Cut So Deep: A dark second chance romance (Dark and Deep Book 1)

by Jax Colt

Blake

  Carrie’s pull has always been strong. I know she used to have a crush on me. There was a time we nearly—

  “So, what do you want to eat?” she asks, as she summons the waitress and orders a burger with everything on it, plus fries.

  She’s a goddess. I order the same, and top it off with a strawberry milkshake. I wouldn’t normally stack on the fatty foods like this, but despite the situation, seeing her feels like a celebration. I know I’m thinking too much, but it’s hard not to. There’s so damn much to think about.

  I should be asking her questions and finding out what she’s been doing, but I just feel clumsy. It’s like anything I do or say is going to be taken the wrong way. I’m not just her assigned officer, but I’m not sure if we’re friends yet, either. The boundaries are fuzzy, so I stay silent and let her be peaceful while we wait for the surly teen to bring our food.

  The food comes, and we eat. She’s not dainty, but she’s not a fiend either, and I’m relieved when she doesn’t try to make small talk and devotes herself to eating her meal as whole-heartedly as I do. Lost in my meal, I start to think about what I should tell Brenda and George when we get back. Brenda will definitely remember Carrie from Cedar Rapids. There’s no doubt about that, so I won’t lie to her, but I’ll just tell George she’s an old friend who got mugged on a visit to New York and is too scared to stay alone. I don’t want him thinking he’s in danger, but I’ll make sure Brenda knows to be extra careful. I’ve been checking for a tail since we left the station, but I think we’re okay, and the doors are always triple-bolted at home. Security is my thing.

  I pay the bill, and we head next door to the grocery store. I know she’ll need a few different things, so I tell her to pick up the essentials and meet me at the magazine rack. She looks embarrassed. I wonder if it’s because she’s used to shopping at more expensive places, but then she stutters out, “I don’t have any of my cash or cards on me.”

  I’m struck at the look on her face. She’s really worried about it. Most women would have just assumed I was picking up the bill and shopped up a storm, but I see she’s in real discomfort at the idea of not being independent. It’s unnecessary; even if I didn’t have the witness budget, I’d pay for her stuff.

  “Oh. Sorry I forgot to tell you,” I say. “These expenses are covered by the department’s witness protection budget, so make sure you get enough supplies to last. Who knows how long this will take.”

  Again, the flash of vulnerability in her pretty face. Little miss control freak reporter must not like being so powerless. I suppress a laugh. It’s hard not to remember that face as it was back in high school. The same intense look when she didn’t understand an equation in geometry, or didn’t get a good test score in English. Carrie is such an overachiever. It must be hell to be so out of control now.

  Somewhat appeased by the new arrangement, she grabs a cart and begins making her rounds. I read a magazine for a while, but I watch her in the security mirrors mounted in the corners of the store. Shampoo and conditioner. Deodorant and moisturizer. A 6-pack of G-strings and vests with the spaghetti strap. She travels the aisles with quiet precision, getting what she needs and giving way to other shoppers. She walks with her head up, and I see that she’s trying to ignore the funny looks her outfit is garnering. Especially from the older audience. We arrive at the counter together, and I use the police card without a second thought. I’ve picked up some of the yogurt I know she used to love. I pass it to her just as we get back in the car, and that’s when her face crumples.

  “You’ve been so kind.”

  She starts to sob. I try and comfort her, but what can I say. She’s totally confusing me. On one hand, so tough and resilient. Trained to fight. On the other, a victim of crime, a vulnerable old friend, and the hottest crying woman I’ve seen in a very long time. I get out of the car, walk around to her side, open the door, and squat down next to the car so I can look into her eyes.

  Our faces are close now, but I want her to see that I mean it, so I don’t move away. I just hold her hands and say nothing as the tears keep rolling down her cheeks. She doesn’t try to talk, and neither do I. We’re taking up two car parking spaces with the passenger door open, but I don’t care. She’s hurting right now, and I want to be there.

  The tears begin to subside, and I see a softening in her face. Her lips are swollen and her eyes shine but she clears her throat anyway.

  “I want you to tell me that you’ll try to help her.” It’s the last thing I thought she’d say.

  “Carrie. Of course I will. It’s my only goal.” She looks back and bites her lower lip before shaking her head.

  “But it’s not. Her uncle is more important to the investigation than she is. I know how this works. I’m not stupid, and it makes sense. If he is guilty of everything you say, then April is just bait.”

  Again, she breaks down, and that’s when I realize how far down the line she’s gone with her assumptions.

  “Carrie, listen to me.” She looks up tearfully. “Yes, we do want to talk to Jessup Lee, but right now finding April and keeping you safe is our main priority. It’s my job to keep you safe, and I want you to trust me. I need you to trust me if we’re going to make any progress.”

  Her hands start to relax in mine as I reassure her. I can see she’s not totally won over, but I don’t know if she ever will be.

  “The truth is, Carrie, you could be in a whole lot of trouble here. It’s not safe for you to be in New York while this is going on. Someone is pissed enough at April’s uncle to target his family despite his connections. This is big. There is a lot more than we can comprehend that’s at play here.”

  Carrie takes a breath. “So, what if we don’t find her in time, what then?”

  “Carrie, you know I can’t answer that question.”

  The tears start again, and my heart shatters for her. I want to make everything okay, but I just can’t promise anything when it comes to Jessup Lee.

  “Carrie, to be perfectly honest, the best place for you right now might be back home in Iowa. Away from all of this.” I try to say it gently, but the resistance from her is immediate.

  “There’s no way. That’s not happening, so don’t try to make me.” The rebellion in her tone surprises me. This woman is complex, and I don’t know what to expect from one moment to the next. “April is my best friend. There’s no way I’m leaving.”

  Her tone is vehement, and I get it. Their friendship takes precedent. Something has happened between these two, and I’m not going to be the one to challenge it. I just want to get her safely home and settled in. She needs to sleep and get her head back in the game before the second interview. She can’t take much more today, and I don’t want to be out in public with her, even this far away from the city.

  “Let’s go.” I squeeze her hands and close the car door gently. The NYPD stripes look crisp on the sedan. I’m reminded of my duty here. In this situation, she is not an old friend, or a beautiful woman. She’s a witness, a traumatized witness, and I need to be extra careful with her. She needs respect and space. For the love of God, I hope I can give it to her. Not that I like to rely on God. I just need something, anything to help me be strong.

  It’s been months since my last date. I keep meeting the wrong girls. They order tiny salads with no dressing, and are so uptight I can’t ever imagine sharing a bed with them. Or they’re raucous party girls. Since I quit drinking, I’m like a magnet for women who have a problem with alcohol. It’s exhausting. I’ve given up on dating anyone lately. I mostly just focus on work, or looking after George and Brenda. It’s been a while since I’ve been around any women, or felt this way, but I have to be strong. I start the car, and resolve to keep my shit together. The air between us is full of unsaid words, but we make the drive in silence.

  16

  Carrie

  Wow. The entire conversation was frigging intense. I’m sure I’m covered in sweat, on top of the layers of street grime and blood. I’m su
ch a mess right now. I get that this situation is bad. Really bad. But when someone holds my hand and tells me to trust them, I can’t help being suspicious. How can I? That’s how it all happened back then. His gesture kind of annoys me. He should know better than anyone not to trust people.

  He grew up rough, and he’s a cop. Surely, he knows we’ve all got to look out for ourselves. That makes me wonder why he even bothered with that little speech. Don’t get me wrong, I like being looked after, and it was sweet to tell me April is their priority—but how can she be? There’s no way they’ll give up the chance to get Jessup, and jeopardizing her safety is the best way to make him do something stupid to get her back.

  If what April’s told me about the money he keeps offering is true, then I’m sure he’s willing to go a lot further than Blake knows to make sure she’s okay. There’s so much in this I don’t understand. Ego, family pressure, and history I don’t even know. She’s in real trouble, and I’m not sure if Blake is admitting that to himself, or if he’s just not that good of a cop.

  The truth is, I have no way of knowing if he’s any good at his job. I don’t know him at all, and trust is the very last thing on earth I’m capable of. When he was looking into my eyes, I wanted to pull my hand away. I know I’m broken. Incapable of intimacy. This is according to everything I’ve read about abuse on the internet. There was no way I was visiting a counselor back when it happened. It would have been like a red flag to my bullish parents. But I am a researcher, so I know how to get information for free. There’s no way I’m paying someone to sit there and ask me questions about my teenage years. The more information I have, the more I can handle any situation. Knowledge is power. It gives me control. Right now I know everything there is to know about victims of abuse, and how we respond to the world, and because of that I’m safe.

  We drive in silence. I’m glad he’s letting me be. I have nothing to say. I just need to process what he’s said. The thing that sticks out the most is his request that I leave town. Was that something to do with not wanting me to stay, or does he just want me and my nosy questions about the case out of his way?

  Most cops hate reporters, and that’s because we make them accountable for their actions. There’s no way I’m going to let the NYPD get away with sacrificing a witness for the good of a bigger case. That stuff may make sense to them, but I’ll tell the world if they put April in a single bit of unnecessary danger. The police don’t have the power they think they do, and Blake Anderson needs to know that our old friendship isn’t going to stop me from making sure April is protected.

  The decision is made, and I can relax. If Blake thinks this case is his ticket to climb the ladder, he may want to keep key details from me. I have to find a way to keep the lines of communication open. I need information. Information is currency these days. And in this case, I need him to want to tell me everything he learns that’s relevant to finding April. Then, I need access to his laptop. So, for now, I’ll agree to everything and go along with the plan. It’s the wisest option, and I’m not a woman opposed to plotting to get what I want.

  I play that game every day at work. Life is a value exchange, and if my boss needs to believe something in order to give me better assignments, then I’ll sure as hell make him believe it. That’s what it’s like for women in the media. We have to use the skills and the contacts we do have to get the things the big boys like to keep just out of our reach. I used to call myself a feminist, but now I’m a selfist. Whatever it takes to get what I want, and where I need to go. The rest of the world is black and white, so why should I be the one to compromise? I shouldn’t is the answer to that.

  We pull in to his parking garage, and I’m glad we’ve arrived. I just want to get to bed and sleep. He lifts my shopping bags from the back of the cruiser, and we head up in the ancient elevator to their place. No one is home, and I’m relieved. I like kids, but my head is killing me. We walk through the main door of his place, and it’s lovely. His sister and nephew live on the lower level with the kitchen, and there are colorful rugs on the polished floors and batik on the walls. The place has a primary color scheme, decorated with wooden African masks and a large flat coffee table with cushions around it. There are a few toys lying around, and a coffee cup on the counter. It looks like a comfy family home.

  People live here, a child lives here, and Blake is part of a family. I’m not sure why I’m surprised. Maybe because he seems to have turned out so well, I was expecting more of a utilitarian house—as if a cop should have one type of home décor, and librarian another. People’s careers don’t define them. I know that, I just seem to forget things I know now that I’m around him.

  He pops into Brenda’s room, and grabs me some clean clothes. Thankfully, they look like they’ll fit. There’s nothing worse than tight clothing, or borrowed clothes that are obviously too big. They make me feel like more of an alien than I already do. He passes me the bag with my clean gear in it, and leads me upstairs to his bathroom. I was right, he is a neat freak. Though the top floor is furnished in the same style, nothing is out of place. Even the books on his shelves look like they’ve been arranged by size. Ha! I thought so.

  I stop gloating, and turn on the water. The shower is beautiful. I stand under it for way too long. I need to wash last night off me and as it runs down the drain I start to feel calmer. I love water. It’s so healing, makes me relax. The knots in my shoulders need this, and I need this.

  I jump out and line up my stuff in a neat row on the cabinet. He has everything in order and I can’t help taking a little sniff of his aftershave. Hmm, he smells good. The bathroom is modern and masculine in the way I expected his whole place to be. He even has matching towels. They’re gun metal grey and I grab two, one for my hair which is dripping everywhere, and the other to dry myself between the bruises.

  It’s the first time I properly see the damage done to my neck. The bruises are already purple and vivid against my skin. My forehead cut is actually tiny, it just bled a lot. My legs are grazed, and there are bruises on my arms, but I’m okay. A burst of weird pride surfaces inside me. Of course I’m okay. Being okay is what I do. It’s what I’ve always done, and it’s what I’ll keep doing with or without a man in my life.

  I look critically at my body. I’m not fat, but there are definitely some curves. Overall, I look pretty good. I’m active, I train every other day, and I keep myself fit. I’m waxed because I like it, not because of a man, and I’m happy about not having a boyfriend. I have regular partners, not frequent, but I do like to get my needs met every month or so. Sex is great. It’s healthy, animalistic, and it doesn’t have to be all lovey-dovey to be good for me.

  Harmless fun is more than okay from my perspective—as long as I can go straight home afterward. I never let them come to my place. There hasn’t been a man in my place for years. I dry myself off, and rub the oils and moisturizers I got at the grocery store into my skin. It feels amazing to be clean, and after slipping into Brenda’s clothes, I’m totally refreshed. Blake has no hair dryer, so I twist my hair into a messy bun and I feel ready to take on finding April again.

  I can smell the coffee the moment I open the bathroom door and thank goodness for that. At least he’s a man with his food priorities straight—even if he is lying about something. I pop next door, into the room he told me will be mine, and I dump my bundle of messy stuff on the floor. There’s no way I’m going to be wearing any of those clothes again, so I slide the pile under the bed. While I was in the shower, he brought a few more of Brenda’s clothes upstairs, and some fresh towels. They’re lined up on the guest bed. Part of me wants to just lie down, but that coffee smells so damn good. I’m a sucker for a tall, steaming cup of black. Coffee makes life okay on the days when it doesn’t feel that way. This is clearly one of those days, so I get my ass downstairs.

  17

  Carrie

  He’s put on some sweatpants and is sitting on the cushions around the low table with a steaming pot of coffee. It s
mells frigging great, and something inside me coils at the site of him looking so relaxed and sexy. He seems younger, too, more like he used to be—except for the muscles. I can’t miss them with the low neck of his t-shirt. Christ, he should be in advertisement for that t-shirt, I swear. I laugh when I imagine what it would be like walking along, looking up, and seeing Blake Sexy Anderson on a billboard. This is the man I spent a fair amount of time fantasizing about as a teen, and here we are, alone in his apartment sharing a pot of coffee.

  The pot is steaming between us, and he pours me a generous cup as I slide in next to him on the low cushions. He’s sitting cross-legged, looking casual and comfortable, but I slip into a seated yoga pose to protect my sore back. Brenda’s clothes fit me perfectly, and I’m comfy. I put my elbows on the table and look over the top of my mug at him.

  “So, tell me a story Blake Anderson.”

  He laughs at my tone, and it takes me right back to the way things used to be between us.

  “What do you want to know, Miss James?”

  I decide to jump straight in. “What happened to you in senior year for starters, and how the hell did you decide to become a cop. I thought you hated cops?”

  He looks so thoughtful, as though he’s deciding what parts to share and what to leave out.

  “We left because of my dad. He was a drunk. My mom finally had enough of his bullshit, and left us all. After she left, he only had me and Brenda to take it out on. He used to drink himself blind, and do stupid shit. Lose the car, lose all the food money, get in fights, or just pass out somewhere. He was a prick when he was sober, too. Not one of those enigmatic guys who would go too far. An all-around stinking asshole. I hated him, and I think he hated me. I was always in the way when I was younger, and he resented the responsibility of having kids.