TroubleToysTemptingCowboys

by Jennifer LaRose

  She noticed the top of his hand was covered in scratches when he lifted the remote to lower the volume.

  “Where have you been?” he asked.

  “That, my dear brother, is none of your business.” Despite being leery about arriving home alone, Troy’s presence made her breathe a little easier. “What’d you do to your hand?”

  He glanced at it then crossed his arms, tucking both hands beneath his pits. “Thorn bites from trimming rose bushes.“

  “So, what are you doing here, Troy?”

  “I came to apologize.”

  She walked into the family room and eased down on her favorite plush chair. “We can’t let Mom come between us anymore. I’m serious.” She kicked her sandals off and slowly planted her feet on the cushion, knees in the air. The stretch really hurt her hamstrings.

  “Well, if you’d…“ He paused when her cell phone rang.

  She slid out of the chair and retrieved it from the front pocket of her purse. “Hello?”

  “Hi, darlin’, everything all right?”

  Her insides lit up at the sound of Brock’s drawl. “Yes.” She smiled. While turning toward the hallway, she said over her shoulder, “Troy, I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  “Where you going?”

  Walking away from him wasn’t self-explanatory? Choosing to ignore the question, she continued to her bedroom and closed herself inside for privacy. “Shouldn’t you be getting dressed for the wedding?” she asked Brock.

  “I’m getting ready to take another shower. I just returned from delivering party goods. You put a smile on a few cowboy faces.”

  Her eyes rounded “I did?”

  He chuckled. “They were happy seeing me coming, but couldn’t wait to see me go. I reckon they wanted a quick try-out before attending the ceremony. If so, I imagine it’s going to be one happy wedding celebration.”

  “You’re an angel, Brock. Thank you.”

  “I’ve been called a lot of things, but an angel isn’t one.”

  A long pause fell over the line. Pictures of him sitting partially naked on the porch swing as she’d left him, wavered through her mind. It was where they’d ended up relaxing for an hour after spending the majority of the morning back in bed. The olive oil rub-down he’d promised had primed her for a mind-blowing, body-shattering experience. Half the fun had been holding onto his slippery body while making love. Washing the oil off each other in the shower had provided a challenge neither would forget anytime soon. The blanket they laid on the floor to protect the carpet in his bedroom wasn’t as fortunate, and couldn’t be saved. It had ended up in the trash.

  “You have plans tomorrow?” he asked, breaking the silence.

  The timbre in his voice washed through her like a soft caress. She sat on the bed, yanking the ponytail band from her hair. The strands cascaded over her shoulders and along her back. “What do you have in mind?”

  “Thought we might catch a bite to eat. And if you’re up to it after, maybe fetch us a late-night bull ride.”

  She laughed. He’d spent the past two days introducing her to ways of having sex she’d never imagined. Kinky to her consisted of a toss in the sack with a large dildo shoved in her pussy. Fucking on a mechanical bull? Craving pain? Getting off on a water hose? Climaxing to the showerhead was one thing, but lying in the yard, having her clit assaulted by a stream of freezing cold water? “I’ll be there first thing tomorrow morning.”

  She closed the phone on the way into the family room, and then sat down on the chair. Troy watched her every move, his brows scrunched, eyes narrowed into thin slits. He’d obviously been running fingers through his hair—the brown strands stood in all directions.

  “Who were you talking to that’s so private?” he asked sarcastically, tossing the bag of chips on the table.

  “A friend.”

  “Do I know her?”

  “No, you don’t know him.”

  Troy’s eyes flared. Why’d he look so shocked? It was her life, her business. A simple no probably would’ve been the best answer just to keep peace.

  Running a stiff hand through his already disheveled hair, he stood. “So, that’s where you’ve been all night?”

  “You slept here?” Maybe it was time to ask for her house key back.

  He rolled his eyes. “No, I did not sleep here, but I’ve been waiting on the couch since eight o’clock. You weren’t home when I stopped by for lunch yesterday, so I came back this morning.”

  “I do have a cell phone. And the next time you drop in for lunch, clean up your mess.”

  “The phone works two ways.”

  “In case you haven’t heard, Mr. Woodenhaven was murdered in his apartment last night.” She took a deep breath to calm her tone. “I was scared and didn’t want to be alone so I packed some things and left.”

  “Why didn’t you come to my house? It would’ve been the perfect opportunity to visit with Mom.”

  Her shoulder’s stiffened. What didn’t the man understand? “You just answered your own question.”

  “Sleeping with this guy was more important? Mom spent ten years in jail because of you!”

  “That’s her fault, not mine.” So much for apologies. Oh, he could piss her off at times. Heat flared in her neck and cheeks. “The woman gave birth to me, I’m eternally grateful to her for that, but my feelings go no further.”

  “You can really be a bitch sometimes.”

  “Being locked in a cellar has that effect on some people.”

  “You know what, Tiffany,” he shouted, stomping to the door and yanking it open. “You deserve everything you get. Fuck you.”

  It slammed shut at his back, knocking the pictures on the wall out of alignment.

  She stared at the door, her mouth open, eyes wide. One day he’d see the true monster hiding inside his mother. Fortunately, she’d never raised a hand to him, so he couldn’t understand the pain and suffering Tiffany had endured. He lived with the misconstrued conception that if he hadn’t seen it, it hadn’t happened. The man needed a reality check.

  Pulling herself off the chair, she dragged the duffel bag and case down the hall and unpacked her things. She really wasn’t in the mood to clean, so she decided to lounge in front of the TV for a while. After wrapping herself in a snuggly housecoat, she nuked a cup of tea. Just as she took the first tiny sip, someone pounded on the apartment door. She jumped, upsetting the cup. Tea spilled over the top, burning her fingers.

  She shook the hot liquid off then ran them under cold water, glancing over her shoulder at the door. Two more loud bangs accompanied faint mumbled voices. She tiptoed and peeked through the glass peephole. A police officer in full gear and a casually dressed man stood in the hallway. They had investigated the ground floor last night—she recognized the deeply embedded scar on the right side of the officer’s face. It stretched downward from the edge of his nostril to his jawbone, then upward to his earlobe, resembling a checkmark.

  Reluctantly, she opened the door. “Can I help you?”

  “Tiffany Stoler?” the officer asked.

  “Yes.”

  “We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  Questions? Hopefully Troy hadn’t done something stupid on his way out.

  After she tightened the robe belt, she waved them inside.

  The casually dressed man removed a tablet and pen from his shirt pocket before extending his hand. “I’m Detective Gowen, and this is Officer Wilson, homicide unit.”

  She returned the friendly gesture by shaking his hand. “Hi. What can I do for you?”

  The officer, who wasn’t as congenial as his counterpart, glanced throughout her apartment. “How well did you know your neighbor Mr. Woodenhaven?” he asked, eyeballing the furniture in the family room.

  Thankfully, it didn’t pertain to her knuckleheaded brother. “Not very well at all.”

  “Have you ever been inside his apartment?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “You left a
disturbing message on his voicemail. Would you care to explain it?”

  A message? She hadn’t left him…oh shit! She tightened her robe belt again and switched footing, placing full weight on her right foot. “I was…I…” she stammered, crossing arms at her waist. “I was upset. I responded to a nasty message he left on my cell phone. I saved it. Would you like to hear it?”

  “There will be time for that later,” the officer replied.

  Later? How long did they plan on staying? She walked to the kitchen table, pulled out a chair and sat down.

  The detective kept busy, writing notes. Every few seconds he raised his eyes from the paper to glance at her as if taking notes on her body language. “What type of work do you do?” he asked.

  “I’m a social worker for the county. I also sell…” She saw no need to disclose that particular detail. “I work part-time for Adult Desires.”

  The inquisitive rise of their brows pressed her for further information. Unfortunately, they were not going to back off.

  She took a deep breath and released it slowly, slumping her shoulders. “I’m a party demonstrator for sexual enhancement aides.”

  The detective flipped the page then continued writing. “Would you mind telling us your whereabouts yesterday?”

  “I worked until four-thirty, then spent the evening with a friend.”

  “Does your friend have a name?”

  She nodded. “Brock Halston.”

  “Will he confirm this?”

  What the hell was going on? They were starting to scare her. “Yes. He came back here with me last night. You must have seen him.”

  “We’ll need his address and phone number.” The detective ripped a clean sheet off the tablet and handed it to her along with the pen.

  She glanced at the officer, and then at Gowen. Lowering her gaze to the table, she began jotting Brock’s information. Because her fingers trembled, the writing barely resembled her penmanship. “Why so many personal questions?”

  Wilson placed his hands on his hips, puffing his chest. “We found property belonging to you in Mr. Woodenhaven’s apartment. Would you like to explain how—”

  “Property?” She jumped to her feet. An ouch hung in the back of her throat. “I’ve never, ever set foot in his apartment. What are you talking about?” Her entire body shook. She sucked her bottom lip between her teeth while her heartbeat escalated into a rib-banging thump.

  “It’s a case containing what appears to be sexual enhancement aides.”

  Her stomach vaulted. “There must be some mistake.” She skittered down the hallway, threw open the closet door and pushed the hanging jackets and coats aside. One sole case sat tucked in the corner. She dropped to her knees. “Oh my God.” She patted the floor along the base board as if the second case was a mere speck of dust hiding in the crevice. “One’s missing.” Would Mr. Woodenhaven have broken into her apartment during on angry fit? “He must have stolen it.”

  “Did you report it missing?”

  She sat back on her haunches. “I didn’t know it was missing until just now.”

  “When was the last time you had it in your possession?”

  Last Friday night? No, it was Saturday. She’d shoved it in the closet before driving to Brock’s. No, she hadn’t, she’d left it on the floor. When she returned home she’d put it away. Or was it Sunday before she vacuumed the floor? “Sometime last weekend.” Grabbing the doorframe for support, she slowly rose to her feet. “What should I do? Should I report it missing?”

  The detective patted her shoulder. “It’s a little too late at this point.”

  Her eyes flared. “Am I a suspect?” she screeched.

  “The murder weapon was found inside the case, but right now, you’re simply a person of interest. Do you object to us searching your home?” Gowen asked.

  Murder weapon? Simply a person of interest? What in the hell was that supposed to mean? There wasn’t anything simple about the situation. Was labeling her a person of interest the nice way of calling her a suspect? “My home? Why?”

  “Evidence,” Officer Wilson responded. “If you refuse to give us permission, we’ll obtain a warrant from the court.”

  She grabbed the face of her robe and squeezed it in her fist. “Go ahead. Do whatever you have to.” She moved away from the wall. Her legs still trembled so damn badly, she feared collapsing on the floor. “Can I sit down?”

  Detective Gowen took hold of her upper arm and escorted her to the chair in the family room. She sat on the edge of the cushion while they disappeared into her bedroom. Her right leg shook nonstop, rattling her entire body. Even her teeth clanked.

  Hopefully, they’d hurry and get the hell out. She had nothing to hide. Yet her supply case had ended up as evidence in a murder investigation. And she’d had no clue it’d been missing. Most likely, Woodenhaven had stolen it with the intention of tormenting her until she packed her bags and moved out. But who killed him? And why hadn’t the weapon been taken and discarded rather than placed inside her case?

  A few minutes later, Wilson reappeared. He glared at her while passing on his way into the kitchen. Despite the chattering of her teeth and loud shaky breaths, every minuscule sound rang in her ears. Cupboard doors opening and closing; utensils sliding around inside the drawers, hangers being pushed aside inside the closet. Her heartbeat.

  She couldn’t stand the intrusion.

  “Detective?” the officer yelled from the kitchen. “Take a look at this.”

  At what? Using the armrest for support, Tiffany stood and took a few unstable strides into the kitchen. Gowen stepped around her to greet Wilson who stood glaring inside the silverware drawer.

  “What do you have?” he asked.

  “Steak knives. Look at the engraving in the handles. They appear to match the weapon.”

  Jesus! God! She gasped, clamping a hand over her mouth.

  Wilson glanced at her from the corner of his eye. Gowen turned completely around. “Are you all right, Ms. Stoler?” he asked.

  Bile crept up the back of her throat. Her eyes watered. How could she be all right? She shook her head, turned, and dashed to the bathroom, dropping to her knees in front of the toilet. Perpetual dry heaves wrenched her body in painful convulsions. Her mouth repeatedly filled with saliva she couldn’t spit out fast enough.

  Not only had the murder weapon been found in her case, but it matched her knives?

  Holding her face close to the commode deepened the urge to vomit, but still, nothing came up. She crawled away from the toilet bowl and sat down, resting her back against the wall. She pulled her legs toward her chest and laid her head on her knees. When her stomach settled, she pulled herself to her feet. Hoping to wake up from the nightmare, she turned on the faucet and splashed her face with cold water.

  Unfortunately, things weren’t in her favor at the moment. Somewhere, a reasonable explanation existed as to why this was happening. What would happen to her in the meantime? Where they going to arrest her and throw her in jail?

  Nausea consumed her again. She hung her head in the sink, inhaling long steady breaths.

  “Excuse me, Ms. Stoler,” Detective Gowen said from the doorway. “Do you have an attorney?”

  She froze. An attorney? Her heart beat the hell out of her chest. “N-n…no.”

  “I suggest you hire yourself a good one.”

  Her knees buckled.

  Dear God!

  She swooned and leaned into the counter for stability. “How is all of this possible?”

  “That’s a question you’ll be expected to answer.”

  She slowly straightened, gripping the edge of the counter so tightly her fingers ached.

  “We have to confiscate your set of knives as evidence. We’ll also need to obtain your fingerprints at the station.”

  “My prints are already on file. It was a pre-employment screening requirement by the county.”

  “Will you agree to a swab test for DNA testing?”

  “
Detective, I’m willing to do anything at this point. Just tell me what.” She closed her eyes. “Are you going to arrest me?” Please, God, no. She held her breath.

  “We’ll need you for further questioning, but if you guarantee you’re not a flight risk, we won’t have to take you in right now.”

  She released the air from her lungs while batting her lashes open. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “When we come calling, you’d better be available, or a warrant will be issued. Do you understand?”

  Spelling it out in blood wouldn’t have made it any clearer. “Yes.”

  “Then let’s get the ball rolling. I’ll be back in a moment with my evidence kit.”

  Chapter Six

  Tiffany dressed in a dark blue suit congruent to the circles under her eyes. Finally, the long, horrifying weekend had ended. She’d hardly slept a wink in two days, and it showed on her face. Every eye-closing moment during that timeframe had manifested into visions of a life in prison. She’d turned into a jittery, nervous walking mess. She couldn’t sit still long enough to read a book; couldn’t watch television because every show coincided with crime and punishment. Even the sitcoms somehow referred to spending time in jail. She braced herself whenever footsteps echoed out in the hall, fearing the police were on their way to place her under arrest. And when Brock pounded on her door last night, she’d nearly suffered a nervous breakdown prior to hearing his voice.

  She hadn’t invited him to her self-induced pity-party, nor had she wanted him witnessing her unstable condition. It was why she refused to answer his calls and shut off her phone. Crying in front of someone ranked the same as vomiting in their presence. It literally did not happen.

  Having placed him on permanent ignore, she expected him to show up eventually though, and she’d made sure his trip wasn’t in vain when he did. She had politely told him to go home just to indicate she was safe. It seemed selfish involving him in the situation, which left no options other than to make him go. Sooner or later he’d get the hint and move forward with his own life. But was it fair to push him away without explaining why? Under the circumstances, had their positions been reversed, she wouldn’t appreciate that form of treatment.