by Freya Barker
“Mostly,” she admits.
“Can I be honest?” I ask, but don’t really wait for an answer. “That scared the hell out of me. Has that happened before?” She tries to look away, but I take her chin and force her to keep her eyes on me. “Isabella?”
“My dad calls me that.” She smiles a little as she says it, but I’m not about to be distracted.
“Has it?”
She shrugs. “A few times when I was younger, but only once like that.”
“And what causes it?”
“Mostly it’s just stress building up. Feelings I don’t know what to do with or get rid of. Then at some point the bucket is full—spills over—and I can’t control it.”
“Like it did last night.”
“Yeah, like that.”
I think for a minute, wondering how to phrase the next question without throwing her on the defensive.
“Do you have someone you can talk about these things with? A sister or a friend?” I know I’ve hit on something when she starts tearing up again and shakes her head.
“No one I’d trust,” she confesses, before getting up and walking to the couch where she sits down in a corner. I don’t like the way she pulls up her legs and wraps her arms around them defensively. As if she’s in need of protection from me. But at her next words, I have a better understanding why she needed the distance. “My family probably would just have me committed again.”
“When was that?” I ask, getting up and following her to the living room, purposely taking a seat right next to her, but looking straight ahead.
“When I ended up a mess at my parents’ house a year and a half ago,” she admits in a soft voice. “Mom called my sister, Chrissy, for help and between them they had me admitted for a seventy-two hour stay in the psychiatric ward. The same damn hospital where I just walked out on my job—where Philip worked,” she huffs. “First thing the psychiatrist asked was whether I felt guilty for what my ex had done. After my seventy-two hours were up, he sent me off with a prescription and a diagnosis of clinical depression. I stopped talking after that.”
My hands are fisted in my lap, and my jaw is clenched so tight, I wouldn’t be surprised if I cracked a molar. The best I can do without losing my shit is make what I hope is a sympathetic sound, and I feel rather than see her shift in her seat to look at me.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know how much Damian—”
“I know enough that if I ever bumped into your douchebag ex on the street, I’d castrate him,” I grind out between my teeth, interrupting her. “Clearly I’d need a magnifying glass and a pair of tweezers to find his puny pecker, but I’d make sure he could never use it again.”
Her soft giggle surprises me and I turn to face her.
“Puny pecker? Not saying it’s not true, but how would you know?” she asks, and I’m more than happy to enlighten her.
“It’s a known fact, only a guy with a tiny dick thinks he needs to prove his manhood by either sticking it in as many women as he can, or by driving a bigger truck than he can handle.”
She’s quiet for a moment, staring off in the distance when suddenly her mouth drops open, and she turns to me, mischief dancing in her eyes.
“You drive a big truck.”
I grin right along with her, before I lean close, wiggle my eyebrows and share, “Difference is, I know how to handle a big stick.”
After this morning’s episode, I never thought I’d have Bella laughing so hard, this time the tears rolling down her face are those of hilarity.
Job done.
CHAPTER 10
BELLA
“So did it work?”
I look up at Jasper’s question.
Laughing apparently makes you hungry, since my stomach hasn’t stopped rumbling since. I’m frying up tortillas in my cast iron pan, while Jasper is doing something with the leftover roasted chicken and veggies that were in my fridge. Luckily, I always have tortillas and enough cheese in the house—my snack of preference—so putting a quick meal together is not a problem.
“Did what work?”
“You mentioned that doctor in the hospital gave you prescription; did the medication work?”
“I guess, but it also made me feel even more like a zombie. I didn’t have any more emotional meltdowns, but then, I wasn’t feeling much of anything at all. I hated it. I quit as soon as I moved out from under my mother’s watchful eye.”
“Did you ever try finding a decent doctor here in Durango? Maybe there’s something you could take only as needed?”
It’s strange, from anyone else I would find this line of questioning invasive—even judgmental—but I’m not getting that from Jasper. I find myself talking freely about things I’ve kept close to the chest.
“Other than the odd family physician, most doctors in Durango are affiliated one way or another with Mercy. I really don’t want to mix work and private lives ever again. Besides, I don’t know how this might impact my job. It’s the one thing I’m good at.”
I hear the clatter of the knife on the cutting board, but don’t have a chance to look before I find myself pinned to the counter, Jasper’s much larger body pressed against my back, his chin on my shoulder.
“I still have a lot to learn about you, but I’m willing to swear that your job, by far, isn’t the only thing you’re good at.” His warm breath brushes my cheek, as my body instinctively presses deeper into his.
It feels good, both the words and the solid presence of his body behind me. I drop my head back, giving myself over to the moment, and he responds by opening his mouth on the exposed column of my neck, where I know he can feel the pounding of my heart against his tongue. He slides a hand from my hip, around to my stomach, and up between my breasts. When his fingers find their way under the edge of my robe, their soft stroke on my skin sends a shiver through me.
I’m floating on sensation, head back and eyes closed, afraid if I move I’ll lose the feel of his breath brushing my skin, the heat of his palm curving around my breast. My knees feel weak and I lift my arm to hook behind his neck, anchoring myself.
He groans deeply—a delicious rumble I can feel to my toes—his free hand spreading on my lower stomach, holding me firm as he rubs his very noticeable erection against my ass.
“Jas...”
No sooner has his name left my lips, when the shrill peal of the smoke alarm goes off. Instantly the heat of his body is gone as he grabs a towel, wraps it around the handle of my smoking cast iron pan, and lifts it off the stove.
“Get the door, babe,” he instructs, moving fast through the house to the front.
My brain and my legs, both still wobbly, don’t respond immediately.
“Bella—door,” he barks over the din of the alarm.
This time the message filters through and I mumble, “I’m not a dog,” under my breath, as I rush to do as he asks.
He slips past me, down the porch steps and sets the pan in the dirt of my driveway, as I rush back, grab a towel, and start waving it in front of the offensive alarm mounted high on the wall.
I turn my head when I hear him come walk in, a shit-eating grin on his face.
“What?” I snap, firmly tugging the sides of my robe closed, but he ignores my bite, puts a hand in my waist and drops a hard kiss on my lips.
“We almost set the place on fire.”
Still looking smug, he pushes me aside, reaches up and with annoying ease, dismantles my alarm and pulls the battery loose.
Luckily, it’s only my last tortilla charred in the cooling pan outside, there are plenty left for dinner, which we eat in complete silence.
With the endorphin rush from our earlier encounter—and the flood of adrenaline at the near fire—fading, the heavy blanket of depression settles back on my shoulders. So when my phone rings while we’re clearing dishes, my voice is tired when I answer it.
“What’s wrong, mi hija?”
Ma doesn’t bother saying hello, but goes straight into mother mode.
“Nothing, Ma. Just a bit under the weather.”
“You’re not looking after yourself. I was just saying to your papa, I worry about you with Damian away. And now with this awful business of someone shooting at policemen. I think you should come home.”
I roll my eyes to the ceiling as I walk into the living room, slumping down on the couch. This is typical of my conversations with my mother, or anyone in my family for that matter. They ask how I am, only to dismiss whatever answer I give, and proceed to tell me what my problem really is.
“I am home, Ma. This is my home,” I assert myself, but as usual it falls to deaf ears.
“Nonsense. You’re renting someone else’s home. I still don’t get why you insist on living out there. No stores nearby, no neighbors—you scream—and no one would hear you. What if something happened?”
“Nothing is going to happen to me, and I like it here, Ma.”
Jasper quietly sits down beside me, and I’m grateful for the hand he puts on my knee in silent support as my mother rants on.
“How can you say that? You think you’re safe when police officers get killed in the streets? I can’t sleep at night, worrying about you out on those same streets. That’s not a job for someone like you.”
I’m familiar with the jab of disappointment her words cause. Not like I haven’t heard them before.
“Same job I did in Farmington for many years, Ma.” I’m so tired of this same discussion, time and time again. Yet here I am, voluntarily banging my head into the same wall.
“And look how that turned out,” she fires off, also not unexpected, but no less damaging. “At least your family was here to pick up the pieces.”
As if my job had anything to do with my breakdown, but apparently that’s more palatable than the hell Philip put me through, or the fact I may have suffered from depression most of my life. Those are shameful things one does not talk about in my family.
“Why did you call?” I ask, exasperated.
“To check up on my baby, of course. Someone has to.” The kicker is, she sounds genuinely surprised I should ask.
“I’m fine, Ma. Just fine,” I lie, suddenly bone-tired. “It’s just a little cold.”
“You sure? I could be there in a couple of hours if you need me.”
“Positive. Give my love to Papa.”
The moment I end the call, Jasper’s arms circle me and pull me to his side. I close my eyes and lay my head on his shoulder.
“That sounded painful,” he shares, pressing a kiss in my hair and I almost laugh out loud.
“You have no fucking idea.”
Jasper
No, I don’t, but after listening to her side of the conversation and picking up at parts of what her mother was saying, I’m starting to get a clearer picture of Bella. A keener understanding of her.
I realize while I’m getting to know her better, because she’s trusting me with parts of her she clearly holds close to her chest, I haven’t been quite as forthcoming.
“You’re right,” I find myself saying. “I don’t know much, if anything, about family dynamics. I grew up in foster care. I know little about where I come from, other than apparently I was found curled up, sleeping in a church pew in Hannover, Pennsylvania.” I hear a small gasp coming from her, and immediately following, feel her body snuggle in closer, her arm crossing over my stomach.
“How old were you?”
“Three. There was a piece of paper pinned to the blanket I was covered with. It had my age and my name; Jasper.”
“So were you adopted?”
I bark out a laugh. In hindsight it is a little funny. “No, but not for lack of trying. You could say I was bounced around by the system, mostly because people were fooled by my angelic looks, when I was really a holy terror.”
This time it’s Bella’s turn to chuckle. “Doesn’t surprise me.” Her teasing words are immediately followed by a deep yawn.
“So yeah, the concept of family has always been rather alien to me. I’d look at yours, the way you care for each other, look out for each other, and I have to admit it never occurred to me that kind of closeness could be confining. I’m starting to see how it might.”
“Do you miss it?” she asks, stifling yet another yawn.
“Can’t miss what you never had.” I shrug, before untangling myself from her hold and getting to my feet. “Besides, my team is my family,” I share, pulling her up from the couch.
“Where are we going?”
“I’m putting you to bed before you fall asleep on my lap.”
“I wouldn’t be averse to that.” She smiles coyly, and I stop to capture her face in my hands and kiss those pouty lips.
“Maybe, but it would put serious strain on my control,” I admit, and the moment she opens her mouth for a smart retort, I press a forefinger to her lips. “Don’t tease me more, you’ll make me forget I’m trying hard to be a gentleman.”
She purses her lips against my finger, but follows me into the bedroom without another word and sits on the edge of the bed, about to untie her robe.
“Don’t you have something to sleep in?”
“Top drawer,” she says, pointing at her dresser.
Jesus fucking Christ. That’s all I need, a drawer full of lacy confections. I’d hoped for more of the decent cotton panties I saw her wear in the hospital a few weeks back, but I guess I caught her on laundry day.
The only thing of any substance I can find is what looks like a flowy tank top with thin straps and a matching pair of panties. A fucking baby doll nightie—at least the cotton isn’t see-through.
I hand it to her just as my phone buzzes in my pocket, and I use the excuse to hurry out of the room.
“Greene.”
“Jas, it’s Luna. I just got a call from Blackfoot, he’s expecting us at his office in half an hour for a briefing on the shootings. Wants us to bring whatever we have.”
Shit. That means Bella will be alone.
“I’m in a fucking tough spot here.”
“I know. I tried, but he was adamant everyone be there.”
“Fine, I’ll figure something out,” I concede, looking at my watch. I thought it was later than eight. “I’ll be there.”
I slide the phone in my pocket and head back to the bedroom, where I find Bella just coming out of the bathroom.
I was wrong.
The cotton does nothing to make the scant bits of clothing any less sinful. Bella’s shapely curves are on full display, and they fucking make my mouth water.
I’ve never limited myself to any one particular body type when it comes to women. I’ve probably sampled all there was on offer at some point during my twenty-five years of sexual activity, but it all pales in comparison to the picture Bella makes in that less than innocent fucking nightie.
“Get in bed,” I tell her, my voice hoarse as I hang on the doorknob like a life vest.
Thank God she does, but not without flashing me her juicy backside as she climbs in. I have to close my eyes and take a deep breath before I approach the bed.
“I have to go out for a bit.”
“I know,” she says, batting her long lashes against the fatigue straining her face. “I heard you on the phone. I’ll be fine,” she adds.
“I don’t want to.” I sit down on the edge beside her.
“I know that too,” she says, smiling as she reaches out and lays her hand against my cheek. “But I really will be fine. I feel like I could sleep for a century.”
I turn my head and kiss the inside of her palm.
“I’ll get your phone, put it on your nightstand, in case you need me before I get back, and I’ll lock the house up tight before I go.”
“You’re coming back?” The genuine surprise is evident on her face, and I lean down, plant my elbows on either side of her head, and rub her nose with mine.
“That shouldn’t even be a question,” I assure her, taking a quick taste of her sleepy lips. “I should be back by ten, but if I run late
for whatever reason, I’ll send you a message. Just turn off the ringer so it doesn’t wake you up. Need me to bring back anything?”
Her eyes already closing, she hums as she shakes her head. I drop another kiss on her forehead and make my way out of the room to fetch her phone. By the time I return and drop her phone on the nightstand, she looks to be already asleep.
“Fries,” she mumbles, as I’m about to shut her bedroom door.
“What?”
“Bring me back McDonald’s fries.”
“Sure thing,” I promise, before pulling the door shut behind me, a smile on my face.
Fries it is.
I make sure the stove and oven are off, gather up my files and laptop, grab her house key, and do one last check of windows before I lock her safely inside.
I don’t care what it takes, but come hell or high water, I’ll be back here with her fries before McDonald’s closes.
My hopes this meeting will be a fast one are dashed when I walk into the Durango PD boardroom, fifteen minutes later.
The room is packed with anyone remotely involved in the investigation: CBI, Colorado State Patrol, La Plata County Sheriff’s Office, and half the Durango PD, along with their chief of police, Tom McMahan. Everybody is fucking present, up to and including the blasted mayor of Durango.
This may take a while.
CHAPTER 11
JASPER
“Hey, Luna, hold up!”
The damn briefing had taken much longer than I’d hoped, but at least we came away with a few more questions answered, and a few more leads added.
The CBI forensics lab had made quick work processing the shell and bullet from the second scene, confirming the same weapon was used as in the first shooting. They also reported, based on some rubber residue found on the slugs, the use of a suppressor was likely. The one bit of real news was the partial thumb print they found on the shell. All good information, but only if we have a gun and a suspect to match it to.
Nonetheless, there are still too many questions around the suspect; motivation being one. Why would someone start picking off police officers one by one? The only concrete pieces of evidence, which might be helpful identifying him, are that fingerprint and the partial bike pedal recovered from the trail.
