Exposed - My Mountain Man Protector

by Alexa Ross

  As they disappeared in the distance, Anya didn’t look at me once. I didn’t blame her. We both knew as soon as Blake opened that door that this was a done deal. Anya was the love of his life; I was just some girl he’d had to save from her crazy husband.

  I plopped down on the front step. So this was how it ended. My body felt like it was Angelo’s, like I’d been kicked over and over and over again. Goose bumps stood out from my arms. I was cold sitting here outside the door with no coat, but I was too stunned to move. I could only marvel at my bad luck.

  Blake’s ex-girlfriend, who had dumped him no less, had come all the way up here now of all times. What were the odds?

  Tears started dribbling down, sweeping over my chin and onto the dirt at my feet. The odds didn’t matter. What would happen now was obvious enough to see. I’d be lucky if I got an invitation to their wedding.

  The sky was now a gray sunset, the grayest sunset I’d ever seen in my life. Clearly my choice had been made for me. It was back to my old empty life, where there was nothing left for me.

  As I sat, I glanced up every once in a while, still hoping against all hope that Blake would come back, that he wouldn’t go along with what Anya had so obviously come here for: getting back together. But every one of my glances found the same empty horizon.

  As the sun started to set, I considered setting off with it, leaving here, leaving before Blake could come back with the news he was so clearly going to bring. But even the most minor shift in position reminded me that I could hardly move, let alone walk.

  I sat there on the doorstep and cried, not moving and hardly thinking except for about how my mother’s now-mocking refrain sounded in my head: Be careful, be careful—careful—careful. Well, Mother, it was too late already. I’d chosen wrong again, and all I could do now was sit here, cry about it, and wait for him to return.

  The longer I waited, the surer I grew that he wouldn’t return at all, that I would sit here regardless, waiting, that I would die waiting. After all that had happened, this—this was too much. I lifted my head to see that the sun was completely gone now, that it was pitch black outside. I put my head back on my knees.

  “Claire?”

  I looked up, stunned. It was Blake. Standing in front of me. Alone.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, crouching and scanning my teary face with concern.

  I wiped my eyes. “I… What happened to Anya?”

  Blake sat down beside me and put his hand on my leg.

  “She went back to town. I showed her the way. She couldn’t remember.”

  I glanced over, but his face looked as composed as his voice had been.

  “Why did she come here?”

  Blake shrugged.

  “To see me. She realized she was wrong, that I wasn’t crazy for loving nature, that she was crazy for trying to keep up with the Joneses. She told me she didn’t like the person she’d become, that she’d made a mistake leaving me. She wanted to see what I was up to, figured we could be friends and see where things went from there.”

  Again, Blake was wearing that same composed face, as if he were talking about anyone other than the woman he himself had dubbed “destruction incarnate.”

  “And?” I asked.

  “And she was right, but she was wrong too. She had dumped a different man. There would be no point in being friends, because I don’t love her anymore and don’t think I ever could again. I didn’t know until she said it, until I saw in her eyes what she was really saying and realized that, finally, I didn’t want it anymore. I don’t want to be with her anymore.”

  There was a grim smile on his face.

  I leaned my head on his chest, and he stroked my hair and said, “Don’t worry, Claire. Don’t you worry.”

  I closed my eyes and stopped myself from voicing my thoughts: How can I not worry when you still haven’t told me what I should do—what you want me to do?

  A moment later, he ran his hand over my arm.

  “You’re cold.”

  My response was to snuggle myself into him deeper.

  “Wait here,” he said, extricating himself.

  A moment later, he was back with our two halves of the sleeping bag and some more raisin bread. He draped both tartan parts over me and handed me two pieces of bread.

  “Picked some of our favorite up while I was down there.”

  I glanced over at him, bit off a raisiny piece, and said, “My fav.” Then I grinned.

  As I ate, he watched me. The he said softly, “You know, you are the most incredible woman I’ve ever met, Claire.”

  I smiled shyly back at him and handed him the other bread piece. Once we finished our bread, we snuggled back together, all thoughts of cold and loneliness gone. Now all that was here was a warm certainty of security. With this man beside me, everything was going to be all right.

  That night we collapsed into bed in a heap, snuggled up to each other, and pressed ourselves together tightly. As we made love, my body clung to him with a passion I couldn’t blame it for. After all, this might have been our last night together.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The next morning, I awoke with a lump in my throat. I dressed and packed my things in a daze. I couldn’t touch any of the toast or eggs Blake made us.

  At the doorway, before we set out, Blake enveloped me in a hug.

  “Don’t worry,” he whispered in my ear. “I’m here for you.”

  “Thank you,” I said, though I could barely look at him. How could I not worry when things were still so up in the air?

  The journey back to town seemed to pass in an instant, no matter how I dragged my feet. One second Blake was asking me what my favorite wildflower was so he could pick it for me, and the next we were approaching the Aspen police station.

  The red-bricked building looked out of place, imposing. It was more like a city hall or a school than a place where the law was doled out. Inside it was similarly disarming; the rich amber front desk looked like it belonged in a museum.

  Meanwhile, the bulging eyes of the man behind it were locked on me. “Yes?” his shrill voice asked.

  “I’m Claire Bell. I’m here to see Officer Sherpe.”

  His eyes bulged at me for another moment before he nodded his head and said, “Sit down. He’ll just be a minute.”

  Blake and I sat on a wood bench, the seat and back of which were at a perfect right angle, preventing the sitter from getting into any sort of comfortable position. Sitting there beside me, Blake squeezed my hand.

  “Don’t worry, Claire. You can do this.”

  I nodded, trying to keep my gaze on his massive hand. Just today. I just had to get through today, and then everything would be all right.

  It really was just a minute before a familiar voice said, “Miss Bell?”

  It was Officer Sherpe, looking as angularly impassive as ever, a beige folder in his hand.

  “Hi,” I said, rising.

  “Just follow me,” he said, walking away already.

  I followed him, leaving Blake behind. We passed desks and desks of disinterested, hard-at-work people and then went down a hallway of clear rooms with opaque doors. As we walked, a bang surprised me. I turned to see Angelo, his palm on the clear wall, his face twisted in a smile. I froze, watching him in a trance as he slid a finger across his neck and then pointed to me.

  “Miss Bell.”

  A hand at my elbow. It was Officer Sherpe, his mouth inverted in a scowl.

  “I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have seen that. I was under the impression he was in a different wing.”

  I let myself be led away in a daze. We stopped in front of a room with what looked to be a black electronic box on the door. Officer Sherpe tapped his badge on the black box, and the door beeped and then swung open, and we went in. The room was a not-unpleasant box. It matched Sherpe’s beige folder: beige carpet, beige ceiling and walls, beige table and chairs.

  He gestured to one of the beige chairs, and I sat down on it. Officer Sherpe d
idn’t sit down. He looked at me.

  “I know this may be difficult, Claire, but we’re going to need your testimony to convict your husband. Nothing we have on him is sticking; his alibis are airtight. It’s all up to you.”

  His words swelled the already colossal pit in my stomach.

  “Claire?” he said.

  I nodded. “Can you just give me a minute?”

  “Sure,” he said, gliding to the door. “I’ll be back in five. Don’t sweat it, kid.”

  Behind him, the door shut with an efficient click. Immediately, I felt like running out there with him. What was I thinking, staying here alone when Angelo was only a few doors down? He could escape, make his way down here, and then, rapidly and happily, kill me.

  I stood up and started pacing. What I had to do was obvious. It was actually doing it that was hard. In my head, Angelo’s tan finger sliced across his neck over and over and over again. His message had been clear enough: Tell and you’re dead.

  I stared miserably at the clear window. There was no one there—yet. I kept my gaze locked on the window.

  Being in the mafia, Angelo probably had friends everywhere. He probably had a score of people he could ask for a “favor”—to take me out. Giving a statement to the police would be suicide. I paused and then sat back down.

  And yet I had seen that look in Angelo’s eyes as he had advanced in the plaza parking lot. He was not going to stop until I was dead. Not giving a statement to the police would be suicide. I inhaled and then exhaled, clasping my hands on the desk.

  I thought about it all, from the first moment I met Angelo to his last palm strike on the window, from the sleepless nights alone in Angelo’s bed to curled up in Blake’s arms. I thought of all my hopes and fears, the best- and worst-case scenarios, the outcomes of telling and not telling. I thought of life, my life, who the person I wanted to be was and what she would do now.

  By the time Officer Sherpe returned, I had made my decision.

  “Miss Bell?” he said, sitting down.

  “Yes,” I said. “Yes. I’m ready to tell you everything.”

  And I did. I stood up, and the words surged out of me. I told him about all of Angelo’s sketchy friends, how he was gone nights and slept days. I told him about following Angelo to the factory over a week ago, seeing him kill the man, the message he’d said, and the bullet he’d shot into his head. I told him about everything that had happened afterward: the fake police officer at the cabin, the car bomb, Angelo trying to shoot Blake and me.

  When I was finished, I collapsed back into the chair. An exhausted lightness was fluttering through me. My head was clear and my breaths were deep and calm. Finally, finally, everything was all right.

  Officer Sherpe put his bony hand on mine.

  “Thank you, Claire. Your testimony will help us put Angelo away for good. You’ve been very brave.”

  I nodded and smiled. I had been.

  Officer Sherpe got up and opened the door, and we left. I sailed out of there on a cloud, not even glancing at the room Angelo was in as I passed it. I glided out to the lobby, where Blake rose at my return. We smiled at each other.

  “My turn,” his grin said.

  “Your turn,” mine said.

  As he passed me, he handed me my phone and said, “It was ringing nonstop.”

  I nodded, still smiling, keeping my gaze on him until he was gone. I was free, wonderfully, gloriously free. Who cared what the outside world wanted now?

  After a few minutes had passed and boredom set in, I checked my phone. Three missed calls, all from my mother.

  “We’re here” her text said. “Come have dinner with us.”

  I sighed as I read the message over and over again. Was there any excuse that would be valid?

  I typed out the “okay” before I could think better of it. After all, I did want to see my parents. I was just afraid.

  “Six at Cache Cache. Bring Blake” was her reply.

  I glared at the response. Just what I had expected. My parents were here to see me, sure, but also to meet Blake, to feel him out, to inspect him like the ticking time bomb he could potentially be. They didn’t trust me.

  I started out the “actually we have plans, sorry, but” text before I deleted it altogether. I had just conquered my greatest fear, made public my failure of a marriage, my monster of a husband. What did I have to fear now?

  It seemed ages before Blake returned. It didn’t help that I was in no mood to be on my phone and could only resort to gazing dully out the front-door window, which showed the dull and empty front lawn of the police station.

  Finally, Blake was back, and he nodded and a gestured to the door.

  “Time to go.”

  As we walked out, this time I could only meet his wide smile with a thin one of my own.

  “My parents want to meet us for dinner,” I said in a small voice.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I watched his happiness switch to surprise before finally settling on a hard-to-read neutrality.

  “We don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” I said.

  He grabbed my hand. “I do.”

  I tried to meet his smile. Would Blake be so sure if he knew that this dinner was going to resemble an interrogation more than anything? If he knew that if he was undecided about us before, now he was going to be forced into a choice?

  The rest of the day was spent waiting for the judge’s mallet to descend. Blake and I poked about a few stores and spent way too long draped in Explore Bookseller’s comfy taupe seats with Into the Wild spread between us.

  “Let’s go to Alaska,” Blake said with a grin.

  I didn’t say anything, only smiled back. Couldn’t he tell that every easy comment he made about our future was getting my hopes up even more?

  Finally, after we’d collectively read five pages and talked about 15 or so unrelated topics, my phone read 5:40 and it was time to go. By the time we got to the airy, wooded room, we were early. So were my parents.

  Waiting at the front, my parents spotted us as soon as Blake and I stopped.

  “Claire!” Mother cried.

  She rushed over and enveloped me in an embrace of cashmere arms and jasmine scent.

  “Mom,” I said, burying my head into her shoulder.

  We stayed locked there for a moment. When I tried to extricate myself, Mother held on, her auburn head immobile.

  “We were so worried. So, so worried.”

  I patted her auburn head. “I know, Mom. I know. I’m okay now. I’m sorry.”

  Throwing herself back, her penciled eyebrows arching, she declared, “That terrible man.”

  Suddenly noticing Blake beside me, she paused and, throwing out a rose-nailed hand, said, “Forgive me. I’m Danielle, Claire’s mother.”

  Accepting her thrust-out hand with a shy smile, Blake said, “Pleasure to meet you. I’m Blake.”

  My mother’s eyes flicked to me, immediately noticing his omission of who exactly he was to me.

  I kept my eyes lowered. What was Blake supposed to do, tell them he was my boyfriend when we hadn’t even discussed whether we wanted to be together?

  “Claire,” my father said.

  His round, bearded face was a single gleaming smile. His hug was warm and reassuring, and he was the one who separated first. Now it was on to Blake, whose hand my father shook with a stilted “nice to meet you.”

  “We already reserved a table,” Mother said, sweeping out her arm, “by the windows.”

  She set forth resolutely, ignoring the mousy waitress scurrying behind us. At a nice, glossy wood table for four, Mother sat down first, pulling me beside her.

  “Here, Claire.”

  I sat down beside her obediently, shooting Blake an apologetic smile.

  “Ah, segregation, eh? I like it,” my father said as he sat down. “You and I have a bit of talking to do, young man.”

  “Blake’s actually 30,” I said.

  The table went quiet. My parents exchange a w
orried glance, while I realized I had just said the worst thing possible. Now my parents knew that not only was I involved with a man I had met on a forest hike, but one who was over half a decade older than me.

  The mousy waitress (Jennifer) returning with waters for everyone was a welcome interlude. As soon as she left, my mother turned her frost-shadowed gaze on Blake.

  “So…Blake, what is it you do exactly?”