Cabin 12

by Freya Barker

  No one questioned the conclusion that the police department is the target, or that the perp is likely local, since we were unable to find any incidents with a similar MO in neighboring areas.

  The last hour and a half was spent setting a tighter protocol in place for all law enforcement, to ensure safety. Not an easy task, since the department budget doesn’t stretch far enough to double up officers in every cruiser.

  I anxiously watched the clock during that part of the discussion, and ended up shooting Bella a message around eleven thirty to let her know things were running late. I figure she’s sleeping since I never heard back.

  It’s a little after midnight when I walk to my truck, a thicker file tucked under my arm, and see Luna in the parking lot up ahead.

  “What’s up?” she asks, turning around at the sound of my voice.

  “I want you to grab a few hours of sleep, and tomorrow hit up gun shops and shooting ranges.”

  “I thought Blackfoot had someone look—”

  “I know, but it can’t hurt to do it again. You have a way of getting answers. Go shoot a few rounds, look around, and talk to other patrons, not just staff.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “Ask Dylan to follow up on that pedal. There’s a bike out there with half of one missing.”

  “I’m going to focus on motive, check arrest records, police involved incidents, anything that may have put a target on their back.”

  “Will you be in the office tomorrow?” She tilts her head slightly and raises an eyebrow.

  “At some point I plan to be.”

  “How is Bella?”

  “She’s...” I want to say she’s okay, but Luna already knows that’s a lie, so I try for the truth instead. “Struggling, and it’s not just because she knew Bert.”

  “I figured.” Luna taps her forefinger against her chin. “The eyes tell a lot about a person. Bella seems so well-adjusted, appears so upbeat and generally happy, but the eyes give it away. There’s a detachment from the person she puts out there for the world to see.”

  I nod my agreement. “Apparently it’s not new.”

  “Depression rarely is. I’m actually surprised she’s talking to you.”

  “So am I,” I admit. “But I’m out of my depth with this.”

  She pulls a pen from her pocket, rips a corner of her file folder, and jots down something on it, then hands it to me.

  “What’s this?”

  “Gary Patterson, that’s his number. He’s a psychologist in Aztec, in private practice and certified in psychopharmacology.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “He can prescribe certain medications. Only a few states allow psychologists to prescribe with appropriate certification, and New Mexico happens to be one. He’s good.”

  This time it’s my turn to tilt my head and raise my eyebrow. “You seem well-informed?”

  She’s quiet for a moment, staring at the ground, and I wonder if she’ll answer or blow me off.

  “If you breathe a word, I will shoot your dick off. You know I will,” she suddenly says, throwing me a heated look. I don’t argue—I believe every word she says. She pauses to make sure I understand before she clarifies. “He’s my therapist.”

  “Appreciate it,” is all I say in return, and I mean it. Luna is extremely private, and it’s pretty fucking big she’s willing to share as much as that with me.

  I tuck the number in my pocket without breaking eye contact, and put two fingers to my forehead in mock salute, before turning toward my truck.

  Making a quick stop at my apartment, I grab a few clean clothes, my shaving kit with a few necessities, and put it all into an overnight bag. In the kitchen, I do a fruitless scan of my virtually empty fridge. I’m starving, it’s been hours since we had the chicken fajitas we threw together, and my fuel gauge is on empty. As an afterthought, I unplug my scanner and stuff that in my bag as well. At this point, I’m not sure what the day will bring, but at least I’ll be prepared.

  When I drive up to the window at McDonald’s my dashboard clock reads quarter to one. Fifteen minutes to spare.

  “I just turned off the fryer,” the kid in the window says when I place my order.

  “Dude, it’s not even one yet. You can’t claim to be open until one if you stop serving fifteen minutes before.”

  Ten minutes later, and forty dollars poorer, I drive off with my order of fries for Bella and a Quarter Pounder with Cheese for me. The house is as I left it, with just the kitchen light on and not a peep coming from the bedroom. When I stick my head around the door, I find Bella still sleeping, her breathing deep and even. I don’t really want to wake her up, so I close the door again and take the food to the kitchen.

  Halfway through my burger, I hear the bedroom door open and the soft pad of bare feet on the floor.

  “I smell fries,” Bella says, as she walks into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes with her knuckles.

  I try not to stare at her top, barely clinging to her tits, as one strap dangles uselessly from her shoulder.

  “Good nose,” I say, shoving the bag in her direction as she sits down on the stool beside me.

  Much like last time I saw her chow down on these, she eats the fries with gusto, stuffing a few at a time in her mouth, barely aware of her surroundings or me. I try to eat the rest of my burger, but the little moans she elicits with every bite are starting to have an effect on me.

  I never considered eating sexy, but fuck...

  The loud crumple of paper disrupts thoughts I should probably not be having.

  “Are you done with that?” Bella points at the empty McDonald’s wrapper in front of me.

  “I’ll take care of it. Go back to bed,” I grumble, probably a bit more brusquely than I need to be.

  Bella doesn’t seem to notice, though. She slides off her stool right beside me, hooks a hand behind my neck and pulls me down for a sweet, almost innocent kiss, before she pads back toward her bedroom, lush ass jiggling with every step.

  I work for another hour, scouring through the Durango PD’s online records, until my eyes cross. I shut my laptop, turn off lights, strip off my shirt, and shuck my jeans before trying to get comfortable on the couch.

  I last maybe five minutes.

  Bella is once again deep asleep, curled on her side. I slide under the covers, plump up the pillow, and tuck a hand under my head, trying to pretend I’m back in college, sharing a bed with a buddy too drunk to make it home.

  There is no mistaking the little whimper, or the round butt scooting back to press against my hip. Can’t say I don’t appreciate the fact—even in sleep—she’s looking for me, but she’s making it awful hard to keep a lid on my libido.

  Yielding to her draw, I roll on my side, hook an arm around her waist and tuck her close. I groan when her ass nestles against a rather hopeful boner, but I still manage to drift off just minutes later, the scent of her filling my senses.

  Bella

  I look at the clock on my kitchen wall again. I’ve done little else since I got up at a little after four this morning, Jasper’s large body pressed against my back. My inner clock is completely fucked.

  I slipped out of bed to use the washroom, ended up having a shower, which I realized I failed to do yesterday, and then tried to distract myself with some mindless TV.

  It is now almost eight and there’s still no sound from the bedroom.

  I felt him slide into bed last night. I purposely rubbed up against him when he didn’t look for contact himself. I was desperate for a continuation of what started in the kitchen yesterday and left me aching for some kind of release.

  When he left the house after kissing me goodnight, I’d slipped my hand between my legs, trying to give myself some relief, but my own fingers rolling my clit didn’t even come close to having the effect the chastest of his kisses has.

  Eight o’clock.

  I tiptoe to the bedroom, peeking around the door I left on a crack, to find him still sleeping, lying half o
n his stomach, one knee pulled up. His back is broad, muscles defined and tapering to his firm ass. His strong legs are covered in light down, just a shade darker than his hair.

  I watch him for a while, indecisive whether to go back to watching TV, or be bold and climb back in bed. Jasper inadvertently makes that choice easy for me when he flips on his back and then over on his other side. I don’t miss the substantial tent in his boxers before he rolls though.

  Tiptoeing over to the bed, I climb in behind him, molding myself against his back as I slip a hand around him and under his waistband, feeling the heat of his cock against my palm. Carefully folding my fingers around his girth, I slowly stroke as I rock my hips into his.

  I’m not sure at what point he becomes aware, but when one of his hands reaches behind and grabs onto my ass, I know he’s well awake. His own hips take up fucking my fist.

  It’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever felt, the ripple of muscle in his back, the dig of his fingers into my flesh, and the heat of his rock-hard cock in my hand. I almost come from that alone.

  “Bella, sweetheart...” his raspy voice groans my name, before suddenly I find myself on my back, his large body leaning over mine, his breath choppy. “Are you sure this is what you want? Because, baby, waking up with your hand on me—I’m already about past the point of no return.”

  Instead of answering, I grab the hem of my top and whip it over my head.

  “Fuck yeah,” I hear him mumble, just before his hot mouth sucks my nipple so deep, my back arches off the bed. While he moves his mouth to the other breast, giving it the same treatment, he one-handedly yanks down my panties. Firmly stroking two fingers along my wet crease, he finds my opening and plunges them deep.

  There is nothing gentle about this. Nothing held back. Pure unbridled lust after a long leisurely buildup. Not even the wild scramble for a condom—which luckily he stocked his shaving kit with—abates the clawing need.

  He holds himself over me, but when I open my legs wide in invitation, he instead curves an arm around my waist and hoists me further up the bed. I know why, seconds later, when he scoots down and his head disappears between my legs.

  Bliss at the first stroke of his tongue. Apparently he works out all over; the hard flicks and deep probes have me teetering on the brink in no time.

  “Not yet,” he mumbles against my soft inner thigh, before climbing back up my body, letting his body rub along the length of mine.

  He braces, an elbow on either side of my head, as he effortlessly lines up his cock at my entrance. I’ve already stopped breathing in anticipation when his mouth covers mine. In contrast to the wild, passionate ride so far, his kiss is soft, tentative almost, as his eyes remain open and alert on mine. He’s giving me a last out.

  All it takes is the tight clutch of my hands on his ass to answer his unspoken question, and with one firm drive, he buries himself to the root.

  “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” Jasper asks as he walks into the kitchen. He just came out of the shower, dressed in only a pair of jeans and rubbing a towel through his wet hair.

  “Calling into work.”

  Jasper ditches the towel on my counter and stalks over, fishing the phone from my hand and tossing it on the couch as he wraps me in his arms.

  “Why?”

  “Why?” I repeat, confused why he’d ask.

  “Yeah, why? Don’t you remember Ryan coming here? Saying he’d make sure you’d be covered for a week. You have strep throat, remember?”

  I remember Ryan being here, but I clearly don’t remember everything that was discussed, which is irritating to say the least.

  “I don’t, actually. I remember a lot but not all, given that I spent most of the time he was here sedated.” There may have been a hint of sarcasm in my delivery, but Jasper is not fazed.

  “That’s my bad. I could’ve reminded you,” he says calmly.

  I hate to admit, but I now vaguely recall Ryan saying something about alienating me and calling the supervisor, right before he stuck a needle in my arm.

  “I need to work, though. I like staying busy.” Meaning I’m afraid I’ll lose my shit once Jasper goes into work, and I’m left with nothing but my thoughts—but I don’t say that.

  “I have a better idea,” he says, digging through his pocket and coming up with a piece of paper with a name and number on it. “Why don’t you see if you can talk to this guy instead? He’s a therapist, I have it from a reliable source he is good, he has a practice in Aztec and is not affiliated with any hospitals. Also, he can prescribe.”

  Panic claws at me at the thought of baring my soul to another stranger.

  “I’d much rather just work, I’m feeling a lot better—clearly.”

  His hands come up to cup my face. “I’m sure you do—for now—but we both know you can’t bury this with work and attitude, Squirt. Gotta treat it from the root, or it’ll keep growing through the cracks.”

  I want to throw sass, but I can’t for the life of me come up with anything scathing or particularly smart to say. Instead I voice what I feel.

  “I hate that you’re right.”

  He grins, dropping his forehead to mine.

  “I know you do, sweetheart.”

  CHAPTER 12

  JASPER

  “You’re cooking again?”

  As she has been for most of yesterday afternoon and evening, Bella is in the kitchen, pulling shit out of the cupboards and the fridge.

  “Breakfast,” she throws over her shoulder when I walk in.

  “We could’ve eaten some of those enchiladas you made yesterday,” I suggest, leaning my ass against the counter, which earns me an eye roll.

  “Those are for Bert’s family. Besides, I already stuck them in the freezer.”

  “And the muffins?”

  “Those too,” she snaps.

  One thing I’m learning about Bella, she cannot sit still. In part I’m sure it’s a way to cope for her, but I’m guessing being industrious in one way or another is part of her upbringing as well. I’ve seen her family in action at Damian’s house. They swarm in en masse and get shit done.

  Her phone rings on the counter and she leaves the eggs on the stove to check the caller, immediately placing the phone facedown on the counter again.

  “Are you ever gonna answer her calls?”

  Bella has been avoiding her mother, who’s tried calling a multitude of times.

  Stubborn. Something else I figure as a family trait.

  “When I’m ready.”

  I grab her hand, which is wielding a spatula, and pull her away from the stove and into my arms. My mouth cuts her off mid-protest as it covers hers. She goes rigid in my arms, but when I rub a hand along her spine—something I’ve discovered she responds to—she relaxes, kissing me back.

  “Morning,” I mumble against her lips.

  “Let me go. You’re making me burn my food again.” Her words are testy, but when I do as she asks and she turns back to the stove, she does so with soft lips and a pretty blush on her cheeks.

  There’s been a lot of that since she surprised the fuck out of me in bed yesterday morning. Me touching or kissing her, and Bella blushing as she tries hard to hold onto the prickly persona she likes to display.

  I get it. There are moments I feel exposed, and my instinct tells me to hide in my digital world, so I imagine it’s no different for her. Habits are hard to break, especially when they’ve become a shield you protect yourself with from the world.

  She did end up calling the number Luna gave me, and I was surprised at how forthcoming she was with this Dr. Patterson over the phone. It had been enough for him to make room in his weekend to see her right away on an emergency basis. She’d balked at first, but conceded eventually.

  By ten, we were on our way to Aztec. I dropped her off at the therapist, before heading to Safeway with a grocery list she’d prepared on the drive down. I do my own shopping ‘off the cuff,’ basically throwing in my basket what looks good at that time, so shopp
ing with a very specific list was a bit of a challenge. By the time I got back she was already waiting outside, face a little blotchy and clutching a prescription in her hand.

  I didn’t ask, but she shared a little on the way back to Durango, said he seemed nice and had persuaded her to try a new low-dose medication, with a minimum of side effects, to help stabilize her.

  Leaving her to her cooking, I open my laptop on the coffee table to check emails. I’d sent one off last night to Keith, with a list of police arrests and incidents for the past twelve months I had flagged for him to look into. There’s an email back from him, saying he’s on it and to call him when I have a minute.

  “You’re up,” he says when he answers my call.

  “And you sound like you haven’t been to bed in a while,” I fire back.

  These past few weeks have worn on the man. Everyone wants answers: the chief, the mayor, the victims’ families, and since the shooting last Wednesday there’s the added pressure of the press hounding him.

  “Not really,” he admits, sounding exhausted. “Let me find a quiet spot. Hang on.”

  I wait until I hear the background noise fade, and the sound of a door closing.

  “You asked me to call?” I prompt.

  “Yeah. Sorry, I need some privacy for this. I’m in my office now.” His words pique my interest. “I have my guys working on the list you sent me, and I’d like you to go further back, maybe do one with anything you can find two to five years back.”

  “Okay.” I’m not quite sure why he had to lock himself in his office to ask me that.

  “You’ll find an incident that probably will raise all your flags, but I want you to leave it off the list. A traffic stop that went wrong in the spring of 2013.”

  “Have any more for me to go on?” I ask, when no further information appears forthcoming.

  “I’m putting my job on the line telling you this much.”

  “Why do you want me to leave it off the list?” I ask, suddenly uneasy with the request.