by Layne, Lyssa
Another picture of Marty caught his eye. He move to it. "If backup had only come sooner you'd still be alive," he muttered at the framed picture of him and Marty on the wall over the television. They were dressed in camo and covered in paint. Marty’s birthday gift to him, the best game of paint ball ever. For the hundredth time, he rewound the movie that replayed in his mind, clear up until when Marty was killed.
The night of the shooting, Joe Kellerman, Brad's partner, had come in from the rear on the south side of the building. Marty's partner, Dean Fletcher, had circled around from the far left side. Both declared they hadn't seen a thing.
Brad trusted Joe. Fletcher was another story. A nice enough guy, but he never did warm up to him. And yet, when they were questioned something in Fletcher's voice didn't ring true. But how could he argue the point when the warehouse was black as a moonless night deep in the thick of a fucking forest?
"What do you believe?" Brad tipped the can in a salute, sipping the cold liquid. "Help me out. What are we missing?”
The answer didn’t come.
Brad picked up the remote and flipped through the channels. He pressed three buttons before he found the right station.
And it wasn’t like he’d just been sitting on his ass. He’d gone to the office and been kicked out. He’d been to the morgue to check if there were any traces of the bullet that went through Marty. Nothing. Hell, he’d even requested a copy of the autopsy, only to be told to leave, empty-handed. Sure he knew better but he couldn’t stand idly by and do nothing.
The tail end of a news report caught his attention. He turned up the volume. The daily repeat of his Captain in full dress blues, over the loss of a fellow officer stating the ongoing investigation by Internal Affairs would wind down soon. Too bad Vince didn't have a confident look on his face. Even his voice lacked conviction. Damn it, he had to find some way to get back into that warehouse—he knew the answer was there.
Not having his Captain's support left Brad feeling like he'd been shot too, right between his shoulder blades.
A still photograph of Brad from the academy days flashed on screen.
The department had managed to keep the details of the shooting out of the newspapers, but somehow the story had leaked. He wanted to know who let it slip to the blood sucking media leeches.
Brad and Ken Billings had butted heads more than a few times. Who at the office was gunning for him? “My bets on IAD. What do you think, Marty?" Brad set his can down no longer wanting it. He felt stupid talking to a picture but there were no other alternatives.
His finger hovered on the off button when the news segment changed to its next topic. It was Christine Jansen, the artsy lady. She looked nothing like he’d expected. But she looked vaguely familiar.
Then he remembered where he’d seen her…in the local grocery store occasionally and thought she was pretty. They'd had a nodding acquaintance in the year since he'd moved into his apartment.
A photographer. She must be a good one if the news was mentioning her work. She had a nice smile, warm and sweet. How much did she know about him?
According to the news she was donating all the proceeds to the AIDS Foundation and the local hospice. A sample of her work titled "The Ravages of War" played across the screen. Initially, based on the title, he thought she had to be a correspondent in Iraq, but the series of pictures were AIDS victims before and after being infected. What he saw were the faces of once healthy children and adults ravaged by the dreaded virus.
He watched the artistic, seemingly sensitive woman on the screen and liked what he saw.
After what he'd been through he was more aware than ever that life was too damn short for sniveling and whining. In the meantime he'd get off his ass, go meet this pretty lady, and get on with the business of living.
Brad stepped from the elevator on the second floor of the hospital. He overheard two nurses talking about the artist doing a photo shoot with the children in the solarium. Following them, he soon looked through a glass wall where several of the enlarged photographs from the noon news were displayed. Next to them, sat Christine Jansen, reading a book to the children grouped around her. Funny how they lived in the same neighborhood but never talked. He’d rectify it today.
The soft, gentle tone of her voice gave the story a happy quality. The smile on her face as she narrated and then her sudden frown from her interpretation of the wolf's deep voice, made him grin. He eyed the children's anxious faces while some sat Indian style on individual mats on the floor in their pajamas and robes and others sat in small chairs hooked up to intravenous liquids. All of them gave Christine their rapt attention, ignoring the reporter and camera at the back of the room.
He remained silent but continued to watch Christine. She had beautiful olive skin, with the darkest mahogany brown eyes he'd ever seen. He loved the way her soft, gentle curls framed her face before cascading loosely down her back.
Just as he moved out of the doorway he heard the end of the story followed by the children's laughter and clapping.
He waited until the crowd dwindled before entering the room, and was so intent on meeting the beautiful artist that he failed to see the little girl in front of him until she tugged on his shirtsleeve. He looked down.
"Th'cuse me?" the fragile but pretty little girl said.
"Yes?"
A petite index finger crooked, calling him down to her level.
"Mithter, my shoe comed untied, could you please tie it for me?"
Brad squatted to her level. Her lisp reminded him of Kelly’s when she was in pre-school. Before he could answer, she lifted her foot onto his knee, waiting for him to tie her shoe.
The painfully thin blonde with the gap-toothed grin and a cast on one arm stole his breath away. Her glittering blue eyes only renewed his long buried desire for a family of his own. But that was something he'd never see. Families weren't for guys like him.
He'd barely tied the hot pink laces on her snowy white shoes when she pulled it from his leg. Rising, he turned to locate the artist and stumbled into her.
Brad hadn't bumped her hard, but it was enough to knock her off balance. He grabbed Christine around the waist to keep her from toppling over. "Sorry."
"N—no problem, you caught me." She gave him a tentative smile as she stepped away from him and looked down at the girl.
"Sarah, did you make another friend?" Christine bent and kissed the top of the child’s head.
Glancing down at the nodding child by his side, he forgot to breathe when she placed her hand in his. So much for being a badass bodyguard.
The smile Christine aimed at Sarah dazzled him. Her reading voice to the children was softer than her speaking voice. He didn't expected the low sultry tone. It was damn sexy.
And for the few seconds he'd held her in his arms she made him feel things, things he shouldn't, couldn’t—wouldn’t pursue.
He opened his mouth to introduce himself, but she beat him to it.
"Hi, I'm Christine Jansen. Don't I know you?"
Taking the hand she offered, he decided to try some light humor to put her at ease. "Brad Maxwell, King of the Klutzes, professional shoe tier, and I believe we’re from the same neighborhood. At least we shop at the same market."
"I thought you looked familiar. It's nice to meet you, your Highness."
Between her voice and her personality, Brad found his mind wandering to places even further off limits. He silently ordered his speedy pulse to back off. Christine turned and smiled at one of the nurses standing nearby. "Judy, can you take Sarah back to her room, she looks a bit tired."
Sarah turned to wave good-bye to Brad with her small hand before following the nurse from the solarium.
"Looks like you made a friend for life."
"She's a doll. What's she in for?"
"That's another story. The gist is that I got to know Sarah through her mother who was one of the patients. We lost Nora last year before Sarah was diagnosed.” Sadness haunted Christine's eyes.
There was more to the story than just photographing some sick people. If he was right in his estimation of her, she was a lot more than simply friends with them.
"I was compelled to do what I could for them. Almost all of them are gone now. The ones left are at the end of their battle, including Sarah."
Brad thought he'd choke from the sudden gut punch. Sarah didn't have much more of a future than he did, poor kid. Anger surged through him. The kid would be in a pine box and he would more than likely end up in an eight-by-eight cell.
Brad anxiously changed the subject. "I hear congratulations are in order. You must be excited about your exhibit opening tomorrow."
"Oh please, don't bring that up right now. I've barely got the wombats in my stomach under control."
“Wombats, huh?” Brad raised an eyebrow.
Her hand lay on the flat of her stomach and he read the anxiety in her dark brown eyes.
"Listen, after what I saw on the noon news today, you obviously know what you're doing. Your photographs were captivating, to say the least." In Brad’s mind the haunted faces flashed before him. "I felt every ounce of their pain."
"Thank you,” she said sheepishly and blushed. “I appreciate your vote of confidence, but this is more than just a show of my work. If this exhibit is a success, I'll have accomplished what I set out to do. To bring awareness to a disease that still terrifies people. Anything after that is a bonus."
Brad noted the animation in her voice as she talked about her work. "How'd you end up taking these pictures anyway?"
"You don't want to hear about it, do you?” She seemed surprised.
"You'll have to tell me about it some time," Brad asked. "In my line of work you see the worst in people more than the good. So, when I hear something like this, it makes me believe in people again."
"What do you do for a living?"
Surprised she hadn't seen the news, he answered hesitantly. "I'm a Detective with the Newport Beach Police Department."
"Really? I guess you do see quite a bit of the bad in folks."
Feeling like a scolded child, he replied, "I try not to, but there are times when you see so much bad, you feel like the whole world has gone to hell all at once."
Phantom of the Opera rang from her purse. She reached inside and pulled out her phone.
"Hello." After a long pause, she went on. "Oh? That's too bad, but I understand. I'll see you when you get back."
A frown marred her beautiful face as she put her phone away.
"Problem?" Brad asked.
"My escort for tomorrow can't make it. His flight is stuck in Tulsa."
"Then I guess it's time for me to confess, I'm here as a favor to the Mayor. I was asked me to act as your bodyguard for the next week or so during the events surrounding your opening."
"The mayor—you're kidding."
"Actually, it was his wife, Lynette."
"Ah—now I understand. I can see Lynette's handwork in this."
"What does that mean?" Brad was curious.
"Just that we've had a few crises over the last week and she's convinced someone is trying to sabotage our efforts to raise money."
"She must be taking it seriously if she had the Mayor request my help. Are you certain you’re not in danger?" He couldn’t imagine Lynette read the situation wrong.
"Danger—from what, crazed photography fans?" she joked.
He found her innocence charming.
She chewed on her bottom lip. "I guess it's a date then," she chided.
"Great. When anyone asks, I'll be sure to tell them I'm with the talented artist of the show."
"I'm not that talented,” she said with a bashful shrug. “The camera does most of the work."
"How about we wait to see how the papers cover your opening before we count you out as an aspiring star?"
She gave him a 'yeah-right-what-planet-did-you-come-from' look.
"How about telling me what else you have planned for the week, so I can start canvassing those places for security purposes?"
“There are two important events. I have to be at the hospice for pictures with the AIDS quilt tomorrow morning and the gala in the evening.” Christine mentioned the few other minor events she'd need to attend as they headed towards the elevator. She gave him her address, and he jotted down the times he’d need to pick her up.
When the doors opened they stepped in and Brad pressed the button for the lobby level.
"What time should I pick you up for the gala?”
"I need to be at the gallery by seven for some last minute press photos.”
“And what's the dress code for the evening?"
“The dress is semi-formal, so slacks and a dinner jacket are fine."
“I'll try not to embarrass you.” Brad winked. He didn't bother to tell her his tux was clean and pressed or that he hadn't been worn since the previous year's Policeman's Ball.
“Like you could...ah...I mean...see you tomorrow.” She looked down and scurried off.
Brad couldn't see her flushed face, but her body language shared her embarrassment. He’d gladly guard her. After all what kind of trouble could a woman like her get into?
***
Christine ducked down in her car and watched Brad as he rounded the corner of the building, her eyes riveted to his backside, admiring how the faded denim jeans cupped his butt like the palm of a hand. Worried, yet excited, she commanded her body to behave. She fanned her face while mentally berating herself for where her thoughts were headed. At least he'd be a safe date. Lord knows she didn't need a man in her life.
With her handsome neighbor for an escort, who just happened to be a cop to boot, maybe, just maybe, she'd get through the night after all. That and the grace of God, Lynette was worried for nothing. The show would be a success, and the money from the sales would go to the people that needed it most, and her career would be on its way.
If only she weren't so petrified of being in the spotlight again?
She'd all but forgotten her lack of trust in men. Why? What was so special about Brad? Maybe it was his easy-going, playful attitude. He reminded her of Uncle Rudy. He'd been a cop, too, and the only man she could ever count on.
It irked her to admit that every man she'd ever trusted had betrayed her in one way or another. Except Uncle Rudy and Jared.
Too bad Jared had to back out at the last minute.
But after seeing Brad's charming smile and that gorgeous tan peeking out of his t-shirt,—she was startled to realize, that for the first time in her adult life, she felt pure unadulterated lust. It wasn't like her. He wasn't even her type. His hair was too long, he hadn't shaven in at least a week, and she didn't like tattoos.
Thinking back over the past three years, there hadn't been anyone serious in her life since Ray. He'd hurt her the worst, especially during the trial.
The thought of her ex-boyfriend evoked anger inside her to a boiling rage, one she thought had long since died. Obviously not, if her memory of him and the accident that changed her life still had the power to make her burn this way.
Rather than spoil what could be a special night, she shifted her thoughts back to Brad. She felt her cheeks ache in a way she’d almost forgotten, and warmth suffused her cheeks as she recalled his arms around her. She could smell the fragrance of spicy rum scent that clung to his body.
It petrified her to realize she longed to be held in a man's arms again, especially when that man was Brad Maxwell.
***
He followed them out of that sick place and walked right past that stupid cop slow enough to hear every word and know where to be. Who was the hot bitch with him? She sure had a nice set of tits and curvy ass.
This time, luck was on his side. He may have missed that damn cop a week ago, but his mistake now worked to his advantage. His target was now the accused. Laughter threatened to escape as he watched the babe drive away.
Tomorrow, he'd get even with Maxwell once and for all.
CHAPTER FOU
R
As requested, at nine the next morning, Brad stood before Christine's door and knocked. Ready to start his undercover task, he pulled his hair back in a ponytail, had on faded blue jeans, and a well-worn white t-shirt with the sleeves removed. The final addition to his disguise as a fix-it-man—a tool belt, complete with tools.
When Christine opened the door she froze. “Umm—did I miss something?”
Brad was in the process of hooking his cell phone to his belt. “I’m undercover. If someone sees me next to you at any time today they'll be on their best behavior. But if they think I'm just a repairman, they'll look right past me while I check things out. This way I can get in to all sorts of places to check the security.
Brad mused over her silence. Unsure what specifically had caused her reaction, he grinned his approval.
She bent slightly to gather the two paper handled bags that were just inside the door, but Brad grabbed them first.
When he stepped back out of her doorway, she locked her door. He guided her to his car parked directly in front of the walkway, then waited for her to catch up.
“Hey, what's in the bags? I have the sense of smell that would scare a honey bee and I'm picking up chocolate, peanut butter, and something fruity.”
“Boy, you're good. I like to make the kids fresh cookies and juice when I visit. There's very little for them to get excited about so I like to fuss over them when I get the chance. Have you ever been to an hospice ward before?”
Brad shook his head hesitantly, feeling guilty. Her simple question had him thinking of topics that had never dawned on him before. He was a cop, out to protect the world, but what about the issues out of his control. Being a cop was hard enough, he couldn't imagine being a doctor. He'd never get over the guilt of the ones he couldn't save.
It was a relatively short ride to the Pleasant Valley Pediatric Hospice, in association with the hospital. He parked out along the street near the entry, still trying to understand his own silence.
