“You sure?” he smiled confidently. “You totally light up my life, Samantha.”
“Oh, that’s terrible,” I giggled, swatting his rock-hard shoulder.
“And you love it.” He flipped on his thousand-watt dimpled grin.
He was right. I did love it. And I loved him. I lowered my lashes, suddenly shy again. I snuggled my cheek into the black long-sleeve V-neck sweater covering his muscular chest. He was so completely manly, every woman’s fantasy, and he had given himself to me. I’d won the biggest lottery on the planet and had my dream-man all to myself. What more could a girl want?
I inhaled his fresh-washed scent. I could never tell if he wore some sort of exotic cologne, or if that was his natural smell. If it wasn’t cologne, somebody needed to bottle it. They’d make millions. “I love you, Christos,” I whispered, hugging him.
He caressed my neck with one hand while hugging me into his warm embrace with the other. “I love you too, Samantha.”
SAMANTHA
Christos and I hadn’t had any sort of intense sexual activity since before winter break.
Sure, I’d thought about sneaking into the guest bedroom while he’d slept at my parents’ house on a nightly basis. But somehow, the idea of rattling the walls with my wails of ecstasy while Mom and Dad were one room away had spoiled my mood.
Imagine that.
Shudder.
Since arriving in San Diego yesterday, we’d had plenty of first- and second-base hits in the bedroom, but no home runs. I was still somewhat off my game, no pun intended, after dealing with the whole Taylor Lamberth scenario back in D.C. Going to her lawyer and giving my deposition wasn’t exactly sexy or arousing, but it was the right thing to do. Christos totally understood. He always did.
Besides, merely being in D.C. had brought my old demons creeping back.
Bitch. Slut. Whore…
Fortunately, with the loving presence of Christos in my life, my old emotional wounds had started to heal over. I imagined in time, the scars would fade permanently, but it would take more than a few weeks.
Emo. Goth. Witch. Sorceress. Suicide Watch…
I couldn’t wait to get rid of those demons.
Now, wrapped protectively in his arms after conquering my toilet monster, I felt completely at peace. I was totally in love with him. There was no doubt about it. I had been crazy to think Christos was anything like Damian.
So, why did my love for Christos worry me so much?
The only answer that came to mind was that I risked losing him. I supposed that was the price we all paid for love, tolerating the terrible possibility that it could be torn from us in the blink of an eye.
I couldn’t decide what would be worse: never having had Christos in my life at all, or losing him after what we’d been through together. The sudden sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach was evidence that losing him would be far, far worse. I was instantly nauseous, despite Christos’ protective embrace. He couldn’t protect me from unexpected things that happened to him.
I tried to ignore the pressing conviction that I might lose Christos forever. Ugh. I didn’t want to think about it. I took a deep, cleansing breath, intending to sweep away my mental gremlins.
“Is something bothering you, agápi mou?” Christos asked, concern in his voice.
I didn’t want to ruin our mood. It was New Year’s Eve, and Christos had some awesome surprise awaiting me. “Oh,” I said dismissively, “it’s nothing.” I smiled up at him. “I’m fine, as long as I have you.”
He gazed down at me. The look of love I saw shining in his eyes was overwhelming.
CHRISTOS
THREE MONTHS EARLIER…
Afternoon traffic was so bad, it was taking forever to get to the jailhouse downtown.
The cops in the front seat chatted away in low voices, their conversation blending with the squawking Motorola two-way radio bolted to the dash.
Their irritating camaraderie slowly prodded away my good mood. The rugged steel cage between me and them made it seem like I was on the wrong side of a horror movie screen. Officers Happy and Go Lucky got to laugh it up and have a good time while I was tortured by circumstance. Not that I was mad at them. I didn’t know them from nobody.
I tried to focus on thoughts of Samantha again, but the dude cop was so fucking grating, he shredded my happy place with his verbal meat grinder. He smiled constantly, but it was that snarl-smile you see on psychos. I felt bad for his partner sitting next to him, for his wife, his kids, his friends, his unborn grandchildren; whoever the fuck had to put up with him.
I sighed heavily again.
“You gonna catch the Chargers’ game at the Q on Monday?” the female cop asked Snarl-Smile. Her hand rested casually on the steering wheel, like she was driving to the beach on a Sunday. Too bad we weren’t.
“Bet your ass,” Snarl-Smile replied enthusiastically through his mustache. “I’ve had season tix for five years. Haven’t missed a game. The Chargers are going to slaughter the Texans. I’ve got extra seats, if you want to come out.”
“You bleed blue and gold, Ruiz,” the female cop chuckled.
“Bleed, nothin’. I’ve got lightning bolts shooting through my veins. I’m like the God of Thunder and shit.”
They went on like this for some time, with Ruiz growing increasingly louder as he extolled the winning season the Chargers had waiting for them this year. Listening to his voice was like working in a hammer factory or sitting in the middle of a hand-grenade fight. His cackle-laugh went hyena when he recounted the final moments of the Raiders’ game at the end of last year’s season.
I pictured myself bending the bars between me and him like I was the Incredible Fucking Hulk. I’d choke him out until his eyes popped clear of his skull. Based on his partner’s forced smile, I think she might have thanked me. How did she put up with this guy day-to-day? Maybe earplugs were standard issue for duty officers with assbag partners.
The squad car exited onto the gridded downtown streets and we pulled into the garage at the San Diego Central Jail. Same as I remembered. It looked like a fancy office building on the outside. You might easily mistake it for a place where people in suits and slacks made money hand over fist. That was a lie. On the inside, from what I remembered, it was getting old. Too dark, too dreary, too dirty. I guess that was fitting. The peeling paint and cement decor went with the broken-down people inside.
When Ruiz opened my door, I gave him a friendly nod and a flat smirk, letting him know I wasn’t going to hassle him. He wasn’t worth the trouble. We both knew he held the leash. I stood up to my full height.
“You’re a big one, aren’t you,” Ruiz jabbed.
Okay, he was one of those alpha-dick hotheads. No reason to rile him up. I kept quiet. The female officer came around the car. “You gonna be able to handle him, Ruiz?” she cackled.
Ruiz scoffed. “Don’t start punkin’ me, Fowler. Sissy boy like this? I’ll keep him in line.”
This guy Ruiz was shorter than me, maybe six foot, but he had a small man’s complex all the same. Around me, anyway. They usually did. I arched a brow at Ruiz’s comment, but dropped it before he could see my casual contempt and pounce on it. Guys like him were always looking for an excuse.
“If he gets uppity, I’ll whip out some lightning bolts on his ass.” Ruiz gave me the mad-dog crazy eyes, toying with me.
“You mean you’ll pull your taser?” Fowler prodded, questioning Ruiz’s manhood.
“Hell no! I don’t need it. I can spit lightning, girl.” He grabbed the handcuff chain behind my back and gave it a good yank for effect. “You ain’t gonna make me stun you, are you, son?”
I ignored Ruiz and looked at Fowler. She was kind of cute, with her hair bunned up tight. Had that sexy cop thing going. She had penciled-on eyebrows and wore makeup. A woman who cared about her looks. Her uniform looked tailored to fit her flowing curves and her chest pushed out her kevlar vest substantially. I gave her a mischievous smirk, flashing some dim
ple. I was all about the more honey approach. If I sweetened up Fowler, maybe she’d run defense between me and Hothead. I could tell Ruiz always brought shit to the party, just so he could swarm all over it.
“Leave him alone, Ruiz,” Fowler laughed, flashing me a smile, which I reciprocated.
It worked every time.
They led me up to the bulletproof doors and we were buzzed in. The relative quiet outside was shattered by howling, screaming humanity inside. A huge fat guy with no shirt and no shoes flailed on the painted cement floor. Probably tripping on meth. Four officers dog-piled him, broiling with professionally restrained rage. Eventually, they cuffed him and zip-tied his ankles, trussing him up. They picked up the perp and carried him through a steel door.
“We gonna have to do you like that, junior?” Ruiz asked me.
“Not me, sir.” I smiled at Fowler when I said it. She liked it. Her duty face went soft, like a teenybopper on a dream date with her favorite heartthrob. I took a moment to silently thank both my parents for good genes.
Ruiz caught my exchange with Fowler. “I hope not, son.” He may not have been able to articulate what had just happened, but he sensed it, like a starving wolf. He probably had a secret thing for Fowler. I’m sure most of the squad did, by the looks of her.
Fowler placed her hand gently on my right triceps. Her touch was nearly a caress. “I don’t think you have to worry about this one,” she said warmly, beaming up at me.
I smiled back. Jedi mind tricks were the most effective form of combat, I’d learned. You can’t make my looks go away with threatening insults or manhandling. Ruiz was out of this game, benched on a technical foul.
Fowler’s eyes searched mine eagerly. I milked it.
Ruiz scowled while he scrutinized the two of us. Jaw muscles fluttering angrily, he finally cracked. With a grunt, he spun on his heel and stormed up to the desk sergeant, defeated.
I felt bad for Fowler. I’d probably never see her again and she’d be stuck with Ruiz for a partner for who knew how long.
Sometime later, I was led into a white-box interrogation room by two detectives. A round black table with a phone on top sat between us. They’d been drilling me with questions for hours.
I hadn’t said shit.
One detective, who had identified himself as Kurt Hewitt, wore a white, too-tight button down shirt. The collar dug into his soft neck and flesh spilled over the sides. He looked ready to pop. He glared at me, “The victim has positively IDed you from the mug book, Christos,” he said firmly. “We have witnesses putting you at the scene on the Pacific Coast Highway this morning. We know it was you who beat the guy up then fled.”
Beat? I’d hit the guy once. In self defense. I’d even asked him if he needed an ambulance.
“Quit stalling and give us something we can work with,” Hewitt finished, “so we can help you help yourself.”
That was a riot. He wasn’t here to pamper my ass, and we both knew it. All he wanted was for me to slip up and spill some incriminating information, that was it.
“Tell us what happened, in your own words,” the other detective, named Andy Vaughn, said calmly, “and maybe we’ll let you go home tonight.”
I knew that was bullshit.
Vaughn pushed a yellow legal pad and a ball point across the table. He smiled at me like we were best friends.
I leaned back in my chair and folded my arms across my chest. “I need to talk to my lawyer.”
Hewitt exchanged a look with Vaughn. Vaughn nodded at him.
“Fine,” Hewitt sneered and stood up, jamming his hands in his front pockets. “Call him.”
Vaughn slid the phone across the table and handed me the receiver.
I dialed my lawyer’s number from memory. I’d used it enough times to know it by heart. He picked up after three rings. “Merriweather.”
“Hey, Russell. It’s Christos.” I’d known Russell since I was sixteen, from the first of many times he’d saved my ass.
“Christos! Sonuvabitch,” Russell said cheerily, “whatchoo doing calling me up this late? Better be good news.”
I chuckled. “No doubt.” Silence lingered.
Vaughn stood up, seemingly to give me some space. Both he and Hewitt remained in the room, leaning against the walls, watching me like hawks, waiting for me to incriminate myself so they could get their talons in me after the call.
“You’re in the can again, aren’t you?” Russell asked matter-of-factly.
“Yup.”
I heard a long sigh on the other end of the phone. “Christos Mother-fucking Manos, when you going to learn to behave like an adult?”
“I’m working on it.”
“I oughta whup your ass, son. What is it this time? You roll your Camaro street racing? Wheelies on Garnet to impress the ladies?”
“The charges are assault. And battery. Felony battery.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.”
“Son, you lucky you locked up, otherwise I’d get in my car and drive down there and break your face myself. When you gonna learn?”
“Like I said, I’m working on it.” Russell hadn’t had to save my ass in two years. I thought I was doing pretty good.
“You want me to call your grandfather?”
“Don’t tell him. He’ll be less worried that I don’t come home than if he finds out I’m locked up.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. I’ll wait until I’m out on bail or ROR, and tell him face to face.”
“I’m not a magician, Christos. You may be stuck in there until trial, depending on the evidence, and your record.”
“No way. It’s total bullshit.”
“You’re a cocky bitch, aren’t you? Shit, maybe I’ll tell the judge myself to leave you in, knock some sense in that thick head of yours,” Russell said pointedly. His voice softened. “You sure you don’t want me to call Spiridon?”
“No, thanks. He’ll sleep better tonight not knowing. If I’m not out in the morning, you can call him then.”
“Want me to call your father?”
I felt a sharp stab in my gut when Russell mentioned my dad. “He doesn’t need to know. He’s got enough problems of his own.”
“Fine. You need me there tonight?”
“No. I can handle it.”
“Remember, Christos. Don’t say a word. Not to the detectives, not to the inmates. Nobody. You hear me?”
“Got it.”
“I’ll call the court house first thing tomorrow and find out when I need to roll on down and pull your ass out the pokey. For the time being, keep your butt tight, and don’t be nobody’s bitch,” he chuckled.
I knew he wasn’t worried about me. Not my immediate safety, anyway. Maybe about my misguided youth and not-so-bright future.
“And no fighting.” His words went from warmth to clipped business instantly. “I don’t need you stacking more charges on top of the ones you already got. Are we clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right. I’ll see you tomorrow. And don’t say shit about shit to anybody.”
“Got it,” I nodded to the empty air. I placed the receiver softly in the cradle of the phone.
I smiled sarcastically at the detectives and held my wrists out to them, ready to be cuffed. “Shall we?”
“Book him,” Hewitt snarled, and stormed out of the room.
In all the times in the past I’d sat in a room just like this one (shit, I was pretty sure I’d been in this room at least once), about to be locked up, I’d never felt like I really gave a shit. Whether I was behind bars or free, I was always incarcerated inside my own prison of pain. So it didn’t matter if I was walking the streets or stuck inside a concrete cell.
This time it was different.
This time I had something I was going to miss way more than I wanted to admit to myself or anyone else.
This time I had that kooky angel Samantha Smith wondering where I was and whether or not I was okay.
Gui
lt slammed me in the face. I was a total douche for getting myself into this mess. I sighed heavily.
Was I ever going to fucking change?
Not if I was locked up.
Fuck me.
Chapter 2
SAMANTHA
PRESENT DAY
Someone knocked on the front door of my apartment.
“It must be them,” I said to Christos, and walked out of the bathroom to go answer. I checked the peephole and opened the door with a smile on my face. Christos stood right behind me.
“Hey, guys!” Romeo said cheerfully, standing on the balcony walkway outside. He wore a new steampunk coat I hadn’t seen before. Made from tailored black wool, the coat had intricate black-thread embroidery and twin rows of vertical black buttons running down the front and back. As usual, his monocle dangled from one of the coat’s buttons. Buckled black boots covered his feet. “Don’t I look festive?” he jested while holding his monocle up to one eye.
“Romeo!” I said, holding out my arms.
Romeo wrapped me up in a huge hug. “So good to see you, Sam!”
“What up, man,” Christos smiled.
Romeo released me and his eyes roamed all over Christos. “Wow, Sam, I forgot how hot your boyfriend is! Can I lick him from head to toe?”
“No!” I laughed.
“How about just a nipple?”
“No, Romeo!” I insisted.
Christos chuckled, indulging in Romeo’s bad behavior.
Someone had to put a stop to it. “Down, Romeo!” I ordered jokingly.
“Easy girl,” Romeo faux-frowned. “I was just window shopping,”
“Seriously, dude, I’m flattered,” Christos beamed, totally at ease with Romeo’s fawning, “but I play for the opposing team.”
“Oh! Can I be your water boy?” Romeo pleaded. “Hand you clean towels in the locker room? Bend over and pick up the soap in the shower when you drop it? I’ll do whatever you want, Christos. Have your way with me!” He stepped past me, dropped to his knees beside Christos, and wrapped his arms around Christos’ legs. Romeo began bawling insincerely, “Please, Sam! Just one sip from his chalice! I want to taste his sweet nectar!” he whined.
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