by Freya Barker
“Have you been drinking already?”
I grin at her. I’m not known around the office for my particularly sunny disposition in the morning.
“Just high on life, Lena, just high on life.”
“Well, you tell her thanks for me, will ya?”
I’m still smiling when I walk into our office space, Jake and Bree already at their desks looking up at me. I spot Radar through the large window into his office, his shoulders hunched as he’s working on his computers.
“What did I miss?”
Bree is the first to answer.
“Your brother has Chief Underwood in his office.”
“What’s he doing here?” I pull out my chair and sit down.
“Not sure,” Bree answers just as the door to Yanis’ office opens and both men walk out.
Underwood nods, mumbling, “Morning,” as he heads toward the reception area, my brother behind him.
All three of us crane our necks to see them shaking hands at the end of the hallway, Yanis watching the other man leave before he turns around and heads back this way.
“What was that all about?” Jake is the first to ask.
“Hang on,” Yanis says, walking toward Radar’s door and opening it. “Got a minute?”
“Sure,” I hear him mumble.
Yanis takes a corner of Jake’s desk to perch on, while Radar opts to stay standing, leaning with his back against the wall.
“Chief Underwood just found out last night the entire Grand Junction Police Department is under investigation by the FBI. Apparently, in addition to Bergland and Cairns, there are at least two other officers and one more detective who were implicated in interviews the FBI conducted with Brantley Parker. Aside from taking responsibility for Arthur Hicks’ death as a result of a fight he arranged, and ordering the hit on Willa Smith, the doctor is hoping to make a deal by throwing everyone else under the bus.”
“Holy shit,” Bree hisses.
“What about the other dead guy?” I want to know. “The one Willa was suspected for?”
“Parker claims that was his cousin, Ron Midwood, who was caught by the old man while riffling through Willa’s office.”
“Conveniently blaming the murder on the dead suspect,” Jake observes dryly.
“Exactly. No way to know what actually happened there,” Yanis agrees. “Still, good news in terms of the investigation into the fight ring; they’ve been able to pick up most of the major players and have apparently disabled the organization, but the tying up of loose ends will likely be months yet. The news is not so good for the GJPD.”
“I’d say that’s debatable,” I suggest. “If it means weeding out the bad seeds, it may end up being a positive thing.”
“He’s got a point,” Radar agrees.
“As true as that may be, it stands to be a long fucking process, and Underwood wants to do an internal cleanup as quickly as possible before the morale of the department erodes altogether.”
“And he wants our help for that?” Bree asks. “Isn’t that highly irregular?”
“Yes, it is,” Yanis confirms. “However, we’ve just been officially hired as security consultants to the GJPD, with the blessing of the Feds. Just had Williams on a conference call in my office. The caveat is that any and all findings are promptly reported to him. He’s as eager to bring this case, along with the resulting investigation into the GJPD, to as fast as possible conclusion.”
“Wow. That’s a new one,” Jake comments. “Sounds like a fuck load of work.”
“It is. Which isn’t a bad thing. I’d like to see if we can convince Shep and Kai to sign on at least for a contract term, if not permanently. I have a feeling this is gonna raise our profile in the marketplace once all is said and done.”
He’s right; this could be very good for us. Maybe we won’t have to take on shitty protection details like Mercedes Rockton or her daddy to pay the bills again.
Life is looking up.
Willa
“How is she doing?” Rosie asks, indicating Twister when we pass her office after the group session.
I let Twister roam free in the meeting room, and she seemed to sense which of the men needed a little affection during the difficult session. The events of the past couple of months had taken their toll on the shelter residents. The erosion of trust, fear, the sense of betrayal discovering FBI Agent Dave Williams had infiltrated what they’d come to think of as a safe haven.
It’s going to take months to rebuild what was destroyed, but I have a feeling Twister—and maybe a few other dogs like her—could really help with this.
“She did great. Dogs are so incredibly perceptive and attuned to emotion and energy, she seemed to catch on to any distress before I could.”
As if knowing she’s the topic of conversation, Twister slips around the desk, putting her head on Rosie’s lap and gently sniffs her baby bump.
“Good. I know we were going to move slowly on this, but I wonder if, with the current unrest in the house, adopting one or two dogs now might actually help to create some stability for the guys?”
I take a chair across from her.
“Yeah, I can see that. Let me talk to Brad, see if he’s ready to take this on. Maybe it’s a good idea to take him with me to the Humane Society tomorrow.”
“Makes sense, and I’ll see what I can do about raising some funds for their care.”
“Actually, I have some ideas for that. My sister is in town for a while and she used to organize fundraisers for her daughter’s school. Let me see if she has some ideas,” I suggest.
I was thinking about this over the weekend, wondering whether my sister could be convinced to stick around town. It would mean finding a new school for Britt, but she was going into high school anyway. Of course we haven’t heard a thing from Jim, and Connie isn’t ready to tackle that mountain yet, but this fundraiser may at least give her back the sense of purpose she seems to have lost somewhere along the line.
“If she wants to take it on, I’m all for it,” Rosie concedes with a smile. “Which brings me to our last dilemma; we need someone to replace Ron. We’re spread thin as we are, with a lot of responsibility on your back, which is only gonna get worse when this baby gets here. I hope to stay healthy and keep working until then, but you never know what those last weeks bring. Plus, I plan to take at least six months of maternity leave.”
“You should. Take time to enjoy her. We’ll sort things out here.”
“I’d feel better if we have something already in place. Now, I have an idea, but I want to pass it by you first. My friend, Hillary, is an RN who has lots of experience working with Alzheimer’s patients. I know we wanted someone with a psychology degree, but I thought—”
“That’s perfect,” I interrupt. “I mean, it would actually be better to have someone who could also assess physical health. Is she looking for something?”
“She hasn’t said anything, but I know she’s not happy where she is so could maybe be convinced.”
I snicker at the fake-as-hell innocent look on Rosie’s face. I see I’m not the only one plotting here.
The moment I get back to my office, I put in a call to Steve at the Humane Society to see if they currently have any dogs that might fit the profile of what we’d be looking at for the shelter. After that I go in search of Brad, finding him in his usual spot between meals in the dining room.
“What is a good time for you to go look at a few dogs with me tomorrow?” I ask, trying not to give him the option of refusing. I truly believe this may do wonders for him and I really like Brad. I want him to thrive.
“Tomorrow?”
“Yeah. Had a tough group session today, my friend. This shit show has left some damage in its wake, and I really think pursuing this idea of companion dogs will be good for everyone.”
It’s shameless manipulation and I’m not one bit sorry for it. I’m afraid the man won’t make decisions based on what might be good for him, but there’s not a doubt in my mind
he’d do anything to make the life of others the best it can be. That’s why I’m not surprised when he gives me a time after lunch.
All in all I’ve had a good day when Dimas picks me up at five and drives me straight to a Subaru dealership.
“Who says I want a Subaru?”
He throws me a side-glance as he pulls his truck into a parking space.
“The Outback is high enough to give you better visibility, it’s one of the 2020 top safety picks, it retains its value well, it doesn’t come in ridiculous colors, and it has extra headroom in the front,” he rattles off.
I have to chuckle at the color remark, I guess he didn’t feel so hot about the lime green. It’s clear he’s done his homework, though, and I decide not to tell him the Outback was one of my top picks. Let him think it’s been all his idea.
“Why does it need extra headroom in the front?”
He turns off the engine and twists in his seat.
“For when I’m driving.”
My eyebrows shoot up.
“Why would you be driving my vehicle?”
He raises one of his in response.
“When we’re both in it, I’ll be behind the wheel.”
“Why?” I push him a little. I don’t really mind. It’s a small sacrifice if it makes him feel better, but I can’t resist teasing him a little.
He reaches over the console and cups my face in his large hands.
“Because I would risk life and limb to keep you safe.”
Epilogue
Willa
“Oh my goddess, look at my precious baby.”
I’m not sure whether Ana is referring to Jake and Rosie’s daughter, Tessa, or Dimas, who is holding her in his big palms, his face as soft as I’ve ever seen it. Both are equally adorable.
Rosie had Tessa by C-section two days ago. These last few months were tough on her physically. Having a baby at any age is no cakewalk, but apparently even more so when you’re over forty.
She’d been exhausted and eventually her doctor put her on bed rest. I’m sure it had as much if not more to do with everything that’s happened since opening the shelter. It hasn’t exactly been a calm and peaceful time.
Rosie doesn’t seem to be the worse for wear, though. Her smile beams and her energy appears to have returned in spades. But she just had major surgery and is not a spring chicken, so Ana—who has been a mother to Jake most of his life, apparently—drove down to help out for a few weeks.
“Enough hogging, Son,” she chastises him, making a grab for the baby.
“Hey, I’m her godfather,” he complains.
“And I’m her grandmother. You go have some babies of your own,” Ana fires back, having a hold of Tessa and settling back in the couch, the baby nestled on her shoulder in a picture of perfection.
Yanis and Bree already came and went. Well, technically when Yanis came, Bree went, but they’re both gone now. We should probably head home soon as well; give the new family some rest.
Home. That’s what Dimas’s house now represents. Our home.
My sister and niece found theirs at my place. Conveniently close to a great high school for Britt, and not too far from Connie’s new job. She still hasn’t heard from Jim—not that she’s been trying to get in touch with him either—and Britt refuses to have anything to do with her father. I’d hoped Connie would press charges on him, but she was more concerned with getting her feet back under her than to drag out a past she’d rather forget. I have to respect that.
I knew my sister had a spine of steel under there somewhere. Her life as she knew it had been crudely destroyed, and yet, she didn’t lick her wounds for long. Dimas arranged for Hank’s firm to tackle her divorce and because Connie is too proud to take handouts, she’d offered to work off any lawyer’s fees. Since Hank’s receptionist was retiring and he’d been looking for someone new, they were able to come to an arrangement that benefited everyone.
Connie and I have an ongoing argument over the rent she feels she should be paying me, but as I’ve tried to make clear to her, I won’t accept a dime until she is well and clear of that bastard.
I’m proud of her. Proud of the way she holds her own with our parents. Especially Mom, who still occasionally tries to convince her perhaps going back to Jim is the better option. I’m pretty sure it’s because Mom wouldn’t have the strength it takes to reinvent herself, the way Connie is. I think she forgets my sister is also a part of our father, who is all steel.
As far as I know, Jim has not been in touch with our parents either, and something tells me he’s wise not to go there. At least when it comes to my father, judging by the barely contained rage in his eyes when Jim’s name comes up. Dad may not be warm and loving with his daughters, but that clearly doesn’t mean he’ll sit by and let a man use his fists on them.
Good to know.
“We should probably head out,” Dimas says, drawing me from my thoughts.
“Yeah.”
I glance over at Jake, who can’t seem to keep his eyes off his wife, looking at her with such reverence; it brings tears to my eyes. She’s lucky, and so am I.
I look up at Dimas, standing beside my chair.
My God. His gaze on me is a carbon copy. Both tender and hot, opening a view right into his soul. For me. My emotions run so deep, they spill over onto my cheeks.
He smiles softly, brushing the tears from my eyes.
“Come on, sweetheart. Let me take you home.”
After hugs and goodbyes, plus a quick kiss for Tessa with a sniff of that uniquely delicious baby smell, we walk to my SUV.
Dimas opens the door for me and waits until I’m seated before he leans in, dropping a kiss on my lips. Then he rounds the hood and I wait until he gets in behind the wheel.
“Honey?”
“Mmm.”
“I’m almost forty.”
“End of the month, I know,” he confirms, throwing a smile my way.
“Forty is old.”
He turns to me struggling to contain laughter I can see in his eyes.
“Thanks, sweetheart. I’m forty-one, I know how old it is,” he says, suddenly reaching over and sliding a hand along the side of my face. I instinctively lean into it.
“I just thought, maybe…” I let my voice trail off.
I don’t have the guts to ask after all. Shit, we’ve been together for four months, inseparable almost from the start, and somehow the subject has never come up. I’m terrified what his answer will be if I finish the question.
His second hand comes up to frame my face.
“Willa, sweetheart, if you’re trying to ask me if I’m ready for a baby, the answer is easy. Fuck yeah.”
THE END
Keep reading for the first chapter of my next CELL BLOCK C novel Victim Of Circumstance!
A Sneak Peek
Victim Of Circumstance
(CELL BLOCK C)
by Freya Barker
Gray
“This is too much.”
I look at the stack of bills stuffed in the envelope Jimmy shoves in my hand, which was just supposed to hold my earnings for the past two weeks.
Jimmy Olson was still in Beaverton when I arrived last month. We’d been best friends since elementary school and he’d even visited me in jail twice, until I finally refused to see him. My head had been fucked up—hell, it likely still is—and watching Jimmy walk out of there twice had almost done me in. I was sad, I was scared, and I struggled finding my equilibrium inside. As much as seeing him gave me a brief moment of reprieve, seeing that door close behind him would leave me raw.
Hope becomes a hot searing pain that scars your soul when it has nowhere to go.
It was easier to live without, move through my days in a tedious repetition of the last. No highs, no particular lows, just a narrow existence within the walls of my prison.
But hope flared when he was the first person I saw, getting off the bus in Beaverton last month. Jimmy fucking Olson, coming out of a diner with a coffe
e in his hand and walking up to a red tow truck, Olson’s Automotive printed on the side.
I might’ve avoided him, but he saw me. How he recognized me I don’t know. I’ve gotten old. My former dark hair has gone completely gray inside. I used to be bigger than I am now, after discovering the prison gym is not a place you want to be without a posse at your back. I never had one. My body is much leaner now; the only exercise what I managed to do in my own cell.
Still he took one look at me and that wide boyish grin I remember so well spread wide over his face. He hadn’t changed much at all and apparently had no hard feelings about me blowing him off, because he came tearing across the street, wrapping me in a bone-crushing hug.
I almost fucking cried right there in front of the bus station.
An hour later I was moved into the small apartment over his business. It used to be old man Stephenson’s garage when both Jimmy and I worked there, but apparently he’s dead and Jimmy bought the place. I was floored when Jimmy said he’d known I was released—had been keeping track—and was hoping I’d be smart enough to come home.
He gave me a week to settle in; a week I mostly spent in isolation in the small apartment he had stocked with food so I didn’t have to go out. After that week, he barged in at seven in the morning, ordering me to get my ass downstairs, and give him a hand. I’ve been doing long days in the shop since.
“Fuck no, it’s not. You had me sell off your shit, remember? I’ve had it sitting in a savings account all this time, gathering dust.”
“You’re shitting me? This is at least ten grand, my stuff wouldn’t have made more than a couple of hundred.”
“Seventeen thousand three hundred and twenty-five dollars to be exact,” he says and my jaw hits the floor. “Most of it for your old Mustang.”
“That was a pile of rust. I hadn’t even started working on it,” I point out, remembering the 1965 Mustang I hauled out of a field near Coleman for the measly two hundred bucks the farmer wanted for it. That was supposed to be my next project before everything went to shit.
