pulse to pound. She didn’t protest when he walked her backward, through the doorway, along a short hall to her bedroom, where the room was dark, the smell of her own perfume lingering. She felt his hardness, the thickening against the fly of his jeans, pressed deep into her abdomen as her own body responded, warmth invading the deepest part of her.

  Selena, what are you thinking?

  One of her grandmother’s favorite phrases sang through her mind: Astrasado mental!

  Yes, she was being a moron, but she couldn’t help herself. It seemed so right to be in his arms again, to fall onto the bed and sink into the mattress with him, to know that as the snow fell outside, here, with O’Keefe, she would be warm, would be safe.

  Closing her mind to all the insecurities, to all of the pain, to all of her doubts, she wrapped her arms around his neck and drank in the sweet, male scent of him.

  His hands moved to the hem of her sweater and she didn’t resist, didn’t stop him, just let the feel of his fingers climb up her skin.

  Her breasts filled, her blood pounded in her veins, her lungs had trouble drawing a breath as he kissed her and moved over her.

  Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop!

  The sounds of his breathing and her own heart beating shut out noises from the rest of the world. For now, it was only the two of them, locked away. She pulled his shirt from his jeans and closed her eyes, allowing sensation after sensation to roll through her.

  His hands were calloused, a little rough as they rubbed against her. Her own were softer but anxious, her fingers tracing the lines in the muscles of his back. He moaned in the back of his throat and an answering sound came from her own lips. He skimmed her jeans down her hips and lower, past her ankles, while her fingers found the button at his waistband. She hesitated, and he placed a hand over hers, encouraging her.

  She tugged.

  A string of pops accompanied the opening of his fly and again he groaned into her ear, his tongue wet and hot, his breath fanning fires already burning bright within.

  All doubts fled as he stripped her of her bra and panties, mere scraps that he tossed aside before touching her body in ways she’d never experienced, hadn’t allowed. Her mind wanted to wander down that dim corridor for a second but then he whispered her name and she was back, in her room, with the one man she’d almost loved.

  His fingers touched her nipples, gently stroking, and she gasped. When he kissed her again, his lips lingering against her throat, she felt it, the palpitating, liquid heat fired by need. His lips grazed her nipple and she arched, her hips starting to move, a bloom of heat rising within, her skin suddenly damp with perspiration.

  Her entire existence fell away and all that mattered was the pulsing need that pounded through her body. “Yes,” she whispered, though there had been no question, and when he took her breast in his mouth, his tongue laving her nipple, his teeth scraping against her skin, she only wanted more.

  Lust, long at bay and wanton, thundered through her brain as he moved upon her, kneeing her legs apart, his body a strong, sinuous wedge. Her heart was thudding, her mind spinning in erotic images as he pressed against her.

  “Selena?” he asked, his voice a rough whisper. “Are you—”

  “Please!” she cried and he complied, thrusting into her in one swift stroke that stopped the breath in her lungs. Her fingernails dug deep into his shoulders as he began to move, achingly slowly at first and then with more and more momentum. Faster and faster, his shallow, short breaths an echo of her own.

  Heat built at the base of her neck, radiating as he kissed her, touched her, loved her until, in a soul-shattering moment, she let go, the room melting away, the ceiling seeming to fall away and bright night stars bursting in the heavens. A scream erupted from her throat and she held tight to him as rush after rush of pleasure caused her body to convulse.

  “Oh, God,” she whispered fervently, her hair damp, the images in the room muted. “Dios ...”

  He held her as if he’d never let go, her head cradled to his chest. She heard the wild rampage of his heart beating frantically in his chest, felt the sheen of perspiration on his skin and the strength of his arms around her.

  As she finally caught her breath, she realized what had happened. Unbidden, tears filled her eyes. She bit her lip, not wanting him to know, but he felt the track of one salty drop as it drizzled down her cheek.

  “Jesus, Selena, I didn’t mean to—”

  “Shh. It’s all right.” She sniffed then, blinking back tears and managing a smile. “I’m not sad. Just emotional.”

  “Why?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “Yeah. I do.”

  “No ...” Oh, God, could she tell him? He waited, brushing a damp curl from her forehead in such a tender gesture she thought her heart might crack.

  “Selena?”

  Slowly, she let out a long, shuddering sigh. She supposed he deserved the truth. “It’s personal.”

  “I think what just happened here is pretty personal.”

  He wouldn’t let it drop. She knew that, so she rolled to the side of the bed, walked naked to the closet and dragged her robe from its hook on the back of the door. Quickly she shoved her arms down its sleeves and cinched the belt around her waist, as if she could find strength in the everyday routine. Then, barefoot, she stood at the side of the bed and said, “Okay. So ... you asked about Gabriel’s father? If he was a high school boyfriend or something ... It ... He ...” She cleared her throat and squared her shoulders, then glanced at the window, where snow was still falling past the panes. Gathering her strength, she said for the first time in half of her life, “My cousin Emilio, he’s the father. Gabriel’s father.”

  “Your cousin?”

  She was shivering, cold despite the thick robe. “He raped me, O’Keefe,” she finally admitted. “On the night of my sixteenth birthday.”

  Chapter 21

  How had he missed all the signs? O’Keefe wondered and mentally kicked himself to hell and back for not understanding. “Come here,” he said, and reached out a hand. When she took his, he pulled her back onto the bed, flipped the thick coverlet over her and held her tight. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It’s not your fault.”

  “I know, but—”

  “It’s over.”

  “Is it?” He didn’t believe her and he felt her shudder against him.

  “It’s a long time ago.” Still fighting tears, she admitted, “I’ve had trouble with intimacy ever since.”

  He remembered.

  Now, her fleeing his home in San Bernardino made more sense, though he had to have been ignoring all the signs not to have realized what was wrong.

  “I’ve ... I’ve never told anyone,” she admitted.

  “Except your parents.”

  She hesitated and a slow-burning rage stole through his blood.

  “They don’t know,” he guessed.

  “No one does. But you.”

  “But they must’ve asked questions.” He couldn’t believe what she was telling him, that she alone had borne this burden, that her parents had allowed it.

  “No, no. I mean, yes, they did and they knew I was raped, yes, but ... but I said it was someone I didn’t recognize, a random thing.”

  “Why?” Horrified, he wanted to shake her. It didn’t seem that she would ever have backed down, that she, ever meticulous, determined to right every wrong and punish any criminal in her path, would have let this go.

  “Emilio threatened me. Said he would come after me again and he would bring his br
others ... I shouldn’t have been afraid, but I was, and he swore that if I breathed a word of it, he’d see the same thing happened to my younger sister. So ...”

  “So you buried it?”

  “I was only sixteen. And scared. And ... and broken. My mother wanted me to be checked out by a doctor but my father, he sent me to the church, not to ask for forgiveness; he didn’t blame me,” she was quick to explain, as that was sometimes the case, “but for some kind of counseling, but the priest ... No, it wasn’t a good idea. Didn’t work.” She shook her head. “And then I turned up pregnant and my father was really upset. He and my mother thought it would be best to send me away, but I pleaded to stay close, because of my sister, so we reached a compromise and I stayed with my great-aunt in Portland, about thirty miles away. There, I did the home schooling thing and was counseled, again through the church, by a nun who ... Sister Maria was ... kind. Forgiving.”

  “Forgiving? What was to forgive?”

  “Nothing, I know, but, that’s ... that’s how it felt. I wasn’t even seventeen, and I don’t know, I thought maybe it was my fault, that I’d flirted with Emilio ... I know now that I was the victim. And, yes, I ... I saw a counselor for a while before I moved here, after you and I ... After I realized how deep my problem with intimacy was.”

  “And the baby?” he asked softly.

  “When the time came, I agreed to the private adoption. It was all handled between the church and attorneys. Everyone tried to make it as if it all had never happened, everything got swept under the rug: I poured myself into my schoolwork, got a scholarship and left.”

  A few seconds ticked by before he asked, “What happened to Emilio?”

  “Bastardo!” she spat, her Spanish coming to the fore whenever she was angry. “He’s in prison, last I heard.”

  “Good place for him.”

  She added, “For assault. And attempted rape. The victim was seventeen.”

  “Jesus.”

  He sensed that she was fighting the urge to break down altogether. “But she was stronger than I was. Her father was a cop, insisted she tell the truth, and they busted Emilio. He wouldn’t take a deal, probably because he thought he got away with it once and he could do it again. He’s nothing if not smug.” For a second her cousin’s face, dark eyes, straight nose, thin lips came to mind and she pushed it down, didn’t want to be reminded of him or the fact that as children they had been playmates. The attack had been fueled by alcohol, yes, but was still such a horrendous, soul-numbing betrayal. “He’s serving a long sentence.”