by Lara Lacombe
Surely not, she told herself, willing her heart to slow down. I wouldn’t have slept through them kicking down my front door. Unless they had picked the locks and entered quietly, wanting to take her and Alex by surprise.
It had grown quiet in the den, but the thought of the gang invading her house was too disturbing. Deciding she wouldn’t get any more sleep unless she investigated, Jillian climbed out of bed as silently as she could and stuck her feet into the slippers waiting at the side of the bed. She took one step toward the door, then stopped, considering. If there was someone out there, she didn’t want to face them with nothing but her nightgown to protect her. She pivoted and grabbed the baseball bat her brother had insisted she keep beside her bed.
“You’re a woman living alone, Jill,” he’d said in one of his rare, unaltered moments. “Better to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it.”
She’d scoffed, thinking him overprotective and paranoid. But she’d accepted his gift and left it beside her bed, never dreaming she’d actually have cause to use it.
The wood was smooth and cold in her hands, and she felt the gritty layer of dust that had built up over the years. How do I hold this thing? If she put it over her shoulder like a batter, she might not have room to swing. Holding it in front of her like some kind of walking stick didn’t feel right, either. In the end, she settled for gripping the bat in one hand, leaving it lowered by her side as she walked. If she did have to defend herself, she would hopefully have enough time to raise her arm and use the Louisville Slugger as a club.
Stepping lightly, she tiptoed down the hall, pausing at the opening to the den. She closed her eyes for a heartbeat, took a deep breath and then stepped into the den, falling into a batting stance that would make a major leaguer proud. She kept the bat on her shoulder while she scanned the room, searching the shadows for any sign of an intruder. Nothing. Her front door was still shut, the lock gleaming dully in the shaft of moonlight streaming in from the large picture window.
Jillian lowered the bat, feeling mildly foolish at her overreaction. She fought the insane urge to giggle, knowing that if she gave in, she’d never stop. The last thing she wanted was for Alex to wake up to find her standing over him, holding a baseball bat and laughing like a demented clown.
He shifted on the bed, drawing her attention and providing a focus for her fading adrenaline. Was he okay? Had he ripped the wound open?
He kicked out, groaning while he tossed and turned. He stilled for a second and then began to move again. A strangled noise came from his throat and Jillian recognized it as the sound she’d heard before, the sound that had woken her.
He’s having a nightmare, she realized.
She debated for a split second whether to wake him or to leave him to fight through it on his own. Given his earlier reaction, he didn’t respond well to being woken up. But she couldn’t leave him to toss and turn—he might do further damage to his shoulder.
In the end, her concern for his injury won out. She stood at the foot of the sofa bed, considering her options. Best to stay out of his reach. Earlier, he’d tried to run away, but this time, he might wake up swinging. She considered the bat in her hand thoughtfully—maybe she could prod him gently with it, then back away...
It was worth a shot.
* * *
Something was touching his leg.
Alex came awake slowly, shaking off the clinging tendrils of the nightmare to focus on the tapping sensation. Was that a hand? No—not possible. An animal perhaps?
He opened his eyes, focusing on the textured ceiling overhead. He was at the doc’s apartment, on her couch. While the apartment was in an older building, he’d seen no signs of rats or mice earlier. But then again, those animals tended to avoid people whenever possible.
He raised a hand to wipe his face and the tapping stopped. “Alex?” came the whisper in the dark.
Reacting instinctively he jerked up in the bed, ready to defend himself against this new threat. A searing pain radiated from his shoulder, but he ignored it, squinting in the dark to identify the speaker.
“Doc?” Was she okay? Had something happened to her?
Or had she changed her mind about letting him stay on the couch?
Alex swung his legs over the side of the bed, reluctantly leaving the warmth of the blankets behind. He’d overstayed his welcome, and now it was time to go. It had been good of her to let him stay as long as she had, and he didn’t blame her for wanting him out of her home. No telling what fresh hell he would bring into her life if he stayed.
“What are you doing?” she whispered, stepping forward to stand next to the bed.
He glanced up at her, amused despite himself that she still spoke quietly. “I’m awake,” he pointed out, trying to remember where he’d left his clothes. “You can talk at a normal volume.” Were they in the bathroom?
“Oh,” she said, sounding a bit surprised. “I guess you’re right.” She stepped back when he moved forward, and it was then he noticed the baseball bat she held in a loose grip by her side. His gut cramped at the sight and he felt about two inches tall. Did she really think she’d have to threaten him with a baseball bat to get him to leave? He wanted to crawl back under the blankets and die from the shame of it, but that would only confirm her impression that she’d have to use force to get him out of her apartment.
It served him right. After the way he’d treated her tonight, he deserved no better. Determined to hold his head high and depart with what little dignity he could, he headed toward the bathroom in search of his wayward clothes. He wasn’t going to steal from her, on top of everything else.
“Where are you going?”
He stopped but didn’t turn around. “I’m looking for my clothes. Do you know where they are?”
“I threw them in the washer after you went to bed. I don’t think they’re dry yet. Are you uncomfortable in what you have on?”
“No, but...” He trailed off, at a loss. Why would she wash his clothes if she didn’t want him to stay the night? He turned to find her watching him, a confused look on her face. “I thought you wanted me to go.”
She scrunched up her nose, as if something smelled bad. “No. Why would you think that?”
“You woke me in the middle of the night with a bat?”
“Oh, that.” She looked down, and although it was too dark to tell, he thought she may have blushed. “Well, the thing is...” she began, twisting the bat around as she spoke. “I heard a noise, and I psyched myself out thinking someone was in the apartment. I grabbed the bat and came out here to investigate, and that’s when I realized you were having a nightmare.”
Now it was his turn to blush. “Ah, I see.” He ran a hand through his hair, absurdly touched that she had pulled him from the terrors that stalked his dreams. He swallowed around a sudden lump in his throat. “Thanks for...” He gestured to the bat.
She nodded. “Well, I couldn’t let you continue to toss and turn. I didn’t want you to rip out your stitches.”
Alex laughed at that, imagining all too well her look of indignation at the thought of her handiwork being ruined in such a careless manner. “Well, whatever your reason, thanks.”
She grinned, a flash of white teeth in the darkness. “All in a day’s work. Now get back in bed, and I’ll get you an ice pack for that shoulder. I can tell by the way you’re holding your arm that it’s bothering you.”
Too tired to argue, Alex slid under the covers, searching for residual warmth amid the sheets and blankets. The apartment was chilly, and he was grateful for it; there was nothing worse than trying to sleep while overheated.
Jillian returned a moment later, a bulky object in her hand. “Scoot over,” she ordered, standing by the side of the bed.
“I beg your pardon?” Was he still dreaming?
She didn’t repeat herself, but m
erely lifted the blankets and climbed in next to him. Alex shifted over to give her room, stunned into silence by this turn of events. Never in his wildest imaginings had he pictured Jillian sharing a bed with him. “It’s too cold to stand there,” she explained, arranging the ice pack on his shoulder. After an initial flare of pain, the cold sank in, numbing his shoulder into relief.
He sighed in pleasure, enjoying the absence of pain. Although he’d only been injured for a few hours, he’d already begun to accept the discomfort as something he must live with. His rational mind knew the pain would end as he healed, but his body could only process what was happening in the moment, and dealing with the torment was physically exhausting.
Of course, sitting in bed next to the sexy doctor was a whole new level of torture.
“Want to tell me about your dream?” She sounded so normal, as though she sat in bed with men who had kidnapped her and chatted about their nightmares all the time. He mentally shook himself. Maybe she was comfortable in bed with him because she brought home strangers on a regular basis. After all, doctors didn’t have much free time to date. There were guys at the Bureau who operated the same way—they engaged in a series of no-strings-attached affairs to scratch an itch. As long as everyone knew the score, no one got hurt.
But Jillian didn’t seem like a casual kind of woman. She deserved to be cherished and loved, not used and discarded. He tamped down the irritation that rose at the thought of her with another man, one who would enjoy her body without recognizing her worth. She deserved so much more than that.
But he had no claim over her, and he would do well to remember it.
He steered his mind back to her question. “Nope,” he said, cutting off that avenue of conversation. “I’d rather just forget it, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Fine by me.” The ice pack crackled when she shifted it on his shoulder. “Will you tell me about your tattoo?”
He moved automatically to place his hand over the three green stars on his forearm. It was a mark of the gang, a branding he hated. One he couldn’t wait to have removed.
Alex cleared his throat. He’d rather not talk about the gang, but he owed her this much. Besides, if he talked about his ink, he wouldn’t have to talk about his dreams. “It’s a gang tattoo, as you probably guessed.”
He heard the smile in her voice. “I kinda figured that much. But guys come into the emergency room all the time with variations of that tattoo. What does yours in particular mean?”
“The three stars come from the gang name, and the DC flag.” He traced the outline with his forefinger as he spoke, seeing the marks as clear as day even in the dark room.
“But why are your stars green? I remember Tony’s were a different color—red? Or maybe black?”
“Good eyes,” he said, impressed by her recollection. “The color of the star indicates your role in the gang. Green is for drugs—that’s me. I’m involved in distribution, shipments, that kind of thing. Red is for women. Those are the guys that act as pimps or who are involved in trafficking women. Black is for enforcers. Those are the guys who carry weapons, the ones who provide protection or the ones who do the wet work.”
“‘Wet work’?” she repeated slowly. “Do I want to know what that means?”
He shook his head. “You can probably guess. I’m sure you’ve dealt with the aftermath before.”
She was silent for a moment and then asked, “What color were Tony’s stars?”
“Black.”
“But he’s so young!”
“He’s seventeen,” Alex replied. “To a normal person, that’s young. For a gang member, that’s middle-aged.”
“And what about you?” She poked him gently in the side, a teasing gesture that made him smile.
“Me? I’m practically an elder statesman.”
She chuckled, and he felt the brush of her hair when she shook her head.
“It’s just so surreal to me,” she said, turning to face him. “How did you even get involved with the gang in the first place? I don’t know much about how they operate, but I doubt they would have let you in on the basis of your smile.”
“No, it took a bit more than that,” he agreed. He paused for a moment, debating on what information to share with her. She didn’t need to hear all of the gritty details, but he could give her an overview.
“Basically, I posed as a new dealer in the city. A low-level guy who wouldn’t be seen as a threat. But I made it known that I was interested in growing my business, so to speak. The gang found me and made me the offer they extend to everyone who tries to operate in their territory.”
“Which was?”
He cleared his throat. “Join or die.”
“Wow.” She whistled softly. “Not much of a choice there.”
“No. But it was exactly what I wanted to hear. They initiated me quickly, but kept me at arm’s length for a bit, to see if they could trust me.”
“What was that like?” Her voice was quiet in the darkness, and Alex closed his eyes, savoring the intimacy that came from talking to a woman in the small hours of the night. Even though their topic of conversation was one he’d rather change.
“My initiation?” She nodded and he shrugged. “It was all very business-like. They took me to a tattoo parlor, watched me get my mark. Then they took me to a member’s home and got me drunk. At one point, they showed me pictures of my car, the inside of my apartment. They wanted me to know that they knew where I lived, what I drove. That they could get to me anytime. And then they showed me pictures of what they did to the people who betrayed them.” He shuddered involuntarily as the memory of those bloody images rose to the surface.
Jillian adjusted the ice pack then rested her hand on his chest. He covered it with one of his own, focusing on the feel of her soft skin under his rough palm. She was so delicate in comparison to his coarseness—he wanted to gather her in his arms and protect her from the rest of the world. But he knew she wouldn’t appreciate the gesture. Underneath her fragile appearance was a core of steel. She was an intelligent, independent woman who probably wouldn’t take too kindly to being treated like she was made of glass.
“Enough about me,” he said, forestalling another of her questions. “I want to know more about you.”
She shifted slightly, as though she was uncomfortable with the new focus. “There’s not much to tell.”
“I’m sorry, that’s not an acceptable answer,” he said, using his best game-show announcer voice. “I answered all of your questions. Now it’s your turn. It’s only fair.” He squeezed her hand gently, which earned him a rueful sigh.
“I suppose you have a point,” she admitted, sounding rather unhappy about it. Her reluctance to talk only served to heighten his curiosity. What was the good doctor trying to hide? “What do you want to know?”
Everything. Knowing that would only scare her, he settled for a slightly more limited question. “What made you want to be a doctor?”
“That’s a long story,” she said. “Can’t we start with something easy, like my favorite color?”
He laughed. “Okay. What’s your favorite color?”
“Blue.”
“Me, too. Now, what made you want to become a doctor?”
She didn’t say anything and the silence dragged on, growing heavier with every heartbeat. Finally she spoke, her voice so quiet Alex had to strain to hear. “My brother.”
His gut clenched, but he kept his mouth shut, knowing that if he spoke, she wouldn’t. He began to trace his thumb across her skin, wanting her to know that he was still listening.
“I have a younger brother. Jason. He started doing drugs when we were in high school. He was only sixteen at the time. He started on the ‘softer’ stuff, but I could tell it was taking a toll on him, and that he was addicted. So I decided to become a neurosc
ientist. I wanted to study how certain drugs act on the brain, and how addiction can be treated or even prevented.”
“I heard they’re working on a vaccine for cocaine—it keeps people from feeling the effects of the drug, so they don’t become addicted. Is that the kind of work you wanted to do?”
Jillian nodded. “Exactly. Can you imagine how things would be different if all it took was one shot to make people immune to drugs? How many lives that would save?” She sounded wistful and a little disappointed, like a dreamer forced to wake up and contend with reality.
“So what happened?”
“Jason moved on to the harder stuff. Cocaine was his drug of choice for a bit. He overdosed one night and I found him on the floor of his bedroom. He wasn’t breathing. I had to perform CPR until the paramedics arrived.” She shuddered, clearly recalling the event. “Because he was young, and in otherwise good shape, they were able to bring him back. But I decided then and there that I wasn’t ever going to feel so helpless again. I knew it was only the start, and I knew that if he did it again, the paramedics might not get there in time. I wanted to be able to save my brother. So I went to medical school and specialized in emergency medicine when I got out.”
“Did you ever have to save your brother again?”
She shook her head. “My parents kicked him out a few months after the incident, when he snuck out of rehab and stole their car to sell for drug money. At first, he was beside himself. Then he discovered meth, and he didn’t care anymore. A few years ago he came to me, said he was finally done and was getting clean. I let him stay with me, but he left after a few days. I haven’t seen him since.”
A wave of nausea hit him as the pieces clicked into place, and he shifted uncomfortably. Tweakers in need of a hit were notoriously unpredictable. If Jason had come looking for Billy while in the throes of withdrawal, it was no wonder he’d been aggressive.
“Damn,” he muttered, wishing for the millionth time that Tony hadn’t been so quick to fire. If I’d been in that alley, I could have stopped him...
“I think that’s why I like you,” Jillian said, sounding a little shy. “You’re doing your best to stop the very thing that took my brother from me.”
