by Mazzy King
I dig my nails into his tattooed chest. Last night I said the same as I was coming, and it was an involuntary release of the truth. Now, I want to say it back so badly, but…I’m scared.
I trail a finger over the cross between his pecs, then glide my fingers over to the word Trust tattooed on his rib. “Can I trust you, Saint?”
He cups my face, lip between his teeth, as he continues to fuck me slowly. “You can trust me, Lyra. I’ll never hurt you. I’ll never let anything happen to you.”
He slides an arm beneath one of my knees, pushing it up so it drapes over his shoulder and giving him deeper access. I cup a hand around the back of his neck, crying out with pleasure. Heat builds in my body as the tingles start.
“Be with me, Lyra,” he begs, fucking me a little faster now. “Let me take care of you. You won’t ever have to do this shit again.”
“Please,” I cry, hanging onto him for dear life. “Oh, fuck, Saint!”
I explode around him just as he lowers his mouth to mine, our tongues finding each other first. He fucks me hard and fast, then grunts my name heavily as he comes.
He lays on top of me for a moment, panting, before pulling out of me gently and rolling to his back. I scurry off to the bathroom, then return to snuggle at his side a moment later.
He hands me my latte with a little self-satisfied smirk. “It’s still warm. Just so you know, I can last longer than that, but you…you’re too delicious. You’re the most amazing thing I’ve ever felt.”
“I guess we’ll have to practice more,” I say, kissing his chest.
He feeds me a bite of croissant. “I meant what I said. You don’t have to do this shit anymore.”
“I don’t want to,” I admit quietly, the buttery croissant turning to ash in my mouth. I draw a deep breath, then lift my gaze to his. “What…what do you want me to do?”
His brows lift a fraction of an inch. “What do you mean?” But his voice is steady, and he pins me with his eyes. I have the feeling he knows what I mean but wants me to say it out loud.
“How…do I cooperate?”
He releases a little breath, pulling me closer, and brushes the top of my head with his lips. “We’ll go to HQ. You’ll sit down with some detectives, and you’ll tell them everything you know. Names, locations, details.”
“Why can’t I just tell you now, and then you can tell them?” The idea of going to Ridge City PD headquarters makes my chest tighten.
“That’s not how it works, baby.” He kisses me again. “I can’t sit down and talk with you. We’ve…technically crossed a line. But I’m going to make sure my good buddy Gunner is with you. He’s been on this case since day one.”
“That’s the guy from last night?”
Saint nods.
“What about a lawyer?” I ask. “Will…will I do any jail time?”
Saint hesitates. “That’s not up to me, Lyra. But I know a good defense lawyer. And I’ll make sure the judge knows you were willing to cooperate. If we can prove Hendricks was forcing you, and threatening your life, you shouldn’t see any jail time.”
“That’s easy to prove,” I mutter. I’ve got a couple years’ worth of abusive messages and recordings of his threats to me. I saved them all because I thought I might need them someday.
It’s “someday,” now.
“What did he do to you?” Saint asks softly, tipping my face up. He trails his fingers down my throat to the scar on my chest.
I swallow. “One night, he wanted me to help him with a boost. I refused. I was done with that life a long, long time ago. But he got angry with me. He beat me up pretty badly, then he sliced my chest open here with his knife. He said this was a warning that next time I refused him, it would be my throat.”
Saint’s eyes narrow and blacken with fury. “He won’t get away with it. I swear that to you.”
I hate that my eyes fill with tears, but I can’t help it. “Saint, you make me feel…safe. I haven’t felt that way in so long. I want my life back. Whatever that means.”
“You’ll have it,” he tells me. His fingers stroke my skin in soothing circles. “What do you want to do with your life, Lyra?”
I don’t hesitate. “Art. Design. Graphic design.” I tilt my tattooed arm up. “I designed this myself.” It’s a complicated sleeve featuring the Egyptian goddess Bast in an intricate portrait. She’s surrounded by three-dimensional shaded lotuses and water lilies.
“It blew me away the first night I saw you,” he says, tracing the design. “You drew it?”
I nod. “A friend of mine did the ink. She wanted me to join her in the shop, be in charge of people’s designs, maybe learn how to tattoo myself. But…Max wouldn’t let me go. And now she’s moved.” I shrug.
“Maybe…after all this,” Saint says, looking away, “you could go find her. Meet up with her. Start that business.”
The idea of moving away from Ridge City used to be the only thing I wanted. Now, suddenly, it’s the last.
But Saint hasn’t asked me to stay.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “Maybe.”
We drink our coffees in a silence that’s suddenly gotten a little awkward. Then Saint slides out of bed.
“We should get going,” he says. “I’m sure you’d like to shower and change your clothes, and I need to make some calls. Would you like me to take you back to your place? Would any of those assholes from last night be there?”
“Only Max knows where I live,” I say, then chew my lip. “I don’t—I don’t know if he would be there.”
Saint’s jaw tightens, and his eyes have a hard gleam. “If he is there, he won’t hurt you.”
We dress, tidy up the safehouse briefly, then get back in the car. I guide Saint to my apartment, my gaze constantly shifting from side to side, from the front to the back to see if we’re being followed again. The ride is almost like a pleasant Sunday-morning cruise.
If Sunday-morning cruises entailed a stop at the police station to flip on an organization of dangerous car thieves.
Inside my apartment, Saint has me stay by the door while he does a quick sweep. He returns and nods at me. “It’s clear.”
I hurry to my bedroom, throw my hair up into a messy bun, shower quickly, and step into my closet.
What does one wear to a meeting with police officers?
In the end I settle on a pair of slim black pants, a loose gray sweater, and black flats. I’m not trying too hard, but I also want to be taken seriously. I skip makeup and head back out small living room, where Saint’s murmuring quietly on the phone. He nods at me when I enter the room.
I can only assume he’s talking to his fellow cops about me. I head to my laptop sitting on the coffee table and open it up. There’s just enough battery juice left for me to send the files I need to my phone…to submit as evidence.
Screenshot photos of text conversations between me and Max. Emails he sent that contain coded phrases about the ring, and very obvious, abusive statements and threats toward me.
Then the hard part.
The photos.
Every time he raised his hand to me, I took a photo. Then I downloaded the photos onto my computer and deleted them from my phone. I couldn’t bear to look back at them and see what he’d done…what I allowed him to do. I hold so much guilt over the abuse—and it’s not my fault. It never was, and it never will be.
“It’s not my fault,” I whisper aloud, staring hard at a photo of myself from the night he cut me. In addition to the cut, in the photo I also have a black eye and a split lip. The image makes me curdle inside. “It’s not my fault!”
Then, I do something I haven’t done in years.
I burst into tears and completely fall apart at the seams.
7
Saint
I’ve just disconnected my call to Gunner when Lyra’s cry pierces the quiet. I whip around from where I paced toward her front door while she did some things on her computer—downloading the evidence she mentioned earlier, I’d guess.
/>
She’s hunched over the couch, her head between her hands, and her shoulders shake with sobs.
It shocks me for an instant before I rush over to her. “Lyra,” I murmur, gathering her in my arms. “What’s wrong?”
My gaze catches sight of the image on her computer screen. It’s…her.
Her chest is bloody. There are bruises on her neck. Her left eye is puffed and dark. Her upper lip I could spend all day kissing is split.
It’s not my fault.
An overwhelming surge of emotion rises up in me, a combination of sorrow that someone as beautiful and special as her endured something so terrible at the hands of a piece of shit like Max Hendricks. It makes wet heat prick my eyes.
“No,” I say firmly around the lump in my throat. “No, it’s not your fault. Lyra, look at me.”
She won’t.
I gently place my fingers beneath her chin and tilt her head up. Tears stream from her eyes, and the look on her face shatters me.
“You are a strong woman,” I tell her. “You’re amazing. And you don’t need a jerk like me to mansplain that to you. But from one human being to another—from someone who cares for you so fucking much—I need you to hear me. This was not your fault. Ever. Do you hear me?”
Her beautiful lips quiver, but she gives me a nod.
“Say it for me.” I smooth a lock of hair behind her ear.
“It—it’s not—”
“Louder.”
She takes a deep breath and gulps. Then she looks me square in the eye. “It’s not my fucking fault.”
My pride in her threatens to make that heat pricking my eyes spill forth. “That’s fucking right,” I whisper, cupping her face in my hands. I kiss her lips gently, once, twice.
She leans her head against my shoulder. “I—I got it all.”
“Good.” I lean forward to close out of the photo. I don’t want her to have to look at it any longer than necessary—the memory of that occurrence is already too much, I’m certain.
Her computer background pops up. She keeps her desktop pretty sterile, unlike my work computer, which has tons of random photos of evidence, reports, and notes. Every time I sit down at my desk, I tell myself I’m going to organize all that stuff, and then the sight of it depresses the shit out of me, so I ignore it.
But my attention isn’t on how clean her desktop is, but the image itself. It’s a really cool design of what looks like some kind of futuristic night market. Tons of neon-colored signs and what looks like a train system, based on someone’s interpretation of what that might look like fifty years into the future.
“That’s cool,” I murmur, and she lifts her head.
“Oh, thanks.”
I stare at her. “Wait, you made that?”
Lyra lifts a shoulder. “Yeah. Digital art. It was one of my most recent pieces. I saw a photo of a night market in Tokyo and was inspired to recreate it, but a futuristic version.”
“That’s…the dopest thing I’ve ever seen,” I say sincerely, leaning forward to examine it more closely. “Wow. You’re incredibly talented.”
“Thanks.” She blushes a little. “It’s the one thing in my life that makes me truly happy.”
I want to be the other thing in her life that makes her truly happy, but I also don’t want to stand in her way because of my own selfish desires. She’s had a hard few years, maybe a hard life overall, and she deserves to get out of this place if she wants and make a new life for herself.
It’d break my heart, but if it means she gets to be free…it’ll be worth it.
“I’m ready,” she says after a moment.
I won’t insult her by asking her if she’s sure. I stand up, offer my hand, and she takes it. There’s a slight tremor in her hand, but she lifts her head high.
We return to the car and head to Ridge City PD headquarters. Gunner’s waiting for us in the lobby.
He gives me a bro-shake, complete with hard smack on the back, then turns to Lyra with a polite smile. She’s done wrong, but I explained to Gunner she was forced into it, and she has the evidence. He won’t treat her like a criminal.
“Ms. Michaels,” he says, extending his hand. “I’m Officer Hansen. I’m going to take you to a room where we can speak in private. Me, my sergeant, and the lawyer Saint contacted for you.”
Lyra swallows and shoots me a look. “Okay.”
“I’ll be waiting right outside,” I assure her.
Gunner gives me a nod and gestures toward the elevator bank. “We’ll head up to the seventh floor, all right?”
We pile into the elevator and head up. I walk with them to the interrogation room. While Gunner ducks off to get her a couple bottles of water, I turn to her. It kills me not to take her in my arms, but there’s a lot of cops here, and I don’t want to do anything to raise any suspicion.
“You’re going to be fine,” I tell her. “Just be totally honest about everything. Gunner’s my guy. He’ll take care of you.”
“Okay,” she whispers.
I catch a glimpse of Gunner striding toward us, whistling loudly as if to announce his presence.
“I love you,” I tell her quickly, then step away as Gunner reaches us.
Lyra gives me a small but sweet smile, then steps into the room as Gunner holds the door open for her. He glances at me and winks over his shoulder—his way of telling me not to sweat anything.
I head to my desk. I’m not going anywhere until her interview is done, so I may as well catch up on some paperwork. And, my location offers the perfect vantage point to keep an eye on the conference room.
One hour turns into two, two hours become four. The door opens occasionally, either Gunner retrieving more water and coffee, or someone needing to use the restroom. I spot Lyra a few times. She goes straight to the ladies’ room, then straight back. She never glances in my direction.
At five o’clock, the door opens, and all four people walk out—Lyra, Gunner, Gunner’s sergeant, and the lawyer. I shove back my rolling chair and stand. I can’t read anyone’s face.
Except Lyra. She looks tired, but totally calm.
Gunner leads her over to my desk. He claps a hand on my shoulder. “Went really well,” he says, glancing at her. “Don’t you think?”
She takes a deep breath. “I told the truth. I gave you all my evidence.”
Gunner nods and looks at me. “I can’t make any promises or guarantees, of course, but…if I had to bet on it, I’d say she’s in the clear. Looking good.”
“Trial?” I ask.
“Hopefully before Christmas,” Gunner says. “We’re getting a team assembled now to move on Hendricks. The two guys we got the other night aren’t talking yet, but once we hit them with the smoking-gun evidence Lyra gave us, I suspect they’ll be singing a different tune.” He nods toward her. “We’ve agreed not to detain her for her part in things…”
“In exchange for my testimony at the trial,” Lyra finishes.
“Saint, she’s going to need protection,” Gunner adds. “Until we apprehend Hendricks and the rest of his crew, it’s going to be dangerous for her.”
“Of course,” I say darkly. “These criminals operate on the assumption they’ll be ratted out. Hendricks won’t be any different. I’ll take her back to the safehouse tonight. I want a few teams in unmarkeds in a perimeter around the place. I want her protected twenty-four-seven until these fuckers are locked up for good.”
Gunner nods. “You got it. I’ll meet you guys downstairs in a minute, all right?”
I lead Lyra to the elevators. Inside, I finally pull her into my arms. “How are you?”
“Tired,” she admits, squeezing me. “But…I feel good. Light. Like a weight’s been lifted off me. I’m relieved I won’t face any criminal charges, but I have to tell you. The thought of testifying with Max sitting right there terrifies me.”
“You’ll be so well prepared, it won’t even matter,” I assure her.
She nods. “I wish I could just stay with you,” s
he murmurs. “I only feel safe with you around.”
“I know.” I stroke her hair. “But you just have to be patient. Once this is over…”
Then what? She said she wants to leave Ridge City.
“Yes?” Her gaze pins me.
“Things will be different,” I finish awkwardly. “You’ll feel even freer than you do right now.”
She looks crestfallen, but nods.
Outside, the late October chill fills the air. I can very faintly make out the scent of a bonfire, from someplace in the distance.
I turn to her to tell her I wish it was our bonfire we were enjoying together when someone approaches us from across the street—a woman.
She’s dressed like she lives on the streets—tattered clothes, face caked in grime. I suspect she’s coming to ask me for a ride to the homeless shelter. I’ve even had some homeless people purposely commit small crimes, like having an open-container on the street, just to get arrested so they can spend a night in jail—under a roof.
“Officer,” she says to me, which is a little strange since I’m in plainclothes, but I assume she noticed the badge clipped to my belt peeking out from beneath my T-shirt. “I need some help. Somebody stole my money.”
I can hold down the fort until Gunner gets here, but I really need to get Lyra situated back at the safehouse, and we’ll need to stop by her place again to get more of her things. “When did it happen?” I ask patiently. “And did you get a good look at the suspect?”
The woman shifts, wrapping her arms around herself. It looks like she’s wearing about three bulky, holey sweaters, but she doesn’t have a coat. She shifts her weight. “It happened just about ten, fifteen minutes ago. The guy, he was—” She holds her hand out level with her own height.
“White? Black? Long hair, short hair? What was he wearing?”
“I wrote it down,” she says, digging in her pockets. “Give me a second.”
That’s a first. I’ve never met someone on the street who took the time to write down descriptors of the person who stole from them.
