Falling Under

by Lisa Renee Jones

  My hand finds his zipper, stroking the hard length of him, and that seems to set him off. He drags my pants down and licks my clit on the way to pulling them off my feet. A moment later, I’m on top of the counter by the refrigerator, legs wide, his hands cupping my breasts, before he’s suckling my nipples and I’m holding onto his head, wishing the man’s military cut left more hair for my fingers.

  “Jacob,” I whisper, arching my back into him.

  He’s kissing me a moment later, and touching me, and I don’t even know how or when his pants come down. Just that he is pressing inside me and lifting me off the counter, holding all my weight. Holding me in more ways than just my body, and in ways I let no one hold me. He’s consuming me in every way. A part of my life, in a split second, and he won’t let go. I don’t want him to let me go. I bury my face against his neck, but he doesn’t let me seek sanctuary there.

  “Press your hands on the counter, behind you,” he orders.

  I lean back, trusting him to hold onto me, and do as he says, my hands planted on the counter, my breasts thrust into the air. I have no control. He has all of the control and I am oddly, intensely aroused at this idea. His gaze rakes over my breasts. His cock drives into me. His powerful upper body flexes with every pump of his hips. I want to watch him. I want to devour every angle of his handsome, hard features, lost in pleasure, lost in what he feels, rather than schooled in that robot expression. But pleasure overtakes me with a sudden, fierce jerk of my body and I fade into my own panted breaths and barely hear the low, guttural moan that slides from Jacob’s lips.

  He leans over me, hands beside mine, and shakes with his release, while I tremble with my own. At some point, his hand has settled between my shoulder blades, and my hands have found his neck, my chest pressed to his chest. “Holy fuck, woman,” he murmurs, pulling back.

  “I’m not sure how to decipher the meaning of ‘holy fuck, woman.’”

  “Me either, but I’m damn sure going to enjoy figuring it out.”

  He grabs a roll of paper towels and tears one off, before offering it to me. He pulls out and I stuff it between my legs, because at moments like this, there is no beautiful. There is just wet stuff and oh shit, is that my bra, on the light above the island? Jacob pulls up his pants, and settles me on the ground. “I need something,” I say.

  “Anything.”

  “Anything?”

  “Almost anything.”

  “I liked the first answer better, but actually.” I point up and behind him and my reward is a low, deep rumble of laughter from his chest. He backs up and grabs the bra, and hands it to me.

  “I really do like it when you laugh.”

  He sobers instantly. “Then stick around and keep me laughing.”

  “I’m not pushing you away.”

  “And I’m not going to let you.” He kisses me. “I need to update Royce.”

  I nod and he pulls his phone from his pocket, perching on a barstool, and holding a short, barely-there conversation with Royce, before saying, “I told him we are leaving here in fifteen.”

  “That works,” I say, tugging on my boots and then pulling a plastic bag from a cabinet before walking to the fridge to retrieve the note. I reach for it and then hesitate, my mind starting to let go of tonight’s crime scene, to focus on the bigger picture. Jacob steps to my side. “What is it?”

  “This saying is too close to what my uncle always said to me, and others, for that matter.”

  “You said yourself that if the slayer knew you, he would know about your uncle.”

  “Yes, or maybe he actually knew my uncle.”

  “Your uncle doesn’t strike me as a man who would repeat butterfly stories.”

  “No, but maybe the slayer wants to prove that he’s as good of a detective as my uncle. And that I am not.”

  “You’re suggesting it really was Rodriquez.”

  “No. Rodriquez got in the way. This person doesn’t want to die. This person wants to win the game. Or maybe he just wants the high of playing the game. He can’t do either dead.” I turn to face him. “Think about it, Jacob. This note on my refrigerator that said I wasn’t ready. Then two years later, it begins. The butterfly is my friend. The umbrella is my mother. The card to take me back to the note that uses words my uncle used often. My friend. My mother. My uncle. The path started and ends with my uncle.”

  “No, sweetheart. Your uncle is dead. The path might begin with him, but it ends with you. And that means me.”

  When Jacob and I exit to the street outside my building, I don’t feel the slayer nearby. Jacob is another story. No matter what the circumstances, when you have a man as big and intense as Jacob King beside you, you’re aware of his presence, and not just because the man wears his jeans and black leather jacket like sin and satisfaction. Or, in my case, the fact that he’s recently had his hands all over my naked body. Because he’s a force of nature. You just feel it. You know it. He’s the reason I feel comfortable wearing the Burberry trench my father gave me for Christmas, despite my service weapon being buried beneath it. He’s here. He’s fast. He’s lethal. And he’s a healthier eater than me, which is most definitely the reason I’m stuffing my face with a protein bar as we walk, not a candy bar. And why I now have six different flavors of protein bars in my pantry.

  We’re almost to the subway entrance, as I finish off a bar that is supposed to be as good as cookie dough, but it’s not. A short ride later, we arrive at the Walker building. The lights inside the offices are on but the door is locked, which is to be expected at the nearly ten o’clock hour. Jacob uses a key to open the door, and then presses his finger to a sensor. “You weren’t kidding about the fortress,” I say.

  “And we’re always improving,” he says, shifting my overnight bag to one shoulder. “Just one reason why, aside from you in my bed, of course, that you belong here now.”

  My stomach flutters with that statement, you belong here now, that suggests, at least in my mind, that we’re headed toward more than fucking on my kitchen counter. I can’t do more. I won’t let myself get emotionally invested in anyone ever again.

  As if proving that won’t be an easy task where he’s concerned, Jacob snags my hand, pulls me to him, and kisses me soundly on the lips. “Welcome to Walker Security, and my home, Detective Carpenter,” he says, releasing me to open the door.

  I hesitate with this crazy sensation that once I walk into that building, I will never be the same. We will never be the same. I shove the crazy thought aside, and enter what is a pretty normal-looking office space with a reception desk, seating area, and a row of offices lining the left wall. “They’re waiting on us in the conference room,” he says, his hand settling almost possessively on my lower back, guiding me down a hallway and indicating a doorway.

  Jacob drops my bag at the entrance, and then together, we enter a large conference room, the centerpiece of the space is a long, rectangular mahogany table, and it’s far from empty. I quickly count, seven people sitting at various spots around it. The display of manpower suddenly driving home Royce’s urgency to get us here.

  “Detective Carpenter,” Royce greets from the far side of the table, motioning to two empty seats across from him. “Join us.”

  I don’t even think about sitting. I turn to Jacob instead. “What is this?”

  “Teamwork,” he says softly. “All of these people have been involved from day one. You’re just getting to see them firsthand now.”

  “You’ll learn that we do everything big around here,” Royce comments.

  “Only I don’t like to do things big. Not when big means lots of people to make mistakes.”

  Jacobs leans closer, lowering his voice, for my ears only. “They don’t come together without a good reason.”

  And since that reason involves the slayer, I decide that I need to get over my phobia of group mistakes and listen to what Royce has to say. I offer Jacob a quick nod, and in unison, we move to the seats that Royce indicated, where we sit dow
n. Jacob directly across from Royce. Me across from another man who resembles Royce, but has softer features, while a big, burly man sits to my right. There are two women I don’t know. In fact, the only other familiar person in the room, other than Jacob and Royce, is Adam, who gives me a two-finger wave from the end of the table.

  “We’ll start by making the introduction rounds,” Royce says, motioning to his right. “This is—”

  “Blake Walker,” Blake supplies, a smile on his lips and in his brown eyes. “Ex-ATF agent, and of course, the good-looking Walker brother.”

  “I’m his wife, Kara,” the pretty brunette next to him greets. “The one who keeps his ego in check.”

  “I don’t have an ego,” Blake says. “She’s joking.”

  “Kara’s ex-FBI like myself,” Royce interjects, and apparently eager to get things moving, takes over the introductions. “Next to Kara is Asher,” he adds, indicating the tatted-up dude next to her. “He, like Adam is an ex-SEAL. In between Asher and Adam is Sierra.” He glances at me. “As you already know, she has a forensic psychology background.”

  I glance at Sierra, a pretty blonde with soft features, and a sweet voice. “I hope you can help me.”

  “I hope I can too,” she replies.

  “And I’m Savage,” the big burly dude next to me offers.

  I blanch and turn to him. “You’re Savage?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “Who’s with my father?”

  “I left him in good hands.”

  “I know the men with your father,” Jacob offers, squeezing my leg. “He’s safe.”

  My hand comes down on his hand, acknowledging that I heard him, but I focus on Savage, with his dark hair, hard features, and a deep scar down his face. “You look and feel like a killer.”

  “Do you want a Boy Scout guarding your father?” he asks. “Or a killer?”

  “A killer,” I approve. “But you aren’t with him.”

  “I need to know what is going on,” he says, “or I won’t know who to kill on your father’s behalf.”

  “I’ll vouch for Savage,” Asher says. “He’s fucked in the head but good at his job.”

  Scowling deeply, Savage’s head jerks to Asher. “Shut the fuck up.”

  “And welcome to the Walker Family,” Kara says. “Where love is shared with the frequent use of the F-word.”

  “Okay then,” Blake says. “Moving on to why we’re really here. Asher and I found something on a camera near the murder scene that you need to see.” He hits a remote that lowers a television from a high spot of the wall just behind Adam. “Before I show you the footage,” Blake continues, “a few points of interest. The cameras in the building where the crime took place tonight were turned off an hour before the incident, and turned back on right before you arrived.”

  “Which we know,” Asher adds, “because we identified you and Jacob on the footage, entering the building. Which means your Butterfly Slayer is a tech guy, or has a tech guy who helped him turn off and manage the cameras.”

  “You’re suggesting Rodriquez wasn’t working alone,” Jacob assumes.

  “I’m suggesting Rodriquez isn’t the slayer,” Blake replies. “I don’t doubt he was dirty. I found proof that he was working with Gerome for all of the six months he was in the city.”

  “What proof?” I ask.

  “Payoffs in the form of deposits into his bank account,” Blake says. “And communications with Gerome he thought he’d erased, but I found.”

  “You found out all of this tonight?” I ask.

  “Yes,” Blake says. “We did.”

  “And if I might add,” Sierra interjects. “Rodriquez really doesn’t fit the profile of someone capable of the tedious planning involved in this person’s actions. Blake pulled his records for me, and looking back at his performance reports, he was dogmatic. He attacked things in a very now, now, now mode.”

  I look at Jacob. “This explains the card being on Rodriquez’s desk, don’t you think? He put it on my desk and then took it back.”

  “I do think,” he says. “And now would be a good time to give Royce those writing samples.”

  I reach in my bag and pull out a baggie filled with the notes, sliding them across the table toward Royce. “I took photos of writing samples as well,” I say. “I’ll have to email those to you.”

  “I’ll get them to the lab first thing in the morning,” he promises, grabbing them. “Though I make no promises a handwriting analysis will help. I’ve found they tend to be less than reliable.”

  “Back to the camera footage, boys and girls,” Blake says. “Because it’s not of small importance.”

  “There was nothing on the cameras at the crime scene,” I say. “Our forensic team checked.”

  “I know that,” Blake says. “But we don’t give up. Which is exactly why Asher and I looked beyond the building itself.”

  “We found a camera a half block from the building at a corner store,” Asher chimes in.

  “That camera,” Blake adds, “caught the side entrance of the building where Rodriquez died.” He hits play on the remote.

  Security footage begins to roll, and he shows us Rodriquez entering the building. He fast-forwards to fifteen minutes later and pauses. “Here is the important part.” He hits play again and a man in a leather hooded jacket enters the building, an uneasy, familiar feeling washing over me as I watch the familiar way he moves.

  “Do we know who that is?” I ask.

  “We do not,” Blake says, pausing the footage, “but that clip was taken three minutes after the cameras in the building turned off.”

  Jacob leans in close to me, lowering his voice for my ears only. “Any gut feeling about him and trench-coat guy?”

  “I only saw him once two years ago,” I reply, glancing over at him.

  “But what’s your gut feeling?” he presses.

  “That it’s him.”

  “There’s more,” Blake says, drawing our attention back to the television as he fast-forwards the footage, then pauses it again. “This next clip took place three minutes before the cameras were turned back on.” He hits play and the man in the leather jacket, hood still in place covering his face, exits the building and takes off down a side street.

  “I assume,” Jacob says, “that since you told Jewel that we don’t know who this guy is, that we didn’t get facial recognition?”

  “You assume right,” Blake replies. “The jerk-off covered his face and kept it covered.”

  “We even checked cameras on his path to the subway,” Asher adds. “We found him in several screenshots, but he never uncovered his face. We even caught him in the subway, going through one of the gates.”

  Blake grimaces. “Yeah. The gate. Let’s talk about the gate. We were certain that we could pull prints off the one he entered the terminal through, but look at what he does.” He turns on the feed again and we all watch as this man pulls his jacket over his hands and never touches anything.

  “He obviously knows what he’s doing,” Blake says, turning off the feed.

  “What happened at his destination stop?” Jacob asks. “He had to exit the train.”

  “He disappeared inside Grand Central,” Asher replies, “and we assume that means a clothing change took place, but we didn’t find the jacket.” He motions to Adam. “He’s a master of disguise, and disappearing, that’s his thing, if you don’t know it yet. He walked the terminal the way he would walk it if he was disappearing, and we found nothing.”

  “We can assume that he had help,” Adam offers. “Someone who took his jacket and hid it in a bag or something that was carried out of the terminal.”

  “He’s smart,” Blake says. “He isn’t working alone. In fact, he appears to have a team of people working for him, though we have no way of knowing if they know their actions connect any dots. And now we know that he’s not only willing to kill, but he’s focused on you, Jewel.”

  Jacob looks at me. “One might even say he
’s obsessed with you,” he says, and while I knew that was where he was headed, and I’m ready to fight and win, a chill of foreboding still runs down my spine.

  This, of course, isn’t the first time I’ve considered that the slayer might be obsessed with me. It’s been in the back of my mind, nagging at me since the beginning. It’s simply the first time that I’ve known that he’s capable of murder. Which means that I can choose to run and hide, or I can face this thing. I choose to face it. I choose to end it.

  “He’s obviously a member of law enforcement,” I say. “He knows how to cover his tracks and that’s the connection between myself, Rodriquez, and my uncle.”

  “Not necessarily,” Royce argues. “Gerome has been connected to an ex-FBI hacker named Darius Long. He’s good. Really damn good. He knows law enforcement and he damn sure knows how to turn off a camera.”

  “Are you suggesting Gerome was the slayer?” Jacob asks.

  “I’m suggesting,” Royce replies, “that they all have a connection, and a role in what has, and is, taking place.”

  “How do those people connect to my uncle?” I ask. “Because the first note references one of his common sayings and I got it the day of my uncle’s funeral. It said I wasn’t ready. The last note says it’s time.”

  “Like he was obsessed with your uncle, playing cat and mouse with him,” Sierra says. “And wants you to be the mouse.”

  “Yes,” I confirm. “Exactly where my mind is on this.”

  “But he didn’t think you were ready,” she adds. “He told you that in the note.”

  “Darius is ex-law enforcement,” Jacob says, jumping in and looking for answers. “Have we looked for his connection to her uncle?”

  “We didn’t even know about Gerome until tonight to tie him back to Darius,” Royce replies. “His FBI service is far from honorable. We need time to look into him with concentrated attention.”

  “Royce is right,” Blake says. “He and Kara have FBI contacts that could be useful, but they take time to work. And there are places Asher and I can hack for information related to Darius, but that will take more skill than a five-minute search and retrieve, even for me.”