by Coulton, JC
The hoarse grumble in his throat reminds me of a wild cat on the hunt. I feel like throwing caution to the wind and letting him eat me. His touch is so gentle, but so in control of my body—I can feel my toes curl inside my socks. I want to surrender, but just minutes ago this man was yelling at me. What am I doing? I’ve got to stop!
My hands on his chest are weak at first, but I manage to push him away. I’m staring up at him. We’re both breathing hard. I’m wet and my stomach clenches, but I can’t do this again. I can’t let myself be treated this way. If I’m ever going to have a chance at finding happiness, I need to learn to say no.
God, it’s hard. Blake is so hard. I want to pull him back into my arms. I want this to be like a movie. I want a role in the most intense romance ever. I want to be saved. I want to happy forever. I never want to let him go. But I need to live in reality. This man is gorgeous, but unstable. He may want me, but he doesn’t trust me. This combination is dangerous.
And I can’t trust him. It’s April’s life on the line. Carrie James, you need to let go of his shirt right now! I’m telling myself off in my head, and somehow I find the inner strength to pull my hands from his sexy chest and take a deep breath.
“Blake, we’ve got one chance to hold onto our integrity here.”
I say the first thing that comes to me, but as soon as it comes out, I see from his face that I’ve hit the spot. It must resonate with duty before everything and all that stuff that cops take their oath to uphold, or whatever.
“If you and I get any more involved, Blake—”
I break off because I don’t know what will happen. What I do know is he makes me lose my mind. Thinking stops happening when I’m around him. I stop thinking and being—thinking for myself and being a good friend to April. It’s time to honor myself and walk away from this mess with a shred of dignity.
I know Blake wants me close so he can protect me. I can tell by the hard-on in his pants that he also wants me close so he can fuck me; but is that enough? What about wanting me close to share truths; to support each other; to be honest? I don’t even know if he’s capable of that—no matter how much I’d like him to be. For all I know, he wants to keep me here because he thinks I’m lying, or because his boss told him to. Until this case is over, there’s a massive conflict of interest that has to be resolved before anything else. Blake Anderson is a liability to me and to himself.
I extract myself from his reach. He’s considering everything I’ve said. I decide the best approach is a direct one.
“Blake, I want to go. Please take me to my hotel.”
I head over and stand by the door. I couldn’t be any more direct, and he does me the favor of not making me raise my voice again. Inside, I’m near hysterical. It’s not with panic; it’s desire and frustration, and so much emotion.
Everything has happened too fast. One moment, I’m in a dead end job in Iowa, planning to stay single forever. The next, I’m shaking my ass in New York City and my best friend gets taken. I’m told it’s possibly an international trafficking ring, by the only guy I ever loved, who is back in my life, and he’s the guy I have to trust to navigate the chaos and get my best friend back. It’s insane. It’s so insane it’s not believable. But I’m living it, so I have to believe it.
He gathers his wallet and I’m not going to give him any reason to change his mind—I’m not even going to take anything from upstairs. I don’t need anything here; I have everything at the hotel, waiting for me. It would also look weird to collect a set of trashed clothes and a spare toothbrush. I don’t want to look desperate. I still care what he thinks about me. I still want to make a good impression, and if I’m honest with myself, I don’t really want to leave him.
“You got everything?”
I nod and look down at myself, still dressed in his clothes.
“Girl doesn’t need much.”
He laughs and the tension between us lifts. We make our way to the elevator and he tells me about the people who live in the neighboring apartments. When he’s not losing his temper, Blake is a good man. He cares about the old lady down the hall and he cares about taking the trash out on time. He’s going to make someone an excellent husband one day. I just don’t think it’ll be me.
We get into the car and despite my sudden reversal, the silence is comfortable. It’s lame, but he looks so sexy holding onto that steering wheel. God, if he could hear the things that I think—if any man could—he’d be shocked. They tell themselves that women don’t think about sex half as much as they do, but they’d be surprised. I have thoughts like that all the time. At the gas station when a hot, young attendant fills my car. At the supermarket when I see a fit hunk of a man in the dairy aisle. At the mall when an urge to shop hits me; and even at work.
Guys have no idea that we’re secretly objectifying them as often as we are. I’m sure of it. If they knew, there’d be no mystery to the modern romance. The Hollywood tropes of a man chasing woman would be all over, and half the fun of the chase would be out the door.
Personally, I love being romanced by a guy. It’s so sexy to be chased; to be wanted; to have them flirt with me. I love seeing a guy’s confidence, and when they have the courage to ask me out, I almost always go. Even if it’s just for coffee. If we ever find April, and if life ever goes back to normal, I want Blake to do that. I want him to ask me out to dinner and start again. I want him to earn back my trust.
I’m lost in thought until we cross the famous Manhattan Bridge. I can’t help wondering about all the people who lose faith and jump. It must be a shitty fucking place to get to—feeling that life isn’t worth living. I wonder how many of them are victims of crime. I start to question whether it’s true about what Jessup does. If it is, there could be a mob of people who are out to get revenge on him. Everyone, from the families of his victims, to the competition.
“So will you tell your boss where I am?”
I break the silence and he nods, leaving his eyes on the road while he speaks.
“Yeah she won’t like it. Ultimately though, it’s your choice—and there’s nothing I can do if you refuse protection.”
I nod. “Good. So you’ll leave me your card in case I do need to call?”
“Carrie, of course. I’ll assign a duty car to check the lobby every few hours, and I’ll talk to the desk staff on your behalf. When we get there, just go right up to your room. Don’t talk to anyone. Don’t phone anyone. Just do what you have to do. Have a shower, get some sleep. Whatever it is that’s so important, go ahead and do it.”
He sounds skeptical of my explanation, but has the grace not to argue anymore. I return the favor. Soon we’re pulling up in front of the place. I look over at him. It’s time to say goodbye, but I can’t.
“See you soon.”
I jump out before he can say anymore. The proximity of him still has me reeling from before. I’m now uncomfortable in my own skin. If I’m going to go, it has to be now.
“Take care, Carrie,” he says, and as I walk toward the hotel, I make sure I don’t look back.
Chapter Eleven
Blake
She doesn’t look back. I like her for that—for her fearlessness. There’s something so sexy about the way she walks. Even in my gym clothes it’s there. It’s not overtly sexy, but it’s strong. She knows how to protect herself. Shit. Carrie James is in my head, whether I like it or not.
I park in the valet spaces outside her hotel. I show my badge to the staff member in uniform, and tell him I’ll only be five minutes. He’s in line with my authority, so I head in to talk to the manager. I need to know she’ll be safe, and he’s the best person to make sure of that. He turns out to be a she, and when I knock on her office door, she invites me right in.
“Detective Anderson. Welcome. Take a seat.”
She assures me there’s an elevator lock that prevents people from travelling to Carrie’s floor without an access card. The doormen are downstairs twenty-four hours a day, and she promises to ins
truct staff to report any suspicious behavior in the area.
I can’t do much more than that. Jacob will have my head no matter what, but it helps. I haven’t felt this type of anxiety since I first got sober. This is personal. I don’t want anyone touching Carrie. The thought of what a bunch of savages like that would do, if given the chance, is sickening—if they don’t kill her first.
Images of those young boys, and the dozens of other kidnap victims I’ve seen, passes through my mind. I block them out. That’s all I can do. I’d lose my mind otherwise. I feel too much. Too much anger. Too much rage. If raging at the world was encouraged, I’d have a medal by now. Instead, I’m a cop who feels too much.
I avoid people. I avoid relationships, and I even avoid watching the news. Why bother, when there’s nothing I can do? It’s better to block out the pain and help as many people as I can at work each day.
I make it home in record time. I’ve been working, and stuck in my head, so I take a shower to relax. Thoughts of her are waiting for me there. Her image is stuck in mind, embedded into the tiles of the shower wall. This was the place I used to feel so calm. She has invaded it. I heed to get her out of my head, but my body falls right into the fantasy being with her.
The thought of her hips under my hands, of holding her down and tasting her makes me instantly hard. The way she looked down at me when I was licking. The way she opened up so willingly. God, it was hot. I could feel her breath hitch and her insides start to shake. It brings me to the edge of orgasm and I haven’t even touched myself.
The sensory memory of our time together won’t leave me. That build-up after so many years of wanting her fills my head. It makes this fantasy one of the most powerful I’ve ever had. I close my eyes against the hot stream of water. I stroke myself once or twice, and imagine that look of abandon in her eyes when she comes. I let out a groan and lean back against the shower wall as I get closer and closer.
Her hair, her skin, her thighs. Her softness as I plunged my cock inside her to the hilt. It all comes together in my mind, and my body responds with an orgasm so powerful I let out a loud groan. I sag back against the wall as my vision starts to return. Fuck! I hope Brenda and George are not home yet.
I change into fresh clothes and tidy up a little. The small lounge area has the open newspaper Carrie was reading. I pop my head into her room to see she’s made her bed. The phone is on the hook and my desk looks untouched again. The chair is pushed in neatly.
There’s something wrong about the room. On instinct, I pick up the phone and look through the recently dialed numbers. She called my cell a number of times, but I knew that already. Only thing is, it’s not just me she’s been calling. I recognize the other numbers she’s phoned. The woman called both of Jessup’s contacts again.
It couldn’t have done any harm—neither of the calls was answered—but something about it still gets to me. Sure, I told her who the numbers belong to, but this feels so covert. There’s something so secretive about her. It’s going to get her in trouble and if I’m not careful, it’s going to get me into trouble. I start to wonder what else she’s been touching.
From the looks of downstairs, she spent most of the day on the sofa yesterday. It’s unsettling. If she’s still trying Jessup’s phone numbers, what else has she been doing? I need some proof here. I need something to help me to trust her, because these actions are not setting me at ease.
I wonder how many more lies she’s telling me; and how many of my case files and emails she might have gone through. My passwords are in the address book in the top drawer. She could have easily accessed my accounts. There’s nothing to it for a researcher. Fuck.
Right now the person I need is Ryan. I go into my smartphone, bring up his contact number and hit the call button. Ryan is one of the most experienced techs I’ve ever met, and he’s a good friend. He’ll come here and he’ll tell me the truth. I need to know which files she’s been reading and why. I need to know how far she’s taken this fascination with running her own investigation. It doesn’t make sense if she’s telling me she won’t report on the case? No one is that curious—unless she’s still lying to me.
He answers and I don’t waste time with small talk. He’s been a friend long enough that he won’t be offended. He can keep his mouth shut too. That’s what I need on this task. I fill him in on my situation, and ask how quickly he can make it over here. His shift at the station is finishing. He promises to head right over.
If Carrie James is doing something uncalled for, he’ll be able to prove it with fingerprints, and with the digital signature she would have left on my equipment. It’s more than just looking at the history to see which websites she’s been accessing. I need to know where she’s been sending emails. He can even tell me which keys she’s been pressing.
I sit down on the couch to wait for him, the frustration mounting. One moment I’m getting off in the shower over this woman, and the next I’m calling in techs to analyze her behavior. Is this love—obsession? I don’t know, but as soon as I think it’s going to be okay between us, another doubt crops up.
The door opens downstairs and my heart lifts when I hear the sound of George’s voice. He’s chatting away with Brenda about something, so I head downstairs to say hello. He’s already on the couch with the video games when I see him. For a second I don’t see the bright blue cast on his arm.
“George! Your arm!”
He looks up at me. He’s got some guilt over it. I don’t know why but he reacts to the tone of my voice. I have to remember to keep myself in check.
“What happened, buddy?”
I look over at Brenda. She shrugs her shoulders.
“I tripped and fell off the benches in the stadium.” He looks up at me and there’s something he’s not saying. “Like I was telling Mom, I thought I was fine. Then it really started to hurt when I was in class and the teacher sent me to the nurse.”
Brenda calls me over to the kitchen where she’s started dinner. We turn our backs to the couch so he can’t hear us.
“I think someone is bullying him, Blake.”
She looks worried. If she’s right, then it would be the first time something like this has happened. He’s normally one of the most popular kids in class.
“What makes you think that?” I ask.
My gut is already starting to clench up with the thought of someone putting his hands on my nephew. He’s like a son to me.
“Well, he’s changed his story a few times, and the gym teacher said he’s not normally so clumsy. I tried to ask him about it, and he gets defensive. I think he’s scared, Blake.”
Tears fill in her eyes and I pull her in for a hug.
“It’s going to be ok, hush.”
She’s upset. She speaks softly into my shirt and says, “What if he can’t defend himself? What if they hurt him again?”
The idea of someone putting pain in his beautiful blue eyes awakens a snake of anger inside me. It coils up and slithers through my guts. I nearly choke on the acrid taste in my mouth, and as I hold my sister, I try and remember to keep breathing. I need to control this for all of our sakes, but the rage closes my throat. I explode out of her embrace, smashing my fist into the cabinet, and rattling every glass in the kitchen. It hurts, but it feels good. The shock turns Brenda’s face pale and even George has jumped, and is staring across at me from the sofa.
I realize now that I’ve scared them, I’ve taken them hostage. I’m just like him. I’m controlling people with my anger, losing my head and scaring the shit out of my family. The realization that I’ve turned into my father makes me sick, and I retch a little in my mouth. I swallow the bitter chunks and it leaves my throat raw.
“I’m sorry.”
My voice is a whisper. My whole frame is still wired with emotion and adrenaline. My anger is scaring Brenda. She has fear in her eyes. It takes me back to the day I came home in Cedar Rapids to find her cornered by that asshole. The shame of it overcomes me and I have to get out of h
ere. I head out to the hall and lean back against the wall as the door clicks behind me.
When someone touches George, they touch me too, but this reaction is out of order. I’m losing control. Being affected by Carrie is making my anger worse. Every day I’m raging about one thing or another. When is this going to stop?
Chapter Twelve
Blake
I’m breathing and trying to tell myself to think rationally. I stare at the paint on the ceiling of the hallway outside the apartment. They must think I’m crazy. I’m standing out here like a loser, but it’s better they don’t see this. Better for me and for them.
Brenda doesn’t need to be reminded of where we came from. George is already going through enough with whoever broke his arm—he’s only going to blame himself more with this shit that went down.
I don’t have proof yet, but the look on his face was one of guilt and shame. I can tell the look of a liar, and this is the first time he’s kept something this serious from me. Whether it was actually a bully, or a fight with other kids that was his fault, I have no idea, but he ended up with a broken bone and that’s on me. I swore I’d protect him.
The thought of his pain makes the snake start to slither again in my gut. I sink down to the ground and put my head on my knees. How dare someone hurt my little nephew? How dare they? A picture of Danny Lombardi’s mother comes to mind right then. The mothers of the other boys cried when their bodies were found mutilated, but she got angry. She was fierce, spitting and righteous. She kept whispering, ‘How dare they, how dare they?’ over and over. Right now, I understand her righteousness.
The way their soft flesh was corrupted was abominable. The burns and the marks, I try to push the picture away again, but it’s here with me. As I crouch on the cold linoleum, I want to cry—for George and Brenda, and for those boys. I let the feelings wash over me and the urge to drink is so strong.
I slide my phone from my pocket and hit the speed dial code for my sponsor. It’s been too long since we spoke. I need a drink—but I need a meeting more.
