by LK Shaw
“First off, I’m sorry about what happened at Eden. Sec—”
“Are you sorry it happened or sorry you were such an asshole?” I interrupted, mimicking his earlier pose as I crossed my arms over my chest, because I knew the position pushed my boobs up. He needed to be reminded of what he was missing out on.
He took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose, his frustration evident.
“Stop being a brat, Bridget.”
I huffed, standing my ground. “Or what? You’ll punish me? Take a crop to my ass until tears run down my face? You made your stance perfectly clear the other night, Connor. Now, say what you came here to say then leave so I can get back to work.”
I knew I was being a brat, but somehow, after one night, I’d lost control of my emotions around him. I didn’t know how to process the feelings I was having, because they were unexplainable. I had never experienced them before. Frankly, they needed to go away. Right now, the only way I could express them was by being a brat. They just exploded out of me.
Finally, Connor spoke again, reining in his frustration for the moment. “Like I said, I’m sorry about the other night. Regardless, I have no intention of giving up on helping you. You came to me because I’m good at what I do. We need to set aside personal conflicts and focus on what’s important. Alex is who matters right now. I saw him, you know.”
This had my total attention. I forgot about being pissed at Connor for a moment. “Oh my God, Connor, what did he say? Is he okay? Does he look all right? Is he safe?” I fired off question after question.
He reached out and lightly grasped my shoulders in his large hands. I ignored the zing that ripped through me. “He looks just like you and has the same ballsy attitude. His parents died a couple months ago, and he’s been living with his uncle. He’s skinny, but other than that, he looks fine. He doesn’t seem to have any friends, but he’s in a new neighborhood and probably hasn’t had a chance to make any yet. I have a couple concerns that I addressed with an acquaintance of mine on the police for—”
“Police?” I interrupted, my voice loud with hysteria. “What kind of concerns would you have that need the police, Connor? Tell me where he is, now! What is happening to my baby?” I screamed the last question, as I started punching Connor’s chest, terror running through my veins at the thought that someone was hurting my child.
My outburst was abruptly silenced when Connor’s lips crashed against mine with punishing force. I didn’t have time to process the interruption as a rush of flavors burst across my tongue when his began to dance with mine, short circuiting my brain. He moved one hand from my shoulder and threaded his fingers through my hair before grabbing a fistful and pulling my head back to give him better access. Thankfully, I was tall, especially in heels, so I had no difficulty reaching up to meet him.
The kiss lasted for a lifetime as he drank from me and I from him. I almost felt my soul meld with his, as though we were now a part of each other. I shook off the image, and when I remembered why he’d distracted me, I pushed him away. As large as he was, he moved away with only the slightest push like he had been prepared for it.
We were both breathing heavy as we stared at each other. I tried desperately to read the expression in his eyes, but he shielded them, and there was no hope of busting through his defenses. “Have you calmed down, now?”
Hell no, I wasn’t calm. Not in the way he meant anyway. I knew he was referring to my outburst about Alex. I took several deep breaths to slow my beating heart.
I backed up a few steps away from him and walked toward the interior of the store. “I’m fine. I apologize for hitting you. Now, please tell me what’s going on.” I practically begged, but far less hysterically than before.
I watched as Connor combed his fingers through his dark wavy hair, mussing it in the process. “Like I said, I saw Alex. I met him while he waited for the school bus the other day. He moved past me to get to the bus, and when I touched his arm, he winced in pain.”
I listened in rapt attention and gasped in horror. As I was about to say something, Connor placed his finger across my kiss-bruised lips and began speaking again, “He showed me a bruise and explained how he got it. It was a legitimate excuse, but something didn’t ring true. I went to see a detective I know about it and to let him in on my suspicions. Unfortunately, there isn’t much he can do until there is some actual evidence. Either eyewitness reports or Alex tells someone he is being hurt. I’m keeping an eye on him, Bridget. For now, I have to believe Alex told the truth and that he’s safe. You have to trust me. I am not going to let anything happen to him.”
He reached out again, this time cupping my cheeks. Slowly, he bent down and lightly brushed a kiss against my mouth. It was gentle and lasted but for only a heartbeat. It was a kiss of promise. A promise that nothing would harm me or mine.
Connor
Based on my last conversation with Alex, I knew I wouldn’t get anything further going that route. I needed to focus my attention on Malcolm Shipman. I needed to feel him out. Hone in on what kind of man he was. I left home a little early and headed to the gym he frequented. I had secured a guest pass during a previous visit, so I didn’t have trouble getting in. I had just stepped on the treadmill when I saw him walk through the door. I watched as he headed to the elliptical machines. I hopped off the treadmill and jumped onto the elliptical right next to him.
After a couple minutes of fiddling with the machine as though I didn’t know how to work it, I interrupted his workout.
“Hey, I hate to bother you, but how do you work this damn thing?” I asked, sheepishly.
He threw me an undisguised look of disgust. “You hit start.”
I looked at the dashboard and a surprised, or so I hoped, look came across my face. “Well, hell. What do you know? I didn’t even see it there. Thanks, man.”
I thought I heard the word “idiot” under his breath, but I ignored it. I’d made contact even if I had to look dumb doing it. I pumped away on the machine for twenty minutes without further conversation, even though Malcolm had left his machine five minutes earlier and was now lifting free weights on the other side of the gym. After finishing my cardio, I wiped down the machine and headed in his direction. I sat down on the bench press after loading the bar with weights and shelving it on the brackets above the bench.
“Hey, man, would you spot me?” I raised my voice to be heard over the din of voices and pulsing beats coming from the speakers in the ceiling. He either didn’t hear me or was ignoring me, so I tried again.
“Excuse me. I’m sorry to bother you again, but would you help a brother out for a sec? I need a spot.” I spoke a little louder this time. Finally, Malcolm turned his head to look at me. I maintained eye contact as I asked for the third time, “Spot me?” He looked around, maybe hoping for someone else to come to my aid. When none was forthcoming, he roughly dropped his weight and walked over, irritation in every step.
I stuck my hand out and introduced myself. “Thanks, brother. I appreciate it. I’m Connor.”
Begrudgingly, he reached out and took it. “Malcolm.” After a handshake I could tell he tried to put a little extra muscle into, he took his place at the head of the bench. I lay down on the bench, and after positioning myself where I felt comfortable, I reached above me for the bar. I had intentionally used less weight than I could comfortably press. After twelve of my fifteen reps I made a show of struggling with my upward press. Malcolm reached out to help me get the bar back to its bracket. When I made to initiate my next rep, he spoke.
“Look, I don’t have time for this. You barely got the bar up the last time.”
I put a confused look on my face. “Isn’t that what you’re here for? To spot me in case I need help?”
I sensed not only his irritation, but also frustration. “Well yeah, but you’ve barely lifted anything, and you’re already tired. I have my own workout to get done. Next time, bring a friend to spot you.” He walked away, his words an apparent dismi
ssal, and went back to lifting his own weights. Dick. I removed the weights from the bench bar and stacked them back in their home and headed to the exit. I got what I’d come for, which was to discover at least something about Malcolm Shipman that a piece of paper wouldn’t tell me. I imagined this wouldn’t be my last time stopping in here.
After I left the gym, I headed back to the office to do some research. I sat at my desk going through all the paperwork I’d printed off about Malcolm and Alex Shipman. I wasn’t sure exactly what I was looking for, but for the moment I was at a standstill. I hated it. I hated not being in control of things. I thought about Alex and his feeble excuse. Against my will, my mind wandered to another time and place.
“Please, stop. I promise I won’t do it again,” the little boy cried. He cowered in the corner, making himself as small as possible, as the echo of flesh meeting flesh reverberated through the room.
“How many times do I have to tell you to pick up your shit?” the man yelled, the odor of cigarettes and alcohol filling the room with each word he spoke. “I told you the last time I stepped on this goddamn toy that I’d whip your ass if it happened again. You didn’t listen. Now, stop being such a little pussy and take your punishment like a man. Stand up.”
Gingerly, the boy rose from his crouched position on the floor. He sniffed back the tears. “I’m sorry, sir,” he apologized.
“Turn around,” the man ordered. Slowly, the boy gave his back to the man and waited in dread for what would happen next. A slight rustle of sound was heard behind him, followed by a single command. “Now, count.”
At first, the boy stood confused as to what he was supposed to count. Until the blazing inferno of pain raced across his back and the slap of leather hitting flesh boomed in his ear. A scream of agony vibrated through the room. The room danced in front of the little boy’s eyes.
“I said count, goddamn it,” the man bellowed.
“One,” the boy choked out. Before the boy could catch his next breath, another stabbing pain shot down his spine as the next slash of the leather belt and metal buckle hit.
“Two.” On and on this went for eight more counts, the screams of pain bellowing throughout the house. Each strike weakened the boy until he was ready to collapse, but he stood tall and strong for as long as he could. Until finally, the boy could take it no longer, and at the count of ten he was brought to his knees.
A booted heel kicked at the boy’s already battered back, forcing him to the ground, his voice only able to croak out a hoarse cry. He continued to lie there in tense anticipation of more agony. When none was forthcoming, he relaxed only slightly, not trusting the reprieve. A sound came from his left, and he slowly turned his head in dread. The man squatted next to him and took a swig from the bottle he had placed on the counter before the punishment began.
“Next time it’ll be worse,” the man warned. “Don’t make me tell you again to pick up your fucking shit.” He stood, making his way over to the recliner where he sat and picked up the remote and the cigarette left burning in the ashtray next to it. He changed the channels, inhaling tar and nicotine, until a baseball game came across the screen. He became engrossed in the score, dismissing the boy who lay facedown, quivering in fear and pain.
I didn’t realize I was sweating until a droplet splattered on the paper in my hand. The scars across my back throbbed with the memory. The memories had been coming more frequently since seeing the bruises on Alex’s arm. I thought of all the excuses that other pitiful little boy made for the abuse.
If only he’d picked up his toys.
If only he hadn’t broken that dish.
If only he hadn’t kicked the ball and busted out the tail light of the car.
If only he hadn’t been born.
I snapped the pencil I’d been holding in half and threw it across the room in disgust. I was only more determined to find proof that Malcolm Shipman was an abusive bastard. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the glimpse of something that caused my pulse to race in excitement. Something possibly monumental. I might have just found a motive for murder.
Bridget
It was early on Friday evening, and I sat on my couch watching television when my intercom buzzed. I wasn’t expecting anyone so I ignored it. Within a few seconds, it buzzed again. Grudgingly, I got up and pushed the call button.
“Yes, can I help you?” I asked the person who likely hit the wrong button.
A deep, sexy voice crackled over the speaker in response. “Ms. Carter? My name is Detective Webber from the Pinegrove Police Department. May I come up? I’d like to speak with you.”
Confusion ran through me. Why would the police want to speak to me? “I’m sorry, but what is this about?” Who knew if this guy was who he said he was. I couldn’t be too cautious.
“I’d rather discuss it in private. You’re welcome to contact Connor Black if you’d like to verify my identity.” He must have sensed my hesitation.
What the hell? Upon hearing Connor’s name, my heart rate accelerated. Did this have something to do with Alex? Connor did say he’d spoken to a police acquaintance of his. Was that what this was about? Needing to find out, I was no longer hesitant.
“No, no. I’ll buzz you in. Come on up.” I released the speaker button and pressed the button the unlock the front door. Then I waited in anticipation for the knock, which came only moments later.
Stepping over to the door, I peeked out the peephole to see a gorgeous man in a suit standing there. I cracked open the door, leaving the security chain hooked, just in case.
“Yes?” I questioned.
He reached inside his suit and pulled out a wallet. He flipped it open, exposing the badge inside, and introduced himself again.
“Ms. Carter, I’m Detective Daniel Webber. Like I said, I spoke with Connor Black the other day, and I was hoping I could ask you a few questions. May I come in? I won’t take up too much of your time.”
“Yes, please, come in,” I offered, closing the door only long enough to unhook the chain. I held the door open for him as he entered on a whiff of Old Spice, a scent I always found sexy on a man. “Now, can you tell me what this is about?”
He turned, and his eyes scanned my body from head to toe. I had been lounging around the house and hadn’t been expecting company, so I was braless in a tank and short-shorts. It was a slow, almost sensual exam that actually had my body heating by the time his eyes met mine. I put my hands on my hips and tapped my foot. “If you’re done eye-fucking me, can we move this conversation along?” I asked, bitingly. If this was about Alex, I didn’t have time for this bullshit, no matter how hot the detective was.
He blinked, raised his eyebrows at my blunt words, and then threw his head back in laughter. “Oh, I like you. It’s no wonder Black’s afraid of you. You’re a spitfire. I bet you keep him on his toes.”
I huffed, “Look, Detective, no disrespect, but what the fuck do you want? If this is about Alex, quit dicking around and ask me your questions. This is my son’s life you’re being blasé about.”
My words sobered him. “You’re right, I apologize. Yes, I’d like to speak with you about Alex.”
I nodded in acceptance of his apology. “You said you had questions for me. I’ll tell you anything you need to know to help my son.” I directed him to the living room where I offered him a seat and something to drink. He sat, but declined the drink.
“Black told me your story. I’d like to hear from you why you think your son is in danger,” he stated, pulling out a notebook and pen from his inner suit pocket.
I took a seat on the other end of the couch and described both of the phone calls I received from Alex. “He sounded scared both times. And he hung up quickly the second time after mentioning that ‘he’ was coming. Alex said he couldn’t be found talking to me or he would get in trouble. Why would he get in trouble for talking to me? I’m terrified, because I don’t know where he is or what is happening to him. And then there’s the bruise.”
&nbs
p; “How long has it been since you last heard from your son?” he asked.
“Almost two weeks.” I watched as he scribbled on his notepad.
“He said nothing else to you except that he would get in trouble for talking to you?”
I shook my head. “Both of our conversations lasted less than two minutes. He whispered so softly during the second call that I almost had trouble hearing him. But he definitely sounded distressed when he hung up on me after he said someone was coming.”
He looked up from his notepad. “You say he spoke softly. Are you sure you heard him correctly? Maybe he meant someone wanted to use the phone so he needed to go.”
“That’s not what he said, Detective,” I snapped. “This is exactly why I didn’t come to you guys in the first place. I knew you wouldn’t take me seriously.” I stood up and made my way to the door. I opened it in expectation of his departure. “If those are all the questions you have, you should probably go. I don’t think you can help me.”
I stood there impatiently, and irritated at this total waste of my time. He stood from the couch, put his notepad and pen away, withdrew something else from his pocket, and strode over to me. To my surprise, he reached up, swept my hair away from my face, and cupped my cheek in his large, but gentle, hand. He rubbed his thumb across my cheekbone as he spoke.
“I do believe you when you say your son needs help, Bridget. Sadly, as a police officer, my hands are tied until I can find proof that your son is in danger. But as a man who wants to see justice done, I’ll do what I can, unofficially, for Alex. I can’t make any promises, but I’ll do my best.”
He removed his hand from my face and reached down to clasp one of mine. He turned it over and placed something in it before closing my fingers around it.
“If you need me for anything, call me. I’ll do whatever I can to help you.” He walked out the door I forgot I’d been holding open without a backward glance. A little stunned by his touch, I slowly closed the door, before turning around and falling slightly backward against it with a loud exhale. I felt a sharp stick to my palm and remembered he’d given me something. I opened my hand and unfolded the crumpled card he’d placed in it. I smoothed out the crinkled paper and studied the name, Detective D. Webber, and what was most likely his personal cell number.
