Cuff Me

by Lauren Layne

  He wasn’t pissed. Wasn’t grumpy.

  He was scared.

  Oh. Oh!

  Immediately, Jill tugged off her headphones, dropped her e-reader into the seat pocket in front of her, and tucked her arm into his.

  He didn’t even glance down.

  “Hey,” she whispered. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  No response.

  “Vin.” She shook his arm. “You’re scared to fly? Is this why you were so grumpy all morning?”

  “Shut up, Henley.”

  She smiled then, careful to keep the smile gentle and not mocking.

  The man was really, truly scared, and as someone with a not-so-minor spider phobia, she understood what it was like to be crippled by an irrational but unavoidable terror.

  Jill forgot all about moving to the other seat, and instead let her fingers run along his forearm where it gripped the armrest like a lifeline.

  She vaguely remembered a couple years ago when the Moretti family had flown to California in the days after Christmas to visit Marc.

  Vin had stayed behind, and she’d given him so much crap.

  She regretted that now, because clearly it hadn’t been a callous move so much as a terrified one. She should have known that only something major would have kept him from his family.

  The plane slowed to a stop, and she could hear his breathing, slow and controlled. The plane stayed still for several moments as the pilots waited permission from air traffic control, or however that worked.

  Then it moved forward. She felt Vin’s muscles jerk under her fingertips, his previously slow and controlled breath now coming hot and panicked where it ruffled against her hair.

  Jill knew the moment the plane left the ground because Vin went all the way rigid, and her next move was purely reflexive.

  She slid her fingers over his forearm, trailed over his wrist until they reached his palm. The second their fingers were aligned, his bigger hand crushed over hers. They were holding hands.

  It wasn’t a romantic handhold. Or a sexy one.

  He was practically crushing her fingers, and sweat was beading on his forehead.

  But it was important, all the same. Important that she be there for him.

  “It’ll get better in a moment,” she said, just as a particularly rough bit of air jerked the plane.

  “How do you figure? We’re a couple thousand feet in the air,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “It’ll smooth out once we reach cruising altitude. Takeoff’s always the worst.”

  So was landing. But she didn’t mention this.

  Jill silently prayed that it wouldn’t be a particularly turbulent flight, and her prayers were answered when the plane eventually leveled off and the jerking stopped.

  Eventually the flight attendants made their “coming through the cabin with drinks” announcement, and even better, the seat belt light went off.

  “Do you need to go to the bathroom?” Jill asked.

  “I’m not a child, Henley.”

  “I’m just saying, you might want to go while the seat belt light is off.”

  He gave her the side-eye. “It comes back on sometimes?”

  Vincent still hadn’t released her hand.

  “If it gets bumpy,” she said patiently. “Vin, have you never flown before?”

  “I have,” he grunted. “A couple times.”

  “And this um, fear—”

  “It’s so much more than fear.”

  She smiled. Good for him for not trying to puff up his chest about it. “Has it always been there?”

  “Pretty much. Never figured out how to reconcile willingly putting one’s self inside a tin can hurled through the air with a couple sticks attached.”

  “Sticks?” she asked. “Oh. You mean the wings?”

  They hit another bump, and he exhaled, clenching her hand even more firmly.

  “Let’s talk about the case,” she suggested, trying to get his mind off the tin-can-with-sticks scenario. “Did you get that e-mail I forwarded to you with the article about Kathryn DeBorio…?”

  Slowly, slowly, Vincent’s breathing evened out as he answered her questions. His grip on her fingers eased somewhere over the Midwest, the pad of his thumb lightly stroking along her forefinger as they talked.

  Eventually they exhausted the case and moved on to his family. They discussed Anth’s overprotective almost-father tendencies, Elena’s recent moodiness, his parents upcoming anniversary, and what the kids should to do celebrate… he asked about her mom, which she answered. Asked about the wedding, which she didn’t.

  Jill found herself surprised when she felt the subtle downward dip of the plane’s nose signaling their initial descent. She was fairly certain Vincent in all his sweaty tension wouldn’t agree, but it was one of the shorter flights she could remember.

  Six hours had felt more like two.

  Jill told herself it was just because she’d let herself get wrapped up in conversation. She was a talker after all.

  Vincent’s grip tightened slightly during the bumpy descent, although he seemed less on the verge of death than he had during takeoff.

  She felt the rough bump of the wheels hitting the runway. Felt the familiar pressure of being pulled forward.

  She grinned at Vincent and squeezed his fingers. “We did it.”

  Well, they hadn’t done anything.

  But he’d survived, and that was something.

  He didn’t smile back.

  Nor did he release her hand.

  Not until they reached the jetway and the Fasten Seat Belt sign clicked off did he finally, finally let go.

  And before he did, he briefly, roughly jerked her hand to his mouth. Pressed his lips against the back of her hand just briefly.

  “Thank you,” he whispered.

  Vincent stood then, easily maneuvering their bags out of the overhead compartment, but Jill stayed seated a bit longer under the guise of putting her stuff back in her bag.

  In reality, she paused because she wasn’t quite ready to stand, too worried that her legs would be shaky.

  Not from the flight.

  But from the realization that she could still feel Vincent Moretti’s lips burning against the back of her hand.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Vincent and Jill were still operating under the assumption that Lenora Birch had been killed over professional jealousies or vendettas, rather than personal ones.

  Their bosses, however, wanted no stone left unturned, particularly given the cost of sending two of their homicide detectives to California for three days.

  Which was how Vincent and Jill came to find themselves on the back patio sipping iced tea with James Killroy, an aging but still relevant action star.

  And Vin would never admit it—not in a million years…

  But he was starstruck.

  Vincent wasn’t a movie buff by any stretch of the imagination, but like most guys, he enjoyed a good espionage movie. Enjoyed the car chase movies. Enjoyed blow-’em-up movies.

  James Killroy had been the king of those types of movies a decade earlier, and just last year had topped the box offices with a blockbuster about an aging spy brought back into active duty.

  Of course, his brooding stare and perfect delivery of one-liners wasn’t why they were here.

  “You’re sure I can’t offer you anything stronger?” James asked, lifting his own whiskey in question.

  Jill smiled politely. “Normally I’d love that pinot grigio you offered, but alas… working.”

  The older man studied her. “Working on the murder of Lenora Birch.”

  “Yes sir,” Jill said, giving that perky smile that turned most men to mush.

  If James Killroy turned to mush, he was too good of an actor to show it. The man wasn’t cold, or even chilly, but he was definitely holding himself at a distance. He was trying to figure them out as much as they were trying to figure him out.

  “You and Lenora were… romantically involved
?” Jill asked.

  “Hmmm,” James said in confirmation, leaning back in his chair and staring down at the amber liquid in his glass. “Long time ago. Long time.”

  “Thirty-eight years ago,” Vincent supplied.

  James laughed. “A bit long to have me on the short list of murder suspects, wouldn’t you say?”

  Jill gave another one of those sweet smiles. “We’re looking into everyone from Lenora’s past who was in New York at the time of her murder.”

  “Well… I can assure you that I wasn’t in New York to see Lenora Birch. It was my son’s twenty-first birthday. He attends Fordham. I flew in to take him to a ridiculously expensive dinner, then paid for him and his friends to go out and celebrate—safely.”

  “Your son’s birthday just happens to be the same night that Lenora was killed?” Vin asked skeptically.

  James stared at Vincent over his glass, and Vin felt an honest-to-God urge to fidget. “Yes.”

  “I assume you’ve checked the hotel security cameras at the Westin where I was staying. I got back to the hotel before ten.”

  Lenora had been killed sometime around ten thirty.

  “At this point it’s just a couple of questions—due diligence,” Jill said. “You and Ms. Birch… there’s an eleven-year age difference there.”

  At this, James smiled. “Yes. And trust me, if there’s ever an older woman for a twenty-two-year-old kid to become enamored with, it’s Lenora Birch.”

  “She was quite beautiful,” Jill said.

  “Yes, but that’s not what I mean.”

  “Oh?” Jill asked.

  James sat forward, setting his glass on the table. “I met Lenora at a film premiere. It was one of my first movies, and my role was barely large enough to warrant an invitation. Lenora had nothing to do with the project, but back then premieres were fewer… all the big names in Hollywood leaped at the chance to attend. To stay relevant.”

  “Who made the first move?” Vin asked.

  “I did,” James said with a small smile. “The studio hosted a party after the viewing. I’d had one more drink than was smart—enough to make me stupidly bold. I saw her standing near the bar, and I just… talked to her.”

  There was no softness in the way James told the story; he might as well have been talking about his experience at the car wash.

  “And she responded,” Jill said.

  James shrugged. “I think she was amused. Perhaps flattered. At thirty-three she was still beautiful, but she was always incredibly aware of her advancing years. Always worried about the hot young starlets on the scene who would steal her throne.”

  “But nobody ever did,” Jill said. “Not really.”

  “No,” he said, picking up his whiskey again. “Lenora was one of the true greats. Her looks started to change, certainly—the ingenue shifted to the sophisticate shifted to the powerful dame. But her acting only improved with each change.”

  “You dated for three years,” Vincent said. “What was the relationship like?”

  The actor rolled his eyes. “This can’t possibly be relevant to the case.”

  “It is if you killed her,” Vincent said, hardly believing he uttered that sentence to James Killroy.

  The older man studied him for several moments, then tipped his glass in Vin’s direction. “You’re direct. I like you. And even though the question is bullshit… The relationship was… stable, at least compared to some of the more volatile relationships I was involved in before and after.”

  “Stable?” Jill prompted.

  “Lenora was a calm woman. Difficult to rattle even when I left water rings on her expensive coffee table, cigarette burns on her vintage couch. She’d express displeasure, certainly, but she never really got angry. Not with me. Not even when I deserved it, which was often back then.”

  “You were happy.”

  James rolled the glass between his two palms. “Happy enough. I learned from her. She seemed to enjoy me. I wasn’t always faithful, and I suspect she wasn’t either, but it worked for us.”

  Vin’s eyes narrowed just slightly, his hero worship of James Killroy taking a sharp hit just then.

  Vincent might not believe in true love and happily-ever-after, but he absolutely believed in fidelity. It was part of the reason he steered clear of traditional relationships. If he wasn’t one hundred percent sure he wouldn’t be tempted by another woman, he didn’t pretend to commit.

  “How’d the relationship end?” Vincent asked James.

  “Honestly? I barely remember. There was no fight. No big blowup. My career started to pick up, and hers had never slowed down. Our paths crossed less and less. Our schedules rarely overlapped. I’m not even sure I remember having the conversation that things were over. They just… were.”

  “How’d you feel about that?” Jill asked.

  James smiled grimly. “Not murderous, if that’s what you’re getting at. Seriously, I understand you two are just doing your job—I do. Hell, I’ve played a homicide detective once or twice…”

  Yeah, because that’s the same thing, Vin thought.

  “… but honestly, check with the hotel. I was back in my room by ten. Ordered a movie—one of those boring, award-winning types. Was asleep by midnight.”

  “We’ll check the cameras,” Vin said, setting his iced tea on the table, sensing that they were done here. Admittedly the man didn’t seem particularly torn up about the violent death of an old lover, but there was no spark of any kind when James spoke of Lenora.

  Not passion, not anger… barely even interest.

  “Mr. Killroy,” Jill said, scooting forward in her chair as they all prepared to stand. “We’re currently operating under the assumption that whoever wanted Lenora dead was perhaps motivated by a professional slight, rather than a personal one.”

  The actor nodded thoughtfully. “Makes sense. The only time the woman got fired up was if she thought something would negatively impact her career.”

  Vincent and Jill exchanged a look. It was almost comical how often that phrase was being uttered.

  “Does anyone come to mind? Anyone who who might have had some sort of professional vendetta toward Lenora.”

  He lifted a shoulder. “Sure, tons. Hollywood’s a competitive, sometimes vicious place. But everything I could think of… they’re old. Decades old. Lenora’s screen time has been limited to minor, grandmotherly roles in the past couple years, and anything before that…”

  Again with the shoulder lift. “Who has the energy to hold on to anger for that long?”

  Who indeed?

  If they knew that, perhaps they’d have their killer.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Six hours later, three suspects down, and they weren’t any closer to knowing… anything.

  “It’s like Lenora Birch was a robot,” Jill said, dunking a tortilla chip into an enormous bowl of guacamole. “How many times can we hear that the woman rarely showed emotion?”

  Vincent said nothing as he took another sip of his tequila.

  They were done for the day. Way done. He supposed that they could have—should have—gone back to the airport hotel that the NYPD had booked for them. Gone over their case notes again.

  Strictly speaking, debriefing over tequila and guacamole while watching the sun set over the Pacific Ocean probably wasn’t exactly what the bosses had in mind.

  But fuck, they’d earned this. Him, because Vincent somehow managed to get himself on the plane despite the fact that every fiber of his being had rebelled.

  Jill, because she’d held his hand the whole damn way, and God bless her, hadn’t once laughed at him.

  It’s not like he wanted to be afraid of flying.

  That’s what his brothers—the only ones who knew of his “condition”—thought. That he just needed to suck it up and get over it.

  Did they really think he hadn’t tried?

  He’d read the books. Tried all the mental tricks.

  Nothing helped. He just really, reall
y fucking hated flying. He was always reading that it was the “lack of control” that made people afraid of flying, but that never felt quite right.

  For him it was more the realization that if he was going to be in the tiny statistical sliver that died in a plane crash—it was going to be one shitty-ass, terrifying death.

  But admittedly this flight had been… well, still awful.

  But better too.

  Better because of her.

  He glanced over to where Jill was licking salt off the rim of her margarita. His eyes latched on to that pink tongue for a heartbeat too long before he forced them back to the gorgeous sunset in front of them.

  She pushed at his shoulder. “See. Told ya California wasn’t so bad.”

  He helped himself to a chip. “Okay, so it has a couple things working in its favor.”

  “Speaking of which, bummer Marc couldn’t get out of his shift tonight, but I’m excited to see him tomorrow!”

  Vin nodded. So was he. He only wished that Mandy had been conveniently unavailable, but alas, the four of them were doing dinner the following evening. It had been too damn long since he’d seen his brother.

  Marc made the plane flight worth it.

  Mostly.

  But excited as he was to see Marc, he didn’t want to let his brain latch on to the fun part of the trip until they’d worked through a bit more of the work part.

  “You said Lenora Birch was a machine,” he said, looking across the table at Jill.

  “Robot,” she said, dunking another chip. “I said ‘robot.’”

  “I don’t think so,” he said, shaking his head.

  Jill wiped her mouth. “No?”

  “Not wearing your heart on your sleeve doesn’t mean that you don’t have one.”

  Jill’s eyes locked on his, narrowing slightly. “Speaking from experience?”

  He let his gaze hold hers, even though he knew it was dangerous. Even though he’d been telling himself all week that this—whatever this was—had to stop.

  He took a sip of tequila. For courage. “Just because someone doesn’t talk about feelings doesn’t mean they aren’t there.”

  “Fair enough,” Jill said slowly. “But you have to understand that another person won’t know what to do with those feelings if they’re not aware of them.”