I am taking a huge risk, and despite feeling like I am doing the right thing, my brain can’t dismiss the possibility that Aeron won’t forgive me. I haven’t contacted him in the week since I left his flat, but I haven’t heard from him either. All I can do is hope that what he feels for me can withstand my attempts to destroy it.
I follow the tide path toward the white house. Everything depends on Aeron still watching. My steps grow more hesitant as I near the area where he’ll be able to see me. I stop and take a huge breath before pulling out the large sign from my satchel. I hold it up toward the house and stay still. I pray that he’ll notice and that he’ll answer.
I stand there, holding my sign and gazing at his study window until my arms ache and my whole body shudders with the chill. When the tide begins to lap at my feet, I realise I’ve been here for hours. I can’t stay forever, but I can’t give in. He must be able to see me. I’m standing right here. My eyes begin to fill with tears at the prospect that he doesn’t want to see me again. Even as my tears streak my face, I stand and look up to him, in his protective tower overlooking the bay.
“You can put the sign down, Tori. I agree. You are an idiot. As to forgiving you, why should I?” His smoky voice spins me around. He strides toward me, coming from the little pathway from his house. I don’t want to put it down, though. He doesn’t look happy to see me. My heart pounds and I suddenly feel sick.
“I’m sorry, Aeron. So sorry. I didn’t mean those things I said. I was scared.” Suddenly seeing him brings all of my emotions to the surface and I’m openly sobbing, still clutching the sign.
“Why are you here, Tori? Is it merely to say sorry and ask me to forgive you?”
“Well, yes, but... I was hoping...”
“Yes?” The storm’s back and he’s angry. He isn’t making it easy on me, although after how I treated him, I can’t blame him.
“I made a mistake. I don’t want to leave you. I love you.” I look at his chest as I admit what’s been in my heart for a long time.
“Thank God.” Aeron pulls me into his arms and devours my lips. “I love you, too, Tori. Please tell me you’re here to stay? Because I’m sure as hell not letting you go this time.”
I giggle at his words, imagining him locking me in his house. The thought of not being with Aeron, of not having him in my life is far more scary than giving up some element of control in my life. “Yes, I’m here to stay. If you’ll have me?”
“Yes, yes. Thank fuck! I’ve missed you.” He continues to rain kisses on my face, lips and neck before pausing to look into my eyes. “I promise we’ll make this work. I’ve thought a lot about what you said and realise there is some compromising we need to work on. I’m prepared to do that. For you.”
His words bring fresh tears to my eyes and I know I’m not going anywhere. The tide splashes up my legs, but Aeron is oblivious to the waves. His gaze is intent on me again, watching my face and the happy tears rolling down my cheeks.
“Can we go up to your castle now, Aeron?” I smile at him, eager to get inside.
“Oh, yes.”
He hoists me over his shoulder and carries me up to the house.
I’m home.
~ End ~
Next Up: Backwater Blessing by Kris Michaels
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By Rachel De Lune
Coming September 2015
Troll River Publishing
Backwater Blessing
By
Kris Michaels
When Cole, Mr. FBI, and Logan, local cop and reigning Ice Princess, hook up to solve a case of Mississippi corruption at the highest judicial levels, sparks fly. Their attraction is hotter than the sultry southern sun. She wants to hate him—but she can’t. And Cole would never commit career suicide by staying in a backwater Mississippi town…not for any woman…especially not for Isabella Logan Church.
Chapter One
“This thing has all the hallmarks of a political nightmare.”
Agent Cole Davis sat in Deputy Director Hayes’ office and waited. Hayes paced, his shoulders hunched, as if the weight of the world pressed down on him. The furrows in the Deputy Director’s brow lay in ruts, slashed deep and chiseled there by years of unrelenting stress.
Cole would do almost anything for the man. Hayes had been Cole’s mentor since he stepped across the threshold into the agency. Green and wet behind the ears when Agent Hayes took him under his wing, the man became Cole’s savior. Their student/teacher relationship lasted through seven years and two promotions, which was amazing by Agency standards. He watched Hayes carefully, hoping his fast-tracking conclusions weren’t the same as Hayes’.
“I need you to go to Mississippi.”
Bulls-eye. Shit, why me?
“Mississippi?” Cole’s voice didn’t betray the emotion peaking under the false calm he projected. Damn it he’d proven himself—many times over. He was one of the best undercover assets in the Agency. Being sent on some podunk assignment to play nursemaid to a county sheriff was a gross misuse of his talent. He knew it and Hayes knew it too. But, if Hayes needed him…
“Listen, this isn’t punishment. The contact I received this lead from is a friend. I met him at a Mensa convention about ten years ago.” His boss scrubbed his hand over his five o’clock shadow and gestured toward the folder on the desk in front of him. “Look, a casual observer would never know it, but Kevin Deadeaux is a genius. His IQ is off the charts. If a fraction of what he believes is happening down there is, in fact occurring, this assignment may be good for your career.”
“May be?” Cole watched as Hayes stood and turned to look out the corner office window. He wanted a view like this. In fact, the drive he had to have his own corner office was the primary reason he’d consider taking this case.
“Taking down dirty federal judges will help to keep you highlighted for promotion. We’re talking systemic corruption and graft. A deputy in Mississippi stumbled onto some information and has a theory. There is more than a possibility the deputy’s instincts could be correct. If it turns out to be a wild goose chase? You did me a personal and professional favor. I’ll owe you big time.”
Hayes had always shot straight. If the man acknowledged he owed you a debt, it was a golden ticket. One he’d take. Cole digested the information and the promise. “When?”
Hayes tossed the slim manila folder toward him. “One week from tomorrow. This is your cover and a synopsis of my conversation with Deadeaux. Because of the federal implications, no one can know about your Agency ties. You’ll go as a D.C. cop who wanted a change from big city crime. You were hired by the Lincoln County Sheriff’s Department. You met the sheriff once through Logan Church, the deputy who put these wisps of information together. Your way past the good ol’ boy system down there is through Church. You met each other at a hostage negotiation school the agency put on here two years ago. You kept in touch.”
The director held up a hand stopping his questi
on. “Yes, the class roster has been altered to show you both went through at the same time.”
Reluctantly taking the folder, Cole asked, “What resources do I have?”
Hayes sat down in his chair and ran a hand through his hair. “Full support on all avenues, but you have to get us the evidence and information without the locals becoming curious. Kevin Deadeaux didn’t go into details, but he’s suspicious of everyone except Church. So, no contact with our local agents down there. We don’t know how deep this stink goes, but from what Kevin insinuates, we could have dirt on multiple levels, local, state and most definitely federal. Dennison will be your contact up here.”
Amber Dennison. Had Hayes purposefully sweetened the pot putting her on his team? The on-again off-again dalliance they enjoyed in the past might be on again. It didn’t even bother Cole to think Hayes might know about their colleagues-with-benefits relationship. Hayes had a way of knowing everything. “Alright, I’ll close out my reports and drift down south.”
The director stopped him before he left the office. “Agent Davis, don’t underestimate these hayseeds. They’ll close ranks if they suspect you’re a fed. Hell, the good ol’ boy system down there would make the seasoned politicians in D.C. green with envy. I don’t need you ending up dead.”
Cole gave him a two-fingered salute on the way out the door. “Roger. I copy. Dying is not authorized.”
*
The small cinderblock building possessed two small windows. A neon ‘open’ sign flashed in one of them. It was the only sign on the building. How in the hell people figured out this was a diner was beyond him. The squat building beside Highway 90 could be anything, but his GPS indicated the neglected structure was Henry’s Diner. The only customer in the place stood when Cole pulled the door open. He’d memorized Sheriff Deadeaux’s picture but since he was the only other patron in the roadside diner, the effort seemed meaningless. The man’s wardrobe consisted of a ‘Happy Hooker’ t-shirt emblazoned with a huge fishhook, faded blue jeans and beat up white tennis shoes. He wasn’t what Cole had been expecting. Yet the older man walked over and stuck out his hand as if they’d known each other for years.
“Damn, son it’s been forever since I’ve seen you! I’m glad Logan talked you into moving south!”
Cole assessed the older man and relaxed. He slipped his practiced smile into place. With a long history in undercover work, adapting to his environment and the situation had become second nature. “Sheriff, it’s great to see you again. I couldn’t resist applying when Logan told me about the job opportunity. Thank you for taking a chance and hiring a city boy.”
The two sat down as an overweight bleach-blond waitress sauntered to the table. Her yellowed nametag sat catawampus on her ample bosom. ‘Selma’ scratched her arm as she asked, “You need some more coffee, hon?”
Kevin lifted his cup and nodded. Cole turned a megawatt smile on the waitress. “A cup would be great. Thanks.”
The old woman did a double take before she shuffled to the far end of the diner to retrieve the coffee pot.
Grabbing the opportunity, the sheriff lowered his voice. “We don’t have much time because Selma will repeat everything she hears and make up what she thinks she’s missing. She’s a primary feeder conduit to all gossip east of the Mississippi River. We’re having a quick cup and we’re going to continue to act like we’re old friends. When we leave, you’re going to follow me to the marina. You got it, son?”
Son? The practiced charm Cole had been casting dropped instantaneously. “Let’s be clear on a few points, sheriff. I’m here as a personal favor to the deputy director. I haven’t decided if I’m staying. Until you brief me on everything you have on this case, my involvement is pending. I’ll follow your lead—for now. And for your information, I am not now, nor will I ever be, your son.”
The waitress started her return shuffle and both men leaned back in their chairs and smiled–two alpha males measuring each other under the pretense of friendship. She plopped down a new cup on the table, filled it and then topped off the sheriff’s mug. She nodded at Cole. “So you know Logan?”
The older officer chuckled to himself. Cole caught the sheriff’s lifted eyebrow. The old woman had listened to their conversation when he’d entered the diner. He’d bet the diner was the perfect place to get or broadcast information.
“Yep, Logan and this guy met when they went to a federal hostage negotiation school in Washington D.C. a couple years back. Been keeping in contact since. Cole here used to work as a police officer in the nation’s capital but decided to come down here and work with my department since the governor funded two more slots per coastal county. Got me a real steal this time, Selma.”
The frizzed bleach-blond hair bobbed with her head as the waitress transferred her gaze from the sheriff to Cole. “Seems like it. You know this town. This one will put a few of those young women’s tongues to wagging for sure. You say you’re actually a friend of Logan’s?”
Cole’s eyebrow rose. The waitress’ blatant hint all but implied Deputy Church didn’t have a lot of friends. Screw it. Hayes had told him the way past the good old boy system down here was through Church.
The sheriff answered for him, “Yeah, Selma, I’d say they’re very good friends.”
The waitress cackled and fell into a coughing fit. When she recovered, she winked at Cole. “Yeah, okay blue eyes, we’ll go with that. Good friends…with Logan. Honey, didn’t anyone ever warn you that’s like being a friend with a ‘gater? You’re asking to get bit. Good friends. Huh…well watch your fingers. I do declare. I’ve got one to tell at the next church circle.” Her words faded as the woman walked through the door to the kitchen.
Waiting for Selma to go far enough for them to talk privately, Cole sipped his coffee. His face twisted in disgust.
The sheriff snorted at Cole’s grimace. “It’s Chicory.”
“What?”
“The flavor in the coffee. We put chicory in it down here. Local favorite. It’s a taste you acquire.” The man across from him took a huge gulp of the foul tasting brew.
“I don’t think so. Tell me I can get a normal cup somewhere.” The thought of going without a good cup of coffee would be enough to tip the scales and get him on the road out of this one horse town.
“Yeah, you can. Ask for a regular grind next time.”
He motioned with his chin toward the waitress who’d taken a seat at the diner counter. “It looks like Selma took the bait, hook, line, and sinker. By the time we get the boat out of the channel, half the town will know you’re here.” Two gulps drained his coffee cup to the dregs.
Cole pushed his full mug toward the middle of the table. That chicory shit was nasty.
“Come on. We have a full day of fishing on the agenda and Logan says they’re biting hard and fast out past the Chandelier Islands.”
Cole stood and threw five dollars on the table. Selma shouted from the counter where her cell phone was now glued to her ear. “Cops don’t pay for coffee in here, honey!”
“Then you keep it Selma and buy yourself something pretty.” Cole’s smile and wink bought him a delighted cackle.
Cole followed the sheriff’s cruiser down the deserted streets before they decelerated and pulled into a gravel lot. He parked and glanced around. The marina appeared clean with fishing boats lining about half of the sixty or so slips. Not one of the vessels was less than thirty foot long. No weekend pleasure boats either. These boats were serious fishing vessels. He stepped to the rear of his SUV and popped the hatch. Cole pulled a pair of flip-flops out, opened his suitcase and found a pair of board shorts. He toed off his boots and jeans right there in the parking lot and slipped on his board shorts over his boxers. He left his t-shirt on and grabbed a ball cap.
The sheriff shook his head. “Regular chameleon ain’t you, son?”
Cole shut the vehicle and locked it. Towering over the shorter man, he replied, “I’m damn good at what I do and once again—I am not your son.”
The sheriff put a ball cap on his balding head and turned toward the pier. “Damn good thing…the next couple months might be awkward otherwise.”
The sheriff turned and laughed and Cole had a feeling he’d been made the butt of some private joke. Following the man down a well maintained boardwalk, their goal became obvious—a fishing vessel moored at the end of the farthest pier. The Backwater Blessing, a fucking huge-ass, charter boat idled in its slip. Backwater Blessing? Really? As far as Cole was concerned, the only blessing he wanted was a quick bust of the dirty judges and then a fast escape, getting him the hell out of this backwater assignment. An engine door in the floor of the back deck was open, and a man wearing a life vest stood looking down into the gaping hole. The sheriff hailed the man. “Hey Frankie! Engine problems?”
As the man turned around, Cole noticed the obvious Down Syndrome traits. He was barefoot and wearing board shorts. He wore a yellow t-shirt with a huge smiley face on it.
“Hi Pawpaw. Logan fixed the engine. Said you was to put out to the channel as soon as you got on board with our new friend.”
Cole walked up and held out his hand. “Hey, I’m Cole. Do you need any help?”
Frankie had a firm handshake. He squared his shoulders and proudly said, “Hi Cole. Nope, Pawpaw and I are good skippers.”
The sheriff climbed the ladder and plopped down in the captain’s chair. Cole watched as his new friend zipped his life vest and unlashed the moorings. He then carefully climbed up the ladder to the captain’s console which stood at least fifteen feet above the deck and the cabin. The radar antenna started rotating when the engines engaged.
Undertow: A compilation of short beach stories Page 16
