by Karen Leabo
She needed Sloan. And with a blinding flash of insight she knew that was okay. In fact, it was the only way for two people in love to behave. They put faith in each other, trusted each other, leaned on each other. Sure, there was a certain amount of risk involved. The person you love could die. Or stop loving you. Or hurt you some other way.
But she’d survived. Her mother had survived. Millicent was surviving. That was life. You couldn’t savor the best it had to offer without risking the worst.
She could only hope that with all her wishy-washiness, she hadn’t damaged Sloan’s faith in her beyond repair.
The ordeal was over, at least for the day. Rob still had to face a hearing before a judge on Monday. But Detective Bledsoe had assured Lana that it was mostly a formality. If Rob continued to cooperate, and he told the judge his story, most likely all charges would be dropped.
Bart had looked on, mute, grinding his teeth. When it was over he’d stalked out, forgetting—or ignoring—the fact that this was his weekend with Rob.
Just as well, she thought as they got into the car. Lana would have made a fuss if he’d wanted to take Rob home with him. The jerk had one lousy weekend a month to spend with his son, and instead he’d abandoned the kid to the TV and gone to the driving range with his fiancée.
“Mom,” Rob said, breaking into her thoughts, “did Officer Bennett really steal cars and carry a knife?”
“Yes, he did,” she admitted. “When he was a kid, he did some pretty bad things. You see, he was poor, and his parents really didn’t care much about him.… Well, I guess I shouldn’t be making excuses for him. Stealing is wrong, whether you have good or bad parents, whether you have money or not. The point is, eventually he realized that he didn’t want to do those things anymore. He wanted to be a good person, not a bad person. So he got himself a job and he enrolled in college and joined the police force, and he’s been a good person ever since.”
Rob chewed this over. “So he’s not a bad cop, like the ones on TV?”
“No. He’s a good man, or I wouldn’t want to date him. If your dad knew Sloan better, he wouldn’t say such terrible things about him.”
“Oh. I have another question.”
“Shoot.”
“Is Dad really suing you for custody, like Eli’s dad did?”
“Yeah.” Lana dragged the word out.
“Are you going to let him have me?”
“No, not without a fight. Maybe that’s selfish of me, but I want you home with me.”
“But you’ll need a lawyer. And we don’t have any money.”
“I’ve already hired a lawyer. We’ll come up with the money, don’t worry.”
Rob nodded. “I’m glad you’re fighting.”
Lana felt a sense of peace settle over her. She had her son back; everything else would follow. She was already mentally reviewing what she would say to Sloan when she called him later. She was looking forward to calling him, to telling him what she’d figured out. To putting it all on the table.
That’s when her car sputtered a few times, gave a death rattle, and ground to a halt.
Sloan went for what seemed like the longest run in history, trying to work the anger out of his system by circling the small lake at the park again and again. He’d never wanted to punch anybody as badly as he’d wanted to punch Bart Gaston. But his anger encompassed Lana too. She’d taken her ex-husband’s side against him.
A flock of ducks on the bank of the lake scattered before him. All right, Sloan thought, trying to temper his anger, so maybe he’d butted in where he didn’t belong. He had no official position in Lana’s life, no status in relation to Rob.
But how could he not interfere? The matter of Rob’s arrest was one near Sloan’s heart. He felt too strongly about it to keep silent. Whichever parent dealt firmly with Rob when he went astray—that was the parent Rob would eventually love and respect the most.
But obviously Lana hadn’t wanted his opinion on the subject. Sloan realized that maybe it was time for him to bow out. He’d started to care too much, obviously more than Lana wanted him to care. She’d needed him for a while—like Belinda—but that time had passed. She was on her own now, exactly where she said she wanted to be.
Seemed he was great at making decisions for other people, offering a shoulder to cry on and sound advice. But there was a wall somewhere between being a supportive friend and a truly intimate lover that he’d yet to cross. Maybe that was why his relationships failed. He didn’t know how to handle intimacy.
He’d opened up to Lana, a little. He’d told her about his parents. But had he told her anything about him? About the man he was today?
A phone message was waiting for him when he got home. It was Lieutenant Davis, his superior, asking if he’d work some overtime. The first cold spell had brought with it an onslaught of flu, and the department’s ranks were decimated.
Fine. Maybe some extra work would take his mind off Lana.
Two hours later he was on patrol. Ironically, it was in Ivy Wood, the deceptively named neighborhood where he’d grown up, and nothing had changed in ten years except the houses had gotten a little seedier, and the sidewalks had more cracks. The little movie theater had become a video store, and the café had closed down, but the rest of the businesses were holding on, though it looked like by only a thread.
Oddly, he felt more uneasy now, with a gun strapped to his hip, than he had as a teenage hood. Maybe that was because ten years ago he’d been the threat.
He parked at the crumbling shopping center and got out. Some kids were gathered around a car with the stereo playing too loud, but no one had complained about it, so he wouldn’t ask them to turn it down. He just wanted to make his presence known, so that if anyone was planning mischief, they’d think twice.
All activity stopped as he approached. “Hey, what’s the problem?” an older boy demanded, taking a decidedly aggressive stance.
“No problem,” Sloan said hastily. “I just stopped by to say hi. I used to live in this neighborhood.”
The kids stared at him with unguarded suspicion. One of them turned the music down, though Sloan hadn’t mentioned it.
The older boy removed his sunglasses and stared through narrowed eyes. “I ’member you. You were a badass. Used to ride a big ol’ Kawasaki.”
“Still do.”
“And now you’re a cop? Man, that’s cold.” The boy shook his head.
“You tell ’em, Dustin,” another boy said.
Dustin, Dustin. The name was unusual enough to ring a bell. “Dustin Tooey?” Sloan asked in surprise. He remembered this big, hulking boy as a chubby kindergartner who always had a Popsicle clutched in a sticky hand.
“What’s it to ya?”
“I just thought I remembered you, is all,” Sloan replied. Well, it was a cinch he wouldn’t be a welcome addition to this group, no matter where his roots were. These kids, as five- and six-year-olds, had once worshipped him and begged for rides on his motorcycle. But now they feared and mistrusted him because he wore a badge. He decided to retreat. Times change, and he’d changed.
He walked into each of the stores on the strip, looked around a bit, then left. He patrolled in his car around the residential sections. All was quiet. He answered a call about a trespasser, but the perp was long gone by the time he arrived, so all he could do was write up a report with a vaguer-than-vague description.
The sky clouded over and darkness came early. Sloan had dinner at the Dairy Queen, then stopped by Ernie’s Mobil to fill up his car. The station was an old-fashioned full-service one, but Sloan got out of his cruiser anyway to stretch his legs. He wanted to see if old Ernie was still around. The two of them had spent many an hour getting his first motorcycle into shape.
It took only a few seconds for Sloan to feel a sense of unease. Something was wrong. The lights were blazing, the sign was turned on, but no one came out to pump his gas.
Sloan picked up the radio handset. “This is Car 17. I’m at Ernie’
s Mobil at Elm and Ninth, investigating a possible … situation. I might need some backup.”
“Ten-four, Car 17,” the dispatcher’s voice came back. “Anybody in the area?”
“This is Car 5. Hey, Bennett.” The voice belonged to Jay Sanchez. “I’m about ten blocks away, so I’ll mosey on over.”
Sloan flipped on his handheld radio and got out of the car. He could see movement inside the gas station, but still no one had come outside. Walking slowly so as not to draw attention to himself, he made his way to the door and peered through the glass. Inside he saw a man wearing a ski mask helping himself to the contents of the cash register. A gun lay on the counter within the thief’s reach. No one else was in sight.
Sloan grabbed his radio. “This is Car 17. I’ve got an armed robbery in progress, Ernie’s Mobil. Sanchez, you need to step on it.”
Sloan tried the door. It was locked. He unholstered his gun, then waited, holding his breath, hoping the robber was so intent on the cash that he wouldn’t look up. Sloan couldn’t move in until his backup arrived, unless it was a matter of life and … That’s when he saw another movement. A hand was visible at floor level, sticking out from behind the counter. It quivered.
Hell, someone was hurt in there. Sloan couldn’t afford to wait. He picked up a can of motor oil from a rack, and bashed through the door’s glass. The perpetrator’s head jerked up in surprise, and he went for his weapon. Sloan’s gun was already in his hand. He fired.
Lana heard about it on the ten o’clock news—a police officer injured in a gas station holdup. The alleged gunman, shot by the officer, in critical condition. The gas station owner, Ernie Harrison, also hospitalized with a gunshot wound to the shoulder.
Her gut tightened as she immediately thought of Sloan. But it couldn’t be him, of course. He was working a split shift this month, he’d told her, with Saturdays and Tuesdays off. Today was Saturday. She’d been trying to call him all evening after she’d had her car towed to the mechanic’s, and hadn’t gotten an answer, but what did that mean? He could be anywhere.
Still, early the next morning she didn’t even put the coffee on before heading for the front porch and the newspaper. The front page headline, in the typical sensational style used since Callie’s departure as editor of the Daily Record, blared IVY WOOD SHOOT-OUT: 15-YEAR-OLD ROBBERY SUSPECT CRITICALLY WOUNDED/OFFICER AND MERCHANT INJURED.
Lana stood in the open doorway, oblivious of the cold morning air, and read. When she reached Sloan’s name, she was barely surprised. She’d known. Somehow, against all logic, she’d known he was the injured officer.
She slammed the door shut and headed back to her bedroom, reading as she walked. Sloan hadn’t been shot, but cut by flying glass, and he’d been treated and released, the article said. Lana whispered a prayer of thanks that his injuries weren’t more serious. But her heart ached for him nonetheless. Sloan had shot a fifteen-year-old. The police department bigwigs had taken away his gun and his badge and put him on administrative leave, pending an investigation. He must be devastated.
She didn’t question her next actions. She knew exactly what to do. She dressed quickly, then woke Rob and asked him to throw on some clothes and run over to Noah’s house across the street and stay there until further notice. He protested, until Lana explained that Officer Bennett was in trouble.
“You mean you can help him for a change?” Rob asked perceptively as he climbed into a sweatshirt.
“I don’t know if I can or not,” she said. Sloan might not want to see her after the way she’d shunned his help the day before. “But I’m damn sure going to try.”
Rob’s eyes widened in surprise. “Mom. You cussed.”
She put her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry, honey. It slipped out.” Just went to show how rattled she really was.
After making sure Rob was welcome at Noah’s, Lana called a cab to drive her the mile or so to Sloan’s house. “Do you want me to wait?” the driver asked as she paid him with shaking hands.
“No.” That way, Sloan would have to let her in, even if it was just to call another cab. “Thanks very much.”
She pulled her jacket up around her neck as she approached Sloan’s front porch. The house looked quiet. She rang the bell, waited. No answer.
She knocked. “Sloan, are you in there? It’s me, Lana.” He had to be there. Where would he go at eight o’clock on a Sunday morning? Unless he’d spent the night somewhere else … No. She refused to believe he would find solace in some other woman’s arms less than twenty-four hours after he’d left her at the police station.
Her knuckles ached from the cold, but she knocked again. At last she could hear a shuffling noise, the scrape of a dead bolt. The door opened a crack.
“Lana.” Her name came out as a croak.
“Are you all right?” Stupid question. Of course he wasn’t. There was a long pause. The door opened a bit wider. Lana focused on a pair of brown eyes so full of torture that the pain radiated out to her.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” he said, “except for a killer hangover. So go home, please. I don’t need your pity.”
ELEVEN
Nothing Sloan could have said would have made Lana angrier. Pity? Did he think that was all she was capable of? Did he think that was what he deserved?
He tried to close the door, but her reflexes were faster. She jammed her foot in the crack like a vacuum cleaner salesman and received a painful pinch for her trouble, but the door remained open.
“Damn, Lana, I almost broke your foot! You okay?”
Taking advantage of his momentary concern for her welfare, she shouldered her way inside. It was dark, and the smell of stale beer and cigarettes permeated the overheated air. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she could see that the living room was a wreck, spread with dirty dishes, empty beer cans, full ashtrays, and a newspaper with every section dropped in a different place. How he’d been able to create this much chaos in such a few short hours was beyond her, but she was sure he didn’t live like this under normal circumstances.
“Since when do you smoke?” was the first idiotic question out of her mouth.
“Not since high school—until last night. Seemed the thing to do.”
Sloan himself was disaster area number two. He wore faded jeans and nothing else except a heavy white bandage around his upper-left arm. His hair was uncombed, his face unshaven. He was still so handsome, her heart ached for him.
“I didn’t want you to see me like this,” he said, refusing to look at her.
“Like what? Hurting? In trouble?”
“Out of control.”
“Oh, I see. It’s all right for me to be a blubbering, hysterical mess with my life falling down around my ears, but God forbid you should be anything but strong and perfect and macho.”
He appeared so surprised by her outburst that he couldn’t come up with a retort.
“If I’d had that attitude, where would we be, huh? If I’d refused to let you come around when I was anything but in perfect control, we never would have seen each other.”
“It seems to me you did refuse my help.” He managed to twist his lips into the semblance of a smile. “But I persevered.”
“Yeah, well, I’m returning the favor. Dammit, Sloan, you promised.” She realized she’d just cursed again, the second time that day.
“Promised what?”
“That if you ever needed help of any kind, you would call me first.” Suddenly all the fight drained out of her. What was she doing, yelling at Sloan? He needed unconditional understanding … and love.
For the second time in twenty-four hours, she acknowledged that she was flat out in love with Sloan Bennett. Again the realization hit her like a sledgehammer. Although this was hardly an occasion for elation, she grinned anyway.
Sloan gazed at her, undoubtedly bewildered by her sudden change of mood. “What?”
“I love you, Sloan.” He tried to back away as she reached out for him, but again she was faster. She threw
her arms around him and held him close.
“Uh, are you sure you want to get that close?” he said, still stiff in her embrace.
“The appropriate response, I think, is ‘I love you too, Lana.’ ”
“The appropriate response is, why are you hugging me when I haven’t had a shower this morning?” He did wrap his arms around her though, squeezing hard. “Oh, Lana. Oh, baby, you feel good.”
“I love you,” she said again. “It’s okay if you can’t say it back. I’ve probably jumped the gun and moved a lot faster than you ever planned. But I had to tell you. I want you to know that I’m behind you a hundred percent. I can’t possibly know what you’re feeling right now—”
“Lana.” The sharp utterance of her name halted her monologue. Sloan pulled back so he could look into her eyes. He seemed to struggle for a few heart-stopping moments for the right words. “I appreciate your support. I really do. But I can’t—” He set her away from him, then raked his fingers through his already mussed hair, as if he’d made the same gesture a hundred times that morning.
“It’s all right if you can’t say you love me,” she said, though the realization that he didn’t have feelings as strong as hers nearly dropped her to her knees.
“It’s not that. The words. I could say them, and mean them too.”
Her heart fluttered with hopeful anticipation.
“But words like that imply a certain commitment—”
“I understand.” She didn’t.
“No, I don’t think you do. I have no idea what my future holds right now.”
“Do any of us? When we met again, when I decided to let you give me a ride home, did I have any idea that within three weeks I would be sued for custody, lose my job, and see my baby taken to the hospital and then thrown in jail? Did I know that my savings account would be drained by furnace repairs and medical bills? Or that the stinking Mercedes would get a crack in the engine block that would cost me twelve hundred dollars? No, but—”
