by J. R. Ward
Scrambling over to him, she pushed his hands out of the way—
Nothing but clean, unmarred skin. Yet he was staring down at himself in horror, his face contorted from pain.
“Danny?” When there was no response, she tugged at his arm. “Come over here and sit down. Come on, let’s take a look.”
His eyes, wide and white rimmed, struggled to focus. “Anne?”
“I think it was a bad dream. Come back to bed.”
He followed her as a child would and stretched out so she could have a proper look. Trailing her fingertips over the tattoos across his torso, she double-checked that her assessment was correct. But he wasn’t injured.
“I think it was a bad dream,” she murmured as she slid in next to him and pulled the covers back into place.
Danny put his hands up to his face, his biceps thickening, his heavy chest rising and falling a number of times like he was trying to reel in his brain.
“Do you want to tell me what it was?” she said softly.
She wasn’t surprised when he shook his head. Night terrors were not uncommon, although she had never known him to have them before. Then again, she didn’t usually sleep with him.
Not that there had been much “sleeping” going on. After an anxious, anemic dinner of chicken, broccoli, and the entire half gallon of chocolate chocolate-chip ice cream she’d bought as a dessert, they’d put Soot in his crate and made no pretenses about what was going to happen the second they got upstairs.
Three times. Once in the shower. Once on the rug by the bed. Once in the bed.
As she put her arm around him, she hoped to ground him in reality. “It’s okay.”
She said that even though she didn’t know if that was true. She just wanted him to come back from where he had been.
“Yeah.” His voice was rough. “It’s okay. I’m all right. It wasn’t me.”
With a surge, he turned to her and kissed her urgently, bringing her against him, his warm hands traveling over her skin, delving between her thighs. As their mouths ground against each other’s, his hips surged, his erection hot and hard against her leg. Rolling over, she pulled him on top of her as his lips kissed their way down her neck to her collarbone. Lower. To her nipples, which he sucked as he stroked her sex.
“Anne . . . I need you.”
Raking her nails down his back, she arched against him. “I need you, too.”
He pushed his way between her legs and all but impaled her, his sex driving into her own and pumping like he was possessed. The headboard banged so hard against the wall, she was glad she didn’t live in an apartment, and as he shoved the pillows out of the way, one of them knocked some stuff off her bedside table.
Not that she cared.
She had things she didn’t want to think about, too. Things like that bullet, and Ripkin, and fires she was fighting even though their flames were out. But as he pounded into her and she linked her legs around his hips, nothing else registered. It was just the pleasure and the heat, the rising tide that wiped out everything but him.
She was dimly aware of him shifting, and then his hand was between them, his talented fingers going right for the top of her core. He knew exactly what she wanted and how to touch her—and the orgasm that shot through her was so violent, it was as if she hadn’t had sex in years.
Danny took things from there, his rhythm going back to haywire until he locked in against her and kicked deep inside of her.
And then all was still except for them breathing.
As he dropped his head into her hair, he mumbled something.
“What?”
“Must be heavy. Me. I.”
But when he went to roll off of her, she shook her head. “I like the way you feel.”
Over his big shoulder, she measured the light bleeding around the edges of the drapes. Dawn had arrived, the new day and all that BS. But she wanted to say in the cocoon of her bedroom forever, just the two of them.
Sweeping her hand down his back, she felt the muscles that fanned out from his spine, the smooth skin, the heat from his flesh. It felt good to not hurry, and with the security system on, she knew if anyone tried to get in, they’d hear about it. Also, Soot was downstairs in his crate, and going by the way he’d greeted the SWAT guys before he was properly introduced, the dog was an equally good alarm.
If Danny kept staying, she was going to have to bring the dog back up. Maybe she could put him in the bathroom.
Wrapping her arms around the vital man who was still inside of her, she put her face into Danny’s neck, his hair brushing her forehead, the shadow of his beard on her cheek. For some reason, she became acutely aware that her blunted arm was against his rib cage, and she thought about how he didn’t treat it as any different from any other part of her. He welcomed the contact, cherished it, craved it.
The way he treated her partial arm was better than any list of words he could have spoken to tell her he still found her beautiful, desirable . . . whole, even though she was missing a part. And though it scared her to admit it, this time here, with him, had healed her, even though she had no more open wounds.
Acceptance was a balm to that raw place she had refused to acknowledge.
Closing her eyes against sudden tears, she held onto him. “Danny . . .”
“Yes?”
I love you. “Thank you,” she breathed.
He pulled back a little. “For staying the night? Are you kidding me, I wouldn’t leave you here by yourself to deal with this. And whenever I’m off shift, you’ll have me back.”
“I would like that.”
“Me, too.”
His staying over wasn’t even about her car window getting shot out. It was about so much more, a connection that had started the day she had walked into the 499 as a probie and looked up, way up, into the blue eyes of an Irish wild man. Sometime along the way, over the passage of days and weeks and months, he had become part of her life, part of her history.
She told herself that it was only through retrospection that things felt inevitable. She wasn’t sure she believed that in her heart.
As the sun rose higher, it seemed as though they had been destined all along for each other.
And because of that, she decided to stop fighting it, fighting him . . . fighting the outcome that seemed to, no matter the particulars or the place, always bring them together.
Sometimes strength rested not in resistance, but in the release of arms against a foe of one’s own creation.
chapter
46
Later that morning, Tom was sitting back at his desk in the fishbowl, drumming his fingers on reports he was supposed to read and sign off on, when someone came into the stationhouse.
Getting to his feet, he motioned for them to come around, and when his sister opened the door, he was embarrassed that she might have seen him staring off into space.
“Didn’t know you were coming over.” He nodded to the vacant chair on the far side of things. “You need a seat?”
“Yes, thanks.”
As Anne got settled, he studied her. “So Mom called me yesterday. She said you two had talked.”
It wasn’t a surprise when her eyes locked on all his disorganized paperwork. “I . . . ah, I might have been really unfair about her. To her. I think she had to deal with some things that I was unaware of. I also think our father might have been a monster under all that I’m-a-hero shit, but you and I can argue about that at a different time.”
“I’m done arguing.” When she looked up sharply, he put a hand out. “That sounds defensive, it isn’t. I am literally, for myself, tired of arguing with everybody.”
“Who are you and what have you done with my brother.”
“You know, I could say the same thing about you with Mom.”
“So we’ve both been taken over by aliens. Good to kno
w—do we need new driver’s licenses.”
Tom smiled a little. “Yeah. Maybe we do. So what’s up? You need something?”
“Yeah, I want to talk to you about Charles Ripkin.”
Leaning back in his old wooden chair, he crossed his leg, ankle to knee. “Don’t know the guy, really.”
“When he talked to you about this building”—she motioned around his fishbowl and all the bright-and-shiny beyond it—“was he . . . did you ever feel like he was trying to buy us off? The fire department, I mean.”
“In exchange for what?”
“Whatever happened at his house with his daughter? Maybe those fires down at the warehouses?”
“No.” Tom crossed his arms and told himself now was the time to stick to his new leaf. Namaste and all that shit. “What are you insinuating? That I took a bribe or something? What for, we didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I agree. I’ve read all of our incident reports. I just . . . a man like that doesn’t do anything for a purpose that doesn’t advance his self-interests, right? I mean, his reputation is what it is for a reason. He’s ruthless and shady, and I’ve done extensive searches on him. Do you realize that this firehouse is the only philanthropic thing he’s done?”
“That’s not possible. All rich guys give to shit. They get museum wings named after themselves, donate libraries and research centers.”
“Ripkin hasn’t. He gives to political candidates, but not nonprofits.”
Tom frowned. “What kind of politicians?”
“He’s a registered Republican, but he donates across the spectrum.”
“What about Mayor Mahoney. He give to her?”
“Yes. He’s topped out for this election.”
“What’s that mean?”
“He’s given Mahoney’s campaign up to the legal limit. I can show you the report if you’d like?”
“Nah. Not a surprise.” He shrugged, although whether that was to convince his sister or himself that he didn’t care, he wasn’t sure—and didn’t want to dwell on. “He’s in deep with her on this wharf thing. I had a meeting with her the other night, and she and her lackey Perry had just met with Ripkin Development. Doing that area over is one of her election imperatives—or whatever they call them.”
As Anne grew quiet, he sat forward. “What’s going on.”
“Just trying to figure this all out.”
“Define ‘this.’ And before you tell me to mind my own business, I’d like to point out that in your entire professional career, you’ve never come to my office about anything. You must be here for a reason.”
There was a period of silence, and then Anne looked him directly in the eye. “I think Ripkin tried to kill his own daughter and make it look like an accident. And he gave this building to our fire service and played the grateful parent to support the appearance that it was terrible accident and we were the heroes. I think my office did sloppy investigating due to short staffing and now we’re screwed. There’s no statute of limitations on arson in the Commonwealth, but all the physical evidence is gone. There’s nothing left to reexamine.”
“What do you mean?”
“I went into our storage to get the evidence box and it was gone. There’s the written report online, and a few photographs, but the actual samples and evidence is gone.”
“Was there much in it?”
“I don’t know. Samples were noted, but I don’t know how thorough the listing is—and I checked with the NBPD. They don’t have anything on the case because our office didn’t rule it arson.”
“Who was the investigator on your end?”
“Bob Burlington.”
“Wait, didn’t he die?”
“In a boating accident eighteen months ago. And excuse me if I keep the air quotes to myself on that one. His body washed up on shore three days after he was seen heading out into the sound. They said he’d had a heart attack, but the sharks got ahold of him. Hard to know if he had any other pertinent injuries.”
“What does this have to do with you, Sister.”
“I’m not sure yet, but I’m putting the pieces together.”
As her eyes swung back up to his, she shook her head. “Nothing? Why?”
“Remember when you used to sneak out of the house at night after Dad died? Mom would ask us at breakfast if we’d walked around after bedtime—and you’d have this exact same expression on your face.”
* * *
Even though Danny had only had twenty-four hours off, he was back at the 499, and for once, it seemed like it was going to be a slow day. Then again, it wasn’t freezing cold, so the space heaters hadn’t come out in force yet, and people were no longer doing crazy stuff from the summer heat. Also, not a full moon, so bonus.
After running a drill on breathing apparatuses, he was doing laundry in the bay and thinking they needed a probie. And not just because if they had more crew members, they’d be able to get back to a more normal schedule—
“Oh, shit. Here we go.” As Duff spoke up from the Nautilus machine, the guy pointed out to the street. “Moose not make the bed this morning?”
Deandra got out of her BMW and marched across toward the stationhouse, her Chanel tote banging against her hip, her stilettos clipping over the pavement, her now-red hair flouncing in her wake like a war flag.
“Wasn’t she a blonde this past weekend?” Duff asked.
“I don’t keep up with it. I’ll go get him.”
“Is he here? He was late.”
“From fighting with her.”
After turning the dial on the industrial dryer, Danny went inside to the rec area. Moose was sitting on the sofa, legs crossed on the beat-up coffee table, hands linked on his beer gut.
“You got a visitor, my man.”
The guy didn’t look away from the Dr. Phil episode on the TV. “No, I don’t. I told her not to come.”
“She doesn’t speak English when it comes to ‘no.’ Remember how much your wedding cost?”
Deandra came in and stopped short. “You are a fucking asshole.” When Moose refused to acknowledge her, she went over and blocked his view of the television. “You canceled my credit card.”
Moose tilted to the side. “Can you move.”
“You know you fucking did—”
“No, I fucking didn’t.” The guy burst up to his feet. “You ever hear of a credit limit? Like, you spend the amount they’re willing to float you and then you can’t spend no more. They cut you off, Deandra.”
“You did this.”
“That bag did it.” He jabbed a finger at what was hanging off her shoulder. “How much was that? Huh? Two thousand dollars? Three? What the fuck, Deandra.”
“Stop saying my name like you’re my father or some shit.”
“Then be an adult and pay for your own shit.”
“You told me that you would make it good. That if I married you, you’d make it good. And here we are, living out in the sticks, and I can’t buy a Starbucks on the way to work because you—”
Danny stepped in between them. “Enough. You guys take this into the locker room if you have to, but you can’t do this here. Okay? The rest of us don’t need this—”
“He’s a better fuck than you, Moose.” Deandra smiled like a serial killer about to go to work. “He can make me come. You never have.”
Danny put his palms up and backed up. “I’m out. This is not my problem-”
“He’s been fucking me for the last month, Moose. And you know what I do, Moose, when you’re on shift? I put my hand on my pussy and I think of him—”
Moose went for her like he was going to snap her head off her spine, and Danny played human shield, jumping in between and taking the hit.
“Calm down, Moose—”
“You fucked my wife!”
All that rage got channeled
at Danny, those meaty hands locking on his throat and shoving him backward.
“I did not fuck her—”
“And I love when he does!” Deandra yelled. “He fucks me better than you ever will and I can’t wait for him to—”
Danny grabbed Moose’s thick wrists and tried to pull the grip off. “Shut up, Deandra!”
Duff and Doc came barreling in, and the two of them grabbed onto Moose’s arms. But even they got nowhere, the four of them advancing to the pong table until Moose had Danny laid out on the playing surface.
“You are a fucking whore,” Moose spat as he started to bang the back of Danny’s head over and over again. “You’re a fucking—”
“I am not!” Deandra tossed back.
He’s not talking to you, bitch, Danny thought. “Moose—I didn’t fuck her!”
“Liar!” Red-faced and spitting, the man was trembling so badly his hair was flopping. “You fucked her—”
“Not since you got with her!” Holy shit, he couldn’t breathe. “Not since—”
“Like anyone can believe you? You don’t give a fuck who you hurt! It’s all about you—”
Deshaun locked his arm around Moose’s thick neck and took his wrist in his own hand. Yanking back on the chokehold, he pried the man free. Moose kicked and punched, but it was all air.
Danny flopped flat, his arms rolling out to both sides as he brought his legs up to relieve the pressure on his back. Taking deep breaths, he got his vision back from checkerboard-landia.
Captain Baker burst into the room. “What the hell is going on in here!”
chapter
47
“You are a gentleman and scholar. This is amazing.”
Anne put the receiver of her office phone between her ear and shoulder and went into her email, hitting refresh on her Outlook. When nothing came in, she hit it again. And a third time.
“Has the link come through?” her new buddy from the traffic office asked.
“Not yet—oh, here it is. And I got the log-in you set up for me. Thank you so much—I know you rushed it for me.”
