by C. D. Hersh
Maybe he’d keep the ring, too.
Chapter 4
Rhys’ cell phone alarm woke him. He flipped his arm out searching for Alexi, but all he touched was carpet. Bolting upright, he scanned the living room. No Alexi. Panic shot through him. Had someone taken her?
“Lexi,” he shouted. “Where are you?”
“In here.” She appeared in the kitchen doorway, wearing a ratty tee shirt, with the words ‘You have to kiss a lot of frogs to find the Prince’ emblazoned across the chest, holey jeans, and bright yellow rubber gloves that came to her elbows.
He relaxed and shoved the afghan lying on top of his legs away as he got to his feet. Some protector he’d been. While he slept, she’d covered him, tucking him in like a baby. Only three years out of Iraq and he’d already lost his edge. The slightest touch used to awaken him.
“There’s coffee,” she said, as he came into the kitchen. She dipped her gloved hand into a bucket and drew out a pink sponge. Not missing a beat, she swiped at the counter viciously, as if some horrible stain covered it.
He flexed his muscles, stiff from lying on the floor, and rolled his neck to release the cricks. I’m getting too old to sleep on floors. Not that he’d had much sleep. Her soft body nestled against his had kept him stiff—and awake—most of the night. Not jumping her required every ounce of willpower he could muster, but holding her all night had been well worth the effort.
He glanced at the counter. She’d nearly scrubbed the top layer of laminate off. A pungent odor rose from the bucket, making him wrinkle his nose. Ammonia? “What are you doing?”
She shot him a what-do-you-think glare. “Cleaning.” She spat the words at him.
Jeez. A good night’s rest hadn’t put her in a better mood. Guess snuggling against him all night hadn’t done the same thing for her as it had for him. Too bad. He’d been anticipating her morning-after glow; he was certain she’d have one from being in his arms all night.
“Looks more like countertop destruction to me.” He put his hand over hers and stilled them. “Stop. Have some coffee.”
She thrust him away. “Can’t. Gotta clean the house. It’s filthy.”
Rhys rested his hip against the kitchen table and finger-combed his tangled hair. “Your house is never filthy. You’re so organized you could find anything in the dark.”
She scowled at him. “Don’t you have to go to work?”
“Nope.” He crossed to the coffeepot and poured coffee into the “Best Cop” mug he’d given her on her birthday, and the green frog cup. He took a sip from the frog cup, stealing another peek at her tee shirt logo, wishing he was the last frog she had to kiss. “I took today and Friday off to be with you.” He waited, expecting a ‘thank you’ or a ‘how nice.’
Instead, she harrumphed and kept scrubbing.
“You don’t have to go to work either. Captain put you on bereavement leave . . . for a week.”
Water splattered across the tile backsplash as she plunged the sponge into the bucket. “I didn’t ask him to do that.”
He held a coffee cup out to her. “Didn’t have to.”
“Well, I don’t need it. In fact, work is what I need.”
After setting the cups on the table, he sat down and blew his breath out in an exasperated puff. “Time is what you need, Lexi.” He glanced around at the sparkling kitchen. “A break from scrubbing wouldn’t hurt either.”
She ripped off her rubber gloves and slapped them on the table in front of him. “Quit telling me what I need. You don’t know a thing about it.”
“I know more than you think,” he said softly. “You need to give yourself time to grieve. I’ve been there.”
Her eyebrows rose in surprise then dipped. “You have?”
“When my parents were killed in a DUI accident, I hated the driver who did it. It was hit and run and we never found the guy.” He stopped and swallowed, tamping the emotions down. Losing his adoptive parents in a car crash had been the worst thing he’d had to endure. Talking about it didn’t come easy, even after all these years. But he’d tell her. Especially if it meant he could get through to her.
“Revenge ate at me. Made me miserable. All I could think about was getting that guy and running him over like he had run over my folks. I faced the same kind of thing in Iraq. All I wanted to do was kill the SOBs who’d taken my buddies’ lives.”
“But you got over it?”
“Not easily. I let it get ingrained in me. It got hold of my soul, Lexi, until all I wanted was the hatred of revenge.” He paused and gazed deep into her eyes. “I don’t want that to happen to you.”
She studied him for a minute then frowned. “It’s not like that with me. Sure, I want to see Baron’s killer brought to justice, but there’s more to it. It’s not just about revenge.”
“No one ever thinks it is.” He pulled her down onto the empty chair next to him. “Look at yourself. You’re scrubbing like a maniac-”
“Self-preservation mechanism.”
“And you’re barking at me every time you speak.”
Her mouth flattened into a straight line to hide the hint of a smile threatening to curl the edges of her lips. “Am not.”
“Are too.” He edged toward her. “Where’s the Alexi I know? The cool, calm, collected cop?”
Her chin jutted. “She’s still here.”
“Nope, she’s not.”
She sprang from the chair and shot him a glare that would flash freeze meat. “You don’t understand.”
“Then tell me. Help me understand.”
“There are just some things I can’t explain, and even if I could you wouldn’t believe me.” She paced behind the kitchen chair.
“You can tell me anything.”
“No I can’t. Leave it go.” Her hands clenched, frustration and irritation radiating from her.
“If you were out on the streets now, you’d shoot the first thing that crossed your path.”
“No, I wouldn’t. I’d shoot you for being such an ass. Why don’t you just leave me alone?”
Rhys sat back in the chair, picked up his coffee cup, and peered at her over the rim. Neither of them spoke.
After several moments, he broke the silence. “Should I get the gun now or wait until you absolutely can’t stand me?”
A feral growl escaped from Alexi. The anger on her face showed clearly as her eyes narrowed and the crease across the bridge of her nose deepened.
“Your gun or mine?”
Her expression blackened.
Rhys set his cup on the table. “You’ll have to shoot me to get me to leave. I care too much about you.”
Alexi felt like shooting him. But how could you shoot someone who was looking at you with loving eyes? Crap, he was right, she was being a bitch.
Dropping onto the kitchen chair, she covered her face with her hands. “I’m so sorry, Rhys,” she muttered. “You’re not the ass. I am.” She separated her fingers and peeked through them. “Forgive me?”
“Always.” Rhys eased her hands from her face and held them. “I want to help you through this, Lexi. Tell me what you need.”
“Leave—”
“Anything but that. You’re stuck with me.”
Stuck with me. Even though she couldn’t admit it to him, she liked the sound of those words. She didn’t want to be alone, not really and especially not now. She just had to be.
In spite of all her efforts, after Rhys’ back rub last night, her defenses had tumbled down. She’d cried herself to sleep in his arms. And that felt good. Not the crying part, but his arms. Her bitchy attitude this morning was an attempt to rebuild those defenses.
His eyes were warm and soft. Why was she so afraid? He was her friend. Her partner. She trusted him with her life every day. Trusted him to watch her back. Trusted his fighting skills to protect her. Why couldn’t she trust him with her grief?
Technically you did, Jordan. When you broke down last night. So what’s the big deal today?
A ru
sh of memories flooded back. She envisioned her family on the living room floor. Her mother and brother dead. Her father barely alive. She had knelt over him, weeping. Begging him to stay with her.
His dying words came back to her. Grief is a midnight indulgence. When no one else can hear. Stay strong, Alexi. Protect yourself. She had lived by that ever since her family’s murder.
Until last night.
She’d let her father and Baron down. Shown weakness. Maybe it was a stupid rule to live by. Maybe being weak was okay sometimes. She sighed. Everything was so confused.
Rhys waited patiently for her to answer.
“How can I help?” he asked again.
He couldn’t. Not like she wanted him to. She shoved the clawing need for his touch down to depths she hoped she could manage, becoming all-business on him. “I need to sort through Baron’s papers.” The phone in Baron’s office rang, startling her. “I thought I disconnected that last night.”
“You did. I plugged it back in.”
She raised her gaze to Rhys. “My brain’s fried. Guess I really do need you.”
“Just what I want to hear.” He nodded his head toward Baron’s office. “Should I get that?”
“It’s probably one of Baron’s clients. I’d better take it.” She sprinted to the office and answered the telephone. “Alexi Jordan speaking.”
“Alexi, this is Sylvia. I got your message about Baron. I’m so sorry to hear about your loss.”
The condolence knotted Alexi’s insides. How long would that go on? “Thank you,” she said, struggling to keep her tone even. “Your message yesterday sounded important. I’m sorry I can’t help you.”
”Actually, I may be able to help you now.”
“Excuse me?”
“Fear bean beathach tri an aon.”
Alexi’s heart skipped a beat. She knew the inscription. Was she reading it from Baron’s ring? “What did you say?”
“You know what I said,” Sylvia answered. “Man, woman—”
Alexi interrupted her translation. “Who are you?” Suspicion clawed at her chest. “And what do you want with my uncle?”
“It’s a long story, but I’ll give you the digest version. Baron was my mentor, and more, a few years back. Maybe you heard him mention me?”
Her mentor? Then she was a Turning Stone member, too? Besides Baron and her family—whom she’d not known were shifters until many years after their deaths—she’d never met another member of the Society. Baron had mentioned some names. Told her about the high council. Related information about the wars between the true members and the league of rogue shifters. A war that had been going on for centuries between the two forces. Fortunately, she’d never been on the battlefront of good and evil. After her family’s death, Baron had taken her into hiding to protect her.
“I’m sorry,” Alexi said. “Baron never mentioned you.”
“Not surprising. He always was a private man. And considering our unorthodox relationship, he would be too much a gentleman to say much, if anything.”
“Unorthodox?” Alexi echoed. Was she a rogue? Is that what she meant by unorthodox?
“I was May. He was December. The Council frowned on mentor-mentee romances.”
The revelation took Alexi off guard. She’d never supposed Baron had a romance. He’d never spoken of it. “I . . . I had no idea. How did you find Baron?”
“I’m not without resources.”
The answer didn’t make Alexi feel any better about the mysterious woman. Nor did it give her any insight on where Sylvia stood in the Society. Did she dare risk asking?
“How did Baron die?” Sylvia asked. “Will there be a memorial? I’d like to come.”
Her cop alarms went off. What was this woman looking for? Baron’s ring? A time to ransack the house? Old flames didn’t appear out of the blue, not after the object of their affections had been murdered and especially before the news became public.
“His death is too painful to talk about right now,” Alexi said. That was truthful. “As for a memorial . . . there won’t be one. If you knew Baron, you’ll understand that.”
“Oh, I knew him, all right.” Her tone suggested Sylvia caught Alexi’s meaning. “My sudden appearance must be a lot for you to handle right now. You’ve just lost your uncle and, if I’m right, your mentor. I should give you some time to absorb all this new information. Keep my number handy. If you need someone to talk to . . . about Society things, I’ll be more than willing to help.”
“There is one thing you could tell me.”
“What?”
“What happened that made Baron never talk about you?”
Sylvia laughed softly. “You are naïve, aren’t you?”
Alexi’s hackles rose. “What does that mean?”
“Sometimes the heat of passion burns more than you intend it to.”
There was a lot of truth in that statement. Another reason to keep my distance from Rhys. She also suspected there was more than met the eye where Sylvia and Baron were concerned.
“I’ll be talking to you later, Alexi.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“You’re going to need someone like me. I can help you.”
Chapter 5
Shaw wandered up and down the streets a block from the Dew Drop Inn clicking the key fob he’d stolen from his latest victim. A beep and flash of light caught his attention. Walking closer to the black 2009 Camaro he clicked the fob again. This was it.
Rummaging in the glove box, he found the car registration.
“Baron Jordan. So that was her—or rather his—name.” Shaw searched under the dash for a magnetic key box. Nothing.
He fumbled in his pocket for a pencil. If there was no house key, he could at least get the home address from the registration. There’d be a funeral for this Jordan fellow, and a funeral meant an empty house. He just had to watch the obits.
A rap on the passenger window startled Shaw. He sat up and came face-to-face with a uniform.
“Shit!” The word exploded from him before he could stop it. Shaw threw open the car door and sprinted down the street, dodging cars. The cop shouted at him to halt. Shaw jumped over the intersection curb and knocked over a woman rounding the corner. He grabbed the edge of a brick building to keep himself upright, scraping his fingers on the rough masonry. Glancing behind him, Shaw saw the cop in full pursuit, mouthing something into his shoulder mike. Shaw careened around the corner and increased his speed, his lungs burning with the effort.
This SOB had been nothing but trouble. There had been nothing in the mugging, nothing in the car, and now he had the cops on his tail. The memory of him lying on the ground—his trim beard, chiseled face, and hairy, muscled body—flooded into Shaw’s mind. He shook his head trying to clear the image, but it wouldn’t go away.
A spasm shot through his chest and he stumbled. Gotta hide. Get out of here. He swung into an alley. The pain ripped his chest in half. Unable to move, he collapsed against a building. I’m done for now.
Drawing his knees to his chest, he hid his face against them. Maybe the cop wouldn’t come down this alley. He held his breath, cursing the day he’d killed Baron Jordan. As he stilled, the hand wearing the ring he’d stolen tingled. The tingling spread through his whole body.
Am I having another heart attack? Probably just as well. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in jail.
Something jabbed him in the shoulder.
“Hey, you. Look at me.”
The crackle of the police radio told him a cop stood in front of him. Shaw raised his head, his heart racing frantically.
The cop eyed him then scanned the alley. “Sorry. I thought you were someone else. Anybody come into this alley?”
Blood roared in Shaw’s ears. Had he heard right?
The cop raised his voice a notch and repeated the question.
The stupid pig didn’t recognize him. He shook his head.
The cop peered closer. “Are you okay? You’
re a little pale.”
He nodded, wiped his hand over his mouth, and then over his chin. Dumbfounded, he repeated the motion.
He had a beard! Where had that come from? “I’m fine, officer.” Like hell I am. “No need to worry about me.” The words came out just short of a squeak and not very convincing. Anxious to rid himself of the cop, Shaw continued his assurances. “I just sat down to rest.”
The cop’s gaze roamed around the alley again. “How long have you been sitting here?”
Shaw shoved his hoodie sleeve up his arm, the material stretched tight against his skin. It hadn’t been that tight when he put it on this morning. He checked his wristwatch. Damn! There was hair on his forearm! What was going on? He drew in a shaky breath. Stay calm. Act like nothing is happening. He peered at his watch. “About fifteen minutes, Officer, and no one has come into this alley.”
After another lengthy assessment of him, the officer said, “Okay. Sorry I bothered you.” Then he left the alley.
As soon as the cop was out of sight, Shaw jumped up and checked his body. Arm and chest muscles strained his knit jersey hoodie to its limits. Leg muscles bulged under his pants. He rolled the sweatpants’ legs to his knees. Shit. He had hair all over him. He rotated the hand he had grazed on the bricks. Red lines covered the length of the fingers, a hint of blood dotting the scrapes.
Shaw crossed the alley to a window, wiped the dirty glass with his sleeve, and stared. Another man’s face peered back at him. The man he had killed in the alley last night.
Stunned, he stumbled backward. How the hell had that happened? And how was he going to get his own face back?
Chapter 6
“We found something, Jordan.”
Alexi’s hand shook as she held the receiver. Please let it be the ring. She took a breath to steady her nerves.
“A cop, walking his beat near the alley where your uncle was found, came upon a guy rifling through Baron’s Camaro,” Captain Williams said.
