by A J Sherwood
“We’d love to send you home after you’re well,” Dr. Harley answered sincerely, although severe doubt clouded his lines. “But let’s focus on treating you first, yeah? And maybe you can tell us how to contact your family so we can assure them you’re still alive and well?”
“That’d be nice too,” Rice admitted longingly. “I couldn’t call them myself—the monsters were watching me—but if you do it, I think it’ll be alright.”
Donovan pitched in sympathetically, “I’ll make sure they’re not hurt either by the monsters, if that’s okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah, that’d be good. Thanks, Dark Warrior.” Rice’s shield came back up, and he relaxed against the bed in a tired slump. “Sorry, Mr. Bane, I can’t do it any longer. Too tired.”
“That’s alright,” I assured him gently. “I saw everything I need to. You rest and recover and leave everything else to us.”
18
Outside in the hallway, with the door closed behind us, I turned to my boyfriend with very mixed emotions about what I’d heard and said in that interview. “What made you think to draw me in?”
“He was so terrified,” Jon answered with a grimace. “I’ve seen patients like him before. If he feels like he’s in danger, he’ll do everything he can to escape, and that just makes things worse all around. I thought maybe if I could show him I had a strong soldier at my side, he’d feel comfortable enough to actually cooperate with the doctors here.”
I regarded the closed door thoughtfully. He’d obviously been right, as that had worked. At least for the time being, Rice honestly believed I could handle things from here. “But why me and not you, if he thought you could see them?”
“Babe,” Jon responded patiently, although he rolled his eyes in exasperation, “no one looks at me and thinks I’m capable of fighting anything off. He clearly didn’t think so. You can stand there and glare people into behaving.”
“You’re not wrong,” I admitted with a grin.
Jim came out and spoke in a low tone to Jon. “I think we’ve got everything we need to. You going to stay?”
“I’ll write everything I saw on a chart for the doctors, help them along in their diagnosis, then go back and do the official report at the office.” Jon bit his lip a moment, glancing back at the closed door. “I assume our FBI friends will contact his family?”
“Yeah, that’s their job, not ours.” Stifling a yawn, Jim said, “The rest of us will clock out. Sho’s still in the office, so if anything happens, have him help you.”
“Sure thing,” I agreed.
It took us a while longer to leave, as Jon grabbed a chart from one of the nurses and filled it out with a quick efficiency that spoke of much experience. How many times had he done this, anyway? He made it seem like he was as comfortable filling in a chart as he was interviewing a criminal. Every time I thought I knew this man, he did something else that surprised me.
Even with the chart filled out, he stayed and spoke with both the psychiatrist, Dr. Harley, and a surgeon specializing in trauma, describing exactly what he saw and where the damage was. He even used the right medical lingo, or at least enough of it that the doctors followed along without a problem. Jon had said earlier he’d almost gone medical before realizing he couldn’t do more than four years of college without losing his sanity. Had he actually been pre-med at one point?
Passing out business cards to both doctors, Jon promised he’d come back in if they needed to—I think Dr. Harley firmly planned on that, judging from the expression on his face—and finally, we won free. Hand in hand, we walked back out of the hospital and into the open sunshine.
“What a relief to finally have that solved,” Jon sighed, lifting his face to the sun and smiling into its warm rays. “It was a sad case all around, but at least he’s getting the help he needs, and no one else is going to be murdered by his good intentions.”
“Amen to that.” The phone vibrated in my pocket, and I pulled free to answer it. “Hey, Sho.”
“Hey, Donovan. Everything go okay over there?”
“Yeah, didn’t you see the video feed?”
“Yeah, but I wasn’t sure if you guys were free of the doctors yet. Psychiatrists love Jon.”
I snorted a laugh. “Tell me about it. I think Dr. Harley was willing to just keep him. But yeah, we’re free. You just checking in?”
“Not exactly. Our last victim, Lieutenant Myers, is up and talking. She wants to give a formal statement of what happened to her, but she refuses to do it with local PD. Freeman requested you guys do it, as everyone else is beat.”
“Oh. Sure, I think we’re game for that.” Lowering the phone from my mouth, I filled Jon in quickly, “Myers is awake and wants to give a formal statement. Freeman asked us to do it.”
“Sure,” Jon agreed readily. “They’re all exhausted. We can do that. It’s good corroborating evidence.”
That was the funny thing about the law. Even with confessions, they liked other witness statements and evidence to support it. I saw why—people lied all the time for various reasons. Even though this case looked pretty clear-cut to me, I could respect having Myers’ statement on record too. Besides, she probably felt the need to tell her side of the story. Putting the phone back up to my mouth, I assured Sho, “We’ll leave from here and go take it. Tell them we’re on our way.”
“Will do. Um, Donovan?”
Not used to hearing an insecure tone in Sho’s voice, I answered cautiously, “Yeah?”
“I’m just checking, I don’t want to get off on the wrong foot or anything, but…Garrett’s not straight, is he.”
He actually sounded rather sure on that point, and I had to stifle an evil chuckle before responding. “He’s pansexual, actually.”
“Oh yeah?” Sho’s voice rose in growing interest. “Okay. Good to know. Thanks. See you guys later today?”
“Sure. We’re coming in to write up a formal report. I’ll keep you posted if that changes.” Hanging up, I grinned at Jon. “Sho’s interested in Garrett.”
“Yes, I know,” Jon purred, as fully satisfied as any feline. He stepped off the curb, heading for his vehicle.
Blinking at his back, I had to stretch my legs out to catch up with him. “Wait, you know? Dammit, of course you know that. Why don’t you ever tell me things like this?”
“Well, I wasn’t sure if Sho would do anything about it,” Jon responded with an easy-going shrug. “He’s not had great history with men so far; it makes him cautious.”
I started putting different snippets of conversation together in my head. Climbing into the passenger seat, I demanded, “You know Garrett’s interested in him too. Did you say something to him?”
Lips suspiciously pressed together, as if fighting a smile, Jon admitted, “I might have.”
Staring at him, I growled in frustration, “I finally understand why Jim wants to hit you sometimes. You know all the good stuff and don’t share.”
“I’m not a tattle-tale,” he responded sweetly, starting the engine up with a low rumble.
I swore he did stuff like this just to get reactions out of people. Giving up, I settled back and buckled in, as we had a good hour’s drive to go take that witness statement. Hopefully this would be the last trip up to Clarksville for a while. The Humvee wasn’t exactly fuel efficient.
Back on the I-24, heading north, the scenery changed from cityscape to trees on either side of the road, the freeway gently curving back and forth to follow the rolling hills. It was a pretty enough drive, fortunately, and I let my mind roam. Jon had been very dedicated and thorough last night proving he found every bit of me appealing. My body tingled at just the memory. I believed him right down to my core, and because of that, I had to face my own insecurities about being attractive. Whether or not they were true of the rest of the populace, whether or not anyone else would look at me as a potential-something, all that was moot. I had at least one man who found me sexy, and really, I didn’t need anything more than that.
; The scars still chaffed on my psyche—they might always do that—but I didn’t have to hate them anymore. And realizing that gave me a freedom I’d forgotten I’d ever had. It allowed me to breathe and I felt lighter for it.
Jon’s hand found mine across the seats, fingers twining together. I closed mine around his and smiled at his smile, feeling some of the stress from this case fade away. It had been ridiculously tough and strained, but I felt like we’d come through it stronger than when we started, and I could take that win.
“I think we should do a reset,” Jon announced.
Not following, I asked, “Of what?”
“Our one month of living together.” No doubt seeing my disagreement with this plan, he hastily explained, “No, think about it. You didn’t get the full effect of how hard it is to live with me. I was unconscious most of the week, for one thing, and you were in protective mode too. It shouldn’t count.”
I took in a deep breath and told myself I couldn’t kill his parents. Some days, I just had to remind myself orange was not my color. “Will you rest easier at the end of the month if we have a clean start today?”
His hand clenched in mine, and he kept his eyes carefully on the road. “Shit. I’m doing it again, aren’t I?”
“Babe, I fully understand the root of your insecurities. Fears aren’t rational. If you need to call today day one, we can do that.” It really didn’t matter to me in the long run anyway. I was going to live with this man for the rest of our lives. Trial period or not, it didn’t matter to me.
Jon’s shoulders slumped as he gave a year’s worth of sighs. “Fucking hell, this is ridiculous. You’re not them. I have to stop holding you to the same standard. No. No reset.”
I didn’t have to be psychic to understand just how hard it was for him to consciously squash his fears. Lifting his hand up, I kissed the back of it. “It’ll be fine. I only want to strangle you when you’re doing something dangerous.”
He flashed me a soft smile. “Fortunately for you, I don’t do that often.”
“How about never, babe?” I suggested wryly. “Let’s aim for never, okay?”
Laughing, he just shrugged. “It’s not like I want to be shot at.”
I wasn’t referring to just when people went after him…argh, forget it. Seriously, what was I supposed to do with him?
We got to the Clarksville hospital with no fanfare or trouble. Stopping at the visitor’s desk, we learned that our witness had been moved to a long-stay care wing of the hospital, which made sense. She’d had brain surgery and no doubt would need physical and speech therapy to help her recover fully. Following the directions up to her room, we stopped outside her open door and peeked in.
Lieutenant Myers sat near the window, wearing pajama pants and a loose shirt, her light blonde hair carefully pulled over one shoulder, revealing the stitches on the left side. They’d not had to remove much of her hair, to my surprise, just a few locks of it. If she was careful how she fixed it, she’d likely be able to hide the sutures altogether.
Sensing us, she turned her head, clear green eyes landing on Jon and lighting up in recognition. Myers faced Jon squarely, an unreadable expression on her face. Her speech was a touch hesitant, and she clearly formed the words in her mind before trying to voice them, her mouth a second delayed. “You’re the psychic who read my memory, correct? Jonathan Bane?”
I didn’t think she’d be angry (always a possibility since he had technically invaded her privacy to read her mind) as Jon smiled back at her and cheerfully acknowledged, “That’s me.”
She waved us both closer, and Jon obliged her, coming in close enough that their knees brushed. Myers closed the remaining distance in a second, wrapped both arms around his neck, and squeezed him hard. Jon hugged her back, his smile stretching from ear to ear. “You’re welcome.”
Huffing a laugh, she leaned back, eyes a touch too bright. “They said it cost you significantly to go in deep like you did. Thank you so much for being willing to do it. I knew right before I went down, the bastard would be running free, and I wouldn’t be able to testify. I wouldn’t be able to tell anyone what he looked like. I was so relieved when I woke up to learn you’d given them the information needed to find him.”
“I’d say something like, ‘all in the line of duty,’” he returned ruefully, “but honestly? We were so relieved someone had fought back. That you’d gotten a good look at him. Without you, he might still be out there. We just didn’t have enough information to solve the case.”
“I’m glad I sensed him too,” she admitted. “It gave me a fighting chance. And as much as my head is killing me, they were able to perform some quick surgery and set it to rights.”
A nagging question I’d had popped out of my mouth. “You’ll recover, then? Fully?”
“Fortunately. My arm took the brunt of the blow, but it was a clean break, nothing complicated. I’m experiencing some weakness on that side, but they said that’s normal.” She lifted her arm, still in a cast, in illustration. “All things considered, I’m lucky. I get therapy for the next two months, light duty for the next six, but then I’m back on track with life. I won’t need to worry about that guy coming after me again. You both are part of the reason for that.”
“We had a whole team of people who got this guy,” Jon denied with a small smile. “I just gave them the information out of your head. Marc was the one who tracked him down, and he had a lot of support doing that.”
“I’d like to thank everyone involved.”
“Do so,” Jon encouraged, taking a seat in front of her. “They don’t get thanked enough, in my opinion. But today, let’s take your statement, yeah? And then I can tell you the other side of this, why you were attacked to begin with.”
“That would be good,” she admitted. “I only got the basics that they caught him this morning. Where should I start?”
“Name, date of the interview, and then we’ll start with you coming out of that store, okay?”
19
—Three weeks later
I was hella nervous.
But not in the way I expected to be. I carried the last box of Donovan’s stuff out of his grandmother’s house, loading it into the back of his pickup, feeling all sorts of emotions. We’d come through the month of living together swimmingly well. I knew Donovan had tried to keep certain things to himself the second week, as he wanted this to work, and he didn’t want me to find a reason for him to not move in. But of course, I could sense when something was off, so that plan backfired. It was little, petty things. Donovan wanted dishes done immediately after dinner. They could sit there until the next morning for all I cared. Petty, silly things like that.
For the most part, we worked fine day to day. Not that we didn’t have moments where we disagreed, or where we butted heads over something. I kept expecting things to not work, which put pressure on Donovan, which in turn made me feel guilty. It wasn’t like he’d done anything to deserve my suspicions, and often it was so automatic on my part that I couldn’t find a reason for them. I kicked myself, he reassured me it was alright, and then the cycle continued.
Strangely, our argument three days ago sorted us out. Donovan and I rarely argued—we’re both non-confrontationists, we prefer to talk things out—and it scared me to get into a blowout now. It was over something stupid—me changing a light bulb, of all things. Donovan had run an errand to the bank and come home to find me up on a ladder with EMP shielded gloves on, changing the kitchen bulb, and growled at me that if I’d just waited ten minutes, he would have done it.
It wasn’t what he’d said, so much as the tone he’d said it in and the exasperation in his lines. It put my back up with such speed I nearly got whiplash. I was not helpless, and I resented the implication that I needed him to do every little trivial thing for me. No surprise, I lost my temper first, snapping back that I’d changed more than my share of light bulbs and didn’t need him to do everything for me.
Honestly, I didn’t remember mos
t of what we’d said. He’d raised his voice in a rare show of impatience, I’d dug my heels in and become stupidly stubborn, both of us saying things we’d almost instantly regretted. Then, to make matters worse, I’d gotten too close to the refrigerator during the argument and fried it completely. It was the last straw to an already fraught day of emotions and I’d shut down, squirreling myself into our bed upstairs and refusing to touch anything else.
Before, when I was still growing up and something like this happened, there was a great deal of huffing and puffing from people about the expense, and why couldn’t I be more careful, etcetera, etcetera. I didn’t expect it from Donovan, per se, but I knew I’d hit his limits if he’d actually yelled back.
It remained quiet downstairs for a while, then he’d come up and gently told me that he’d bought some ice and put it in the fridge and freezer, and he hoped that could tide us over until morning, when we could buy a new fridge. Then he’d wrapped me up in his arms, dragging me into his lap, blanket and all, and just held me for the longest time.
The only thing Donovan said to me that night was, “I love you. I’m sorry I scared you. I don’t want you to think I’ll leave over something as trivial as a fridge. Time without you is not time to me. Don’t ever forget that, okay?”
As stupid as the whole argument had been, I’d learned in that moment what I’d needed to. As much as I might frustrate this man, to him, I was always the priority. Nothing else took precedence over me. And knowing that, I knew we could live together and not destroy our relationship in the process.
Which was why I loaded up the last box of Donovan’s things into the back of his pickup on this glorious summer day, with a smile on my face and a sense of hope I’d never experienced in my life. I looked at the real estate sign in the yard, proud of him for turning this place into such a sweet looking home, and proud of me for finally letting him properly into my life.
