by Kate Morris
“This?” he asked and crossed his arms over his chest while he chewed on his thumbnail. “This is what you run around in for pajamas?”
“I don’t run. Normally, I’m sleeping.” Avery attempted a joke but suddenly felt naked and pulled her sweater on. “Better?”
He snorted and smirked. “Yeah, that totally did it.”
“Wh-who were you talking to?” she asked to steer him in another direction.
“Spencer. He said the cops finally came. He took them out in the woods with one of Renee’s dad’s guns. They didn’t say shit about that, either. That’s not normal. Cops don’t usually like people carrying guns around them.”
“They don’t?”
He shook his head. “No, but he said they were cool with it. He showed him the dead bodies.”
“Oh, dear. Do we need to go to the police station now?”
“No,” he said and walked closer to her. “And he thought something else was weird other than the fact that nobody took a statement. He said the first thing they did was go over to that…person and open their dead eyelids to look at its eyes.”
“Not take his pulse?”
This time there was a great deal of condescension in his head shake. “No, and it reminded me of something I remembered.”
“What’s that?” she asked, stepping closer as he hung his head. Tristan seemed weary.
“Remember the night in the bar?” Avery nodded. “They did the same thing.”
“What do you mean?”
“No questioning witnesses. No statements. No hauling me off to jail for the weekend. And the first thing they did was open that guy’s eyes and looked at them.”
“I don’t remember that,” she said.
“No, but you were pretty shaken up.”
She nodded, recalling the fear and adrenaline coursing through her. Avery pressed the flat of her hand against her chest above the cami and rubbed back and forth a few times with discomfort. Fear of things was her specialty, but that night came back on her sometimes. It was probably nothing compared to what Tristan just went through tonight killing that man.
“That guy’s eyes in the bar were bloodshot. The kid at the oil refinery told me that the man who attacked those others had bloodshot eyes. Tonight, his eyes were bloodshot, too. Not normal, not like you were swimming in a pool with too much chlorine. These are seriously bad, almost like they might actually start bleeding or something. I think it’s one of the signs of the second strain of the flu.”
“Oh,” she whispered. “You still think this is all from a flu virus?”
He nodded solemnly. “What are you doing tomorrow?”
Avery shrugged nervously. “I’m just staying here watching the kids. First, I’ll drive them to church…”
“No,” he shook his head. “Skip church. That could be where your brother and sisters got the sickness from. Don’t go. Too damn many people. Stay home.”
“But I watch the toddlers on Sunday during service.”
“Do you get paid?”
She frowned, “No, of course not.”
“Then they’ll find someone else.”
Avery didn’t argue further. One, because it didn’t seem like she’d change his mind if she did. And two, because maybe he was right about the flu her three siblings were in the hospital for. Maybe they did get sick there.
“Just go to bed. Get a good night’s sleep,” he said, walking over to stand within a foot from her. Tristan reached out and took just the edge of her soft sweater near her navel between his fingers as if anything more would be too much. Then he dropped his hand away, and his stare became more intense as he considered what he was about to say. “We’ve got a lot of research to do tomorrow.”
Avery nodded jerkily and left.
She didn’t immediately fall asleep as he’d instructed. She texted Abraham, who said the Emergency Room was a madhouse, but that their mother was able to get a few of her doctor friends to pull some strings and get the three children admitted to the pediatrics ward where they were all three sharing one room. That seemed unheard of, at least in America. But he said the waiting rooms were crammed with sick people. She warned him about wearing a mask, and he promised her they were. Then she told him she loved him, and he said the same. She said to kiss their mother for her. He said he would.
Avery said a lot of prayers that night, mostly all involving and revolving around her family. She did sneak in one for Tristan, too. She didn’t want him feeling guilty for what he had to do tonight to protect everyone. She was just glad that he was a man of action.
Chapter Seventeen
Tristan tossed and turned on the sofa, rose to check the house periodically, and walked the grounds outside. He almost fell into their pool, which had a stiff cover over it, thankfully. Occasionally, he heard what sounded like a fox or a coyote, definitely owls and crickets. What he didn’t hear was that one sound in particular that he was trying to listen for, and for that, he was grateful.
After a few hours, he went out again and up to Avery’s apartment to make sure nobody was messing around up there, either. It was empty. He checked each room. Then he brewed another coffee to help him stay awake and sat on the arm of the sofa that was the same color leather as her parents’ sofas. From this position, he could see a good portion of the property. The house, a lot of the yard spaces, the driveway, or part of it, and some of the woods. He could even see past their house, behind it which led into an open pasture, probably fifty acres or so.
He rose and opened a window, pushing it all the way up. It was a nice night, probably hovering near sixty. It was supposed to be hot tomorrow, maybe the last of their Indian summer. This was a good position, though, her living room. He could hear if someone came down the lane, see most of the property, and detect movement in the woods.
Tristan remained there for over an hour before closing the window again and setting his mug in the sink. He checked the rooms again, paused in her bedroom to look at family photos on her dresser. She was always laughing shyly or smiling demurely in every single one. At his house, she’d asked about his own family photos. He had two. One with his parents, which was awful. His mother had angered his drunk father the night before, and he’d hit her. To compensate, she’d applied heavy makeup to cover her black eye. It was still visible. The other one was of him and a foster family, the last one, who was nice. Some of the ones before them sucked as much as his own parents. Neither photo was he smiling like Avery Andersson in hers. Her pure, innocent joy for life radiated from her eyes. Her childhood was so unlike his in every conceivable way.
Another photo caught his attention. It was Avery for sure probably around the age of twelve or so, with two of her equally fair-haired siblings, and two other boys, who were clearly not brothers. They were both tall, gangly, and had much darker hair. She’d labeled them as Alex and Elijah. They were in a barn with their arms all looped around each other’s shoulders as if they were buddies. She had her head leaning on “Alex’s” shoulder, though. Tristan didn’t like the kid already.
“What the hell?” he asked himself angrily and slammed the picture frame back down on the dresser.
He left the room and checked her bathroom, which he used and washed his hands. His eyes trailed over her belongings in the bathroom from her electric toothbrush, to a hairbrush, and glass containers holding cotton balls and cotton swabs. She was neat and orderly. Except for the discarded clothing on the bathroom floor. A hanging garment on the back of the linen closet door caught his attention. Not because it was anything special but because there was a note stuck to it with her calligraphy style writing.
Dry clean as soon as possible—Mark touched this
It took him a second to figure it out. But when it clicked, Tristan wanted to punch something. The asshole from the hospital. She was grossed out and wanted her skirt dry-cleaned because that prick at the hospital had touched her ass in this blue pencil skirt, which wasn’t a micro-mini like some chicks wore. It was more conservative, looke
d expensive, probably came to just above her knees. Mark better not have done more than just grab her ass. Tristan was already planning a visit to the hospital to have a little chat with Mark Crane. She’d slipped and told him the man’s last name. Now he had a first, so he shouldn’t be too hard to find.
Tristan turned and almost stepped on more clothing. It was her bra, a gray and lacy thing with more than just the two shoulder straps. There were other strings that must’ve crossed her breasts, too. Matching lace panties were discarded on the floor next to it. It was certainly a sexy little number, not something he would’ve thought she’d wear. He cleared his throat and looked away. Then he caught sight of more. In the shower hung a black bra, silky and lacy. He exited the bathroom and went back into the bedroom. On the floor, another bra greeted him. This one he’d missed earlier. It was pale peach with little embroidered purple flowers on it and also made of all lace. On her bed were piles of sorted laundry she probably was going to put away tonight. Most of it was shirts and khaki slacks and more damned cardigans. But one pile was her underthings. Bras and panties and nighties in various shades and materials. Nothing vanilla. Nothing plain. A lot of it skimpy, lace, satin, silk, and delicious like she was dressing for a man who would be seeing it all. Outwardly, she dressed like she belonged on a brochure for hiking trails, but Avery Andersson, good girl, had a lot of naughty fucking lingerie hiding under those drab garments. And he wanted to see her in it. Good Lord.
He shut off the lights and left her apartment. That line of thought was out of the question. Adjusting himself in his pants, he hurried down the hill to the house and locked the door again. After doing another quick search of the house, he laid on the leather sofa with only his knife for protecting the whole family. It didn’t feel like much, but at least he had that.
Forcing his eyes closed, the only images he could see were those of Avery standing in front of him in that black silky short set for sleeping, her long tan legs glowing in the dim lighting. He groaned and mentally berated himself. His eyes popped open. Pinching the bridge of his nose to clear his head, he closed his eyes again. It seemed to work. The images were gone. Unfortunately, he then started imagining Avery Andersson in those lace delicates hanging in her shower and on the floor of her bathroom. It was a long night. It was about to get longer.
No sooner did he close his eyes, was his nose waking him to some pretty wonderful smells. And sounds.
“Shh,” someone whispered. “Don’t wake Sergeant Driscoll.”
It was Avery. He could tell her voice. It was a little husky but small. Tristan threw an arm over his forehead and just laid there, slowly waking to the sounds of her house.
“Scheisse, Ephraim! Get your fudging bird outta’ here!” a girl yelled.
“Miss Kaia, do not swear. Not even in German, young lady,” Avery scolded, making Tristan smile. She sure did step right into the role of mother. “Ephraim, please take Mr. Gray to the atrium. We don’t want him to start carrying on and wake Sergeant Driscoll. And you all better be on good behavior today, too. He’s our guest.”
“Why’s he here, Avery?” a little one asked.
“Well, he’s here to help us until Daddy comes home, okay? Have good manners. Be a good boy, okay?”
“Sure. I think his tattoos are cool,” the little guy remarked, making Tristan smile again.
“No, they are most certainly not, young man. God didn’t put you on this earth to mark your body like that. Now, go brush your teeth and get dressed for the day.”
Tristan heard a bird squawk loudly, then the pitter patter of tiny bare feet hitting the hardwood floors at a fast pace. He figured they didn’t sleep in late too often in this house. Maybe that’s why Avery wanted to move out. She just hadn’t gotten far.
He rose, stretched, and staggered into the kitchen. The whole house was filled with the smell of bacon. His stomach responded accordingly. Other parts of him responded to seeing Avery first thing.
“Oh, good morning!” Avery said all chipper and lightness and smiling. A little blonde boy was clinging to her leg and staring at him with caution in his big blue eyes. “This is Finnegan. Finn, this is Sergeant Driscoll.”
“Just Tristan,” he corrected.
“Hello, sir,” the tiny dude said. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
That surprised Tristan. He sure was formal for being so obviously scared of him. He also spoke clearly and with good diction for being a tiny tyke.
“Yeah, you too.”
She smiled brightly and asked, “Coffee?”
“Yeah, sure. Sounds good,” he said as she slid his mug across the counter to him.
“Pancakes will be ready soon,” she told him. “You’re welcome to use the guest suite to freshen up. I laid a fresh shirt back there for you on the bench in the bathroom if you’d like.”
“Um…thanks,” he said, taking his coffee and leaving down the hall. The guest bed was unmade and rumpled where she’d slept on the left side. He always slept on the right. Tristan fought down the urge to press his hand to the pillow where she’d laid her head. In the bathroom, he had to fight down an even stronger urge to pick up her discarded black, silky nightclothes and run the soft material through his fingers.
Tristan stared at himself in the mirror, glared at himself was more accurate, as he rested his hands on either side of the sink and leaned his weight into them.
“What the fuck are you doing here, man?” he asked his reflection and got a deeper scowl. Right. Protecting a woman who couldn’t seem to stop ending up in positions where her life was in peril.
Then he looked down and discovered a collection of items on the counter. A razor, sample sizes of toothbrush and toothpaste, shaving cream, men’s deodorant, hotel-sized bottles of shampoo and soap. He chuffed. She’d thought of everything. Almost. She hadn’t thought of throwing him out, hadn’t even considered that yet. She should. He wasn’t the sort of person who should be around a girl like her, a family like hers, a body like hers.
He used the products, cleaned up, shaved his beard down to stubble, and brushed his teeth. There was even a tiny travel-sized bottle of mouthwash. Then he turned to look for the clean t-shirt. He picked it up.
“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” he said, holding out the baby blue long-sleeved polo shirt with the tags still on it.
Beggars couldn’t be choosers or something like that, so he pulled it on and immediately felt like a loser. It was a little snug. Shoving the sleeves up to his elbows, he strode back to the kitchen, the scent propelling him along.
“Need some help?” he offered in the kitchen. Avery slid past him with a heaping plate of bacon and sausage links. “Grab the eggs?”
He turned where she was pointing with her spatula behind him and found a platter full of scrambled eggs. “Got it.”
Following her to the table, he was surprised at how many kids were there seated already. Another tray full of pancakes was on the table, and a girl brought a pitcher of orange juice to the table last. Avery told him to sit at the head of the table in a chair, the kids sat on the benches on either side of the long table, and Avery took the other captain’s chair at the other end. She bowed her head, they followed suit, and she said a quick prayer for God to watch over her family, especially the sick ones, and her father, and to bring him home safely. Then she made sure to thank Him for the food and for the blessings in each of their lives. And then she thanked Him for Tristan and for all his help. That made him squirm in his seat. He sure as hell wasn’t a blessing, not to anyone.
Then it got a lot louder. Kids all talked at once, food trays were passed, juice and milk were poured.
“Hi, I’m Kaia,” said the girl beside him with long, messy dark blonde hair. She poked her hand in his space, and he shook it and nodded. Then she thumbed to her left. “This is Ephraim.”
“Hello, sir,” Ephraim greeted with the same good manners.
“You’ve already met Finn,” Avery said, indicating the little guy beside he
r. “Finn, eat your eggs.”
“I don’t like eggs,” he complained.
“Doesn’t matter. Eat them anyway. They’re good for you,” she said.
“When is Mommy coming home?” Finn asked, which cause Avery’s nervous pale eyes to jump to Tristan’s.
“Soon, okay? She’s with Cyrus and the girls.”
“Where’s Abraham? I want Abraham,” Finn whined slightly.
“He’ll be home soon, too,” she explained gently, careful of his feelings. “He’s with Mommy.”
“Where’s Dad, Avery?” Ephraim asked.
Tristan figured the kid was around fourteen or fifteen. He was tall, nearly as tall as him if he were to guess. The boy last night, Abraham, seemed like he was probably sixteen or seventeen. But Kaia actually looked that old, too. Maybe they were twins. He remembered Dr. Andersson telling him that she had six children of her own and two who were fostered and adopted, but he didn’t know any of them.
“He’s in Bulgaria. I expect him to call soon. I left him a message last night to call as soon as possible. Don’t worry, he’ll call.”
“Can we swim today?” Kaia asked.
“Maybe,” she said. “We’ll see if it gets warm enough. You’ll have to turn on the heat to it. First, I want everyone to do their chores just like if Mom were here. We don’t want her to come home to a messy house. Bring me your laundry, and I’ll get some done today. But Tristan and I have some work to do, okay? So, I expect you guys to be well-behaved and look after Finn, too.”
They nodded and agreed.
“Hey, since Sergeant Driscoll is here, could we play airsoft later?” Finn asked.
“Um…” Avery stammered and shook her head as if she were embarrassed.
“Aww, man!” Ephraim complained. “Do you want to, sir? It’s really fun.”
“Airsoft, huh? I’m in if Avery’s in,” he taunted, getting a surprised look from her. “We need to do some work together first.”
“Cool!” Ephraim shouted and tucked his arm close and pumped his fist as if he won a prize.
They finished breakfast, and he helped carry plates and cups to the kitchen where the kids automatically began cleaning up. It was like a well-run Army battalion. Even the little dude started scraping dishes. There was a step stool near the one sink, probably just for him.