Bound by Blood Box Set

by Lane Hart

  "Yeah," he moans, not bothering to lift the side of his face from the litter and piss covered alley pavement.

  "Great, now up at and at 'em." I yank his short, pudgy, but rather athletic, body up by the back of his shirt that's still dry and smile when I hear him gag.

  By the time we make it back to the street entrance a police cruiser has pulled up. Opening the back door I unceremoniously toss the suspect in the back seat, and brush off my hands, glad to be rid of him.

  "So, what's up next on today's crime fighting agenda?" I ask my partner.

  "Give me…a fuckin' minute…to catch my breath," he replies, while still panting.

  "Jesus, you've had like ten minutes. When was the last time you went to the gym big man?" I ask, slapping his protruding gut when he straightens.

  "I hate the gym."

  "Who actually likes it? It's not something anyone does for fun."

  "You hardly ever go. Why aren't you huffing and puffing?" he asks, glaring at me.

  "Better genetics. Now, are we just going to stand around here the rest of the afternoon, or do I have to go get the car and come back to round you up, Miss Daisy?"

  "Let's go," he grumbles, shoulders hunched.

  I lead the way to our cruiser, still parked in front of the apartment building where all the fun began. Since we were the backup unit to the scene we leave the other officers to deal with the annoying paperwork. We can write up the chase later on when we're back at the station.

  I sit down in the driver seat of our car, cranking up car and the air conditioning before fastening my seatbelt. Lyons radios dispatch, asking for our next call. It's a domestic disturbance. In other words a drunk man, beating on his wife, girlfriend, or baby's mama. And I'd bet my most favorite body part it isn't their first boxing match either.

  I flip on the lights and sirens until we pull up to the curb in front of the apartment building. We rush up the stairs to the third floor where a man's deep roars echo clearly through the stairwell.

  Oh good, he's still here.

  I don't waste any time beating my fist on the unit door then yell, "Police, open the door or we'll open it for you!"

  The man's shouting cuts off in mid-rant, then I hear him say, "Fuck! You called the cops on me?"

  A woman's soft, tear strained voice answers, "No! I swear! It wasn't me. It-it must have been one of the neigh-" Her sentence is cut off with a loud whap sound of flesh meeting flesh.

  "That's it, we're coming in!" I yell. I wish I was strong enough to just bust down the damn door with my shoulder. I'm not, so Lyons hands me a lock kit and I go to work popping it. A second later we're in without property damage.

  Lyons has his taser out, but I'm not fooling around and instead go for my Glock.

  "If you have weapons drop them now, and put your hands up or we will shoot!" I warn.

  I push the door open with my left hand while steadying the gun in my right and quickly take in the scene before me.

  The apartment looks like the Tasmanian devil has been whirling through. A haggard, stocky white man with shaggy dark hair, looking to be in his late twenties or early thirties, stands with his hands in the air over a beautiful, young, redheaded woman kneeling on the floor. I ask myself the same thing I always do, why the hell is she with someone like him?

  Lyons heads over to cuff the bastard while I help the fallen angel to her feet.

  "Are you okay? We received a call from one of your neighbors who was worried about you. Rightfully so, apparently," I say, loud enough for the man to hear and know the woman hadn't called him in. Not that he cares.

  "I didn't touch her!" the asshole yells.

  The woman's red hair covers half of her oval face that's pale and luminescent, with a few scattered freckles that don't distract from her beauty, but instead make her more endearing. I can barely see just one of her lowered bright green eyes, but it's enough for me to notice the interspersed hypnotizing gold swirls.

  Once she's standing in front of me I realize she's smaller than I first thought, and my hands mold right into the perfect curves of her hourglass figure. A figure one would only know is there by touch, since it's hidden behind loose fitting jeans and a blue, oversized sweater…even though it's the end of July.

  More concerned for her after feeling her body tremble, I gently push the long strawberry blonde strands from her face to check for injuries. Tears now stream from both emerald eyes, and one is already swelling shut. The urge to use both of my fists to pommel the face of the bastard that did this is almost staggering.

  Over the last few years I've managed to finally suppress what was once a destructive temper, but now it's trying to claw its way out of me. It wants to be set free to avenge this woman, to hurt this asshole until he bleeds and begs for mercy. The thought that I might bust my own knuckles open on him, revealing what I am, is the only thing that pushes the compulsion down. That and the frail woman still standing in front of me. God only knows what other horrible shit he's done to her.

  I lift her arm to raise the sleeve of her thick sweater, and gently rub my fingertips over the circular bruises spaced apart like a man's harsh grip. The yellowish coloring tells me they're too old to be from today. This is an ongoing problem she's been dealing with, and sadly, one that probably won't end anytime soon.

  When I feel her chill bumps raise underneath my fingertips, it suddenly seems like my own hand catches fire. The scorching warmth continues to radiate up my arm and throughout my body, until it feels like I'm burning from the inside out. I've never felt anything like it before, but after being cold for so long I welcome it. I greedily crave more.

  Who is this woman and why am I responding to her in such a bizarre way?

  While I'm searching her face her green golden gaze finally meets mine for the first time. A second, just one single second is all it takes for her eyes to sear right through me, all the way down to my black soul.

  Part of my job is providing protection, and my heart always breaks for the victims of domestic violence. But I've never felt such an instantaneous and fierce desire to be someone's protector. Her protector. I want, hell, I need to help this woman, to comfort her. And God help me, the urge to hold her in my arms, to touch more of her is so incredible that I have to order my hands to let her go and my feet to take a step back out of reach.

  What the fuck is wrong with me? She's a victim for Christ's sake, and regardless of whatever is screwing with my head, I have to get the hell over it and do my damn job.

  "Ma'am," I start, and then have to clear the gravel from my throat. "I think it'd be best to get you to the hospital and have you checked out," I tell her.

  Physically she's probably okay, but getting her away from the residence and somewhere she might feel safe to talk is the best chance of extracting an honest report of the abuse from her. And to get photographs, along with a medical report to document the injuries for the court case.

  She nods in acceptance of my suggestion, but won't raise her eyes back to mine.

  "Have a seat and I'll be right back," I tell her, gesturing toward the couch. I head out the door to catch up with Lyons, who's leading her prince charming to his awaiting chariot.

  "After we load him up you got him?" I ask as we go down the first set of stairs, each of us holding onto one of the bastard's arms. Adrenaline is still pumping through my veins, and I'm afraid that if I don't get away from him I'll do something I regret. No, not regret, but killing him would require me to move again and I like it here.

  "Yeah, you going with her to the hospital?" Lyons responds.

  "Doesn't need a hospital. I didn't touch her!" the asshole yells in my face. I jerk my head in the opposite direction as far away as possible to get away from the god awful stench of alcohol on his disgusting breath.

  "Right, she clearly looks like a woman who'd punch herself in the eye, grab her own arm hard enough to leave bruises, and no telling what else. Jackass. What's your name anyway?" I ask.

  He ignores me, but Bryson answ
ers, having already searched his wallet. "Mitchell Douglas."

  "Well Mr. Douglas, enjoy jail. I'll be sending ass rape wishes your way."

  "Maddox," Bryson warns in a sigh as we start down the last staircase.

  "What? He needs a good healthy dose of being a bigger man's bitch. Maybe that'll teach him not to hit women. See what you can do about arranging that sort of hospitality," I tell him, opening the cruiser door and helping squeeze the man in.

  "Fuck you!" the dickhead curses. I swear the thud of his forehead against the top of the car's frame is completely accidental.

  "I'll call you when I'm ready for a pick up," I holler to Lyons, then run back up the steps while at the same time radioing in for dispatch to send an ambulance. We could just get a cab, but I don't think she'll feel comfortable in the back of one with me, a man she doesn't know and probably doesn't trust, even with the badge. Hell, I don't trust myself to be that close to her. My womanizing ways have reached an all new low.

  When I walk back into the apartment she's right where I left her, sitting rigidly on the couch.

  Pulling out my pen and paper from the back pocket of my uniform, I sit down as far away as possible from her on the couch, trying to give her space.

  "Can I get your name?" I ask.

  "Cynthia Taylor," she answers softly without looking at me.

  "Okay Cynthia, what's your date of birth?"

  "July first, nineteen eighty-nine."

  God, she's just a baby at twenty-five. I'll be forty-fucking-one this November on mine and my sister's birthday. Damn I miss Liz and my mom. The familiar guilt that I wasn't able to save either of them hits me in the gut, heavier than a ton of bricks.

  "Is this your current address?" I ask, after beating the thoughts of my past back down.

  "Yes."

  "Is this his current address?"

  "Yes."

  Fuck.

  "I take it this is not the first time he's physically abused you?"

  "He-he didn't hit me."

  "Let me guess, you fell down the steps? Slipped in the shower? Tripped and hit your face on the door knob?" I ramble off all the typical explanations.

  "Yes," she replies.

  "To which one?" I scoff.

  "Any of them, all of them," she offers with a shrug of indifference.

  "What is a beautiful woman like yourself doing with an asshole like him?" I ask, then cringe because my brain to mouth filter didn't catch the word 'beautiful' before it left my lips.

  She turns her head away, hiding her face with her curtain of hair.

  Frustrated with her silence, I look around the apartment where mostly broken items lay strewn about, then my eyes find a round hair tie on the coffee table.

  Grabbing it up I approach her slowly as if she was a scared kitten that might run. "Cynthia, is it okay if I touch you? I promise I'm not going to hurt you, okay?"

  She looks up at me a second before she nods. I hesitate, wondering if touching her again is such a good idea with her recent abuse and the weird as fuck pull I feel towards her, but I can’t resist.

  Running my finger through the softness of her thick hair I gently sweep it back from her face, inhaling the sweet green apple scent of her shampoo. Piling up her hair I wrap it all in a messy bun like I watched my mom and sister do a million times with their long auburn hair.

  "There, now I can see your face, and try to read from it what you're not telling me."

  Her eyes stay down, making me want to reach out to tip her chin up so I can see the shimmering emerald color again. Instead, I sit back down several feet away from her, and go back to my questions.

  "So, how did the fight start?"

  "We weren't fighting."

  "Look," I say with a heavy sigh. "We're going to charge him whether you help or not. We've got neighbors as witnesses overhearing the verbal argument, and my partner and I both heard him hit you before we came in. Why are you protecting him?"

  "I don't want him to go to jail," she responds, looking down to where her small hands fidget nervously with the seam of her sweater.

  "Why not? You'd rather have him here hitting you instead?"

  She blows out a breath. "It's always worse after he comes back."

  "Then help us put him away for longer."

  "He'll get out eventually, and then he'll take every second he's in there out on me."

  "There are a couple of local shelters for women where you can go and he'll never find you."

  "And they'll let me live there forever?" she asks sarcastically, finally making eye contact with me. "He. Will. Find. Me." She emphasizes each and every word.

  I wish I could tell her he wouldn't, but that isn't a promise I can make. I want to do something, damn it! I want to be able to keep her safe, because no one deserves what he puts her through. But how to keep her safe as long as he's alive, I have no fucking idea.

  "Come on, let's start heading downstairs. Do you want to change first?" I ask, nodding to her sweater. "It's getting really warm outside."

  "No. I'm fine," she quickly responds, grabbing her purse and cell phone.

  The ambulance arrives shortly after we step out onto the sidewalk, and a few minutes later Cynthia is being examined and tended to by the staff in the emergency room.

  I grab one of the nurses by her arm before she goes back into Cynthia's curtained triage room, speaking to her quietly.

  "I'm not having much luck getting her to talk. Will you try and find out more about what happened today, what's happened in the past, and if there has been any…sexual abuse?" My jaw clenches in anger at just thinking about him laying a finger on this woman, when he doesn't deserve to breathe the same air as her.

  "Sure," the middle-aged veteran nurse answers with a nod.

  "Also, can you maybe help me convince her to go to a woman's shelter?"

  "I'll try my best," she says giving me a sad smile.

  Two hours later and Cynthia is actually talking and acting more like a normal human being instead of a drunk man's slave. She admitted it wasn't the first incident of physical abuse, and that it occurs regularly, as in daily for several weeks. She denied any sexual abuse which was a huge relief, and told us he lost his temper earlier in the day because of the lack of alcohol in the apartment. Amazingly, the nurse and I even convinced her to head to a shelter. Only problem, both shelters nearby are full.

  I sit down on the concrete steps in front of the last shelter with my head in my hands, trying to figure out what the hell to do. There isn't an inch of space in either facility, and I know because I pissed both places off by going in to try and convince them to make room.

  "I can just go home," Cynthia says softly from where she sits beside me.

  I lift my head to reject that idea, but lose all my words. Once again I'm caught off guard by how gorgeous the redheaded woman is. "No, you can't. He'll probably be out on bond by tomorrow morning," I tell her. I don't miss her full body shiver. "Do you have any friends or family you can call and maybe stay with?" I ask, then add, "That he doesn't know about?"

  "Not close by. I just took a teaching job and moved to the city eight months ago. I've lived with Mitch, basically isolated from the rest of world other than work, for the last six of those. My family and friends are all in North Carolina."

  "Really?" I ask in surprise. "I'm from North Carolina too."

  "Where?" she inquires with a bright smile.

  "Greensboro."

  She nods as if in recognition. "My family's in Kernersville," she says, her face lighting up at the mention of them.

  "Oh wow, the two towns are only like twenty miles apart."

  "How long have you lived in the city?" she asks me.

  "Several years," I tell her, not wanting to give my real age away with the truthful answer of almost twenty years.

  "Do you visit home much?"

  "No." I don't tell her that there is no one left to visit. The only blood relative I had was a niece, and from what I saw on the news about a year ago,
the D.R.A. has probably found and killed her and her jackass father by now. The two helped free a fucking vampire, of all damn things.

  "I wish I could visit more often. I haven't seen them since I moved here, and Mitch won't even let me call them. He doesn't let me talk to anyone," Cynthia says sadly.

  Again I look at her, trying to figure out how she ended up in an abusive relationship. There is no doubt that she's a smart woman, sweet, and of course stunningly beautiful. The man she's with doesn't deserve her, and maybe with some protection and a little time away from him she'll realize she's better off without him. And I absolutely refuse to let him lay another hand on her body, consequences to myself be damned.

  "Come on," I tell her, pulling myself up with the stair railing to get to my feet again.

  "You're going to take me home?" she asks, her voice shaking.

  "Yes," I reply. "My home."

  Chapter Two

  Cynthia Taylor

  His home? I must have misunderstood, but then he grabs my hand, pulling me off the step and starts walking. His strong, masculine hand is soft, loosely holding my much smaller one. I know I could pull away any time I want and he wouldn't tighten his grip, but I don't want to. It's reassuring and…nice. Just like earlier, I can feel some sort soothing current of heat warming me just from his touch.

  I don't even know the man's first name. All I know him by is Maddox, which is the name on his police uniform. But I'm certain he's a nice guy. Most of the nurses at the hospital had recognized him. It was obvious all of them loved him, and blatantly flirted with him. He's just so...charismatic. And of course the fact that he's ridiculously attractive also makes him very popular with the ladies.

  I've tried to force myself to stop sneaking glances at him all afternoon, but it's difficult. He's just so unbelievably sexy and…mysterious. The lean cuts of muscles down his arms make me wonder what he's hiding underneath all those clothes. His hair is made up of thick brown waves with a slightly auburn tint, matching his five o'clock shadow in the sunlight. Now though, it looks as black as his uniform in the darkness of the night. The effect almost adds a dangerous air to his persona. Not one that cause me to fear him, but one that projects a confidence so strong it's obvious that he isn't a man that ever backs down from a threat.