He took out his cell. “I’ll be fine.” And as he dialed 911, he looked around cagily, realizing he had another pressing problem on his hands. He had to get Shelley out of here.
19
He took her back to her apartment. Ashleigh wasn’t there, which was a relief, particularly since he was injured.
Teary-eyed and emotionally precarious, Shelley threw off her coat and strode to a kitchen cabinet from which she withdrew a host of new, unopened medical supplies. “Jared’s forever loading us up with all the ridiculous samples he gets. I’ve got enough to perform open-heart surgery.”
“Shelley, I have to go.”
Her head shot up. “You’re still bleeding.” She pushed a strand out of her face and glared at him. “Lie down.”
His mind refused to obey, but there was that warm sensation along his stomach. And the pain, of course. Against his will, his feet took him to the leather sofa near the wall of windows. He could make out the glass building next door, the sleepy lights from night owl cars below.
His cell phone buzzed. Carter. But he wasn’t about to have this conversation here. So he sent the attorney to voicemail.
Shelley came over with a few clean kitchen towels, a bottle of vodka, disposable gloves, dressing pads, and medical tape. She snapped on the gloves and looked at his shirt again. The red was nearly black. Her face contorted.
“Lie down,” she said again but quieter, more compassionately.
Reluctantly, he settled himself on the sofa with his head on a throw pillow. She perched on the edge and started to unbutton his shirt with care.
He stared at the ceiling, jaw tightening as she peeled the cloth away from his skin.
“What’re you gonna do now?” she asked while cleaning off the blood so she could see the actual wound. “Won’t you be in trouble?”
“Don’t worry about it,” he replied, gritting his teeth. “It’s not your problem.”
She looked at him furiously. “Is that the way you always think? That what happens to you is nobody’s problem but yours? Your grandmother would be heartbroken if she knew what you just went through.” With a clean rag, she applied pressure to the wound. She could see yellowish white tissue – the knife must’ve sliced through muscle. But it wasn’t too deep. At least his organs were protected. She pressed both hands down and felt him convulse though his face remained stony. Sighing, she looked away at her coffee table, now clean. In fact, the whole apartment had gotten a face lift. She’d been in such a wonderful, elevated mood since she started at the club. Happy. But now?
She lifted the rag to check on the bleeding. Dark red, wet, but lessening. She replaced the rag and continued to push. He clenched his six-pack again.
“Are you finished?” he asked, lifting his head. “I’ve gotta get back to the scene.”
“Not like this you’re not. Now stop moving.” Finally, when she lifted the rag, the bleeding had suspended to her satisfaction, and she proceeded with the disinfection process. She rained vodka over the wound which made Zach clench his teeth and brace himself.
His face reddened and his eyes watered.
She glanced at his expression. There was something about seeing him in this kind of pain that made her heart go out to him, made her spirit mourn. Emotion clogged her throat, and she dropped her gaze. Blinking rapidly, she dabbed off the alcohol which dribbled onto the sofa and then began to apply antibacterial ointment to the surrounding tissue. She used the sterile, non-fluffy dressing pads and taped them across the wound. Tight but not too tight. “Okay. You’re done. But you still need stitches.”
She stood up as he eagerly swung his feet to the floor and bounced up.
She couldn’t understand his unnatural resilience. “Let me get you a shirt. You can’t go out like that.” She went into a room on the left side of the apartment and flicked on the light.
He caught a glimpse of what was clearly her bedroom. He frowned and looked down at himself. The scars. The bullet wounds. His hand feathered the white strip of bandaging, his fingertips feeling the waffle texture of the material. The pain had diminished.
“Here,” she said, reappearing with a folded Columbia Law T-shirt. “I’m sure Erik won’t mind you having it.”
He took it with a muttered thanks and removed his jacket and shirt while she started gathered up the vodka and medical materials. As he pulled on the T-shirt, he noticed the blood staining his hands. Guilt sponged his conscience ‘til it felt like it was dripping down his face and onto his palms. The compulsion to wash them overpowered. So he followed her to the kitchen.
They said nothing as she cleaned up. He chucked his sliced shirt in the trash and headed to the sink. The hot water steamed as it scalded his leathery skin, making the blisters white and the cuts red.
He took a breath as he shut off the water, sickening realization sweeping through him. He’d bought into twisted logic. Cervenka’s idea of therapy for a broken, angry man. He glanced behind him at Shelley as she finished putting away Dr. Jared’s supplies. She was stronger than she looked. No more tears. No signs of real strain. Or maybe it would hit later. Either way…
Making up his mind, he pulled out the gun from the back of his waistband. He’d taken it from his car’s glove compartment – a sub-compact Glock 27. Entirely too small for him, for his grip; his pinky hung over the edge of the stock. But it was reliable to a fault and accurate at reasonable distances. She was about five-seven, maybe five-eight. 125 pounds. He imagined this 9mm would be suitable for her hands.
She turned to wash her hands, and he heard her sharp intake of breath, but not for a moment did he imagine she thought he would kill her. “I want you to keep this,” he said. “I’ll teach you how to use it.”
“No,” she protested, recoiling from it and him. “I don’t need a gun.”
His jaw shifted with displeasure and sighed. “Those men, they were dangerous. And they’ll be more like them around the club. I assure you.”
“This is ridiculous!”
“You’ll be okay. But you need to continue playing there. If you quit now, it could be worse.”
But she was only fixated on the weapon in his hands. “I can’t use a gun!”
He heard the resolution in her voice, the near hysteria. “Hopefully, you’ll never have to. But you need to have something. Just in case.” She wanted to say something, but she couldn’t.
Without permission, he entered her room. An unpretentious floral bedspread covered a queen-sized bed littered with stuffed bears, a musical mural on the wall, a fairly cheap rug on the floor. Her fragrance washed over him as he strode to her side table and yanked open the bottom drawer. There, he buried the gun beneath some books and a journal.
Leaving her room, he returned to find Shelley exactly where he’d left her: in the kitchen. “It’s in your side table drawer,” he informed her.
He saw the way she shut her eyes, and the large drop that rolled down her cheek. She nodded, but it was clear she was trying hard to keep it together. His steel walls began to cave. “Is Ashleigh going to be back tonight?”
“I don’t know,” was all she said.
“Would you like me to stay?” he ventured.
She hesitated a long time, unable to think. Drowning. But in the end her answer was a firm “no”.
He dropped his gaze and swallowed. “Okay. I’ll call you tomorrow. We’ll get started in the afternoon.”
As he exited, and she looked at the door as he closed it quietly. She spied the bloodied shirt in the trash, and her strength began to crumble. Hands shaking, she searched for her cell phone, tears streaming now, and dialed a number she hadn’t in months.
20
Carter paced his apartment, raking his fingers through his hair, agitated over Zach’s most recent mess. But somewhere between his mental rantings, he realized his cell was vibrating again.
Assuming it was Zach who had yet to call back, he answered brusquely. “It’s about damn time!”
“Carter?”
The familiar feminine voice shocked him. “Shelley? Oh my God, I’m sorry. I – I thought – never mind. What’s up?”
“I just needed to talk to you,” she said, and he thought he detected a tremble.
“Something wrong?” he asked even as he went to his kitchen table and pulled out a folder from his briefcase. Putting her on speaker, he started flipping through pages of printed research on Cervenka, trying to find something on either a Djurdjanovic or a Vašek – if those were even the men’s real names.
“If you’re busy, I can – I can call back tomorrow,” she said hesitantly. “I know it’s late.”
“Uh huh. I mean,” he caught himself, “no, it’s fine.” With his pen, he hastily circled a few lines here and there, still flipping pages. “What’s on your mind?”
“Something happened tonight.”
“Uh huh,” he said, barely registering her statement as he continued scribbling.
“I was hoping we could… talk. Do you have time to meet me for coffee in the morning?”
He ceased long enough to locate his leather-bound planner. “Depends. Are we talking about actual coffee or an invitation for make-up sex?”
“Carter,” she chastised, gently.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’m really tired. Just tell me where and when.” With one eye still on the documents, he flipped it open to tomorrow’s date – although technically today since it was already after midnight.
She told him, and he scribbled it in the 10:30 line, crossing out something else. “I’ll be there,” he said asbsently. “Looking forward to it.”
“Me too,” she said, a hint of desperation in her voice. “Good night, Carter.”
Even after he hung up, he thought about her briefly, but tossed the phone aside and continued working.
The next morning, Carter entered the Starbucks across from the IRS building and spotted his ten-thirty at a two-seater in the corner. She wasn’t in that red dress he liked so well but a collegiate-chic ensemble, which managed to allure anyway. His mouth tipped, even as he sent off a text to Zach who was at Bloomingdale’s. Of all places. He walked over to her. “Hey, sorry I’m late.”
Surprised, Shelley looked up at Carter and smiled tentatively.
He gave her a hug as she rose to greet him and pecked her soft cheek. “You look nice. Smell good too,” he said, warming up. He sat as she did.
“Don’t you want to order anything?” she asked.
“Uh, I grabbed a quick bite already.”
Her large brown eyes filled with meek dismay. “You already ate?”
“Early this morning.” He frowned, searching for an explanation. “Sorry. I was up all night dealing with something.”
She smiled again, even smaller this time, and fiddled with the plastic ad on the table.
His phone buzzed with a text, and as he nimbly tapped out a reply to a forensics investigator, he asked, “So what’d you wanna talk about?”
She looked at him with a mixture of hurt and frustration.
Realizing she remained quiet, he glanced up. Her expression caused him to stop abruptly. “You know what? I’ll deal with this later.” He forced himself to put the device down. “Talk to me.”
Her lashes fluttered as she lowered her gaze uncertainly, hands wrapping around a white chocolate macchiato. The smells of roasted beans and vapid in-and-out motion of customers swirled around them. “I think I’m having second thoughts about us.”
He hid a smirk. “So. What happened to the whole needing to prove to daddy you’re a big girl –”
She glared faintly.
“– that you’re capable of standing on your own two feet?” he corrected.
She ducked her head in response, and he could see the admission cost her.
“I see.” He studied her disheartened face. Reaching for her left hand, he gave it a consoling squeeze. “What now?”
“I think I’d like to take it slow,” she said, dousing his embers with a bucket of ice.
He glanced up at the ceiling and exhaled slowly, removing his hand. “Oookay. So you don’t feel that all the years we’ve known each other counted for anything?”
“You were there to catch me when I needed it.” Her eyes pleaded for his understanding, but those lips with just the right amount of pout beckoned to him in the worst ways. “But I wonder if that’s the only reason we were together.”
He sighed, trying not to show his deep frustration. “I can think of worst things.”
Shelley chewed on her lip, clearly not wanting to hurt or lose him. She averted her gaze uncomfortably.
Pensive, Carter stared at her distressed profile, wishing he could peek into that mind of hers. But making up his, he reached into a pocket and produced a sparkling diamond engagement ring. “This is partly why I was late. I had to dig it out of my drawer.” He laid it on the table. The slight metallic noise it made drew her attention.
She gasped and her shoulders hiked.
“Take it easy. This is not an official proposal.” He watched her features relax, and he couldn’t help but be dismayed. “Princess cut. That’s what you always wanted, right?”
Shelley glanced from the ring to Carter’s face. Her heart rapid-fired, and she held her breath, afraid to say anything at all, afraid to even touch it.
Boldly, he took the platinum band and grasped her left hand – silky soft as ever. He gazed into her eyes and slid the diamond onto her fourth finger. “I’ve been waiting a long time to not screw you over again.”
She softened perceptibly and a smile peeked. “You’re making this really hard for me.”
He smirked the way he knew she thought was sexy. “Good.” He kissed her hand. “Now you know a fraction of how I feel.” He enveloped her in his arms and pressed his lips to her hair.
The extraordinary comfort of his embrace sank deeply into her system. He made her feel safe, stable, protected. He was too good, she acknowledged. But maybe therein was the problem.
“Try again.” Zach said later that afternoon. He put his hand on Shelley’s back and adjusted her stance as she held the gun like a wavering lily. This girl was a lost cause, but he’d determined to turn her into a decent shot if it killed him. Which, at this rate, it well might.
Shelley wavered at his touch though she was perfectly insulated in a fur-lined leather jacket. The flush of her cheeks could not be attributed to the nippy outdoor weather. The trouble was the jacket was a little too short and his hand occasionally found the waistband of her jeans when he shifted her. Even through the material of her sweater, he made her unseasonably warm. And to make matters worse, the engagement ring glared from directly in front of her where her ungloved hands were holding the grip of his full-sized Glock 22.
“Okay. Now take a breath,” he said from his position behind her.
She did.
“And pull.”
Her finger squeezed against the trigger’s resistance until she heard the BANG! through the protective ear-wear. The recoil of the 9mm made her stomach drop, shocking her system as it had every time today. But she must’ve been getting used to the harsh feeling on some level because she was thrown back only a few inches this time. She thought she’d hit the wall until she realized it was warm and solid, not cold and empty.
Lowering the gun, which felt like hot lead in her soft hands, she turned and dared a glance at Zach. He didn’t look pleased, but that’s how he looked when he arrived. “Did I not do it right?” she asked.
He nodded towards the black silhouette in the brown-grass distance. “Take a look.”
She did, squinting her eyes to slits and lifting a hand to shade against the afternoon sun. It looked like she’d made a square hit to the head. The sight flickered, and she saw the man Zach had killed instead. She nearly dropped the Glock as she staggered back in fright.
Zach caught her, hands on her waist. “What’s wrong?”
Her pulse throbbed in her throat, and she felt her heart beating through her breast. “It’s nothing,” she re
plied, fighting to regain control of herself. She didn’t want to risk angering him.
But he must have heard the wavering to her voice and kept his hold on her.
The heat from his palms started to melt through her fear, and a different apprehension stole over her in rapid order. She hastened to step away from him. “Really. I’m fine.”
“Maybe that’s enough for today,” he said, taking his gun from her; he seemed eager to get away. His eyes briefly glanced at the ring, but he said nothing about it. “We’ll pick up again tomorrow.”
21
The following Thursday, Shelley stood up from the piano bench and smoothed her hands over her dress, finished with her evening session. She moved away from the Steinway, turning her back on the dwindling crowd, and headed straight for the rehearsal room behind the stage. The comforting timbre of the club’s activity followed her through the open door.
“Shelley,” an accented voice said. “I’m glad I caught you before you left.”
“Mr. Cervenka,” she said in an amalgam of surprise and unease. Nevertheless, she managed a considerably generous smile.
Rybar motioned for her to sit down as he shut the door. Shelley did as she was told, swallowing the anxious feelings climbing up her throat. The smell of smoky olive oil, roasted cherry tomatoes, bow-tie pasta and parmesan-encrusted tilapia lingered around him – the special tonight.
But she also detected Pernod, a redolent, herbal-scented favorite of her father’s. Unwittingly, the familiar, comforting aroma of the distilled liqueur warmed her and set her at peace – at least on some level.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Cervenka?” she asked, sitting poised, one leg crossed over the other.
He smiled craggily. “Oh, nothing, nothing. I just came to talk for a bit and see how you are getting along.” He looked her in the eye, and she saw the faint red in his. “How is the staff treating you?”
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