“Sweetheart,” Dad said gently reaching for my hand, “we’re just worried about you.”
I nodded but didn’t trust myself to speak.
Finally, after another tense silence, Mike spoke up.
“Listen,” he said. “What if I go back to the city with you?”
I stared at him for a moment, not quite ready to believe what I was hearing.
“You mean…” I started weakly.
“I mean,” Mike said firmly, “this is my mess, I should help clean it up. So...I’ll go back with you and I’ll stay with you until the end of the semester.”
“But, Mike,” Linda said, “you’re shipping out soon.”
“Not until after Christmas,” Mike reminded her, “and ‘Brina’s only got, what two more weeks before the semester finishes up?”
He looked to me for an answer, I nodded again.
“We’ll both come back here for Christmas,” Mike said. “Until then, I’ll stay with Sabrina and make sure she’s safe. That is...if you’re okay with that?” Mike looked at me hesitantly.
It took me longer to answer than it should have. I knew in the back of my mind that it was a good plan, and the thirteen-year-old inside me who still nursed a hopeless crush on Mike cheered at the idea of living with him in my small apartment. All the same, the angry niggling voice that had lashed out earlier still whispered to me that he only wanted to protect me because he saw me as a child. His little sister, nothing more.
Finally pushing that little niggling voice aside, I looked at Mike and said.
“That’s okay with me. At least that way I’ll be able to take my finals.”
“Well, that seems settled then,” Dad said.
We ate the rest of our Thanksgiving dinner in near silence. I kept glancing at Mike across the table. Suddenly, thoughts of him and me alone in my one room efficiency apartment filled my head.
I began to wonder where Mike would sleep. There was not room for a couch in the apartment. Barely room for a table and chairs.
My brain created an image of us sharing a bed. Of his warm, hard body pressed close to me of his arms wrapped around me. I felt my face growing hot, and tried as hard as I could to hide my embarrassment.
Nonetheless, these seductive, forbidden thoughts persisted all through the weekend. And, by the time we got to the city and began walking up the two flights of stairs to my apartment, they were all but out of control.
“You don’t have to worry, you know?” Mike said as we reached the door to my landing, “I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”
He’d taken to interpreting my blushes of lust and embarrassment at the thought of sleeping near him as blushes of fear.
“I’m not worried,” I said straightening myself up.
He looked suspicious as we walked down the hall but didn’t say anything more.
When we reached my door, I gasped at the sight that met us and took two steps back. It was the first thing in two days that made thoughts of Mike, naughty or otherwise, fly out of my head completely.
My door stood open. Everything in the apartment that had stood on shelves or the bed stand or in drawers was now strewn across the floor.
On the open door, I could just make out a sloppily written message in red paint: Welcome Home.
*****
I stood frozen in the doorway as Mike hastily moved in front of me and held out an arm to keep me from stepping across the threshold to my ransacked apartment.
Carefully, he reached inside his jacket and pulled out the handgun he always carried with him when he visited the city.
“Mike, don’t-” I whispered.
“Shh!” he cut me off quickly as he slowly made his way through the small room and into the kitchen. Carefully he opened the only other door in the little apartment, the one that lead to the bathroom.
He stepped aside as the door swung open and he pointed his gun inside. Still standing in the hallway, I saw him step cautiously into the small bathroom and then step out a moment later.
“It’s clear,” he said firmly. “He’s gone.”
I let out a breath I wasn’t aware I was holding, and finally stepped over the threshold, closing the painted door behind me.
“Mike, we have to call the police now,” I said as Mike, still facing the bathroom, carefully put his gun back into his holster.
“It’s no use,” he said again, “they’re not going to-”
“Don’t tell me they won’t be able to do anything,” I said firmly. “This is a break in. That’s what police handle. Break-ins!”
Mike turned to me and heaved a sigh. When his eyes met mine, I knew exactly what he was doing. It was something he’d done since I first met him, when he was sixteen. When he was failing math, he’d refused to go to tutoring, opting instead to study the book on his own for hours each night. When he got an ankle injury in football, he’d refused to see a doctor for three weeks before it swelled so badly that his mom had to force him.
Now that he was grown, things clearly hadn’t changed. Mike didn’t like asking anyone for help.
Well, he wasn’t going to get away with it this time. This time, it wasn’t just a twisted ankle he was messing with.
“Look, you know this guy,” I told him, “you know how dangerous he is. And, given what he’s done here, he’s clearly crazy to boot. We’re going to need help dealing with this and you know it.”
He rolled his eyes at me and I stared straight back at him, crossing my arms for good measure. I wanted him to know that I wasn’t backing down on this.
Finally, his lips quirked into a half smile that I’d always found undeniably sexy.
“You know I hate it when you do that,” he said.
“Do what?” I asked trying to force down the blush in my cheeks.
“Act all smug when you know you’re right.”
Mike put in the 911 call and it surprised me how long it took for the police to arrive. I’d never had to call the police before. All I had to go on was images I’d seen from TV of sirens and dozens of cop cars rushing to a call, perhaps accompanied by an ambulance.
When two lone, tired looking cops showed up after over fifteen minutes of waiting, I was underwhelmed. My disappointment continued when I learned that Mike had been, in essence, right. There was very little the police could do for us.
“So, nothing was stolen and you didn’t see the perpetrator?” The first cop, a tall man with a slight beer belly and a five o’clock shadow asked me.
“Well, no, we didn’t see him but...we...I mean, Mike...thinks he knows who did it,” I said.
“And how do you know that?” the second cop asked turning to Mike. This cop was much younger than the first with darker skin and a clean shaven face.
“‘Brina was...sent something at Thanksgiving,” Mike answered, “it was signed with the first letter of someone I had the past with.”
“What was she sent?” the first cop asked.
I told them about the pictures and when they asked to see them, I pulled the box out and handed it to the second cop.
As he flipped through extremely intimate pictures of my life with very little expression on his face, I began to feel more and more exposed.
Mike seemed to notice this. He stepped closer to me and then took a step in front of me as though he meant to shield me from the officer’s gaze.
“And, about how far back do these pictures go?” the cop asked. Still flipping. He had almost reached the end and I shuddered to think about the last one of me that had been taken.
“About two weeks,” I answered in a small voice.
“And this was delivered to your parent’s home in Rochester?” The other cop asked.
“Yes,” Mike answered for me this time. “Some guy came during Thanksgiving dinner and told Fred, my stepfather, that he had a package for Sabrina.”
Through Mike’s arm, I saw the young officer reach the last picture. His eyes widened in shock and interest and his hands lingered on it a little too lo
ng for my liking.
Mike’s too, apparently. Because he took another step towards the young cop before asking in a harsh voice:
“You done with that?”
The cop quickly dropped the picture and snapped the lid closed. I could see a hint of color reach his cheeks as he cleared his throat.
“Did you get a look at this guy who delivered the package?” he asked, “could you describe him?”
“No one saw him,” Mike said, “the doorbell just rang and Fred, Sabrina’s father, found the package there.”
“And this...person you suspect,” The young cop continued, “do you have any idea where he might be now? Do you know where he’s living or…”
Mike shook his head.
“I haven’t seen him in three years,” he said, “he got out of prison about two years ago. That’s as much as I know. His name’s James Mcbride. If you do a search, I’m sure you could find him in your system.”
The younger cop looked at the older one who said, slightly reluctantly, “Sure. We can take that. And we can take the box in and see if we can do a handwriting analysis on the note and take some prints. It could match someone we’ve got on file.”
“What do we do in the meantime?” Mike asked.
“What do you mean?” the young officer asked.
Though I was standing behind him, I could tell that Mike had rolled his eyes at the officer.
“I mean a crazy man is stalking my step sister,” he said. “She needs protection.”
The young cop and the older one looked at each other hesitantly once again. Finally, the young one responded.
“I know this feels really scary. But, honestly, I wouldn’t worry about it too much. Chances are, that’s all he wants. To scare you. We get threats like this all the time. People rarely follow through on them.”
“Thanks,” Mike said sarcastically, “if he does come back, I’ll just try to remember that.”
The older cop heaved a sigh
“Look,” he said “if you’re scared, we can put an officer at the end of the street at night for the next week or two,” he said, “that should deter anyone coming back.”
“What about during the day?” I asked timidly.
“These guys usually don’t try to pull anything major in daylight hours,” the young cop answered in what I assumed to be a comforting tone, “I wouldn’t worry about that.”
Still feeling not at all assured, I watched the cops walk down the hall with my box of photos and photos of our painted door.
“I told you they wouldn’t be able to do anything,” Mike said as soon as I shut the door behind them.
“I’m sure they’ve got other things to worry about,” I answered. After all, this wasn’t a murder or anything. All we had were some photos, red paint, and a vague threat.
“In the meantime, they’re going to do fuck all to find McBride,” he said.
“They promised they’d try,” I reminded him.
“Oh, sure they will,” he answered sarcastically, “but, like you said. They’ve got better things to worry about.”
“Well that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” I said. “To make sure he doesn’t...do anything?”
I had to admit, the idea of a madman wandering the streets with me as his target was not comforting. But, the idea that Mike was here gave me a little more courage.
“Don’t worry,” he said more calmly now, apparently sensing my trepidation, “he’s not going to try anything while I’m here.”
I relaxed a bit at that.
“But, I won’t be here forever,” he said moving towards the pack he’d brought with him, he pulled out his laptop as he spoke.
“I’m shipping out again right after Christmas. I would feel a hell of a lot better if I could find McBride before then.”
He picked up his laptop, carried it over to the table, pulled out a chair and sat down. I followed.
“What are you going to do when you find him?” I asked. “The police aren’t going to arrest him. We’ve got no evidence.”
“Who said anything about arresting him?” he asked.
“I just assumed that was all you could do,” I said.
“Not necessarily,” he answered cryptically.
Half of me wanted to press him further about it, but something in the tone of his last answer stopped me.
Instead, I pulled out the second chair at the small table and sat down next to Mike.
“So, where are they sending you this time?” I asked.
Mike didn’t lift his eyes from the computer screen where he was typing and clicking away furiously.
“You know I can’t tell you that,” he said.
I knew that. SEALs, when they did go out of the country, were usually on top secret missions. Which meant that no one, not even their family could know where they were or what they were doing.
“Doesn’t stop me from asking,” I answered. “I worry about you over there, you know?”
“You do?” Though he still didn’t look up from his laptop, I could see the corners of his mouth curve up into a smile.
“Of course I do!” I answered very quickly. “It’s dangerous what you’re doing. I know that even if you can’t tell me anything else.”
“I guess it is,” Mike answered. “Still, you shouldn’t worry. I’ve got a good team behind me. And, I can look after myself.”
“I know you can,” I said. “I’ll still worry, though.”
He looked up at me then and I felt my heart begin to beat quickly in my chest. His blue eyes stared directly into my brown ones, and I knew I’d said too much. I looked down quickly.
“We all do, you know? Me, your mom, of course. Even Dad though he doesn’t want you to know,” I said. I was talking so quickly I wondered if he understood a word of what I was saying, “I mean, we’re family. That’s what families do. They worry about each other.”
I heard a small sigh issue from him and I dared to look up again. Now he was not looking at me. His eyes had turned back to his laptop, but he was no longer typing. He pursed his lips into a thin line and, for one flash of a moment, looked almost disappointed.
Almost as soon as I caught the expression, however, it was gone. When he looked back up at me, he was wearing a guarded and entirely forced smile.
“You know what? Just for tonight, let’s stop worrying for a little bit,” he said as he closed the laptop in front of him.
“What should we do instead of worrying?” I asked forcing a smile of my own.
“Well, first we need dinner,” he answered. “Do you have anything to eat?”
“There’s ramen in the pantry,” I answered.
“That’s it?” he asked.
“It’s what I can afford,” I answered with a shrug.
He nodded and after a second said, “Okay, so a home cooked dinner is out. How about take out?”
We ended up ordering takeout from a cheap but good Chinese place I knew of up the street. The rest of the evening was spent watching Christmas movies via Netflix on my laptop as I didn’t have a TV.
Mike insisted that I pick out all the films. And, he watched all of them, even the stupid made for TV holiday specials without complaint. Though he did often offer his own commentary.
“I don’t get it,” he said during one (even I had to admit) particularly inane one about Santa’s daughter for some reason having to fly her dad’s sleigh on Christmas eve, “Santa comes from Saint Nicholas, right?”
“Yeah,” I answered.
“And he was supposed to be celibate, right? I mean he was a Catholic Bishop,” he said.
“I guess he was,” I said, trying and failing to keep my mind on the film in front of me. This was particularly difficult because Mike had moved his chair so close to mine at the table that we were practically touching. I could feel the heat coming off of his arm.
“So, if he wasn’t supposed to have a family,” Mike continued slowly, “why is he always married in all these Christmas specials.”
&
nbsp; “I don’t know,” I said honestly, “I guess they’re trying to make him more relatable.”
“He’s a guy who lives with elves, owns a pack of flying reindeer and flies around the world in one night,” Mike answered, “how relatable can he be? Even with a wife!”
I giggled at that before answering.
“Well, I guess, for the purposes of a romantic comedy movie,” I said, “Santa has to have kids so that those kids can fall in love with normal people. Otherwise, you couldn’t make romances that involved Santa Claus.”
“And that would be such a loss for the world,” Mike said sarcastically, I gave him a light slap on the arm before giggling again.
We stayed like that through the rest of the movie. Mike making silly comments and asking logical questions, me pretending to be annoyed by it. Me finding little excuses to touch his arm or hand for a second and feeling slightly ashamed of myself afterward.
Finally, at midnight, we mutually agreed that it was time for bed.
After I put on my PJs, brushed my teeth and washed my face in the bathroom, I came out to see Mike still in his day clothes sitting at the table with his laptop out. A focused look on his face.
“I thought we said no more worrying tonight,” I told him, walking towards the chair where he was sitting.
“I’m just looking at a few things,” he said without looking at me. “You can go to bed, ‘Brina. I’ll go to sleep in a bit.”
“Where are you going to sleep?” I asked. There was only one bed and while it was a Queen, big enough for both of us, I wasn’t sure it would be a good idea to have Mike sleep next to me. If I felt the heat from his body from beneath the covers, I was not sure that I would be able to control myself.
“I’ve got a sleeping bag and a pillow in my duffle,” he answered, “I’ll sleep on the floor next to the door. If anyone tries to get in again, they’ll have to step over me to do it.”
“Ok then,” I answered feeling both relieved and disappointed. “Goodnight.”
“‘Night,” he answered distractedly, still looking at his laptop with his brow furrowed.
As I climbed into bed, I snuck an interested peek at his screen.
What met my gaze was a picture of a large man with a shaved head, several long tattoos on his neck and sharp, beetle black eyes.
The Crime of Protection Page 15
