Keeping Ava

by Elena M. Reyes

  “Can I help?”

  “After I sweep up the glass.” And that’s what he does. Broom in hand, he gathers the larger pieces, picks them up, and tosses them inside the garbage bin. Then, after nothing is left beside the small bits, he begins to sweep the floor clean of spaghetti and glass.

  Watching him work like this, doing something so domesticated is...sexy.

  Tempting me with what I shouldn’t want.

  A house.

  To share my life with someone.

  To not run or constantly have to watch my back.

  Elijah Ford is going to be extremely dangerous for me.

  “How about now?”

  He looks over and rolls his eyes with mock annoyance, sweeping the last bit into a dustpan he produced out of nowhere. Or did he bring that with him? “...dirty. Can you?”

  “I’m sorry. Can you repeat that?”

  “Can you wipe down the appliances and cabinet doors that got dirty?”

  “Oh, ummm. Yeah.” I brace my palms on the granite to help me jump down when, in the blink of an eye, he’s on me. Grabbing my hips in his strong hands, Eli picks me up and places me on the floor right in front of him. I stumble a bit and brace myself against his chest. “Thank you.”

  “Just don’t want you to get hurt. These are higher than the standard because of my height.”

  Our close proximity is like a drug, clouding my judgment once more. And before I can chicken out—before I can rationalize just how idiotic I am—I lean forward and kiss his chin. A quick peck on his skin that nearly breaks me in two.

  However, because I’m a bigger chicken than idiot, I step back quickly and avert my eyes, focusing instead on the different bottles beside the rags. “Which one can I use for the cabinets?”

  “Either of the two light pink ones is fine.” It comes out as a groan, and I ignore it. Choosing to focus on the task at hand, I fight the urge to turn around and let him see me.

  How he’s affecting me.

  How much I wish it’d been his lips instead.

  I’m beyond screwed.

  Chapter 5

  Ava

  I’m a wimp. Can’t deny it even if I wanted to.

  Not when I’ve gone out of my way to hide from him for four days now. If he enters the room I’m in, I leave, finding any excuse under the sun to avoid meeting his stare for longer than a few seconds.

  To keep from drowning in his everything.

  It’s the only way to survive him. Us. This attraction that is wrong—forbidden for more reasons than just his job. His assignment to protect me.

  My attention should be on surviving Jason’s threat, on staying alive, and not on the detective keeping me safe—even if he is the embodiment of everything I find attractive in a man.

  He’s strong and protective and thoughtful, and fuck me if he’s not handsome. Sexy in a way that makes my breath hitch and palms sweat whenever he’s close.

  It’s a weakness. A temptation.

  To not fall for him; I flee.

  To not lick his jaw; I hide.

  Like now, I’m standing in front of the door to my room contemplating my next move: head outside, or stay? Offer myself, or disappear?

  Stop. Breathe. It’s nothing and will stay nothing.

  Not that simple for two reasons:

  I’m attracted to him.

  And, my predicament leaves very little in the choice department.

  I need clean clothes. Desperately. However, avoiding the temptation he brings to the table is making a commonsense problem hard.

  Especially when he’s kind. When he goes out of his way to anticipate what I might need or how he doesn’t bring attention to my neurotic behavior.

  The small amount of clothes I was able to grab in our rush to get on the road is dirty, and I’m down to my last pair of panties. I’ve avoided this long enough, and as I glare at the door, I breathe in deep to quell my nerves.

  That flutter of butterflies that suddenly appears when I see him.

  “Get out. Do laundry. Come back,” I whisper low, hand shaking as I turn the knob and pull. Suddenly, the Mission Impossible theme song plays through my mind, and I stifle a giggle at my own ridiculousness. Here I am, tiptoeing out of the room while looking around like an idiot and shielding myself with the laundry basket Elijah was kind enough to put in my room.

  Dear God, I’ve become certifiable.

  Heading toward the small closet near the kitchen, I take notice of his office door being closed and pause. It’s a first. Is he in there?

  That’s also the moment I realize there’s no noise—no sign of him...anywhere.

  It’s disappointing and a relief all at once. It also makes me wonder just where he is.

  Elijah’s always here, working or sitting out on the balcony watching the tide come in every evening. It’s a ritual, watching him from the entrance to the living room and out of sight, taking in the sharpness of his jaw and the bob of his throat as he sips a tall glass of iced tea.

  It’s the most serene I’ve seen him. Calm and fucking beautiful.

  “Where are—what the hell is that?” I whisper-shout, almost dropping the basket in my hand. There’s a deep and sudden rumble, followed closely by the sound of something hard hitting the floor.

  And even though I shouldn’t, I follow it, walking toward the sound. It takes me to just inside the living room where I stop because what greets me there messes with my system. With that internal clock that all women have.

  Elijah Ford is here.

  Asleep on his couch.

  He’s holding onto a throw blanket in his left hand, while the other hangs off the side with a phone on the floor beneath his fingertips.

  “Christ, please help me,” I say low, a prayer, as a tiny snore slips past those lips. Lips I’d give anything to kiss. To taste.

  I can’t stop myself either. I’m not in control of my body.

  My feet carry me to him, almost close enough that his fingers brush my skin. Almost.

  It’s reckless. Stupid.

  But I don’t care. The pull between us makes me do what I shouldn’t, and while I know I’ll regret this for days to come, I gingerly pull the blanket from his hand and cover him. There’s a sigh from his lips and something mumbled—an unintelligible grunt—that quiets into a hum of approval when I kiss his forehead.

  The feel of his skin on mine sears me. Destroys more of the wall I need to keep erect.

  For a second, I close my eyes and savor him just like this. In secret. Privately.

  Without him knowing that I had a moment of weakness.

  “Sleep, Eli. I know you’re tired.”

  “Ava stay?” Every cell in my body freezes, and I’m afraid to look at Eli and find him staring up at me. At being caught. “I’ll protect her.”

  Those words cause my eyes to flash open, and I realize he’s dreaming. Thinking of me. On how to protect— of always being my hero. It endears him all the more to me.

  These emotions growing within are a torment. Unfair.

  Why couldn’t I have found him in a normal manner? At the movies, my bakery, or grocery store?

  Because without a single doubt, I know I would’ve let myself get swept up in him if I had.

  With that thought in mind, I walk out of the room and toward his laundry area. I’m on autopilot as I do; putting my clothes in, setting the temp and load size, and after dropping in some detergent, I close the lid slowly. Elijah doesn’t stir, and I don’t go back to where he is.

  Instead, I go back to my room and close that door.

  Lock myself inside all over again.

  It’s better this way. No one will know about my moment of weakness.

  No one but me.

  His masculine scent is everywhere inside his home.

  Surrounding me. Haunting me. Invading my senses.

  Branding my DNA with his mark and I’m becoming an addict, looking for ways to fill my need without seeking him out. Like right now. I’m inside the hall bathroom doing
something I shouldn’t.

  It’s been a week since I caught him unaware and napping on the couch—ignorant to my newly acquired creepy-like tendencies. Moreover, in those seven days, I’ve become a prisoner to my feelings and wants. Insane for even contemplating anything past my survival.

  Because that’s where my focus should be. Yet it isn’t.

  Instead, it’s on him.

  And maybe it’s because of the crazy, horror-filled ride I’m on, but stopping isn’t an option at the moment. He’s both a reprieve and solace. Something I can hold onto, even if it is in secret and behind these four walls that I’m letting go.

  I’m showering; lathering with the tiny bit of his body wash I stole and fighting the urge to touch myself while he’s downstairs inside the gym. Lifting weights. Being delicious. He goes every other day for thirty minutes before breakfast unless he’s working, and today I broke down.

  So, while he thinks I’m asleep, I’m taking advantage of his generosity.

  While he’s sweating and flexing and being hotter than sin, I’m taking the edge off.

  It also helps to know that I’m safe here. To know that Elijah has cameras pointing at the door—the only entrance to his home—so I can give in to my shame without an audience.

  It gives me a sense of comfort I haven’t felt in a while. I’m all alone and not panicking. Can enjoy this one miniscule indulgence.

  Because I know that he’s always close by and will reach me within minutes if the worst happens.

  Because I trust him.

  Which is crazy since I barely know him. And it also doesn’t make it any less true.

  It’s scary and maybe idiotic, and yet I do.

  My heart knows it can trust him.

  Which also creates another dilemma...

  Every cell in my body is thrumming with need. To come with a cry of his name on my lips.

  This is so wrong. I should stop.

  I know I’m pushing my luck, and getting caught is not an option.

  There would be no going back. How do I explain this?

  And yet, I don’t stop.

  My hand spreads the suds across my chest and down, over my sensitive skin that breaks out in goose bumps at the slightest touch. I shiver and bite my lip to fight back a moan while praying to God above that he gives me the will to stop.

  Because while I’ve never physically been with a man, I do have needs. The desire to give in and find relief, to satisfy the urge that this man—Detective Ford—creates.

  Days on end of lust have made me weak.

  I also don’t have the help of a vibrator to help me. Just a tiny swipe of a pulsing toy would send me over the edge, a beautiful fall into an abyss I so desperately need.

  “Elijah…” It leaves me on a whimper as I reach my mound and then lower, right over my trembling bundle of nerves and then to my lips. They’re soft and wet, slippery as I slip a finger between them while the heel of my palm presses against my clit. It feels good. Like a small pulse of pleasure rushing down my spine and then spreading throughout my limbs.

  Yet my ache intensifies.

  Grows with each touch.

  Need more.

  Pressing against my entrance, I push my index finger inside until the second knuckle and stop, savoring the way my body reacts. How tight I clamp down, and I can’t help but imagine it’s him. His cock, not my finger.

  How thick he would be.

  How his fingers would hold me—position me to his liking.

  How I would let him.

  My hips gyrate once, and then again. I want it deeper. To feel just a bit of the burn—how I will stretch around him—and I add a second finger.

  At once I tremble.

  I’m so close.

  The heel of my palm adds pressure on each slow pump of my fingers, and I can just feel my orgasm fast approaching when the door to the house slams closed.

  “No,” I cry out, fighting a different set of emotions creeping in. Panic.

  In the blink of an eye, I go from needing to come, to rushing out.

  The bathroom smells of his soap, and my body is thrumming with a hunger I don’t know if I can control around him. I need to get inside my room before I get caught or jump his bones.

  Within seconds of the door closing, I have the water off and a towel around my body, clutching my change of clothing in my hand. There’s no time for that. I need to get back inside the safety of my room.

  One foot in front of the other, I open the door and rush out without thinking, not seeing what is in front of me, and I slam into a wall of muscle.

  A wall with strong hands that grab onto my hips to steady me. Whose fingers dig in, pulling a tiny whimper from me as I clutch my towel to keep it in place. This wall smells like my kind of heaven and yet beckons me to become a sinner as our eyes meet.

  Heavy lidded, his brown eyes smolder and my breathing hitches. He licks his lips, and I bite the inside of my cheek while taking a step back. And then another.

  Every processor in my body is blaring red and telling me to abort. To run.

  To remember why we can’t be.

  “Ava,” Elijah says low, the timbre of his voice flowing over my skin like a caress, his large hands clenching at his sides. “Are you—”

  “Bye!” I yell out then, interrupting him. He’s looking at me, and my body can’t handle his nearness. Without a backward glance, I leave him just outside of the bathroom and rush into my room.

  I don’t stop until I’m inside, door closed and cursing my own stupidity. He’s a temptation I can’t avoid, and it could end in disaster for us.

  We can’t.

  Even if I want him.

  Maybe I should ask for a different—

  I stop that train of thought in its tracks. Feels wrong.

  Because no matter how much I should, I won’t. There’s only him.

  I want Elijah near me even if it’s just within the same building. Same home. Protecting me.

  “How the hell do I make these desires go away?”

  Truth is that the answer might just be scarier than the question.

  Chapter 6

  Elijah

  “Fuck,” I hiss low, rubbing my eyes. A mixture of anger and exhaustion consumes me, and a headache is forming at the back of my skull, making it harder to concentrate. It’s pounding and all I want to do is rest, but I can’t.

  Rest; something now foreign to me. I haven’t had a single good night’s sleep since Ava arrived. Each encounter brands me. She holds a power over my being no one else has before.

  The sight of her in that towel all those days ago almost annihilated my resolve. Because job be damned; I want her.

  Badly. Insanely.

  Get it together, Ford. You have a job to do.

  Right. My job. The one I seem to not give three fucks about lately when I’m near her.

  Focusing back on the laptop in front of me, my eyes feel the strain—everything on the screen becoming a bit blurry as I read through the latest information Perez sent me early this morning. The electronic file contains information that very few know, and if the media got wind of its severity, we’d have a panic on our hands.

  The sudden mass of bullshit calls and sightings everywhere will pull us away from what can be an actual capture. I’ve seen it before; prank calls and false information flood our offices, and manpower becomes thin as we work to confirm each one.

  Scanning the picture in front of me, I take in the placement of certain things inside the shot. How his style of operating is twisting a bit. Becoming more than a bit careless.

  As of last night, we have another body; the second since she’s been in my care and exactly fourteen days apart.

  Another girl that looks so much like Ava it fucks with my head. My vow to capture this son of a bitch myself wavers as the urge to grab her and disappear forms around the edge of my subconscious.

  Not that I would, but the thought is tempting. We can’t allow him the chance at another victim.

&nbs
p; At adding another state to the already thick case: Texas, California, New Mexico, and now Arizona.

  Twelve bodies. Twelve cases to sift through as I wait for the inevitable.

  My mind won’t shut down as I look through each crime scene photo, breaking down the similarities and jotting down the new habits.

  His kills are becoming sloppy. Desperate.

  He wants our attention. Her fear.

  Clicking the mouse, I shift to the next set and come to a stop.

  You can’t keep her from me.

  Ava is MINE.

  “I’ll kill him before he lays a single finger on her head,” I hiss out, making a note of the two drops of blood on the bottom right of the note. It’s small, but we need to know whose DNA it holds. At this point, I have to expect the worse.

  Was this girl his only victim that night? Where is she from?

  Closing the pictures, I open a PDF with vital information on the victim. I scan the document, looking for a picture copy of her ID and stop short when I do.

  From: Smyer, Texas (Approximately 25 minutes from Lubbock)

  Sarah was last seen with her best friend, Karla Alvarez, walking toward the parking lot of a popular college bar in Lubbock. Both attend the university there and were out with friends celebrating a birthday. Neither made it to their car and security footage is blurry at best; yet, we have the description of a pickup truck that left minutes after the girls are seen stumbling out.

  I’m quick to pull up a missing person search for the area from a week ago until the present, and it doesn’t take long to find her. Everything here matches the information given to me in the email—going back and forth between the two, I cross examine the information and realize that no one has connected this dot.

  Their focus is on the deceased and not on the best friend. It’s also not on the fact that they were kidnapped in Texas and her body found in Arizona.

  But where’s Karla? Do we have a second body somewhere?

  Christ. Rubbing my temples, I go back to reading and at the same time collecting info for Perez to disburse to those on the case. Thirty minutes in and I have pictures, social media accounts for both, and the names of a few friends in attendance that night.