by Jo Raven
… maybe.
Okay, I’m less sure of that resolution because I’m so excited, and the idea is growing less and less frightening the more we pleasure each other. The more I see him bared in front of me, hard and aroused and needing me.
I do remember how good he felt inside me. How that stretch of his girth and the length of his cock, how those barbells felt stroking me deep inside.
Soon. I think. Soon I’ll be ready to take him back inside me.
But not tonight.
Tonight I curl my hand around his cock and feel him shudder.
“Fuck, Meg…” He leans back, planting his hands on the bed, his hips rocking, pushing his hard-on into my hand. “Damn…”
I let my fingers toy with the piercings, tugging a little, and a low groan crawls up his throat, rumbling in his chest. His cock twitches and precum beads from the small slit on the head. When I tug again, another pearly drop appears, running down the side of his cock.
My hand slides up, then down, and he fixes me with his tawny gaze, his tongue darting out to wet his lips.
I bend over, take him in my mouth. He groans and I can feel it in his cock. One big hand tangles in my hair, and he thrusts a little into my mouth.
I kind of love that he can’t help himself. I’ll never forget the first time he made love to me. He wouldn’t let himself come, punishing himself for something he’d played no role in: the death of his family.
Since then he’s changed. He has let himself relax and live. Feel. He smiles more. And he lets himself lose control. With me.
Like now.
I suck him in as deep as I dare, lick the underside, make sure to toy with the barbells—and reaching between his legs, I find his balls and roll them in my hand. I want this to be good for him. He’s been so great all this time, never pushing me, never asking for anything, getting up at night to check on the baby, helping me.
I want him to come apart. To lose himself to pleasure.
And he seems really close. I recognize the rhythm of his harsh breathing, the white-knuckled hold he has in the covers, the way his legs tremble and his cock swells in my mouth, flooding my senses with his salty taste and his musky scent.
I drag my lips along his length, flick my tongue around the head, then take him deep, and he comes with a strangled shout. He’s salty, and bittersweet, and perfect.
“I love you,” I tell him afterward, when he can move again, and the first thing he does is wrap me up in his arms. “So much.”
He pulls me down with him and throws the covers over us. “Not as much as I love you.”
Chapter Twenty Four
Rafe
That girl… My girl. She killed me last night. She blew my fucking mind. I’d needed that, to feel her, to have her want me again. It eased my mind, and I slept through the night, only waking up once to check on Zay who was wailing until I held him in my arms for a while.
I think about this as I brush my teeth in the morning, listening to Megan cooing at the baby as she feeds him. Thing is, I’ve been worried about Zane.
But before that, I was worried about Megan. She’s my woman, my lover, my best friend. I love her with all I have. She and our baby are everything to me. Meg is amazing, and she’s always been strong, stronger than me. When her family screwed her over, when she had a killer on her ass, she didn’t waver. She never gave up.
Unlike me. I almost gave up on life. I was too fucked up in the head, still fighting the pain over the death of my family so many years later.
She’s the one who pulled me out of the mire, who gave me a reason to live and to smile again.
But from the start there was one thing that scared her: babies. That was because her mom lost a baby after a bad beating she got from one of her many boyfriends, and Megan had to see that. It haunted her. It frightened her—how fragile life is, how easy it’s to kill a baby.
And then she got pregnant, and I was the one afraid. Afraid she’d bolt, or freak out and leave me.
But she didn’t. She proved once again how strong she is. She was scared to death throughout her pregnancy that she’d do something wrong and cause the baby to die, but it all went smoothly, thank fuck.
Sometimes, though, I have this horrible fucking doubt in my mind. Is she happy? Is she really happy? Did the fear fade without traces?
In my experience, fear always leaves scars.
I’m not saying that the fact she went down on me proves she’s happy again. But she didn’t pull back when I kissed her, when I went down on her. She enjoyed it. And she was the one who touched me and decided to blow my dick, and consequently my mind.
The memory seems to interest my dick. It stiffens and starts to rise between my legs like a pet seeking attention.
Down, boy. I’m thinking.
And I need coffee if I’ll be able to function today. Despite a good night’s sleep, the worry is a heavy burden. Worry about Zane, about Megan, about the shop now that we have expanded it, about the wedding and the possibility of Megan’s mom coming, about everything and nothing. Every little thing seems to require my attention, and stress is making me jittery.
Deep breaths, Rafe. Fucking deep breaths. You’ve got this.
But although I can give my girl a damn good orgasm, hold my son when he cries, keep the books at the shop and hang around the police station hoping for news, what am I really doing? How am I taking action to make sure the people I love are safe and well?
Truth is, I don’t know what I’m doing, and that’s a fist in my chest, squeezing my fucking heart. Sometimes at night I lie awake and try to control the panic, a panic that never really left me since my family died. The fear that tells me I may still lose it all, lose everyone I love, and that it’ll be my fault for not reacting fast enough, not acting when needed.
That goddamned, never-ending guilt which says it’s up to me to save the world, and I’m doing a piss-poor job of it.
***
It doesn’t help when I get a phone call from Dakota, just as I switch on my computer at the office in Damage Control, to tell me the police contacted them.
Kenneth Shaw isn’t fostering kids anymore—hasn’t, in years. They’re trying to find him, but his registered phone number seems to be out of service, and he won’t answer the door.
Fuck.
The other news is that Zane can’t come to work today. He had a very bad night, Dakota says, and I can hear the tremble in her voice. God knows what those few simple words imply.
Flashbacks. Night terrors.
This can’t go on. We’re losing Zane, goddammit. I won’t fucking allow that. I won’t sit by and watch him drown in his past.
“God, Rafe… This is it, then.” Dakota sounds close to tears, and I can’t imagine what it must be like, watching your man fall apart in front of your eyes while being told there’s no solution.
“No, this isn’t it.” I resist the urge to throw the phone against the wall and continue with my fists. “I promise, Koko. Give me the number they called you from. I’ll talk to the police.”
Tell them where to shove it with their fucking regulations and failures.
“Lee is crying. I have to go.” She sighs. “I’m texting you the number. Don’t get into a fight with the police, okay? This isn’t on them. Remember that.”
I’m gripping the phone so hard chances are I’ll break it anyway. “I won’t. Megan wanted to come by today. Call her.”
“I will. And thanks.”
“What for? I’ve done nothing,” I say gruffly, bitterly.
“You’ve been there all along. That’s the greatest gift.”
But it’s not, I think as I disconnect and sit there, drumming my fingers on the desk and waiting for her text. The greatest gift, the only gift that matters, is to get Kenneth Shaw to answer for his crimes and be locked away where he can’t cause more harm.
I’m failing. I’m failing Zane again.
The text comes through, and I stare at the name and number. A cell phone number. Name of
Wesley Logan. Not the officer from yesterday, then.
I force myself to press call, wondering what the use will be.
I’m wondering the same five minutes later, after Wesley Logan has first explained to me that I have no business calling him as I’m not registered family of Zane’s, and then proceeds to bombard me with the finer points of the law that won’t allow the police to break in and search that asshole’s house or launch a manhunt.
Maybe he’s overworked and tired.
But hell, I’m all out of fucks. I’m exhausted and out of options. “You’re gonna let a sexual predator, a children molester, a goddamn rapist walk because the law won’t allow you to open the door of his damn house. Is that what you’re telling me?”
“Mr. Vestri—”
“No, you listen.” I huff, rub at my eyes, pray for some calm. “You know where he lives. He will go back sooner or later. Post a policeman at the door until he returns.”
“Mr. Vestri… if he denies the accusations, and he will deny them, there’s nothing we can do. Do you understand?”
Holy fucking hell. “And that’s all? All you can do?”
“Unless there’s some new information you want to share with us, I’m afraid that’s it.”
Jesus Christ. “New information?”
“Yes. Any detail you haven’t shared with us. Anything we can use.”
Detail. Like what?
My memory flashes at me a conversation with Dakota, something Megan recounted to me some days ago. About this boy Tyrell that Zane is so hung up about. She’d said we should look more into this, that it’s important.
Maybe she’s right.
“Okay, how about this: Kenneth Shaw fostered other kids at the time he fostered Zane Madden. One of them disappeared, and the other kids were convinced something bad happened to him. Zane believes he was abused by Kenneth Shaw, too.”
“This is interesting,” Wesley says cautiously. “What else can you tell me about it?”
“His name was Tyrell, or something like that.”
“Tyrell. Surname?”
Fuck. What had Megan said? “He had a… a weird surname.”
“Weird? How can I work with this?”
“It’s all I have. The kid vanished, for chrissakes.”
“Foster kids run away all the time, Mr. Vestri, for a variety of reasons. Or maybe this Tyrell was simply placed in a different home, or was returned to his biological family. Just because your friend remembers it this way doesn’t mean it’s true.”
“But his memories have proven right so far,” I remind him. “If you could just check it…”
There’s a beat of silence. “I’m not sure this has anything to do with your friend’s report,” he says, “even if his memory doesn’t deceive him. For all your friend knows, that boy did vanish—from their lives, that is. And like I said at the beginning of our conversation, I shouldn’t be discussing this case with you, although your name and contact information was put down as next of kin when the report was filed yesterday.”
“There you go,” I say, although I hadn’t realized at the time. “My friend is too distraught by this case to talk to you, which is why I’m calling. I didn’t mean to disrespect the law.”
There, see? I can be calm and polite when needed.
“I’ll talk to social services, see if I can see the names of the kids this Kenneth Shaw has fostered, see if I can find a boy with a weird surname whose first name may or may not be Tyrell.”
“Are you fucking with me?” I don’t like his sarcastic tone. And there goes my politeness and calm out the window. “This is important.”
“Like I said, Mr. Vestri, I will look into it, and I don’t appreciate your tone. This is my job, and not yours. Don’t call this number again.”
The line goes flat, and I slam the phone down on the desk. That went down well. It was my last card. Our last fucking card, and I probably ruined it by being a dick to that Wesley guy.
Way to go, Rafe. You’re a diamond in the rough. Should be made ambassador for all the calm and patience you bring to the table.
But he hasn’t seen Zane’s fall. Hasn’t heard him describe what was done to him. Maybe he doesn’t have children and his chest doesn’t get too tight to breathe when he thinks about this case.
Maybe he just doesn’t believe any of it. Who knows how many cases they get every day, and how many are dropped by the hour for lack of evidence?
Well, I won’t let them drop this one, and that’s a fucking promise.
***
“So have you set a date for the wedding?” I ask Dylan as we sit down at the coffee shop nearest to Damage Control later in the afternoon. Seems like a safe opening topic, with the anger that’s been riding me since the phone call this morning.
Dylan grins. He looks happy, happier than I’ve seen him these past few months. It’s as if a weight has lifted off his chest. “Tess has been talking about joining you guys. A triple wedding. What do you think?”
I shrug. “Whatever you guys want. I’m in for the food and booze.”
He laughs. “Yeah right.” He shakes his head. “Man, I can’t fucking believe she said yes.”
“Then you’re a bigger idiot than I thought.” I snort.
“Shut up.” He takes a sip from his coffee, and I swear his damn eyes are sparkling like he inhaled Christmas decorations and they all lit up inside his head. “It’s a good feeling.”
It sure is. The happiness looks good on him. I hate to shatter it, but here goes…
“I talked to the police this morning. It’s pretty fucking clear they won’t investigate, like you said. That Kenneth isn’t registered as a foster parent anymore, so they don’t have anything to go on. Evidence is something we don’t have, so we’re fucked.”
Goddammit, I don’t need coffee. What I need is something stronger, but it’s too early in the day to get shitfaced—and too irresponsible with Megan and our baby waiting at home.
So coffee it is. I sip at it, making a face. It sucks to be so pissed off after the night I’ve had with Megan, but hell if I can relax while that man is still out there, free.
“What can we do?” Dylan eyes me. “You have something on your mind.”
“We go after the guy.”
He doesn’t seem as shocked as I thought he’d be. He probably remembers clearly the fact that I went after my parents’ killer on my own. I would have killed him, too, if he hadn’t stunned me with the revelations about my father’s Mafia past and then pulled a gun on me.
I’m not planning on killing Kenneth Shaw. But I want him in prison.
“Breaking and entering,” Dylan says, turning his mug on the table, round and round. “Check the house. Then what? What do you expect to find?”
Hell if I know. I shrug. “We could wait and force a confession out of him, record it on our phones.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Any better ideas?” I snap, and he grins.
The son of a bitch actually grins, only this time there’s no joy behind it. It’s more like a grimace. “I’m in.”
I nod. “Who else do you think would join in?”
“Everyone,” he says without hesitation, his grin fading. “I don’t see another solution, you’re right, and neither do the others. Also…” He looks down at his half-empty mug. “I think we should hurry.”
I frown. “What’s on your mind?”
“I just had a thought.”
“Don’t strain yourself.”
“Har, har. You’re so fucking funny.” He jabs a finger down at the table. “Look, if the police go talk to Kenneth Shaw, if they find him and actually tell him what we’re accusing him of, what do you think he’ll do?”
“Fuck. They may scare that asshole. He might bolt—and then how will we find him again?”
“Worse yet, how will we get justice for Zane, how will we make sure he doesn’t hurt anyone else? Or…”
“Christ, what if he goes after Zane?”
“They won�
�t tell him Zane’s name.” Dylan’s face is white as chalk.
“Unless he has seen Zane in town, and he puts two and two together.”
“Fuck.” Dylan’s face grows paler. “No way. He won’t know Zane if he sees him. That shit only happens in bad movies.”
“It doesn’t matter. We’re doing this anyway.” I push my chair back. “Call the others.”
“Right on it,” Dylan grunts, whipping out his phone, and hell.
If this isn’t like a bad movie, then I don’t know what is. Let’s just hope it ends well before the final credits roll.
Chapter Twenty Five
Megan
I’m sitting with Dakota and Erin, watching over the babies as they sleep, or try to, in their travel cribs. We’re at Asher and Audrey’s apartment, and Audrey is puttering in the kitchen, Scott in her arms as she prepares him some food.
It’s been a quiet day. We’ve talked about what the police said, Dakota told us a bit about Zane’s bad night, and we’ve had Tessa on the phone—a very excited, star-eyed Tessa who kept squealing when she talked about how happy she is that Dylan proposed and how in love she is. How she wants to get married with us, and have Kayla make her a last minute gown, and that she couldn’t care less if she went dressed up as a pumpkin as long as she got married to Dylan and had his babies.
Which made us laugh, and it was good, because the other topic hanging over our heads isn’t funny at all.
The police can’t arrest Kenneth Shaw. They can’t do much, in fact, other than ask him politely whether he raped a kid named Zane Madden twelve years ago, and leave him in peace if he denies it.
Unless they catch him drunk off his ass and in a confessional mood, I doubt that will ever happen. I mean the guy has been living his life, without anyone noticing anything off about him.
The thought of him being so close to Zane, to all of us, is turning my blood to ice. I glance at Zay whose tiny fists are resting by his head, his dark eyes blinking sleepily up, and fear lances through me.
The same fear that almost crippled me when I found out I was pregnant with him. That I won’t be able to protect him, to keep him safe, healthy. Keep him alive.
He yawns, a heart-meltingly cute thing, and I snicker, my panicky trance broken.
