Love Bound

by Rebecca Ryan

  "This isn't funny," I say.

  "Listen, it’s done." He cocks his arm behind his head. "Devon's coming over tomorrow morning."

  "I don’t need my sister protecting me."

  "Miller will be in Boston by then. He's on the boat. And even if he stayed put here, he won’t try anything with two people. He sets up each murder to look like accidents."

  "What do you mean each?"

  Finn looks at the ground. "Nic is convinced Miller's involved in at least six other murders. All of them are documented as 'accidental' deaths."

  I shiver.

  ***

  That night, he doesn't go back to The Inn. He roasts a chicken and makes garlic mashed potatoes with heavy cream, a huge pile of green beans, and molasses cookies for dessert. It turns out I can go from "not hungry" to "ravenous" in ten minutes. He even trots to the store to get a can of cranberry sauce.

  I take two Naproxen just for aches and pains, and Finn feeds Salty. He's watched me level out the grain so many times now that he knows what he's doing.

  When we lie together, he spoons me. His tall, muscular body curving against mine. His chest to my back. His stomach to my buttocks. His legs wrapped around mine. Twice, I feel the beginning of an erection and twice, he pulls away from me for a while before settling back.

  I am drunk with sleep and in love with this man who kisses my sore mouth so tenderly, he steals my breath.

  With his arms around me I fall into a deep sleep, exhausted, the spiraling thought of a small worry finding its way back into my dreams.

  Chapter Twenty

  Finn

  "I don’t see how this is a good idea." Bryce sits in his black Corolla, one hand tapping his knee to some incoherent music in his head.

  "I just want him to see me. I want him to know I'm on to him," I say.

  "You sure you aren’t carrying?"

  "No."

  "No, you aren’t sure, or no, you're sure?"

  "No, I don't carry anymore. Period," I state.

  "I find that hard to believe."

  So do I. I stopped carrying the day I thought about putting a handgun to my head.

  I had decided not to tell Nic or Bryce about the harassment order. There was no need to fuel their hesitation about me staking out Steven Miller's shitty apartment.

  "Hey, I'm so sorry about Claire. Is she doing okay?" This is a stretch for Bryce. Talking about girlfriends and inquiring about feelings does not come easy for him.

  "She's fine," I say. I don't want to tell him about the fight we had when I'd left. How angry she'd been with me. Her fury when she saw me packing clothes this morning, and how her back had stiffened when I bent to kiss her goodbye.

  She'd sent Devon home in retaliation, though she agreed to go to Laurel and Devon's for dinner tonight.

  I spoke with Devon on my way out of town to be sure she checked on her sister. Cory gave me a paper airplane. I tousled his hair and Laurel looked surprised. Two hours later I got a text from Claire.

  Cory doesn’t let anyone mess with his hair. It’s taken years for Laurel just to get a brush through those curls and haircuts are a nightmare. So I can’t be that mad at you. Love you, always.

  "Target," Bryce says quietly.

  There, walking up the street, with a duffel bag in one hand, is the man who nearly killed Claire. And, as Nic suggested, is the asshole who is playing me.

  He's striking looking, with sandy hair, his eyes oddly naïve and gullible. People say he has a sweet face, handsome. I can't see it anymore. To most people, he looks like your average guy—not a monster.

  Bryce glances at me. "So, are we doing this?"

  I answer his question by opening the car door.

  We come up behind Miller fast, and just as he gets his key in the lock, he turns around to face us, eyes wide, a mix of faux fear and arrogance driving a smile to his face. "You assholes really want to kick me around?"

  "I'm on to you, Miller. Come close again, and I'll—"

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "You need to stay away from Claire Russo," Bryce says in a more professional tone.

  "Who? Who is Claire Russo?" Miller asks.

  Just hearing him say her name makes me want to throw up.

  "I don’t know no Claire Russo," Miller says.

  "If you come around here again—" I start to say.

  "What? Why would I want to do anything to her? She didn't kill my brother. I guess she must be your girl? Yeah, she is. I can tell. And her sisters are hot too," Miller spits out.

  I want to fucking kill him.

  Bryce is tense, waiting for any cause to leap and hold me back. But I'm not stupid.

  "My brother's been dead for three years and I miss him like hell. If you hadn't put him in prison, he'd still be here. But I don't hate you, man. It's just that every time I look in the mirror, I see him." His smile uncoils into a line. "It's a twin thing. We're still connected. We're Michigan boys." Suddenly his voice drops. "We weren't even supposed to be in Boston. And then he gets knifed a week before release. Seven days, asshole."

  Bryce's voice is matter-of-fact, like he's reading the conditions on a contract, when he says, "If you are caught outside the state and off the boat you will be in noncompliance with your parole and you will continue to serve time." Bryce's rattling off the rules makes Miller’s smile return.

  The guy winks at me, just like in the courtroom. "Well, I'm just doin' my job. I'm a cook now on that fancy boat. Maybe one day I'll own a boat like that." Turning the lock and pushing the door open a little, he pauses and then adds, "Girlfriend already? Is two years enough time? Seems kinda early don't it, to be fucking some other bitch?"

  I feel Bryce's arm in front of me, blocking my lunge before I realize I've even moved. Grabbing the back of my shirt, Bryce pulls me off, but it’s enough time to derail my attempt. I feel played, set up, but I can’t stop myself. Miller's taken everything from me and he's going to try to do it again.

  Again.

  "You saw this," Miller says to Bryce, jumping inside his shitty apartment and holding out a cell phone. "I'm recording this. I'm scared for my life, Mr. Tucker. I think Mr. Colton has a vendetta against me." Lowering his voice, Miller continues, "That's why I had a harassment order signed by a judge." He nods at me. "By a judge. You know, Judge Oliver."

  Bryce pushes me toward the direction of the car, and I've come enough to my senses to keep walking straight to it. I can hear Bryce saying something else to the asshole before the door slams and a dog next door starts barking.

  Within seconds, Bryce is back behind the wheel and we’re peeling out of the alley. Blood pounds in my ears but not hard enough to drown out his questions.

  "Wasn't that the judge at the trial? And what the fuck is this about a restraining order?" Bryce asks.

  ***

  Colton Security Systems is housed in one of the most iconic buildings in Boston. The John Hancock building stands sixty stories high and takes on whatever color the sky is, in shimmering walls of glass. According to Nic, we now occupy an entire floor, having to ever expand the cybersecurity division.

  When I left the company two years ago, there were still two smaller office suites on the west side of the building: a brokerage firm and an educational resource company. But now Colton Security has swallowed those suites as well. We have a designated helicopter pad on the roof. And a sweet H155, the fastest non-military unit, sits there. Her name is Swifty.

  Cybersecurity is overseen by Rosa Gonzalez, a thirty-three-year-old whiz who is people savvy and knows how to listen to her elders. She supervises a fleet of nearly two dozen, mostly men, and all are older than she is. But she’s smart enough to know they've seen things she hasn't, so while she has the calculating tech brain advantage, they offer rich histories, and she knows how to leverage that kind of information. She's also married with two kids, and her husband works from home as a consultant for the copper industry.

  Since I left, I only know the handful of the
people in that division who were there before. There's another entire wing devoted to airport security. Though it’s small compared to large multinational companies like Allied that compete with us, we target municipal airports, that still need security on the tarmac and when loading and unloading luggage, supplies, and shipping containers.

  Our workforce is split right down the middle, and men and women work together as a team. No titles on doors, no hierarchy except when it comes to accountability. Nic and I had decided early on we wanted to run a small, efficient company and not implode because we got too fat and too sloppy. My area of supposed expertise was personal security for homes, personal property, and companies.

  The truth is, as it turns out, none of it mattered.

  Walking by my old office, I'm surprised to see my name on the door as if I had just stepped out. Nic's is the next one around the corner. I gave him the corner office. Jackson always called it Office Squared because of the two sweeping panes of glass that meet at ninety degrees, affording a fantastic view of Boston and the harbor. At the time, I thought he needed it. Now, it all just makes sense. It's his company to run now, his vision. Office Squared suits a CEO.

  Nic stands in front of the glass, his back to me as I enter. From behind, his back cuts a trimmed "V" and he looks more like he's headed out to a piazza for lunch in Italy with a film producer than dressing down his former business partner. Speaking over his shoulder, he drops his voice. "We made a decision, years ago not to be rash. Do you remember that?"

  "I'm not going to jeopardize—"

  "You already have."

  "Listen, you don’t know—"

  Nic spins around and confronts me, his face, furious. "Oh, that's right. I don’t know. I don’t know what it feels like to lose a wife and child." That stings, but he raises an arm. "Or see a murderer get away with it. Or see my girlfriend attacked."

  "Miller is—"

  "Shut the fuck up, Finn." Nic is breathing hard and I've never heard him swear. Ever. It used to be a joke at the office. How many shoes does Nic have on? Fucking goodie two-shoes. It's not a great joke.

  "I am not an idiot. There's a restraining order against you, filed by Miller, and the day you get it you decide to go pay him a visit. That is rash. I'd say that's fucking rash."

  "I spoke with the cop who delivered it. He agreed to date delivery for this evening."

  "So now you've implicated some rookie and pushed him into lying on your behalf? What if this goes to court? You want him to perjure himself?"

  A flicker of anger flares. "I'd never ask anyone to do that."

  "We're supposed to work with enforcement. With. It’s part of our mission statement, remember? The one we wrote seven years ago at three in the morning?" His arm drops to his side and he stares at me.

  "I don’t have to justify what I did. I just wanted that asshole to see me. To have him know I'm on to him. You know me, Nic."

  "Do I?"

  We’ve never had an argument like this. A personal argument. And he’s about to make it really personal, I can tell.

  His voice cuts like a knife. "In the last two years, I've watched you use grief like an addict."

  "Fuck you."

  "Pushing everyone who cares about you away, using it as an excuse to be an asshole. Your friends are dumping you."

  "So? Fuck. You."

  "Fine. I'm okay with that."

  I suck in some air. "We're done."

  "No, you don't get to do that. You are not getting rid of me. You can get mad all you want, but I'm not budging. You stay away from him. Stay away from Miller. Let us deal with this."

  I nearly see red. Only twice before have I seen red. "People here can’t handle it. They can’t handle that he got away with it. That he murdered Allison and Kenny."

  "Justice is hard, I get it. And it’s hard to swallow. But what they can’t handle is you, man. You're the problem." His voice catches on all the things he's been wanting to tell me. "You cannot keep tearing yourself apart, blaming yourself, and fucking up like this. Going to his place? Jesus! Bad move."

  "It's not your business. Just leave it," I say.

  Nic stares me down. "It is my business," he says quietly. Pausing, he adds, "He will slip up."

  "Will he? Really? Well, let me know when, because you two did a fine job trailing him. It's how Claire nearly got run off the road. No one was paying attention. Nobody gives a fuck." My heart is pounding now and there's a hot burn in the back of my throat. I know what I just said isn’t true. I know Nic would take a bullet for me, and for Claire.

  The silence goes on just long enough for the burning to rise to my eyes. All Nic says is, "Still here, man. Not going away."

  The first sob sounds alien, as if someone else is gulping air. By the time he hugs me, my gut is twisted into knots and I am crying hard for the first time, for Allison and Kenny. I’m crying for all that was lost, what might have been, and then seamlessly, the wave of grief turns for Claire. For her pain, her suffering, her fear, and I realize I love her so profoundly and with so much force, it nearly knocks the breath out of me.

  It's then Nic first puts a hand on my shoulder and then pulls me into an embrace, and holds me as I weep.

  ***

  Bryce and I return to Echo Bay the next day, after some strategizing with Nic. Planning takes work and time and what actually unfolds is almost never what you can anticipate. Nic filed some legal paperwork on behalf of the firm, and I wrote up a supporting document. I called Claire several times and followed up with texts that evening.

  Nic and I spent the early morning talking about next steps. The only indication of my break down yesterday were the furtive looks I caught, as he kept assessing my mental state. Identification, containment, and control were the goals we faced, and though Bryce and Jackson offered some ideas, Steven Miller was someone for whom a box would never fit. He was so outside it, if we weren't careful, we'd never see him coming. Mid-morning, Nic got a phone call from the magistrate's office and Bryce and I left a little after six, following another quick phone call to Claire.

  I've got a guest room now for Nic or Bryce or Jackson, whoever’s up on the weekends to help. So now, Bryce takes advantage of the room at The Inn.

  We roll in around eight after grabbing dinner on the road. He waves me off to the clinic and tells me he's working out and going to bed.

  The little rectangular lights above the clinic welcome me home. The side door is bolted shut.

  Good girl.

  After slipping the key in the lock, I bound up the stairs two at a time, ready to take her into my arms.

  But Claire is asleep on the sofa, stretched out—a pillow under her head, a blanket over her shoulders, the fire blue hot in the stove. I sit down on the floor to study her face, trying to memorize every line, every freckle, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She looks a lot better, and most of the swelling is gone. It's so damn hot in the room her skin looks dewy.

  She stirs, her eyelids fluttering open. She smiles and reaches to touch my face.

  Careful not to press on her upper lip, I barely touch hers with mine, but they are still hot, and perspiration makes little curls tighten along her forehead and behind her neck.

  "Let's get you to bed," I say, but she shakes her head and takes my hand, sliding it under the blanket and then under her T-shirt.

  I kneel next to her. Her skin is hot, sticky, and her stomach quivers as she leaves my hand on her taut belly. I feel the top of her satin underwear and nothing else. Sliding my hand down under her panties, I touch the lips of her sex and she moans softly, her hips tilt forward, inviting more.

  Instead, I begin sliding my hand up her stomach, to her sternum, and then gently to one breast. Then the other, and I feel her nipples tighten into hard buds. I roll one between my fingers, gently. Her back arches in response, a sigh escaping between those pink lips I just kissed. Dipping my head into her neck, I kiss her there and her smell—all vanilla and almonds, soap and sea—is intoxicating.

&nb
sp; After I slide my left arm under her back, I lift her chest slightly, her nipples hard under her T-shirt. With my other hand, I dive deep under those panties.

  She struggles, weak and groggy with sleep, her head thrown back and all I want is to make her come and come again and again. To make her enjoy something she can't control in the moment.

  Herself.

  "I love you, Claire," comes deep from my chest and she opens heavy-lidded eyes to meet mine. Her body is so warm and her sex, so wet. I slide two fingers into her and feel her velvety smoothness quiver and grip.

  Her moan is louder, stronger, and I cover her mouth with mine while working my fingers up to her soft spot, that small place behind the pelvis. She comes fast, hard, moving against me, and I hold her with my other arm, watching her face in ecstasy.

  She is luminous.

  Shuddering, she lies still, breathing hard, her eyes closed. Then she turns to me again, to taste me. She lies like this in a stupor for a while and then twists and tries to reach for me again.

  "Not yet," I say, rolling her onto her back again. My thumb presses down against her clit, beginning a slow delicious turn.

  She flinches and cries out, "Finn!" Then she arches her back, sucks in air like she's drowning.

  I hold on to her, one arm bent around her in an embrace, the other massaging her to a second orgasm. Stirring, half asleep, half drugged with love, she's powerless to stop me.

  Trying to fling the blanket off is all she can do, and then she turns sideways, finds my face with her hands, and begins a kiss that finds a thick root in my crotch.

  By now I’m so hard I think I might break. "Can I get on top of you?" I pull a condom from my back pocket.

  She nods, peering at me from between thick eyelids.

  "Are you sure?" I ask.

  "Yes. Oh yes, Finn," she says.

  I stand, stripping off everything before I’m naked in front of her in the firelight.

  Her "Jesus, you're gorgeous. What did I do to deserve you?" comes all breathy and with the choppy, hiccupy meter of delirium. Curling her arms above her head, she grips the armrest.