Half-Broke Heart (Combat Hearts #1.5)

by Tarina Deaton

  Denise sang an off-color jody cadence under her breath as she jogged around the bend in the road. Normally running helped clear her mind, but today it kept going back to how quickly Sarah was deteriorating. She wasn’t ready to face the reality of losing one of the two people she was closest to, but it loomed over her like a dark coastal storm, ominous and stifling.

  The Wiggle Butt entrance came into view a quarter mile down the straight stretch of county road. The dogs she was running sensed they were close to the end and tried to pick up their speed, pulling her out of her morse thoughts once again. Telling them to heel, she slowed to bring them back by her side. She maintained her normal nine-minute pace until they reached the top of the drive.

  Telling them to heel once more, she slowed to a walk and propped her hands on her hips, watching the toes of her shoes as they ambled up the road. The dog on her right pulled at the lead. “Nein.” She pulled back on the leash. “Fuss.”

  Looking up, she saw Chris sitting on the bottom steps of the stairs leading up to her apartment. Well damn, he looked good without a shirt on, but in a light-blue button down, opened at the collar to show off the ink on his chest, and a five o’clock shadow. Down right panty-meltingly delicious.

  Little flutters started low in her belly. Tiny butterflies she’d thought were long past dead and gone.

  She’d already made the decision to text him back after her run. Bree getting called into the police station the night before because of another murder investigation and then her own back-to-back training appointments all day hadn’t given her a lot of time to think about what she wanted to say. “Sorry I left your balls blue” seemed a bit presumptuous.

  “Hey.” It came out breathy since she was still catching her wind from her run.

  The younger dog tried to pull again to get to Chris, excited about seeing a new person. “Nein. Sitz.” The dog whined but sat as she was told.

  “Aren’t you worried about being cut in half?” he asked.

  She looked down at the hands-free waist leash, guessing where his gaze was directed since he hadn’t taken off his stylish sunglasses yet. “No. I only use it for the dogs who are already lead-trained.”

  “Do you take all the dogs running?” His elbows were propped on his knees, his hands relaxed between his spread legs.

  Had he come just to talk about the dogs? She pulled a water bottle from the pocket of her waist strap and took a swallow. “Only if a client asks for them to be trained for it or the dog has a lot of energy.”

  “Can I pet them?”

  She was glad he asked. So many people didn’t, thinking the dogs were just pets. She unclipped the right lead from her waist and waited until the dog had settled before telling her, “Frei”.

  “German commands?” He scratched the dog behind her ears.

  “Yes. It helps the dogs from getting confused by anyone else trying to give them commands.”

  “Does it have a name?”

  “Sadie.”

  “What about that one?”

  She looked at the dog sitting patiently on her left. “Toothless.”

  “She doesn’t have any teeth?”

  His hands stilled when she laughed. “He has teeth. He’s named after the dragon in the movie How To Train Your Dragon. The client’s daughter named him. She said he was all black like Toothless, so her dad went with that name.”

  “Go to dinner with me.”

  Her heart skipped a beat and she worked to keep her breathing steady. She stood on a precipice. It would be so easy to take a step back. And safe. Staying in her comfort zone with her dogs and her few close friends. A step forward meant falling into the unknown. Taking a chance and the risk of letting someone into her tightly controlled space, even if it was only for a little while.

  “No.”

  His face tightened and his shoulders hunched forward almost imperceptibly.

  “I’ve already got dinner in the slow cooker, so we’ll have to eat here.”

  He visibly relaxed. “What are you cooking?”

  “Buffalo ranch chicken.” She unclipped Toothless from her waist and pulled the Velcro fastening apart. “Besides, it’s Tuesday.

  “What happens on Tuesday?”

  “Face Off comes on. Can you bring her?” She tilted her chin to Sadie. “I need to put them in their kennels and feed everyone.”

  He stood from the stairs and she felt him at her side.

  “What’s Face Off?” He fell into step with her.

  “One of two reality shows I watch.”

  “Is it a mass murder reality show?”

  They reached the converted barn and she lifted the latch on the door. “No. You’ll see.”

  He helped her refill the food and water dishes before following her back out of the barn and across the crushed gravel yard to the office.

  It was weird taking the stairs up to her apartment at a normal pace instead of two at a time, but she didn’t want to appear like she was in a rush or running from him. She was overly conscious that her ass was likely right in his face as she climbed the stairs. Did she have sweat trickling down her back and butt? She should have let him go first.

  Unlocking the door, he large at her back as they entered her apartment. She kicked her shoes off next to the door as Sprocket ambled toward them.

  “Hey girl.” She rubbed her ears, leaning down to let Sprocket sniff her face.

  “You don’t take her running?” Chris asked. His shoes clunked on the floor behind her.

  “God, no. She’s the laziest dog in the world. It’s an effort to get her to walk down to the mailbox.”

  She assessed her apartment with a critical eye, considering it from someone else's perspective. The only person who had ever been there for any length of time was Bree. At only eight hundred square feet, it was still more than she needed. The majority of the space was taken up by the kitchen and the bedroom, two areas she hadn’t been willing to skimp on.

  Glancing over her shoulder, she said, “It’s not much, but it’s home.”

  “It’s nice.” He pushed his sunglasses up on top of his head. “How did you find this place?”

  “The property or the apartment?” she asked, walking into the kitchen.

  “Both?”

  “Bree found the property with the barn already on it. It needed a roof, but the old horse stalls were perfect for what we wanted to do.” She opened the fridge and pulled out a large pitcher of filtered water. “When Bree and I decided to start the rescue, I was living in a crappy apartment in Raleigh. We needed an office building and Bree talked me into a two-story structure so we could turn the top into an apartment for me to live in.”

  She poured two glasses of water then replaced the pitcher. “I need to take a shower. You're welcome to wait out here.” She realized there was nowhere else for him to sit. “Well, this is pretty much the only place you can wait for me.”

  Chris stepped closer to her. “You mean I can't wait in your bedroom?” he asked with a smirk.

  “Sorry, no. That's not an option.”

  He shrugged. “It never hurts to ask.”

  Oddly disappointed, even though she’d told him no, she pointed out the TV remote and told him to help himself to whatever he wanted to drink. She rushed through her shower, not taking the time to give her hair a full conditioning like she normally did. She pulled on jeans and a v-neck t-shirt, throwing her hair up in a clip.

  Chris was flipping through channels when she exited her bedroom, Sprocket close on her heels.

  “Are we eating soon? Because it smells delicious,” he said, looking over the back of the overstuffed couch.

  “Right now. I use collard greens to make the wraps.” she asked.

  He pushed up from the couch and joined her at the counter. His shirt stretched just a little at the shoulders, pulling at the seams and his arms were encased in the thin cloth. He really needed a larger shirt, but then his physique wouldn’t be so nicely showcased.

  Her eyes snapped back to
his. “But I have tortillas if you’d prefer.”

  “I can’t say I’ve ever had collard greens that weren’t cooked.”

  “They're not bad.” She shrugged and opened the fridge, grabbing the bushel of greens and bowl of coleslaw. “It adds a fresh snap to the chicken and the coleslaw. I'll fix you one with the collard greens and if you don't like it you can switch to a tortilla.” She pulled the lid off the slow cooker and the smell of hot sauce wafted out of the pot.

  He stuck his nose over the pot and inhaled deeply. “Jesus Christ, woman, that smells good.”

  “Wait until you taste it.” She pulled the chicken breasts out of the pot and shredded them before scraping the pile back in and mixing it with the sauce to keep it moist. Piling chicken and coleslaw onto the collard green leaves, she fixed two wraps for each of them.

  He looked at his plate then back at her. “That’s all I get?

  She smiled at his disbelieving tone. “You can have more.” She picked up her plate. “I usually eat on the couch.”

  “That’s good with me.”

  He followed her once more and when they sat on the small leather loveseat, he took up more than his fair share. She could feel his heat once again, even though he was at least a foot away. A warm, fluttery feeling formed low in her abdomen.

  She really needed to get these responses to him under control. Curling her legs under herself she asked, “Do you mind if we watch Jeopardy?”

  “Your house, your TV.”

  “Hand me the remote?”

  He held the remote in front of his chest instead of handing it to her, making her reach across him to get it. A tiny smirk played at the corner of his lips, teasing her with the memory of how they felt against hers. She grabbed the remote lower than she needed to, dragging the pads of her fingers across the top of his hand. He licked his lips and she could see his nipples pebble under his shirt.

  She might be out of practice, but she still knew how to play the game. “Thanks,” she said before turning to the TV and flipping the channels as if they hadn’t been flirting over the remote.

  His gaze burned her skin. Glancing at him, she raised her eyebrows. “What?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing.” He picked up one of the wraps and took a large bite. Closing his eyes, his head fell back and he groaned. “Oh my god,” he said around the food in his mouth. “Shit. Do you cook like this all the time?”

  “Um…I’ll probably eat this for a week.”

  He took another bite. “No, you won’t. You’re not going to have any left.”

  “Why not?”

  “Beause I’m going to eat it all. This is so good.” He polished off the rest of the first wrap and dug into the second, devouring it before she’d even finished half of her first one. “I can help myself, right?” He didn’t bother waiting for an answer, but rose from the loveseat and stalked into the kitchen.

  “Yup.”

  He watched her while fixing himself another plate. Holy hell, she made some good food. He’d never considered the old adage “a man’s heart is through his stomach,” but now he understood where it came from. Her apartment suited her—comfortable leather furniture, bookcases filled with an assortment of topics, pictures of friends and family on the walls, but no useless bric-a-brac. Her apartment was…her. No fuss, no nonsense, but there was something about it all that made him want to kick back and stay awhile.

  He sat back on the small loveseat, closer than he’d been before. She wasn’t getting any room to run.

  Her phone rang and she looked at the caller ID before answering, shooting him an apologetic glance.

  “Hey, sweetie. What’s up?”

  He didn’t think it was a guy. Not a guy he needed to worry about if she was calling him “sweetie” in that tone.

  “Okay, can she talk on the phone?” She set her plate on the low table in front of her an unfolded her legs. “Have you eaten?…Do you want me to bring you buffalo chicken or do you want McDonalds?…McDonalds it is…I’ll be over soon.” She took the phone away from her ear and shifted on the couch so she was partially facing him, cocking her knee up between them. “I need to cut dinner short. My cousin isn’t well and her kids haven’t eaten anything since lunch at school.”

  “Is it the flu?” He took the last bite of his wrap.

  She toyed with the hem of her shirt. “She has terminal cancer. She’s supposed to go into hospice next month, but I think it may be sooner than that.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” It sucked to lose someone that way. “How old are her kids?”

  “They’re nine and eight, but sometimes they seem so much older.” She picked up their plates and took them to the kitchen, placing them in the sink.

  “How far apart are they?”

  “They’re Irish twins,” she said, unplugging the slow cooker.

  He recovered the coleslaw and put it in the fridge. “I don’t know what that means.”

  “They’re less than a year apart.”

  “Oh, wow, really?”

  “Yeah.” Her tone didn’t invite more questions about her young cousins. She’d become more distant in the last few minutes, as if she was closing herself off from him—not looking directly at him and being short with her answers. “Come on, Sprocket, we’re going to see K2.”

  Sprocket lumbered up from her spot on the floor. Denise locked the door while Chris went down the stairs and waited for her at the bottom.

  “I’m sorry tonight got cut short, but thanks for dinner.” He wished her hair was down. A strand he could tuck behind her ear or brush away from her face, so he had some reason to touch her.

  “You’re welcome.” She angled her body away from him, as if she’d already started walking away. “Thanks for showing up unannounced.”

  He shoved his hands in his pockets to keep from touching her. He remembered how her breasts felt crushed against his chest and he wanted to feel it again. That and more. “That’s what you get for blowing me off.”

  “I was going to text you tonight. With everything that happened with Bree yesterday and back-to-back appointments today, I didn’t have a chance. I wasn’t trying to blow you off.”

  “What happened with Bree?”

  “It's kind of a long story, she had to go to the police station yesterday. Jase knows all about it. He can fill you in, but I need to go take care of my cousins.” She pointed toward the back of the building where he assumed she kept her car.

  Screw it. He was going to touch her. Leaning forward, he gently grasped the back of her arm and kissed the corner of her mouth like he did Sunday night, barely touching his lips to the edge of hers. He felt the shivers run through her as he trailed his fingers down the back of her arm to her hand, squeezing her fingers before releasing her.

  “Don't be a stranger,” he said. “I’ll try not to text stalk you again.” He got in his truck and watched as she walked around the back of the building her large dog next to her. Denise rested her hand on top of the dog’s head, threading her fingers through the fur. He started his truck and drove home, more determined than ever to figure out the mystery that was Denise Reynolds.

  Chapter 5

  Chris caught the foam football, thrown in a perfect spiral at his head. “Have we heard from Andrew or Teresa?”

  He and the three other members of the new task force were discussing the situation with the Southern Anarchists, a red-neck motorcycle gang. He refused to call them a club. He had friends in a club, even rode with them sometimes. The SAs ran guns and drugs and were branching out into human trafficking—they were nothing like the guys he knew.

  “No,” Phil said. “They’ve been radio silent going on three weeks. They’ve missed their last two check-ins with their handler.”

  Stephanie, the newest member of the team, held her hands up for the ball and Chris tossed it to her. “That’s not normal, is it?”

  “They’ve missed a scheduled check-in here or there before, but never two in a row,” Phil explained.

&n
bsp; “Fuck,” Darren said. “I got a bad feeling about this whole mess.”

  Stephanie squeezed the ball. “My source said they got sent on a run to northern Georgia and he hasn’t seen or heard from them since.”

  “Did they mention the run the last time they checked in?” Darren asked.

  “It’s not in their notes.” She threw him the ball.

  Chris paced beside the long table in the conference room, both hands behind his neck. He had the same bad feeling Darren did. Stephanie trusted her source, but no source was perfect. It was possible he was playing both sides of the table, selling to the highest bidder. Or passing bad information at the direction of his gang boss. Either way, his gut told him something about the situation was off and Andrew and Teresa were probably dead. He didn’t voice his opinion, although he and Phil shared a few concerned looks.

  “What about the rumors Eddie Perry might be granted parole? How is that going to impact the dynamics in the gang?” Darren asked.

  “Good question,” Chris said, motioning for the ball. He squeezed it and tossed it between his hands while he paced. “Could lead to a power struggle. Make it easier for us to break them up.”

  “Who’s Eddie Perry again? I’m still learning all the major players,” Stephanie said.

  “You probably would have only come across his name in passing. He was the former VP of the SAs. Sent to jail way before your time,” Phil said.

  “What’d he go away for?”

  “Manslaughter. Beat a good Samaritan to death when he tried to help Eddie’s former wife get away from him at a gas station,” Chris said.

  “Who’s the wife? Is she a resource we can tap?” she asked.

  Phil flipped through a file on the table. “Sarah Reed. She lives in Fayetteville with her two kids. She’s a damn kindergarten teacher.”

  “How the hell did she hook up with a guy like Eddie Perry?” Darren asked.

  Phil thumbed through some more pages. “Doesn’t say.”

  “At least we’ll have some leverage with the kids if Eddie gets paroled,” Stephanie said.

  That train of thought didn’t sit right with Chris at all. “Since when do we use kids as leverage?”