Pierced: Pierced Trilogy Boxed Set

by Lashell Collins

  He doesn’t ask where I’m going and I get the feeling he already knows. He just looks at me for a beat and then says, “Yeah, okay,” as he turns back to the report on his desk.

  His aloofness makes me uneasy and I frown and look nervously around the bull pen, then back at him. “Conner,” I say quietly and he looks up at me blankly. “Are we going to have a problem here?” I hate the fact that I have to ask but, I need to know what I’m up against.

  He looks at me with a slight smile and I get the feeling he’s laughing at me. The thought irritates me and I feel myself scowl at him. “No, Guy,” he says condescendingly, “we don’t have a problem. But I’m gonna love watching you at the mercy of a woman.” I can hear the laughter in his voice. “Welcome to the real world, buddy.” He is eyeing me with barely contained glee, and even though I know he’s joking, it pisses me off.

  “Fuck you, Conner,” I say getting up to head out to my truck, ignoring the sound of his laughter as I go. I climb into my truck and shake my head, thinking about Conner’s words. Me, at the mercy of a woman. The thought is sobering and as I drive over to the museum, I can’t shake it. He’s right. I am already at the mercy of this woman. She has me wrapped around her little finger already and there is nothing I can do about it. Hell, I don’t even think I want to do anything about it. Fact is, I think wrapped around Samantha’s little finger sounds like a damn fine place to be right now.

  I pull into the parking lot and drive around to where her car is parked, and I park in a space nearby. At five minutes after four, she walks out of the building and I get out of my truck to meet her as she nears her car. She looks surprised to see me.

  “What are you doing here, Josh?” she asks softly.

  “You know what I’m doing here,” I answer her, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

  She smiles shyly at me. “Josh,” she says softly, shaking her head.

  “Come on,” I say, wrapping my arm around her and leading her to her car. “Let’s get you home.”

  I follow her to her apartment and up to her door. I just want to make sure she gets in all right. “Aren’t you coming in?” she asks me when I don’t follow her inside.

  “I have to get back to work,” I say, shaking my head. “I’ll be by after I’m done, though.”

  “Okay,” she says softly, looking at me with big, disappointed eyes.

  I reach out and caress her face. “Call me if you need me,” I tell her and she nods. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

  “Okay,” she repeats, and I lean in and lightly kiss her forehead. I back away, closing the door as I do and stand, waiting until I hear her lock the door. Then I turn and head back to the elevator.

  My thoughts are a jumbled mess on the short drive back over to the police station, thinking about her, about the case, about how she has turned my life upside down in just a few short days.

  When I get back, Conner looks at me and says, “How is she?”

  “She’s okay,” I say distractedly, my mind working overtime on something else. “You know, Dave,” I say slowly, thinking about this case, “I don’t like the direction this thing is going.” He looks at me with a puzzled frown, saying nothing, so I continue. “You start off with an assault, and then you terrorize her. Normal psychos … they usually start off small. Terrorize, then attack. If you begin with an assault … how do you top that?”

  He is silent for a minute and I can see his mind working. Then he looks me in the eye and says the words I’m reluctant to say. “With a bigger attack.”

  I hold his troubled gaze with one of my own and nod slowly. “And we have no leads. No clue who this asshole is or what he wants with her.” My voice is low and worried. “All we know is that now he’s watching her. Possibly stalking her.”

  “Hold on, Guy,” he says to me, raising a hand to make his point. “All we really have is an upset Samantha who thinks she saw the tattoo on a man at the museum.”

  “What, are you saying you don’t believe her?” I ask him incredulously.

  “No, of course that’s not what I’m saying, Guy,” he assures me. “I saw how upset she was earlier. I believe that she thinks she saw this creep. But, like you said, we still have nothing to really go on. So, we can’t say for certain that this guy is stalking her or even that he’s watching her. We got no surveillance footage from the museum and the only other person who remembers seeing the man in question only saw him from the back. For all we know, the man Samantha Colby saw today had a tattoo on his neck, not the tattoo. It could have been anybody, Guy.”

  I roll my eyes at him because I know that he’s right. Without something more to go on, I can’t say definitively that Sam is being stalked by this psycho. Doesn’t make me feel any better though, because my gut is telling me something different. I suddenly don’t want to let Samantha out of my sight and I know that I’m probably being irrational but, I can’t help it.

  I spend the remainder of my day following up on a lead in another case and, all the while, my mind is on Sam. I wonder what she’s doing and if she’s all right. At 5:52 I finally clock out and slide behind the wheel of my truck. I intend to head straight for Samantha’s apartment but, I decide to make a quick stop at home first. I pull into my driveway and when I get out of the truck, I gather the mail from the mailbox and look through it as I let myself into the house. Junk-mail.

  I venture through the house toward my bedroom and, once there, I grab a small empty gym bag from the closet floor. Then I take a clean dress shirt from the closet, folding it neatly, and place it in the bag. Turning to my dresser, I open a drawer and grab a clean pair of underwear and a fresh pair of socks. Then I head to my bathroom and grab my toothbrush and deodorant, placing them both in the bag as well. What else do I need? I open the cabinet, take out a handful of condoms and stuff them into my pants pocket, then go back to my room and grab my cellphone charger and place it into the bag. I’m ready.

  I lock up behind myself, get back into my truck and I’m off. As I drive over to Samantha’s, I wonder if maybe I’m being a little presumptuous by bringing my things over but, I shrug it off. Better this than having to shower at her place and then go back home to change into clean clothes before going to work.

  When I get to her place, I wonder if maybe I should have called her first. I told her that I would be back after my shift ended so, she should be expecting me. And we did make plans for me to come by this morning at breakfast, before all the craziness of her seeing the tattooed asshole at the museum. Why are you second guessing yourself, Pierce? Fuck. Why am I second guessing myself? As I stand in front of her door, I feel uncertain all of a sudden and I don’t know what that’s about but it pisses me off. I hate feeling unsure of myself and it seems to happen a lot around this girl.

  But when the door opens and I see her, all my uncertainty fades. She’s wearing a pair of gray cotton shorts, a gray and white striped tank top, and I’m guessing nothing underneath either. Her long brown hair is damp, as if she just got out of the shower without blowing it dry, and it falls in little ringlets and waves around her face and her shoulders. Damn, she is sexy! She opens the door wider and I walk in, closing the door behind me, and she reaches around me to lock it. She smells so good as she brushes past me and I can’t help myself. I wrap my arm around her and pull her close, nuzzling the top of her head, breathing in deep the fresh scent of her dampened hair and her skin.

  “You smell good,” I whisper and she looks up at me with a small smile. I kiss her lips tenderly but, the instant our lips touch, the nature of the kiss changes and deepens and becomes all heat and passion. We’re both breathless when we pull away, looking into one another’s eyes.

  “What’s in the bag?” she whispers me, motioning to the bag in my hand.

  I blink at her question and glance down at my gym bag nervously. “Oh. Just a … clean shirt and a toothbrush,” I mumble, feeling unsure of myself again. “I hope that’s okay.” And I s
earch her eyes, wondering what she’s going to think. She smiles slowly at me and she blushes slightly. I feel myself relax and I give her a shy smile of my own.

  “Are you hungry?” she asks me softly. “I’ve made some vegetable soup.”

  I chuckle at her. “A bowl of soup sounds great,” I tell her. “I’ll just go put this away,” I say, indicating my gym bag and she nods at me and turns and heads into the kitchen.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Samantha

  I wander into the kitchen smiling to myself. I can’t believe Josh brought over a change of clothes. The thought makes me feel sort of warm and fuzzy inside and I have no idea why. I take two bowls out of the cupboard and begin to dish us up some of my homemade, hearty vegetable soup. It’s full of lots of chunky, fresh vegetables and it smells wonderful. I hope he likes it.

  I set the bowls on the breakfast bar where I’ve already set two places and turn back to the stove to slice up the whole grain baguette that I’ve toasted up to go with the soup. As I’m sitting the bread on the breakfast bar, Josh comes striding back into the room, smiling at me. Wow, he is so gorgeous! And I notice that he’s gotten comfortable. He’s already removed both his blazer and his holster, as well as his shoes and his socks.

  “What would you like to drink?” I ask him.

  “Whatever you’ve got, baby,” he says quietly as he sits down. “I’m not picky.”

  “Hmm. Well, I have beer. I have wine and sparkling juice. I have water and orange juice,” I say, listing the beverage contents of my fridge as he chuckles at me. “Oh, I have lemonade,” I add with a smile. “And I think I have a bottle of champagne somewhere at the back of my fridge,” I say with a frown.

  “I’ll take some water, please,” he says, still smiling at me.

  “Water it is.” I retrieve two bottles of water from the fridge and take my seat beside him. He studies me as I do and then he reaches out and takes my chin in his hand, forcing me to look into his eyes.

  “How are you?” he asks me softly and I know what he’s getting at. He’s wondering how I’m doing after my ordeal today.

  “I’m okay,” I tell him, meeting his steady gaze. My answer seems to satisfy him and we turn our attention to our dinner. We eat in silence for a while and I sense that he’s a lot more relaxed tonight than he was at last night’s dinner. I suppose that makes sense, as last night was technically our first date. I was pretty nervous myself. But the thought that he’s feeling more relaxed makes me feel all warm and fuzzy again. I like the fact that he’s feeling more comfortable with me. Perhaps it means he’ll be more willing to open up a little more.

  “This is delicious, baby,” he says after several minutes, and I smile as he takes a slice of bread and breaks off a chunk, dipping it into the broth of his soup and popping it into his mouth.

  “Thanks,” I smile at him.

  “Where did a rich girl like you learn to cook?” he says lightly, grinning at me, and I know that he’s teasing me. “Did your mom teach you?”

  I can’t help giggling at his question and his grin gets bigger. “Um, no,” I say, laughing at the thought. “My mother would never engage in anything so domestic.”

  “No?” he asks with raised eyebrows.

  “No,” I answer definitively.

  “Prima donna, huh?” he asks, slightly amused.

  “Oh, you have no idea,” I tell him with a roll of my eyes.

  “Hmm,” he murmurs with a frown and I can’t help but wonder what’s going through his mind. “So where did you learn to cook?”

  “My grandma,” I say smiling. “I used to love following her around the kitchen. She would teach me things and let me help. It was so much fun. Plus, it always angered my mother so it was extra fun for me,” I say with a smile. “She couldn’t yell at my grandma the way she would at our cook so, I could spend as much time in the kitchen with her as I wanted.”

  “She would yell at your cook?” Josh asks, and I think he’s surprised. Or maybe horrified.

  “Yeah,” I answer quietly, “whenever she would catch me hanging out in the kitchen at home, asking the cook questions and helping her, Mom would get so angry and she would tell me that cooking was beneath me. ‘You are a Colby, Samantha. Not a servant!’ Then she would yell at the cook for not kicking me out of the kitchen,” I say with a sad smile. “But she couldn’t pull that crap with my grandma.”

  “Your grandma,” Josh asks between bites. “Was that her mother?”

  “No,” I say with a slight shake of my head. “My dad’s mom. I think my mom has always been sort of intimidated by her. They’ve never really gotten along very well.”

  “Why do you think she’s intimidated by her?” he asks, frowning.

  I shrug as I think about it. “I don’t know; I just always got that feeling growing up. My mom is always overly concerned with what others think, and doing things according to ‘proper society.’ And yet, my grandma is a highly respected member of Seattle society but, she doesn’t care what others think. She is a very down-to-earth and unpretentious person, you know? She believes in treating people with respect, whether they’re a millionaire or a homeless person on the street. I just always got the feeling that my mom was sort of in awe of my grandma. Like she wants to be her but, knows she falls short in so many ways.”

  “You don’t get along with your mother, do you?” he asks me after a slight pause.

  I sigh. “I love my mother,” I say quietly. “But we have always had a … difficult relationship.”

  He nods as he studies me. “That makes sense,” he says matter-of-factly, taking another bite of soup.

  “It does?” I can hear the surprise in my voice.

  “Yeah,” he says quietly. “From what you’ve just told me and from what I’ve learned about you these past few days, I’d say that you’re a lot like your grandma. And your mom probably sees that too. That’s why she has the same difficult relationship with you that she has with her.”

  I blink at his words. I’ve never thought about my contentious relationship with my mom in that way before but, perhaps it does make perfect sense. I’ve been told all my life that I am the spitting image of my grandmother in both looks and character. Maybe Josh has hit on something here. The thought is fascinating to me.

  As I take another mouthful of soup, a question comes to mind and I glance at him speculatively. I hope this topic doesn’t prove to be such a hot-button issue for him like last night. I take a deep breath, bracing myself before diving in. “Do you get along with your mom?” I ask quietly, watching him nervously. And I am relieved when I see a slow smile spread over his beautiful face and he nods at me.

  “Yeah, I do,” he says softly. “Since I was an only child, she kind of doted on me growing up. She still does,” he adds with a small, humble smirk and I can’t help but smile at him. “We sort of look after each other,” he mutters and I get the feeling he’s embarrassed. Could he be any cuter?

  “Tell me about her,” I say eagerly. “What’s her name?”

  “Olivia.”

  “Oh, I love that name! That’s pretty. What’s she like?”

  He looks at me and frowns slightly. Then he shrugs and smiles. “She’s your typical Italian mother,” he says lightly. “Beautiful. Sassy. Always showing her love by trying to feed you. Sort of like someone else I know,” he adds softly, almost as if to himself and I catch a trace of a puzzled frown cross his face. It makes me smile for some reason. Did he just imply that I remind him of his mom? That’s a good thing, right?

  “So you’re Italian?” I ask him with a smile.

  “My mom’s Italian, yeah,” he smiles. “She’s originally from Brooklyn. Her family moved out here when she was still in high school. She takes great pleasure in the fact that she still has her New York accent.”

  I giggle at his remark and he grins at me. “I would love to meet her sometime.” He looks at me for a long moment, saying nothing and I wonder if I’ve overstepped myself. Then he gives me that adorable
shy smile of his and I melt. I see that his soup bowl is empty and, after witnessing his healthy appetite the past two nights, I’m certain he’s not full yet. “Let me refill that for you,” I say as I stand up and take his bowl, carrying it back over to the stove. I fill it with more soup and, as I turn around to head back, I notice that his eyes are traveling over my body appreciatively and I smile to myself. As I set his bowl down in front of him, he wraps an arm around my waist and I feel his hand drift down and lightly graze my behind.

  “Thank you, baby,” he says softly, looking up at me.

  And I can’t help myself. I lean in and gently kiss his lips, feeling a light squeeze on my ass as I do. “You’re welcome,” I whisper, looking into his eyes and he smiles at me. As I sit back down, he continues eating, and again, we are silent for a long while and my mind wanders back to this afternoon at the museum and something dawns on me.

  “Josh,” I begin quietly, “how did things go with your partner after you left the museum? Was he very upset with you?”

  He smirks at me and is silent again for a moment as he chews and swallows his mouthful of soup. Then he sighs and says, “Yeah, he was pissed at first.”

  “At first?” I ask. “You didn’t get into any trouble, did you?”

  “No,” he says with a shake of his head. “Conner and I talked about the situation. He understands. He won’t say anything,” he says softly.

  “Are you sure?” I ask nervously.

  “Yes, I’m sure,” he says confidently, looking into my eyes reassuringly. “The thing you gotta remember about Conner is that he’s not just my partner. He’s my closest friend. I know that he has my back. Just like I have his.”

  “Okay,” I say quietly, turning back to my soup. We finish our dinner in silence and, once we’re done, I stand and begin to gather the dishes. I smile as Josh helps me clear the breakfast bar and carry our things over to the dishwasher. He helps me load it without saying a word, and I have to stifle a giggle. He is just so sweet.