by Toni Blake
You want her to shroud you, protect you, so that nothing can hurt you, or her, ever.
And in this moment, you believe she can.
Chapter 9
Jake lay staring at a brown water stain on the ceiling, trying to focus on that and nothing else, as he lifted the barbell. He felt the welcome strain in his forearms, shoulders, chest, as he held the weight steady, despite the shakiness in his wrists.
Lowering it back into place, he let out a breath, glad for the burn in his muscles, but still seeing ... the woman in the dream. Her back, her delectable rear. Over a full damn day ago, and still he felt it. He refocused on the water stain as if it were a cloud, or a Rorschach, something he could remold in his mind. He saw a flower in the stain.
Like the little flower on the dream woman's ass. He went hard. Damn it.
Not quite ready to lift the barbell again, he did it anyway—to dull the memory and accompanying emotions. Why did these damn dreams make him feel so much? And he always awoke with such an overpowering sense of guilt. He wasn't supposed to feel this much for anyone else—anyone besides Becky. Even if it was only a dream.
He glanced toward the scarred, secondhand end table across the room and caught sight of the framed photo of her taken in Audubon Park one spring day. Mardi Gras beads they'd found hanging from a tree on the St. Charles parade route draped her neck. His chest sank and he nearly dropped the weight on himself before letting it fall into the Y-shaped brackets with a clatter. Merde.
Maybe he should have just stayed out at the bayou house for his remaining days off—he was so much more at peace there. But he'd come back yesterday and spent the evening making phone calls to other old connections on the force, all looking to turn up some sign of Tina Grant. It had been emotionally taxing—having to make chitchat with old colleagues, hearing the requisite concern in their voices when they asked how he was doing— and it had led to nothing. It was as if the girl had vanished into thin air.
As for Stephanie, he'd picked up the phone to call her twice last night. To make sure she wasn't out doing something stupid. And ... why else? Because he wanted to hear her voice? Because he was so tempted to try getting her to drop that barrier she'd put up when things had got too hot between them?
Maybe getting with Stephanie would bring an end to these haunting dreams.
Of course, he knew the woman in the dreams bore startling similarities to her—except he'd had the first dream before they'd even met, so ...
Ah hell, give it up, Broussard. Since when was he the type of guy to sit around analyzing dreams?
He wasn't, so he refocused on the water spot and thrust the barbell up over his head again.
A hard knock sounded on his door. "Jesus," he breathed, dropping the weight back in its rest. Pushing up from the weight bench, he strode to the door and yanked it open to find Tony on the other side.
His old friend gave him a long once-over, his eyes critical. "You look like you just ran a marathon. Or tried to and failed."
Jake glanced down at himself—his white tank was damp with sweat, and he doubted he'd raked a comb through his hair today, so it was probably pointing in all directions. "Liftin' weights," he said, realizing the activity had left him breathless. He'd been lifting for probably an hour or more.
"You're supposed to have a spotter for that, you know." Once upon a time, they'd traded the favor.
He only shrugged. He figured if that was the most reckless move he made, he was doing pretty damn good.
"You gonna invite me in or what?"
Jake stepped back and Tony came inside, heading to the Utile kitchen, where Jake heard him help himself to something in the fridge. "So about this beautiful woman you were with the other night," he called, "what's the deal?"
Jake plopped on his drooping couch. "Nothin' romantic goin' on, pard."
Tony eased down in an overstuffed chair across from him, popping the top on a beer, one of the few things probably in Jake's fridge. His friend's eyes urged him to say more.
"Just a woman I met at Sophia's."
Tony flinched. "She's a working girl?"
Jake laughed softly. "No. She was just there lookin' to find her sister, the girl in the pictures."
Tony nodded. "That's why I'm here. Might be nothing, but might also be a lead. A guy named Rich, who tends bar over at the Crescent. I was there last night, so I asked about her, gave her name and a description. He said he'd seen a girl there a few times who could've been her, but she'd quit coming around."
The Crescent was an old hotel across Canal Street, beyond the Quarter, where more than a few prostitutes found business in the cocktail lounge. It had just never occurred to Jake to start snooping outside the "high-priced hooker zone" because Stephanie seemed so sure that was where her sister had set up shop.
"He couldn't say for sure her name was Tina, but he thought it was something like that."
"What else? Customers she hooked up with? Other girls she came in with?"
Tony shook his head, his expression a familiar one from their days on the streets—it meant That's all I got. "Guy pegged me as a cop and clammed up." He sighed. "But it's something anyway."
Jake nodded. It was something. The best and only lead of any kind he'd gotten. "Thanks, man. That's a help."
"But back to the beautiful woman," Tony said, a suspicious smile forming.
Jake just gave his head a short shake. "There's nothin' there, man. Just tryin' to help her out."
"Come on, dude," Tony prodded, raising his eyebrows. "She's pretty. You're horny. That combination's gotta go somewhere."
Jake lifted his gaze from his coffee table to Tony, smirking. "How do you know what I am?" "You gotta be, man."
Jake just gave a cynical laugh. "Don't you know depression kills the sex drive?" It was a he in his particular case, but Tony didn't know about his dirty dreams, and he didn't need to know what had happened between him and Stephanie, either.
His friend eyed him for a minute, as if trying to decide whether or not he was holding back, then shifted his gaze to scan the apartment. "Well, something must be going better for you. You did some laundry and the place doesn't look like quite as much of a pigsty as usual."
True enough, he'd had a little more energy lately. Enough to do the laundry and some dishes. But he wasn't ready to attribute that to Stephanie Grant. "Ran outta clothes," he said simply.
Tony let out another sigh, his lips drawing into a slight frown. "Well, whatever the case, it was good to see you out the other night. Everybody at the Den was glad you came in, glad to see you with somebody new." He chuckled. "Shorty spent the rest of the night wondering if you were getting lucky."
"Shorty's got a big imagination." He decided to change the subject. "What had you so strung out that night anyway?"
Tony lifted his can to his mouth and got a faraway look in his eyes. "Still can't get any closer to Typhoeus," he said, and the name made Jake's stomach clench. "We found a young Latino girl who we think was dealing for him. She'd overdosed and ..." He shook his head lightly. "Just had me down, you know?"
Jake nodded, but his back had already stiffened, his throat grown tight, as he struggled to remain emotionless at the mention of the local drug kingpin. He remembered the day he and Tony had sat combing the Internet for clues to what this guy was about. They'd learned that in Greek mythology, Typhoeus was a giant monster—part human, part serpent. The story went that he was defeated by Zeus and imprisoned beneath Mount Aetna, but so far, in real life, no other gods had shown up in New Orleans and Typhoeus was wreaking havoc on the city at will.
"Don't suppose you have anything new on that for me?" Tony asked.
It was Typhoeus who Tony thought might be using escorts to filter drugs to wealthy clients on Sophia's third floor. On his good days, Jake tried to keep his eyes open for anything shady—but so far they had nothing but suspicion, and a handful of obscenely rich guys who seemed likely to be involved.
Jake didn't have anything new—because sometim
es he let his guard down and didn't think about it, because sometimes it was easier that way. He'd been trying to accept that Typhoeus had beaten him already, and he'd been thinking maybe if he could just accept that, it would make things better, allow him to start moving on.
An hour later, Tony had departed and Jake wandered down the sagging stairs outside his apartment, into the courtyard. He hadn't seen Shondra in a couple of days, and when he crawled far enough out of his self-absorption to remember that, it made him feel like a shit. Not that he owed her anything. Not that he believed anything he could do for her would make any difference in her life in the end. But since he'd taken to coming out every day around lunchtime and giving her a few bucks to go get beignets, he found himself wondering what she'd done for food yesterday when he hadn't been around until late in the afternoon.
Making his way across the barren courtyard, he peeked under the stairwell where the mattress rested and found it empty—not even her backpack remained. His gut went hollow. She was gone. She hadn't seen him around and thought he'd abandoned her.
He straightened his spine, telling himself this was a good thing. He wasn't anybody's baby-sitter, and hell, maybe she was more capable of taking care of herself than he thought. Street kids got pretty good at that, pretty fast.
So she was probably fine. Just fine.
The words rang through his mind like an echo—just fine, just fine—but he didn't feel them as much as he would have liked. He let out a sigh, still staring down at the flimsy old mattress.
"Yo, you lookin' for me?"
Shondra watched as he turned to face her, and for the first time she realized how handsome he was. It caught her off guard.
"Where you been keepin' yourself, 'tite fille?”
"Right here, mostly." She tilted her head, weighing her next words. "I was wonderin' the same thing about you." She swallowed back the lump in her throat, instantly embarrassed to admit she'd noticed his absence. She had to get tougher than that, once and for all. Just because this dude was being nice to her didn't mean it would last. He himself had told her that, so she sure as hell couldn't start depending on him.
His eyes dropped to the pooch at her feet. She'd discovered Scruff couldn't be trusted to stay where she told him—he followed her everywhere. He was pretty cool about not running into traffic, though.
"That mangy mutt still botherin' you?" Jake asked.
She narrowed her gaze vehemently. "Don't be dissin' Scruff."
Jake's chin lowered slightly. "Scruff?"
She shrugged. "Seemed like a good enough name."
He cast a disparaging glance to the dog. "Suits him anyway." Reaching in his pocket, he pulled out his wallet. "Up for beignets?"
She bit her lip and nodded, trying not to look too enthusiastic.
"You get by all right yesterday? I wasn't around."
She nodded again, standing a little taller. "Don't worry about me. I get by fine on my own." And she had. She'd been hanging onto her six-dollar haul and she'd used some of it to buy some day-old doughnuts to share with Scruff.
"Okay then," he said, sending her off.
Scruff followed behind, and as she walked down St. Ann toward Café Du Monde, she realized how much his gentle panting and the click of his claws on the concrete comforted her. She might get by fine on her own, but it was nice to have a friend. Maybe two. She just wasn't as sure of Jake yet as she was of the dog. She'd even let Scruff share her mattress these past couple of nights. When the only sound was an occasional siren, she felt a lot less alone with him by her side.
Reaching the cafe's outdoor window, she placed the same order she had on the other days Jake had sent her, glancing down at Scruff, whose tongue already hung out one side of his mouth. "Just stay cool a minute, then you can eat yours on the way back." Had to eat his on the way back, actually, so Jake wouldn't find out she was slipping pastries to the dog.
A few minutes later, they were headed to Jake's building, Shondra stopping every block or so to stoop and feed Scruff half a beignet. He ate the last of his order not long before they reentered the courtyard.
Realizing her hands were dusted with powdered sugar, she reached into the white bag she carried and drew out a pastry, taking a big bite. It was only to cover for Scruff, but it tasted good to her hungry stomach. She'd gotten used to eating once a day or less, but when she did get to eat, it was like heaven.
Heaven must hold different things for different people, she thought, and after the past few months, she knew that heaven, for her, would hold food.
And dogs.
And her daddy.
Her mama and daddy together, like they used to be, like they were supposed to be.
When she and Scruff made their way into the courtyard, Jake sat on the half-rusted metal bench someone had parked in front of the dilapidated fountain that didn't work. He didn't see her coming—had his head leaned back toward the sun, his eyes shut, his muscular arms crossed over his chest, and his denim-covered legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles.
She lowered the bag and drinks to the metal slats at his side. "I'm back," she announced, settling on the other end of the bench.
When he opened his eyes, he looked amused. "Couldn't wait to eat with me, huh?"
"Hungry," she said past a mouthful of beignet; it wasn't a he.
As he uncapped his juice, his eyes fell on Scruff and his happy expression disappeared. "Looks like somebody else had a nice breakfast, too."
Scruff sat at her feet, peering up at them, his little dog lips covered with white powdered sugar. Uh-oh.
She bit her lip. "He must've, uh, gotten into a trash can at the Café Du Monde."
"Those cans are a little tall for him, no?" He gave her a come-clean-with-me look.
Finally, she sighed. "What? I'm supposed to make him watch us eat without givin' him none?"
Jake's eyes scolded her. "So you're tellin' me I been buyin' breakfast for all three of us these past days?"
She shrugged her shoulders and waited for him to come down on her.
Instead, though, he just leaned over and shook his finger in Scruff's furry brown face. "You best thank your lucky stars you got her lookin' out for you, dog." Then he shook his head, letting out a short laugh. "Damn dog needs to learn to wipe his mouth if he wants to keep a secret."
Shondra breathed a sigh of relief, laughing, too.
As their laughter faded, though, the merry mood seemed to die with it—and he turned to pin her in place with his dark gaze. "Tell me somethin' else, 'tite fille. What are you doin' here?"
She blinked, nearly choking on the thick dough and hoping he couldn't tell. "Here?"
"You know what I mean. On the street."
Her face heated in a way that had nothing to do with the hot French Quarter day. She peered down at the white bag in her lap, fiddling with the edge. "Just, you know, gettin' by." Her voice hadn't come out as strong as she'd intended.
He sighed. "No, I mean really. Why aren't you at home?"
She gave a little shake of her head, wishing he hadn't asked. Things had been going so good—her, him, Scruff, beignets—and now this.
"Why'd you run away, darlin'? You can tell me."
She raised her eyes at the unexpected endearment. But he was wrong; she couldn't tell him. She couldn't tell anyone. "Just... couldn't deal."
"Bet your folks are real worried."
She glanced down, trying to ignore the empty feeling in the pit of her stomach—it wasn't about hunger. Closer to loneliness, even with Jake and Scruff right here. "My mama don't care. Probably glad I'm gone."
"What about your dad?"
She let out a snort of sarcasm. "He ain't even around no more. Don't even know I left."
He stayed silent so long she felt her own words hanging in the air. On a good day, she didn't think about home, didn't even let it cross her mind. At the moment, it seemed the biggest part of her.
"You know, there are places you can go that can help you work through your problems, gi
ve you a better place to sleep than that old mattress."
"No," she said, and this shake of her head came with vehemence. "Joints like that just wanna make you go home, and I ain't goin'."
"What was so bad there?" His eyes on her, looking perhaps kinder than ever before, seemed to drill some sort of hole into her that the truth might leak from.
But no, she couldn't give voice to what had made her run. "I don't wanna talk about it."
"I'm just tryin' to help, you know."
"I know," she said on a nod. "And I'm down with the food, and the place to sleep. But that's the only help you can give me." Then she reached down one powder-laden hand to the fur at Scruff's neck, giving a gentle scratch and letting his warmth comfort her again.
* * *
Jake walked the three blocks to Esplanade, worrying.
Worrying about Shondra, wondering what terrible secrets she had.
Worrying about Tony, wondering if his ex-partner would ever realize that no matter how hard you worked as a cop, you couldn't win. There would always be more bad guys stealing your hope, showing you how mortal you were.
Worrying about Stephanie—who he was on his way to see right now. How would she deal with it if they never found her sister? What if Tina Grant was in trouble, and what if it was already too late to do anything about it?
He spotted LaRue House, a historic mansion-turned-B and B, not long after starting northeast on the divided boulevard. Its Greek architecture, wrought-iron trim, and moss-covered trees were steeped in elegance, but his respect for the place dropped when he stepped inside asking for Stephanie Grant and the old woman behind the desk said, "She's in number five, around back," directing him outside toward the private entrance room he found with ease. He could be someone who meant her harm, yet the woman had pointed him right to her. Just one more reminder that no one was safe anywhere.
He knocked firmly on the crisp white door, and when he didn't hear any stirring, tried again, hoping like hell she'd just gone for dinner and wasn't out trying to track down Tina in another sexy dress.
