by Lucy Gage
Without question, Dalton clutches me to his chest, cooing softly into my ear. “Shh. It’s okay, Lon. Shh, you’re safe, honey.”
I was seventeen when I met him. A senior in high school. He was nineteen and in his sophomore year of college. It was at a party I almost didn’t attend. I’m not sure who noticed whom first, but I was sitting in the corner, playing on my phone and wondering how soon I could go home. My mom had picked up a book for me that I’d been waiting to release and I really wanted to dive into it. When I looked up, it was directly into his eyes.
We were inseparable after that. Up until the tragedy happened. It was only a month, a half dozen or so dates, and one perfect kiss, but Dalton Lucas was my world.
And I’m pretty sure I was his. He made me feel that way.
It’s been five long years since I last laid eyes upon him, but he still has the power to make my heart race.
God, I’ve missed him. I’ve blocked it out, shoved it down so far, I didn’t know just how much, but it’s hitting me now like a freight train.
Do you ever stop caring for your first love?
“Lonna, what the hell happened? Where have you been, baby?”
I’m not sure anything has ever felt so good as him calling me baby like our time apart changed nothing between us.
But I’ve changed. And I have to explain that to him.
I’ve told this story so many times. To the detectives. To the prosecutors. Over and over. But it never gets easier.
Dalton stands, pulling me up with him. He takes the coat that’s still clutched in my fingers and wraps it around my shoulders. His hands glide to my face and he lifts my chin so I’ll meet his eyes, thumbs sweeping the dampness from my cheeks. For a moment, his touch lingers as if he doesn’t want to stop.
He reaches behind us, tugging on the doorknob. I catch a glimpse of Mara, Cole, and a little boy with dark hair and curious eyes, watching us as the door closes.
We separate while Dalton clears snow from the wooden swing and I notice how cold I am. He jerks his head, motioning for me to sit. “Talk to me. Please.”
I bite down on my lip, searching for a way to start. He settles in beside me, one side of his body pressing into mine, spreading heat along my thigh, my hip, my arm—I think I feel him everywhere.
“I looked for you.” His voice is low, calm, but the impact of his words knocks me breathless. I never called him. Not when my family died. Not when I left. I wanted to. So badly. But I never reached out. I couldn’t put him in danger like that. It was better, I think, to know he was alive and well without me, than to consider anything happening to him because we were together. It killed me, but I couldn’t take that chance. I cared about him too much to risk it. It never occurred to me that he would put himself in jeopardy, searching for me. It should have, though—what we had was short, but it was real and it was strong.
“I begged Cole to look into your case. Your parents.” His voice grows husky with emotion. “Your brother.” He shakes his head, gaze flicking over my face like he can’t believe I’m really sitting here next to him. I can’t believe it either. And I can’t stand the pain in his tone or the agony in his expression.
“He did what he could,” Dalton continues, “but it was hard for him to investigate from here. So the day after I graduated from college, I signed up for the police academy, became a cop, and started searching for you myself.”
Oh my God.
Oh my God.
Something twists inside of me. This ache full of regret and sorrow and missed opportunities fighting against hope and love and possibility. He abandoned his dreams and became a cop just so he could look for me. I’m not able to wrap my head around that. That level of devotion. And after I took off without so much as a goodbye. This man is way too good for me.
With a gentleness that makes me shiver, he brushes my hair away from my face. “And you were here, in Connecticut, right by Cole, this whole time?”
I swing my head from side to side. “No, not the whole time. Just the past seven months. I moved around a lot.”
“Why? Why didn’t you come to me? I would have protected you. Hell, Lonna, I would have left with you if that’s what you needed. I would have done anything for you.” He blows out a heavy sigh. “I still would do anything for you.”
My hope flares higher. Those possibilities trying to form solid ideas in my head. But it can’t ever happen. I know it. And he needs to understand this too. Being with me is dangerous.
“I saw it all,” I murmur, begging him to understand why I couldn’t take him with me before and why I can’t stay here now even though I want to. And I do. I want to.
“I watched the entire horrible thing. I woke up to shouts and hurried quietly to the hall. Something—some kind of intuition—told me to keep silent, to stay in the shadows. I must have made some sort of a sound though, because my dad looked right up at me. He jerked his head, just slightly, but I knew he was telling me to stop. From the landing, I observed two men usher my mom and dad into the living room, hands taped in front of them. I wanted to yell. To stop them. To go call for help. To run. But I couldn’t move. I tried. I tried so damn hard. But I was anchored there, unable to do anything but stare as these men lifted guns and… They shot them. Just like that. Like they weren’t people. Like they weren’t my parents. My dad’s last words were ‘run,’ and I knew he was talking to me.”
My chest feels tight and my next breath is difficult.
“That’s when I was finally able to move—when it was already too late. I ran back to my room as my father instructed, grabbed my phone, and slipped out my window and onto the trellis. I dialed 9-1-1 as I climbed over to Preston’s window.” I stop suddenly because I haven’t spoken his name in a while. The memory is so vivid in my head, it feels like it’s happening again, right here, right now.
“I didn’t make it to him in time. I heard the pop and saw the flicker of light as the gun went off, ending my little brother’s life. I dropped the phone and scaled the trellis all the way up to the roof, curled up by the chimney, and stayed there like a coward until the cops came.”
Dalton doesn’t speak. He waits patiently for me to go on. I’m grateful for that. That he doesn’t try to break the silence. Doesn’t try to reassure me that I did the right thing. That I’m heroic. He just—waits. Stays.
I inhale deeply and release it slowly, my breath snaking into the air before me.
“They put me in witness protection. I couldn’t come to you and I wouldn’t even I had been able. I would never let that happen to you too. They said those men came after us because my dad was trying a case that would put them in prison and I was in danger because I saw their faces. I was told they would have killed me too had I not gotten out. I fully believe that.
“And then one day, about a month later, my handlers took me out of the safe house and brought me to my dad’s old office. I was supposed to meet with the prosecutor taking over my father’s position, the one who would eventually be trying my family’s murder case. It was more difficult than I anticipated and I felt sick, so I went to the bathroom and threw up the contents of my stomach. After, I wanted to see if my escorts had anything I could wash my mouth out with. But Dalton, when I looked out the door, my guards, the men who had been in charge of protecting me, were talking to the men who murdered my family.”
He tucks his bottom lip between his teeth, his head dipping in an almost imperceptible nod. Goose bumps lift the hairs on my arms. I don’t think he fully understands what I’m saying.
“Those men were in police uniforms. Cops massacred my family. And they were right there, chatting and laughing with the guys I was counting on to keep me safe. I didn’t know what to do, so I ran, again. I closed out my bank account, bought a bus ticket, and disappeared. And I have spent every day, praying they never find me.”
“Have you ever contacted anyone? The police? Your handlers? The prosecutor?”
“No.” I stand up, p
acing the porch in front of him. “I was scared. I didn’t know how deep it went. Who, if anyone, I could trust back there.”
He takes my hand, his warm fingers curling around my cool ones. “So you don’t know?”
Everything goes still. The swing he’s still sitting on, the air around us, every muscle in my body. My gut even clenches. “Know what?”
“Lonnie, they knew it was an inside job. Your dad was working with the FBI to expose the dirty DEA. After his death, they were able to break it wide open and expose every agent involved. They’ve all been put away. All of them—for life. It’s over. It’s been over. You don’t have to run anymore.”
It took most of Christmas Eve for me to understand I was free. I didn’t want to believe I wasted so much of my life and possibly my chance with the man I loved. It took Dalton showing me all the files he had on my family’s case and then pulling up the info on their murderers, seeing they were definitely behind bars, before it finally sunk in.
Cole even sent over local officers to check on my apartment. It turns out a pipe had frozen and burst, flooding my kitchen and leaking into Mr. Stanton’s place. My elderly neighbor called the landlord, who had to make an emergency entrance to turn my water off and get a plumber in to fix the problem. I would have known this had I not thrown my phone out the car window.
Cole and Mara invited me to stay with them until the damages are repaired in my home. I don’t know how I will ever repay them for all that they’ve done for me.
Now, it’s Christmas morning and I’m sitting next to Dalton, watching Cruz rip his presents open.
“What’s this one?” Mara says, picking up a small gift with a bow bigger than the box it’s wrapped in.
“That’s Lonna’s,” Dalton says, his lips spreading into a grin.
“What?” I squeak.
He plucks the package from Mara’s hand and drops it in mine. “For you. From me.”
I don’t know what to say, because I can’t believe he got me something. He’s already given me so much. He gave me my life back. My eyes fill with tears and I fight against it, willing them not to fall and ruin the moment.
“Open it,” he insists, as if he’s more excited about giving it than I am about receiving it.
With shaky hands, I lift the lid and stare into the box, confused.
“What is it?” Mara asks, leaning closer to peek inside.
“It’s a key.” I slip it out gingerly, trying to understand the meaning behind it.
“Wow,” Cole breathes, sitting back in his chair with an amused grin scrunching his eyes.
Mara’s hands fly to her mouth and she looks ready to burst. “Holy freaking shit.” She’s nearly bouncing where she sits on the floor next to the tree. “She’s local, D. So that key will need to change, right?”
Dalton doesn’t look away from me as he answers, “Right. If she agrees. I’d actually like to exchange them.”
“If I agree to what? Exchange what?” A key could mean a million different things. We just reunited, so I am not about to assume whatsoever. But hope, well that’s a whole other sentiment.
“I don’t want to lose you again,” he says, his words so soft, meant only for my ears. “This is actually a gift for me. For us. Stay with me. Or I’ll stay with you. We’ll make this work. I know we can. Or we can at least try.” His fingers curl into mine around the key. “Stay with me.”
This might be the best Christmas I have ever had. And, “this is the best gift I’ve ever received.”
“Is that a yes?”
I nod, and he jumps from the couch, pulling me up into his embrace. I slip my arms around his neck, hugging him back. “It’s a yes. But I feel bad, you’ve given me so much and I didn’t get you anything.”
He guides me back toward the hallway, away from his on-looking family, and pulls back to meet my eyes. “If you think this isn’t one of the best presents I have ever gotten, then you’re seriously mistaken. I can only think of one thing that might be better.”
It’s his, whatever it is. I’ll make it happen. “What’s that?”
He looks upward and I follow his gaze to the mistletoe hanging directly above us. “A kiss.”
I smile, pressing my lips to his. And this kiss is just as perfect as our first.
Cheryl McIntyre is the author of the bestselling Sometimes Never series, as well as the Dirty series, Infinitely, Dark Calling, Villain, HARD, and Love Sex & Other Games. She resides in Ohio with her high school sweetheart, their two sons, one daughter, and a fur son.
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Going Down
Copyright © 2017 by Beth Michele
All rights reserved.
http://www.bethmichele.com
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Christmas Eve—New York City
I hate the holidays.
I’m sorry, did I say hate? I fucking loathe the holidays. Families sitting around the table, eating, drinking, and being merry. The mere thought of all that joy has me downing another beer. My second of the evening. And the night is young.
Too bad I’m not.
I glance around the dark, desolate bar. Oddly reminiscent of my heart. I’m not saying that to garner sympathy. It’s simply a fact. At thirty-two, and living in one of the most robust cities in the world—I’m alone. On Christmas Eve no less. It sucks. And not in the way I’d like.
The bartender, Tad, who’s now my best friend for the evening, sets another beer in front of me. He feels sorry for my plight, no doubt, and that’s fine by me. Keep ‘em coming I say with my eyes as I spare him a second look.
Actually, now that I take another glimpse, he’s not half bad. He’s blond, though, and I’m not into blonds. Nor do I go for the clean-cut type. Nope. I like a little scruff. The way it feels as it’s scraping against my balls, preferably with my cock inside a warm, hot mouth. I adjust myself on the bar stool, my dick happy with the thought. But I’m not. And even though he offers me a small smile, I don’t return it. I could fuck him, sure, if he swings that way. But he seems much more interested in the waitress on her way past.
Whatever.
Alcohol is my companion tonight. And it’s a Goddamn good one.
The creak of a door brings with it a blast of cold, icy air, and I shiver. December in New York is not fun. Layers upon layers of clothing to keep warm as I haul my ass to the subway every morning to reach my job. The only thing I love about my life right now. Because every day I’m in a different building, on a different block. The view is never the same twice. And I thrive on the energy. That’s why I’m here in Manhattan. When you get to be my age, you make your own fucking decisions. Sometimes I wish I’d made better ones. And there’s my holiday nostalgia, out in full force tonight. Auld Lang Syne and all that shit.
“You mind if I cop a squat?”
&nb
sp; I blink once. Twice. Hell, I think I even blink a third time before my gaze travels to the voice I’m pretty sure just quoted Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. And yeah, I’ve seen the movie. More than once. Okay, maybe more than five times. So what? I fucking love Richard Gere. Sue me.
“Well?”
With the dim lighting and my hazy, alcohol-induced trance, I turn on my stool. Face the culprit. Then nearly fall off my fucking seat. This guy, is…well, he’s very attractive. I want Tad over there to turn up the lights so I can get a better look. But even in the shoddy lighting of the bar I can make out blue eyes and thick, black hair. Long enough to grab on to. A shadow of dark stubble lines his jaw and makes my dick itch to come out and play. And his voice is smooth. Like a nice bourbon. Maybe this night won’t be so bad after all.
“Not much of a talker, are you?”
Oh, I have a fuckload to say. And if I could get him back to my apartment, he’d find out just how much.
“Talking is overrated.”
“Is it?” His brow lifts in the slightest movement. For the love of Christ, please tell me he’s flirting with me. Please tell me this is an early Christmas present. Or, my only Christmas present. I don’t fucking care. He grins, all teeth. The kind of expression I typically might want to wipe off someone’s face. Not what I want to do here, though. I want my tongue between those teeth. I want to suck on his full bottom lip. I want to devour his mouth. And Jesus, he has a dimple. Now I want to lick that too.
“It can be,” I counter, turning in my stool to face him. Figuring I better play nice if I want to end the night with my dick in his mouth. “But it’s Christmas Eve, so I’ll cut you some slack.”
His chuckle is low and deep, and my dick stirs. “Will you now?”
“Can you do anything else besides ask questions?” My retort comes out sharp. Edgy. I didn’t mean it to be. I don’t want to lose this one. If, and it’s a pretty big if—he likes dick. I haven’t had my cock sucked in approximately twenty-six weeks. One hundred and eighty-two days. But who’s counting? Hell, at this point I’d even take a halfway decent fuck.
