367 Days

by Jessica Gadziala

  I didn't even try to fight the smile I felt as I slipped into it.

  I took a quick stop in the bathroom, brushing my teeth mercilessly, hearing Sawyer moving around in the kitchen. It was the weekend and I was maybe wondering what it would be like to spend the whole day with him after the events of the night before.

  I walked into the kitchen where he was pouring two cups of coffee and moved in beside him to fix mine. His body shifted, reaching into the fridge for the creamer and placing it in front of me, leaning down and nipping into my shoulder where the silky robe had slipped.

  "Good morning," he said, sounding fully awake.

  "Good morning," I said back, ducking my head, feeling the strangest surge of shyness that wasn't usually my nature.

  "This looks good on you," he informed me, his hand sliding over the chilly material covering my belly. "Nothing on under it, is there?" he asked, hand moving down to stroke up my thigh, sliding inward and up, parting the edge as he got closer and closer.

  But then the unmistakable sound of someone punching in a code on the alarm system had his hand sliding to a more decent position at my hip. "Fuck," he said, sounding disappointed.

  "Mijo, how was... oh," Marg said as we both turned. In unison, because he was still holding onto me. "Well, I see," she said, smiling a knowing smile.

  Uncomfortable, though Sawyer seemed to be enjoying himself, smiling behind his coffee cup as he brought it to his mouth, I decided to try to change the topic. "Marg, that Thanksgiving dinner was amazing. I haven't had that kind of thing since, well, my mother was alive. It was great."

  "Oh, anytime you need a holiday or home cooked meal, I always have a spot at my table, Riya," she said, bustling in and going right for the platters on the counter. It was then that I realized Sawyer must have snuck out of bed at some point to put all the food away because it was gone. But he hadn't washed anything.

  "Oh, no!" I insisted as she started to fill the sink. "No, Marg, please. Let me do the cleaning. Really, this was..."

  "Don't bother," Sawyer said, shaking his head as Marg waved a dismissive hand at me. "She won't hear of you helping. It's a mom thing, I think," he said, clinking my glass. "But at least you'll have some company."

  "Company?" I asked, feeling my heart sink a little.

  "I have to go see Barrett about a video and a girl named Alex about some, ah, less than legal hacking into the DMV records," he told me.

  "I don't hear this. Not one word," Marg insisted, humming, which only made Sawyer smile bigger.

  "Is this about my..."

  "Yeah, babe. I would bring you, but I don't want you to get involved in anything illegal. You've got enough crazy shit in your life."

  "But you..."

  "Won't get caught, I promise. Alex is a pro and I'm careful. You can kick back and watch some TV or use those bath bomb things and gorge on leftovers and chocolate. Don't look so disappointed," he said, leading me a few feet away and lowering his mouth to my ear so only I could hear. "I promise to fuck you until you lose your voice when I get back," he told me, squeezing my ass a little. "But I need to make some headway on your case before all the trails run cold. Oh, and the tickets for the comedy show are tomorrow night. We're hitting up Famiglia first. That's why you have new dresses and heels," he informed me, handing me his mug, as he made his way to the door, me with him because he was still holding me. "Come on, say goodbye," he urged.

  My brows drew together. "Um... goodbye?" I said, shaking my head.

  To that, he chuckled. "I had something more like this in mind," he said, grabbing my hips and hauling me against him, my arms wide so I didn't spill the coffee, as he kissed me long and hard until my toes went tingly.

  "Well," I said when he pulled away, arrogant smile in place, "I couldn't do that."

  "Why not?" he asked, brows knitting.

  "My hands are full," I said with a teasing smile.

  He smiled back, squeezing my chin between his thumb and forefinger for a second, then turning and leaving. "See you later, babe."

  Then he was gone.

  And I was... reeling.

  Because, while I had sat up and let my mind wander the night before, I had never really stopped to consider that Sawyer might actually be interested in me. As more than a fling.

  But everything about that interaction with him pointed in that direction.

  "He's a good man, that one," Marg said as I realized I was still standing there, staring at the closed door.

  "Yeah," I agreed, turning to face her and walking toward the kitchen. Because, well, he was. There was no denying that fact.

  "Those boys," she said, shaking her head.

  "What boys?"

  "Oh, all of them. Sawyer, Barrett, Brock, Tig."

  I fought the urge to laugh at the idea of that group of menacing, muscular, intimidating men ever being called boys. But I figured, to a mother figure, that was exactly what they were. "What about them?"

  "Always running around, chasing the wrong things. Money, power, work accomplishments, one-night stands. Always ignoring the most important thing to have."

  "What's that?" I asked, feeling suddenly too self-conscious in my flimsy robe and nothing else.

  "A good woman."

  I smiled at that, finding the nostalgic idea that a good woman fixed everything sweet, if a bit misguided.

  "Oh, I know, I know," she said, as if reading my thoughts. "You young people think you have it all by yourselves. And, don't get me wrong, it's admirable that you all have houses you pay for by yourself and bills you cover and jobs you care about. But accomplishments aren't a life. People are a life. Connections. Loved ones, spouses, children. You don't want to die surrounded by all your employee of the month badges; you want to die surrounded by people who love you and will miss you."

  Okay, when she put it that way, she had a point.

  "Because the month after you die, mija, there will be a new employee of the month."

  Yeah, that was almost depressing now that I thought about it.

  "I see your point."

  "And I know, as women, it's harder. We get our hearts bruised and stomped on by boys wearing men's clothing. It gets hard to tell who is playing dress-up and who is the real deal. Sawyer is the real deal, Riya."

  "I know," I said, nodding, finding suddenly that I wanted to sit and listen to Marg for hours. I missed that more than I could say- the advice of a mother. I had leaned on mine for so much for so long. I hadn't been one of the system kids who shunned love, was afraid to trust, was scarred. I had fallen into my adoptive mother's arms with all my years of need, of lovelessness, and I let her fill up the void.

  I hadn't realized then that when you make space for someone in your life, that was the size space they left behind when they were gone. So it was best to never let someone take up that much room, to become that important, because when they were gone, there was a void that could never be filled again.

  "This," she said, waving a soapy hand around the apartment. "This shows you he is a good man. Who else thinks to replace a missing year? Most guys don't replace the toilet paper roll."

  I laughed at that. "Let me throw on some clothes and I will start in on this mess," I said, waving toward all the wrapping paper.

  "Mija," she said, shaking her head.

  "Nope. I won't hear it. I am helping."

  With that, I got changed, leaving on my necklace, and headed back to the living space, grabbing a garbage bag and tossing all the paper as Marg finished the dishes and piled them on the counter for her to grab on the way out. She took the items out and stacked them, then set to collapsing the boxes. "They don't give these out at stores anymore unless you ask," she explained. "So I always save them."

  "My mother did the same thing," I agreed, remembering the same boxes year after year.

  "So you and Sawyer. That's happening."

  "I, ah, I guess?" I said, half-question, because I myself wasn't sure.

  "It's happening," she said again, a little more
firmly. "I've known that boy since he first came back here from the service. I was working the desk at his accountant's office at the time. The second he opened his business, he tapped my shoulder."

  "And you just left?"

  "His accountant knew how to handle money, but he also liked to handle asses. I put up with it because I needed the paycheck, but when I had an out, I took it. I have never regretted it. But my point is, I have seen him. I have seen this apartment mostly empty. I have seen that boy make no time for anything but work and his brother and his friends. He has needed a woman here to warm up the place. To warm up his heart. I see this," she said, gesturing around, "and I see his is thawing already."

  I looked around too, thinking of all the effort he had put in, all the forethought it required, how much that meant I was on his mind. I thought, too, about how I never would have thought that the man I first met that first day in his office was capable of such thoughtfulness, of such sweetness.

  "You like him."

  "Yes," I admitted, seeing no reason to lie.

  "And he likes you."

  "I think so."

  "He does. So why are you so scared?"

  "Because I don't know what it means that he likes me."

  "You never know," she said, dismissing the fear with a wave. "Men, well, sometimes they're unpredictable. Sometimes they're dense. Sometimes they are scared too. You just need to pay attention. They might not be the best at communicating."

  "Actually, I think Sawyer might have me beat on the communication front," I laughed.

  "Yes, well, he has seen a lot of darkness. He knows how short life can be and therefore doesn't see any point in wasting a breath lying or sugarcoating things. He says what he means and he means what he says and that is a rare and wonderful thing with anyone, especially a man."

  "That's true," I agreed, nodding. I had dated a silly jock, a cheater, a man who apparently loved me but was bad at showing it, and another cheater. The very idea of a man who communicated clearly and without bullshit was, well, almost laughable. I had started to think it was mythical, right up there with dragons and unicorns.

  "He's taking you on a date," she added.

  That was true. Not only was he taking me on a date, but he had planned it several days ahead. Far enough that he had gotten tickets, a dress, shoes, and a reservation at one of the nicest restaurants in the area. That said something. If he just wanted to screw me, he could have easily just done so. I was in the house. I was obviously willing. Hell, I had initiated the whole thing the night before.

  So, if I did what Marg was telling me and I watched his actions, well, they pointed at him being interested in me. Not just as a client. Not just as an easy lay.

  And that was really all I needed to know, wasn't it?

  "He's working a lot of hours on your case too," Marg said after a long silence as we both slowly took all the ornaments off the tree and put them back in the boxes. "It's not new for him to get really into his cases. He likes a challenge. He likes figuring things out. But this is different. He has called Tig and Brock off other cases and have them on yours too. Barrett too is involved a lot, him being just like his brother, but perhaps even more obsessed with it. Maybe to you it seems like he is just going to work everyday and that there doesn't seem to be any progress on your case. But there are a lot of things going on behind the scenes and under the surface. I've only ever seen him pull all the manpower together once before."

  I hadn't exactly thought Sawyer had forgotten about my case per say, but I did sort of think he was just swamped with other (paying) gigs and that maybe my case was simmering on a back burner for the time being. I was even okay with that. I understood that he needed to make a living and pay his bills and his people. I never would have dreamed he would eschew all other cases for mine.

  "What other case was that?" I asked, wondering if he was calling them in because he was a lot more worried about it than he acted like in front of me.

  "It was Barrett's case actually," she said, wrapping up a little reindeer and putting it away. "He was helping a woman find her sister. In the process, he got, well, he got his ass handed to him. He was in the hospital for a few days."

  "Oh my God," I said, freezing, trying to imagine my boss in a hospital bed, helpless, while people fretted around him. He must have hated that. "Who did that?"

  "Oh," she said, waving a hand, "some lowlife gang member. Sawyer, as you can imagine, blew his lid. He was always worried about something like that happening to Barrett when he went off on his own. So Sawyer got on the case. And the client got kidnapped by said gang. So Sawyer called in Tig and Brock. Oh, and actually... that woman he talked about before..."

  "Alex," I supplied. "The hacker."

  "I think she calls herself a cyber investigator officially, but yes, she's a hacker. Her husband and their friend also went in to get her out."

  "Did they?" To that, Marg's smile went a little wry. "Right," I laughed. "Stupid question. Of course they got her out."

  "But your case, I don't think it's dangerous. At least not to anyone but you maybe. So him calling them in is, in my opinion, just another way for him to show you how much he thinks of you."

  I smiled at that, trying to not get my hopes up too high.

  After that, the conversation turned to more neutral subjects: her kids, her husband, my parents, my time in foster care.

  By the time she shuffled toward the door around one in the afternoon, the house was spotless.

  "Remember," she said turning, hands filled with platters that she refused to let me help her carry, "Experience it, don't overthink it."

  With that, she was on her way and I was alone with my thoughts.

  As any woman knew, being alone with your thoughts when you were trying to wrap your head around a new romantic situation was not a good thing.

  So I walked Slim, who huffed at me the whole way, annoyed that he was being forced to take an extra walk a day, no doubt. The lazy bum. Then I got home and did as much as I could online about getting my life back in order.

  Then I used the girly mixers Sawyer bought me and made a drink and took the bath bombs he got me and drew a bath.

  I was maybe five minutes into the soak when I heard the door open, my stomach clenching a bit, always being paranoid about being naked in the bath or shower when someone intruded. But Slim didn't bark so I figured it was Sawyer.

  I didn't expect him to just... yank the bathroom door open and let himself in though, eyes moving over me slow, taking in every inch exposed out of the water.

  And when his eyes met mine, I could see he was ready to make good on that promise he left me with earlier.

  SEVENTEEN

  Sawyer

  The fucking last thing I wanted to be doing was heading over to my brother's office on a Saturday when I had Riya up in my apartment in that robe that was so thin and silky that I could make out her morning-chilled nipples poking through the material. It took everything I had to not bend down and suck one into my mouth, right there in the same room with Marg.

  But the fact of the matter was, I needed to make some headway on her case. Finally getting the video footage from the Grassis was key. Barrett had been going over them all night, likely piling up about a dozen coffee cups for Riya to clean up on Monday.

  "Alright, what can I take to Alex?" I asked as I walked in the door, more than a little surprised to find that the piles of toppling paperwork that had always been on his desk even when he worked in my office were gone and everything was sorted into a wire file separator instead.

  The fact that he went along with instead of completely disregarding Riya's attempts to organize him said a lot.

  "Nothing," he said, looking up at me with bags and purple bruises under his eyes from lack of sleep.

  I stopped dead. "What do you mean... nothing? This is the Grassis here. They have every inch of that place under surveillance. No way did they miss the drop."

  "They didn't," he agreed, moving around on his computer to
, I imagined, rewind it. It wasn't his computer. Last I checked, he kept his personal computer locked up in some hidden vault at his place, swearing out it was the most compromising piece of equipment in anyone's possession, that it was absolutely insane that people left them out where they could be stolen and, therefore, have every bit of financial data ripped from them as well. Barrett kept about six laptops around at all times that he considered "disposable" to do various work tasks with, always smashing the hard drive to fucking dust afterward.

  "Alright, I need you to focus and give me some information here," I said, sitting down in the chair across from him and trying to keep my impatience under control.

  "Here," he said, unphased, understanding the gruffness, being that way himself. He turned the laptop toward me and played the video. "Here comes the van. White. There are plates, but they have that fucking plastic shit on them so they can't be read. On top of that, they have the tint heavy on the front windows and windshield. You can't see shit. Even if you enhance it. There," he said, pausing it as it pulled up near the dumpsters.

  The camera caught the front of the van as it stopped. And I expected the doors to open. I expected to finally, fucking finally get a face. But, instead, the van shook like someone was moving around. And about a minute after that, it pulled away and there was an unconscious Riya.

  "Mother fucker," I growled.

  "Utility van. He drove, walked into the back, opened the doors from inside, and pushed her out."

  Pushed her out.

  He fucking pushed her out of a goddamn van.

  The video kept playing, me not being able to look away from the prone body of Riya, body bent just a tad too off to be comfortable. Then I watched as she slowly came to, lying there, blinking up at the sky for a long minute, likely too disoriented to freak yet. Then her head swiveled and she looked at the building.

  I would say she shot up then, but she didn't. She moved like everything hurt, like everything took effort.

  I remembered then how she said she was sore and felt weak. I guess that explained why her movements were so zombie-like.