Seconds: A Salvation Society Novel

by Freya Barker

  She turns when she hears me approach.

  “Made you a cup too—”

  Her words are cut off when I fist my hand in her hair and tilt her head back, my mouth kissing her hard. I don’t miss her soft groan when I release her, or the flush on her cheeks, but still her eyes are guarded.

  “Cal, we can’t.”

  “Sweetheart, we just did.” I reach around her for the coffee she set out for me and take a sip.

  “No. I mean we can’t. You’re my client.”

  I set my coffee down and cup her face in my hands.

  “And you’re Muff’s little sister, but that doesn’t seem to deter me from wanting you. Tell me you don’t feel the same way.”

  I hold her eyes, daring her to lie to me. She opens her mouth before closing it with a snap.

  “Doesn’t make a difference,” she mumbles.

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Reagan. It makes all the difference.”

  Before she has a chance to think, I fit my mouth over hers again. It doesn’t take long for her fingers to curl into my shirt and I execute a mental fist pump.

  Chapter Eight

  Reagan

  I’ve lost my ever-loving mind.

  Stopping at a traffic light, I check my rearview mirror to see if Cal’s truck is actually behind me. Dammit. I quickly pull up his number and dial just as the light turns green.

  “What are you doing?” I snap the moment the call is answered.

  “I told you; following you home.”

  “Cal…”

  “You said we’d talk, so we’ll talk when we get to your place.”

  “We can talk over the phone.”

  “Watch it!”

  I’m so distracted watching him in my rearview mirror; I don’t see the deer darting into the road in front of me until Cal yells out. Slamming on my brakes, I throw my wheel into the oncoming lane to avoid hitting it. Narrowly veering around the animal, I quickly check my mirror to see Cal’s truck almost on top of me.

  “Hang up the fucking phone before you kill yourself,” he growls before ending the call.

  My heart is racing as I focus on the road ahead.

  It’s my own fault; in an effort to get some control over a situation that seemed to be getting out of hand back in his apartment, I’d promised him we’d talk after meeting with Mark, who was waiting for us.

  Mark had been at my office when we got there, chatting up Sally while he waited. She went off to put on a fresh pot while I hustled the guys into the conference room, where Mark filled us in on what he had been able to find out about Walker.

  Apparently the detective joined the Suffolk PD, transferring from Norfolk just a couple of years ago. No blips on his record, not married, no kids. He rents a house in a new subdivision and seems to pay his bills on time. The only thing that piques any interest is his membership at a local gym. Mark offers to poke around there to see if he can stir anything loose.

  Nothing to explain his apparent dislike of Cal.

  We’d gone over the police report I was handed this morning. Krista Hardee’s claim was ambiguous at best. Full of holes, incomplete, vague, and should never have even made it to an actual arrest without much more investigating. For one, she described a bed in the alleged assault, and then farther down her statement refers to the back seat of his vehicle. The other strange thing was the jail parking lot was not mentioned as the location where this attack was supposed to have taken place until the very last paragraph. To top it off, it looked like the statement was signed the same day Cal was first brought in for questioning, three days after it allegedly took place.

  And the kicker? Walker’s name was on the report.

  While Cal went to try and get a hold of Jim Shaughnessy and see if he could convince the man to tell him what he knows, and Mark disappeared next door with him, I put another call into the prosecutor’s office, this time asking for Ed Shafer’s extension. He’d been the prosecuting attorney in court this morning. We’ve been opposing counsel a few times before and until this morning—when he completely ignored me—have always been friendly and courteous. His assistant told me he’d be held up in court this afternoon but I could leave him a message, which I did.

  When I finally locked the office behind me—bone-tired and frustrated—I was startled by Cal’s voice behind me.

  “Heading home?”

  I’m not sure if it was because he scared me senseless or whether senseless seems to be the way I am around him, but I nodded wordlessly. Then he told me he’d be following me home.

  Checking the rearview mirror, I see he’s pulling into my driveway behind me.

  Well, I guess later is now but I have a suspicion talking is no longer first and foremost on Cal’s mind.

  I almost jog to my front door, the flock of butterflies back and swirling in my stomach. All I promised was a talk, but watching him approach with angry determination; he doesn’t look like he’s planning to waste any words.

  He stays silent until I have the door unlocked and he follows me inside.

  “You could’ve killed yourself. Fuck, if my brakes weren’t brand-new, I coulda killed you.”

  I can tell he’s pissed and even though I know he’s right, my own temper flares and I immediately become defensive.

  “Maybe if you hadn’t been on my ass, following me home,” I challenge, meeting his dark eyes shooting fire.

  “You’re telling me almost hitting that goddamn deer was my fault?”

  “If the shoe fits,” I return, shrugging as I turn toward the living room.

  Next thing I know, I’m swung around and pressed with my back against the wall by Cal’s big body. His face is inches away and he’s breathing as hard as I am.

  “Stop me,” he says in a low voice.

  But instead I lift my face and fist my hands in his shirt.

  Cal

  Christ, she makes my blood boil.

  The kiss is angry—wild—driven by a hunger I can’t seem to control, but I’m not alone. Reagan gives as good as she gets, her hands tugging the shirt from my jeans before shoving one of them up my back, her nails raking. Fuck me.

  I slide my hands down to her ass, squeezing the luscious swells before I run one down to hitch her leg up. She moans into my mouth when I rock my hips between her opened legs, and starts pulling up my shirt. I need her out of these clothes and horizontal.

  “Bedroom,” I mumble against her lips, while my free hand slides up to cup her breast. No more than a perfect handful. She’s killing me when she arches her back, her touch restless over my bared skin.

  It’s when she reaches for the waistband of my jeans I pull back and look into her heavy-lidded hazel eyes.

  “Bed, Reagan.”

  She grabs my hand and pulls me to the stairs.

  By the time she falls back on her bed, all she’s left wearing is the pencil skirt she had on when she walked into court this morning—enhancing her generous curves—and nothing else. She’s gorgeous; her hair loose and fanned out around her flushed face. I strip out of my clothes, even as my eyes trace her body; soft pale skin and deep pink nipples I can’t wait to taste.

  She’s a fantasy, the perfect balance of classy and carefree.

  From my jeans pocket I pull a condom I tucked there before I left the office, and roll it over my hard shaft. Then I grab her ankles, yank her closer to the edge, and run my hands up her legs, taking her skirt along.

  “What are you doing?” She lifts up on her elbows, watching me.

  Instead of answering, I hook my fingers in her panties and pull them off, leaving the bunched up skirt in place. Then I spread her legs, rub the head of my cock along her crease, slick with her arousal, and brace myself at her entrance.

  With my last ounce of restraint, I lift my eyes and watch hers darken.

  “Please,” falls from her mouth as she lies back down.

  Part of me is aware I’m not doing her any justice but I plan to make up for that later. An army wouldn’t be able to stop
me from driving myself balls deep in her tight channel.

  “What time is it?”

  Reagan lifts her head from my chest to glance at her alarm clock on the nightstand.

  From the waning light through the window, I’m guessing around eight thirty or so, which would mean we’ve spent over three hours in this bed, and if it were up to me, we wouldn’t leave it any time soon. I just need a little recovery time, at forty-five I don’t bounce back the way I used to.

  The first round was chaotic and wild and over way too soon, but the second time I made sure I took my time to familiarize myself with her body.

  It’s been a very long time since I’ve been in the mood for anything other than what is needed for a quick release. Don’t really like what that says about me, but it’s true. With Reagan, though, I could spend days leisurely exploring her body and discovering all the ways to make her moan.

  “We should eat something. I’m hungry, aren’t you?” she asks, as she slides out of my hold.

  I catch her just around her middle as she swings her legs over the side and sits up, and I press my lips to the small of her back. She gives a little shiver and hugs my arm to her front, so I kiss her there again.

  “Callum…”

  “Yes, Sweetheart,” I mumble, my lips against her skin.

  “We need food…and then we still need to talk.”

  That gets my attention. We do need to talk—and to be honest—I could eat something.

  I reluctantly let her go and watch her bare ass as she walks into the bathroom. And a spectacular ass it is.

  I’m tempted to join her when I hear the shower turn on, but maybe she needs some time to get a handle on her thoughts. I know I do. I lie back, my arms folded under my head, and look up at the ceiling.

  We’ve certainly broken some boundaries tonight there won’t be any turning back from, but I can’t bring myself to regret one single second of it. I don’t want Reagan to either, so we’ll need to do some damage control. First and foremost I need to talk to Muff, but I still haven’t heard from him.

  As if conjured, the sound of my phone ringing has me scramble off the bed to get it from my jeans.

  “Finally,” I answer, dropping back on the bed.

  “Yeah, sorry,” Jackson answers. “Catherine and I needed some time away. We’re in Costa Rica for a five-day break.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Oh yeah. Life’s just been busy. Anyway, I’m sorry I missed your calls, I haven’t touched my phone in days.”

  “That’s a good sign. Means you’re actually relaxing.”

  He chuckles. “You can say that again.”

  “Cal? Was that mine?” My head swings around to see the bathroom door open and Reagan poking her head out, dripping water. “I thought I left it downstairs. Oops, sorry,” she mutters when she sees me with the phone to my ear and promptly disappears again.

  A heavy silence stretches on the other end of the call. I know he heard her.

  “Yeah, so—”

  “Was that my sister?” he interrupts sharply.

  “It was.”

  Another pregnant pause.

  “Please God, tell me I didn’t catch you in bed with my sister.”

  When I don’t answer immediately he lets out a string of creative curses.

  “Technically, no,” I clarify when he takes a breath. “She’s in the shower and it’s just me in bed.”

  I hold the phone away from my ear while he sets off swearing again.

  “That’s what you were calling about,” he concludes once he runs out of steam.

  “Look, I know this is breaking all the rules, but I really like her.”

  “I fucking hope so,” he snaps.

  “I was going to talk to you beforehand, but things got out of—”

  “Yeah, thanks,” he interrupts, “I get the picture.”

  “I’m sure you’re pissed.”

  “You’re fucking right I’m pissed. I mean I can’t think of a better man for Reagan than you, but sonofabitch, couldn’t you have held off? Do you know what this could do to her reputation? You’re her client for fuck’s sake.”

  I don’t even register the rest of what he’s saying; I’m stunned.

  “You can’t think of a better man for her?”

  “Is there an echo in here or something? Of course, you idiot. You think I’d ask just anyone to look out for my sister? My point is you should’ve waited for this mess you’re in to get cleared up.”

  “Right,” I mumble, trying to wrap my head around this unexpected twist.

  “And if you hurt her in any way, I will personally rip off your balls and shove them down your throat.”

  “So noted.”

  “Good. Now that we have that cleared up, I’d like to get back to my wife, who left for the beach ten minutes ago wearing the smallest fucking bikini I’ve ever seen,” he grumbles.

  “By all means.”

  His, “Fucking great,” is followed by dead air.

  When the bathroom door opens a few minutes later I’m still lying in bed, wondering what the hell just happened.

  “Cal? Are you okay?”

  I feel the mattress depress when Reagan sits down on the edge.

  “Yeah.” Even to my own ears I don’t sound convincing.

  “Who was on the phone?”

  I scissor up and take her face in my hands, pressing a soft kiss on her mouth before looking deep into her eyes.

  “Your brother.”

  I can pinpoint the exact moment the implications sink in.

  “Oh, shit.” She grabs onto my wrists. “That’s not good.”

  “Actually…” I smile at her. “I think he may have just given us his blessing.”

  Chapter Nine

  Reagan

  “The door wasn’t locked though.”

  I curb the urge to bang my head on my desk and take a few deep breaths instead. A sound from peanut gallery, aka Sally, has me throw her a sharp look to silence her.

  The young kid in front of me is already defensive as all get out, even though he was caught street racing in a stolen Mercedes SUV. Not only that, a pedestrian was injured as a result and faces a long recovery.

  Unfortunately, Emmet Licker—I still internally giggle like a five-year-old at that name—can’t seem to focus on anything else but the fact the owner of the SUV had not locked the driver’s side door. Apparently in Mr. Licker’s world that is akin to finding a penny in a parking lot.

  I’ve been trying to convince my client that accepting the plea deal the prosecution has offered will have the best outcome for him, but he still seems convinced that he was entirely within his rights. You can’t argue stupid and unfortunately my client is severely afflicted.

  “Forget about the SUV for a minute, Emmet,” I try again. “Let’s pretend you were driving your own car.”

  “I don’t got a car, I drive my Pops’s truck.”

  “Fine,” I conceded. “Let’s pretend you were driving the truck, and were street racing, and hit another person. You would still be breaking the law.”

  “That’s just dumb.” He folds his arms over his skinny chest and pouts like a toddler.

  “Listen, I can’t tell you what to do, I can only advise you, but I can promise two years plus probation is the absolute best you can do. All you have to do is plead guilty in front of the judge.”

  “Pops said you could get me off,” he insists, this twenty-three-year-old boy-child.

  ‘Pops’ is Darren Licker, owner of a farm equipment dealership just outside of town. Clearly the one with all the brains of the family, although, he’s lacking in parental skills and spoils his only son rotten.

  “Your father hired me because I’m very good at what I do, which is why you should take my advice.” We’ve been around and around on this, and it doesn’t look like what I’m saying is permeating. Perhaps I should give Darren a call. “You know what?” I tell the kid. “Why don’t you go home, think about it tonight, talk to
your father, and get back to me tomorrow? We have to give them an answer before the weekend.”

  “Fine.”

  I can’t hold back the roll of my eyes when he gets up and heads for the door, the crotch of his jeans around his knees making for an awkward gait. The moment the front door shuts behind him, Sally bursts out giggling and I’m not far behind.

  “You have permission to put me out of my misery and shoot me if Matt should end up like that waste of space.”

  We’re still snickering five minutes later when the door opens and Cal walks in. Immediately my cheeks flush, remembering our activities from last night. Activities that left me deliciously sore in places.

  He’s been by my house every night so far this week. Three nights in a row we’ve ended up naked, and three times he’s left me well sated in my bed to go home. I haven’t asked him to stay, and he hasn’t offered. Don’t get me wrong, at some point I’d love for him to spend the night, but for now I’m grateful for my rest after he leaves.

  There is also the fact I’d rather whatever we have going on does not go public. At least not yet. Not until we have the case against him dismissed.

  “Hey, you left a message for me?” he asks, after saying hello to Sally.

  “Yes, I told you I stopped at the prosecutor’s office on Tuesday and was able to talk to Ed Shafer. Well, he emailed me this morning with the surveillance tape. I wanted to wait for you before I had a look at it.” He moves to sit down across from me when I hold up my hand and push back my chair. “Let’s take it into the conference room,” I suggest, leading the way.

  We’ve barely crossed the threshold when I feel his heat at my back and am just able to set my laptop on the table when I’m swung around.

  “Morning, Sweetheart,” he rumbles, a fraction of a second before he takes my mouth in a claiming kiss that leaves me gasping for air.

  “Boundaries,” I whisper, but not before licking my bottom lip where his taste lingers.