by Eden Ashley
Languishing in a thick haze of satisfaction, she noticed Ethan jerking and twitching as he pulled away so as not to finish inside her. She felt the gush of his seed spill against her skin, wetting her thighs and stomach. Reaching out, she stroked the still rigid length of him until another creamy spurt emptied between them.
Grinning, Ethan lowered himself to the bed and rolled so he lay beneath her. He slid inside of her again, locking their bodies together once more as he held her close and kissed her hair. Davey made no effort to move away as she would have with others, choosing instead to savor the moment of intimacy.
Breathing hard, she realized Ethan wasn’t. The bastard hadn’t even broken a sweat.
Davey laughed, surprising herself. “I didn’t know you carried such a big gun,” she said, unable to remember the last time she’d been so satisfied.
She suddenly wondered what Ethan was thinking. If normal boys were impossible to understand, Ethan was the ultimate enigma. His stoic and quiet nature, the way he always seemed to appear whenever Davey needed him most, the strange way she felt around him and most of all, his miraculous return from the dead were all boxes checked on a long list of anomalies describing Ethan Remington.
Out of pure gratitude Davey didn’t want to upset him, but she had to know what was happening. And she had to find out before he started asking questions about Marx.
“Ethan,” she called his name tentatively, checking to see if he were still awake.
“Yeah,” he answered, not sounding sleepy at all.
“How are you here?” she asked, hoping he would understand. She didn’t how else to say it without sounding like a crazy person.
He was quiet for a long time, making Davey worry he might consider running away again. He eventually responded, his voice soft and distant, as if crossing from a different dimension. “I lied to you earlier. I knew you were in trouble but I couldn’t move.” Getting that haunted look again, his stare remained fixed on the ceiling. “Soon after I was shot, memories of the accident flooded my mind. It was like reliving the car crash all over again. I know it sounds crazy, but I think—I think I died then.” He looked at Davey, and she could see just how deeply troubled he was.
“That’s normal,” she said uncertainly. “People claim to see the other side and come back all the time.” She tried to keep her voice light. All the while her stomach clenched violently enough to touch her spine, and Davey again experienced the intuition that something huge was going on but she couldn’t hope to understand it. At least not yet.
“I remember something from after the crash too…men hurting me because I couldn’t do what they wanted. I didn’t perform the way they wanted.” A shudder racked Ethan’s body. He raked a hand through his hair, and Davey noticed the circular pink of a third freshly healed scar just near his temple. “I was paralyzed.” His face twisted, and he trembled again. “I couldn’t come to you.”
Davey squeezed his hand. It was little comfort, she knew, but she had to do something. “How did you know I was in trouble?” she asked, trying to steer him away from painful memories.
“I always know where you are. I can’t explain it.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Even if I could remember everything, I don’t think I could explain it.”
Davey bit her lip. “Maybe more will come.”
Ethan shook his head. “I don’t think so.” He gingerly tapped two fingers to his temple. “This is all that’s left.” Rolling to his side, he shifted closer and rested an open palm against her cheek. It was too much. Davey closed her eyes, trying to shut him out. She had never experienced anything like this before. Cuddling with a guy post-fuck had always been a no-no for her. Now here she was, resting in Ethan’s arms while savoring the afterglow, having a conversation loaded with emotion. Davey finally found the courage to look at him again. Ethan’s grey stare bore into her.
“You’re in danger, Davey Little.”
“I know.”
“Are you ready to tell me why?”
Davey shrugged. She wasn’t sure she would ever be ready to talk about it, but the walls of reality were slowly slamming down around her and bringing the pain back with them.
“For almost a year now, Palmer and I have worked together. He handles the college scene while I peddle poison to rich high school kids.” She stopped abruptly, realizing the need to switch tenses. Palmer was gone. “I needed the cash. He wanted the rush of rebellion and the popularity. Things were good until a few months ago when a new guy came to town and started pushing out the small time dealers.”
“How did he do that?”
“I don’t know for sure, but there were rumors of brutal beatings, extortion, and murder. One day, Palmer told me that the boss wanted a meeting. I didn’t take him seriously. I mean, up until that point, Palmer had always kept me out of that end of the business and shit. As the day for the meeting came closer, Palmer grew more insistent. I got mouthy and tried to blow him off. He hit me. It was the first and last time Palmer ever put hands on me like that, and I could tell he was just as shocked as I was. There was this desperation in his eyes I’d never seen before. So, I went and met the new boss.”
She sat up, letting the covers fall to her waist. Ethan quietly gazed at her nakedness before rolling over to retrieve a bottle of water from the mini fridge. As he moved, she noticed for the first time the circular tattoo positioned beneath his left shoulder blade. It was a collage of strange symbols contained within solid borders. Once again, Davey adjusted her assumptions about him. Ethan really hadn’t seemed like the kind of guy who got inked.
He offered her the water and she took it appreciatively. Rather than pressing Davey for more information, Ethan respected her silence, waiting patiently until she was ready to continue. “Marx was a total creep. He had a reputation for being rough with the ladies, but he had never tried to lay a hand on me—until things got ugly last night. Palmer stopped him and died for it.” Guilt slamming into her like a runaway train, Davey took another swig of water. She fought hard against the tears pushing into her eyes. “He’s dead, Ethan. Palmer is dead.” Losing the battle, Davey dropped the water bottle and hid her face as she sobbed into her hands. Ethan dragged her to his chest and held her. The hurt receded, allowing her to feel safe again, like the outside world couldn’t touch her as long as she was walled within Ethan’s arms. Then Davey thought of how Palmer was no longer in that world and how he would never be safe again because he was dead.
She cried harder.
“It’s not your fault.” Ethan’s arms tightened. Lifting her into his lap, he began to gently rock. “It’s not your fault, Davey.”
“It is my fault. I lost the drugs and the money. Because of me, we had to go to the boss with no merchandise or cash. Palmer tried to fix it, but he couldn’t. Marx wanted me as payment. I tried to tell Palmer it was okay. The mess we were in was my doing and mine to make right. But Palmer wasn’t going for it. He grabbed me and ran. Marx and his thugs started shooting, chased us.” She paused for a quivering breath and could feel the storm inside of her calming. “Before he died, Palmer told me to go somewhere safe.” Davey lifted her head, gazing into Ethan’s kind face. “I thought of my grandmother…her home…and you. But then you were dead.” She clutched at him as if to make sure his heart still beat, feeling herself growing anxious again. Davey felt so ashamed. She had never fallen to pieces like this. “What do we do now?”
Ethan stroked her hair. “Sleep now. Rest. At first light, we’ll find food and a burner phone. I need to make a call.”
15
The situation was a Category Five shit-storm. Solomon sat at his desk, nursing a cold cup of coffee and wondering what his next move should be, if any. His partner, a rookie with the makings to be an excellent policeman was in the wind and wanted for questioning in the homicide of four lawmen and half a dozen criminal associates of a drug dealer. Judge Kinsey’s only son was dead. Also missing was the girl, Daveigh Little. Her prints were found all over the weapon responsible f
or mortally wounding a federal agent.
Solomon stared down at the numerous photographs covering his desk. The broken bodies of Marx’s men were scattered throughout the woods, systematically eliminated with what looked like little resistance. An FBI agent was found shot to death inside Remington’s house. Another officer, Samuel Mullin, who had just completed his rookie year, was discovered with his face blown off inside the police car while his partner, Antonio Frank, was found balls deep in the mud with a savagely twisted neck.
There was no way the girl could have pulled off something like this alone. Those men were trained professionals. Even putting all that aside, Solomon had practically watched Daveigh grow up and wasn’t convinced she was mentally capable of such violence. But was Remington? Solomon had to admit, though he liked the kid, he didn’t really know much about him.
He picked up the photograph of Officer Frank. Solomon wasn’t a forensic man, but any idiot could recognize what incredible strength it would take to rotate a man’s head a complete one hundred and eighty degrees.
Sighing, he dropped the photo back onto the desk and dared a look around. The department was organized chaos. The feds had muscled in to take over the investigation, and a massive manhunt for Remington and the girl was about to be launched. Solomon just couldn’t shake the feeling they didn’t have all the facts. Or that the facts they did have were being sorely misinterpreted. Maybe he just put too much faith in people. Either way, as an officer of the law, he was obligated to do his job and bring those two kids in.
As Solomon stood to go receive his orders, the cell phone in his pocket buzzed. He looked at the display but didn’t recognize the number. The text was simple. “Payphone outside. Five minutes.”
Making a casual detour to the coffee pot, Solomon went and stood by the phone. It rang right on time.
“Hello,” he answered, marveling at how fast his heart was beating. “This is Solomon. Who is this?” he asked while mentally crossing his fingers.
“It’s Remington.”
Relief flooded through him with anger right in its wake. Solomon clenched the receiver way too tightly. “Do you have any idea what’s going on down here? The entire precinct is searching for you. So are the feds.”
“I know. Listen to me, Solomon. Those feds were dirty, and Sergeant Frank was trying to rape the girl.”
“So you killed them?”
“Yes,” Remington replied almost coldly.
“You don’t sound sorry about it. What about Mullin? Did you kill him too?”
“No. He was dead when I got there. The sergeant must have pulled the trigger.”
Solomon swore. “Is the girl with you?”
Remington hesitated. “She is,” he finally answered.
“You need to come in, kid. Explain what happened. Tell your side of the story, and the girl can tell hers too.”
“I can’t. Marx—the drug dealer we’re looking for—has several badges on payroll. I don’t know who else or how many, but at least three are dead and off the roster.”
Solomon ran a hand through his buzzed hair. “I’ll call internal affairs,” he said, his voice sounding gruff in his own ears.
“Can you do it without bringing suspicion? I don’t want this to come down on your head.”
“I’ll be fine. Worry about yourself.”
“Yes sir,” Remington said. “Do you have a unit watching the Little home? They could either be targets of Marx or help lead us to him.”
“You think Marx wants this girl that bad?”
“I don’t know. But I do know that he has a reputation as a ruthless, vengeful sonofabitch. It’s not beyond reason that he would go after Daveigh Little’s family to even the score with her.”
“Okay. There’s a unit out there now completing a second round of interviews to tidy up a few loose ends. I’ll make sure a car stays on the house afterward. Not everyone in this department is dirty, Ethan. I know a couple of guys we can trust.”
“Thanks, boss. I’ll make contact when I can.” The connection ended, and Solomon set the phone gently in its cradle. Returning to his desk, he stared at the gruesome photo evidence one more time, mustering the resolve to report to the situation room. It was time to receive those orders.
*
Davey sat in a booth near the back of The Rusty Roof Diner and slowly picked apart a cold slice of toast she had no interest in eating. Five minutes had passed since Ethan had left to make a phone call to someone he was certain they could trust. Despite everything, Davey was worried about her family. Most of all, she worried about Hogan, the only innocent in all of this. What if Marx, the vicious drug dealing scum that he was, tried to use her precious little brother against her? He could even threaten to harm Tina or Brady and Davey would be swayed to turn herself in if only to prevent having more blood on her hands.
Closing her eyes, she pictured Palmer’s face and the expression of pain it had worn as they sped away in his car. She hadn’t loved Palmer, but she had cared for him deeply—more than she had ever cared for any boy. His loss and the manner of it had left some part of her hollow.
Davey didn’t realize she was crying again until a hot tear splattered against the back of her hand. In the same moment, Ethan walked back into the diner. Seeing him, she felt a fresh rush of shame. No matter what sort of weird connection they shared or the pain that knocked her flat and left her raw, sleeping with him had been a mistake. She was stronger than this. She wasn’t the girl who fell apart and needed saving. Yet, she had fallen and Ethan had saved her, again and again. Straightening in her seat, Davey wiped her face. No more.
“Are you okay?” Ethan asked as he slid into the booth.
“No, but I’m getting there.” She brushed a stray pink strand away from her face and studied him. His dark eyes were bright with vigilance, but his hair remained a bit rumpled, another reminder of their illicit coupling. Dressed in blue jeans and a faded plaid button down with both shirt sleeves rolled up, Davey noticed with a start that Ethan barely looked over the legal drinking age without the guise of his stiff uniform. She couldn’t decide if it made him more or less attractive.
She cleared her throat. “So, what’s the plan?” she asked, before her mind started undressing him to relive every pleasure-filled moment of their night together.
Studying her from across the booth, Ethan frowned. Davey glanced down, suddenly self-conscious of looking very plain. Really, he couldn’t complain. This simple, unassuming outfit was his choice.
“We need to change your hair,” he said.
She shrugged. “I’ve always wanted to try black. It matches my soul.”
Shaking his head, Ethan spoke matter-of-factly. “No, Davey. Little darkness resides within in you, and it has not yet reached your soul.”
“Okay.” Davey scowled. “And here I was beginning to think you were a normal boy.” Brushing aside the weird comment, she clarified her earlier question. “Beyond dyeing my hair, what’s the plan? We can only run so far and hide for so long. Marx is the type of psycho who wouldn’t mind getting his pound of flesh from a close family member. My brother is just a little kid. I won’t have him getting hurt because of the shitty decisions I’ve made.”
“My partner, Solomon, agreed to put a unit outside of your home. He’s confident in the integrity of at least two officers in the department. We can trust his judgment, Davey.”
“Okay.” She swallowed her doubts. Ethan seemed like a decent cop. On his word, she could at least try to extend her faith to one more figure of authority. “So, what about us? Where do we go from here?”
“We need to keep you alive until internal affairs sorts out the precinct. After that you can safely turn yourself in. Then we will tell our side of the story.”
Davey nodded. She was onboard with the plan. Only…there was one more thing they needed to discuss. Davey cleared her throat. Even before the great sex, there had been something extraordinary between them. And after setting every nerve ending she possessed on fire a
nd after she had broken down in tears, Ethan had been so kind. He must have held her until she fell asleep because being in his arms was the last thing Davey remembered. But thoughts of Ethan and their night together eventually circled back to Palmer and the unbearable guilt of his death. She swallowed to clear the lump in her throat. “About last night—”
“Apollo, is that you?” A dark-haired man had stopped in front of their booth, staring at Ethan as if he were seeing a ghost. “Oh my God, it is you.”
Ethan looked up at the stranger, but not a shred of recognition graced his features. If Davey had to guess, she would have put the guy in his early thirties. He was tall, six feet or better, with broad shoulders, a square jaw and stern eyes. Though he was dressed as a civilian, both his posture and haircut screamed armed forces of some sort.
“It’s been what, nine years since you saved our asses?” the man continued, possibly too awed to be halted by Ethan’s confusion. “You haven’t changed one bit…doesn’t look like you’ve aged a day.” The stranger ran his fingers through a crop of wavy hair that was much shorter on the sides, and finally looked at Davey. “I’m being rude. I apologize for interrupting your breakfast.” He extended a hand toward her. “I’m Max Masters. They called me Mad Max back when I served.” He nodded toward Ethan. “But my crazy didn’t hold a candle to his.”
Smiling, Davey took his hand. Max seemed like a nice guy. “It’s nice to meet you Mr. Masters.”
“Please. Call me Max. My old man is Mr. Masters.”
“Okay, Max it is.”
They both looked at Ethan. Max seemed to have finally noticed his savior’s silence. “Right,” he said, as crimson colored his cheeks. “You probably don’t remember me. We only met once, and it was a long time ago. Here I am blubbering like a school girl who’s met a rock star. I just wanted to say thank you, man.” Max slid both hands into his pockets and rounded his thick shoulders sheepishly. “None of my unit would be alive if not for you.”
