I wish I could call my dad. As chief of police, I think he would know exactly what to do; but he's not here tonight. He's far away in Southern California, seeing a little part of the world with Lucy. I smile at the thought. I'm so glad that Lucy can get him out of his sleepy town and take him to see things, to live life. Dad spent so much of it here, and I know it was to keep me safe and give me a nice place to grow up.
Now that I am grown, and mom has moved on gone, he shouldn't feel inclined to stay here. I want him to go out and do things, to be excited about life, to feel young again. Lucy does that for him, and while I was initially horrified at the idea of the two of them being together, let alone sleeping together, I can't deny that she makes him a better person. He is much happier to have her in his life.
Looking back up at Noah, I wonder how he feels about it. I imagine he was angry initially. He probably felt revolted at the idea of a man twice his daughter's age falling in love with her and promising to spend the rest of his life with her. Maybe some day, when things calm down, we can talk about this shared connection between us.
I understand where Lucy is coming from, though. I've thought of Noah that way before, but I've always tried to push it back down. Of course, I can't help but notice him now and again; I'm only human, but I respect the social barriers between us. It can never work. So what's the use in thinking of him more often?
I prefer to leave thoughts of him to late-night fantasies with my vibrator or long hot showers alone. Of course, this is something that I will never tell him, and I can feel the color rising to my cheeks at the thought of it.
“Is your dad in town?”
“No,” I say, suddenly, pulling me from my embarrassing thoughts. “My dad is with Lucy,” I say, watching him for a reaction. I am genuinely curious about how he feels about it.
“Oh, that's right,” he mutters, and his eyes darken. “Can you go to your mom's?”
“My mom is in Florida; my grandpa's feeling sick, so she went back home to take care of him for a little while. I was going to go see her after my shift today but,” I shrug, trailing off.
“Okay,” Noah sighs. “So basically, you're alone, and you have no one.”
“Um,” I pause, trying to think of an answer.
“I mean, if your parents are gone, and your best friend's gone, and you don't have a boyfriend,” he pauses, glancing over me, and I shake my head, no. “Then you're alone, making you the perfect target.” He sighs, flexing his fingers on the steering wheel, and I wonder what he's thinking.
I feel that sudden pull again, that involuntary attraction to him as his face sets into hard lines. I've always admired his face, its long features, a sharp contrast to the men my age. I get a little jolt from the rare smile on those full lips as they curve, deepening the shallow spaces below his cheekbones. God, he had killer cheekbones. I once heard a woman say that she could cut her hands on his face. I didn't understand what it meant at the time, but now I get it.
Slashing cheekbones, full mouth, strong brow, and dangerous, intelligent silver eyes that, combined with his naturally lean runner's body, it would make any woman shudder with pleasure. It's how he looks at a woman, too; it fills her head with dark fantasies and desires. The air around him feels dangerous, tempting, and I wondered if I can trust him.
Can I trust a man with such a dark, dangerous, criminal-minded history? How do I know that his connection to Raul isn't that of close friendship or strong business partners? I suppose if that were the case, they wouldn't have fought so desperately. I shiver again as I remember the way those cold eyes stared down into me as his thick hands wrapped around my throat.
Noah is right; I'm all alone. Where can I go now? Where can I stay tonight and not have nightmares of wicked men?
“Are you cold?”
“Yeah,” I say, looking at him as he pulls my thoughts back to him. “Yes, I think so.” I start to rub my arms and cringe at the pain.
“Here,” he says, taking off his leather jacket and passing it to me.
“I'll get blood all over it,” I say, trying to hand it back to him.
He shrugs, looking down at the wound on his shoulder and chest. “I don't think it will make much of a difference at this point.”
“I guess that's true.” The jacket is stained with crimson blood. “I'll have to dry clean it for you,” I say, sliding my arms through the sleeves and cringing in pain.
“Don't worry about it.” He chuckles before turning into the parking lot of his apartment complex.
The jacket smells like him, and I feel my pulse quicken. I try to ignore the overwhelming fragrance that can only be Noah.
Chapter Four
Noah
I walk into what may be the shittiest apartment I have ever seen. The dingey walls are marred by years of water damage, and the tattered carpet has suspicious stains that leave me wondering what the previous tenant did here. Though, as a man who led a life of crime, I can use my imagination.
I was aware of the issues when I moved here, but I chose it anyway to remain inconspicuous. With Kenton all over me day and night, I couldn’t give him more reason to suspect me. Most mechanics aren’t as rich as I am, and I know that I need to keep a low profile. If I bought some fancy house instead of a crappy apartment, well, it would raise some eyebrows.
Looking back at Charlie, I gesture to the old sofa. She really needs to sit down. She looks like she's gonna pass out. I'm impressed that she has made it this far. I don't know that many girls would have the strength to survive Raul. I'm not even sure if my ball busting Lucy could have made it this far. You know, that's probably the only thing I like about Kenton. I don't have to worry about her safety anymore. I know that he will take care of her.
“You sit down, relax a minute, I'm gonna get the medkit,” I say, walking away from her and sliding off my t-shirt, letting it drop to the ground.
God, my chest hurts. I groan, raising my hand up to touch my bleeding pectoral. Pulling my hand away, I stare at the blood for a second and look back at her. She's staring at me, not in fear; What is that look? Is it attraction? Her eyes reach mine and then suddenly she looks away, her cheeks flushing with color.
Hmm, well that's interesting. Staring at her a moment longer, then looking down at my hands, I walk to the bathroom. I need to clean up and doctor her the best I can. Looking into the dimly lit mirror, I pull out a washcloth and run it under the hot water. Hell, this is going to scar, and I just got this damn tattoo. I glower down at the marred raven on my chest.
The bird cost a pretty penny, and now it’s ruined. I wonder if Marcos can do some touch-up work without making it look ridiculous. My scars tend to keloid, healing as white lines puckered up just above the skin.
It's fine, I guess. If he can't, fix it, well, what's one more scar on my well used body? I only hope that I got Raul as good as he got me. I doubt it, though. The sneaky bastard used a knife. It was a cheap shot, a cowardly move. I know he must be a coward though if he felt the need to attack a single woman alone in a diner.
Why did he do that? It doesn't make sense to me. Raul’s dalliances with human trafficking and drugs have nothing to do with Charlie. She doesn't get involved with those kinds of things. The kid keeps her nose clean, and it's part of why I liked her so much as a friend for my girls growing up. Now, the human trafficking angle, that doesn't sit well with me either. If you're going to traffic someone, you focus on people that wouldn't be missed, like runaways, prostitutes, children who come from horrible homes, who will be suspected as runaways. You don’t pick a girl like Charlotte Traverse, the daughter of the chief of police.
Everyone will notice when the angel child of the community is missing or found eviscerated on the diner floor where she worked. Frowning to myself, I reach down and dab hydrogen peroxide on my wound, wincing at the pain.
Then there was the matter of the knife. Knives require rage. When you pull a knife on someone, it's because you want to feel the pressure of it colliding with their chest, reve
rberating into your arm. You want to watch as the blood slowly oozes from their lifeless bodies. It’s so much more gruesome because it’s slow. The victim struggles, there’s screams, and the gurgling sound of them drowning in their own fluids as their lungs fill.
If he simply wanted to kill her, he would have used a gun. Guns are impersonal, quick, and clean. So, it is personal for him. That's interesting.
Looking up at her reflection in the mirror gives me a little jolt. I know she is in the living room, but I didn’t expect to see her there looking at me, those distant eyes and angelic face glowing in the low light of the lamp in my living room. We make eye contact, and I know she knows I see her as the flush of color creeps into her pretty face. She looks away from me and it’s strange. This hasn't happened before. What does it mean? If she were anyone else other than, Charlie, I would think that the woman wanted me. If it were anyone but Charlie, I would want her back; but that's just the thing, it is Charlie. The girl I watched become a woman. How can I think of touching her when we have such a long history?
Grabbing the medical kit and walking back into the living room, she avoids my eyes. Charlie sits, trembling, cradling her injured hand.
“Here, let me see it,” I say, placing the medical kit next to her, reaching forward. “It's pretty deep; I don't think it's damaged tendons though. Can you move your fingers?” I ask, watching as her fingers flex slowly and she hisses in pain.
Nodding, I rise to go to the kitchen and grab a bowl of water. “I need to clean it, it's going to hurt,” I say, walking back over to her and placing the bowl of water on the floor.
“It’s okay,” she whispers, and I have to admire her bravery.
Charlie slides down to the floor, crossing her legs and her little blue work uniform slides up a few inches. I catch a glimpse of her panties and quickly look away. My skin hums where her knee touches mine.
“Try not to think about it,” I say, taking her hand and lowering it into the warm water.
“Oh!” she cries out, and her hand jerks. I hold it fast, careful not to touch the damaged tissue.
“I know, I know, I'm sorry, but there's no way around it; think about something else,” I repeat as I dab the cloth gently.
She says nothing, only stares at my bare chest. “What are you thinking?” I ask as I carefully remove her hand from the water and pat it dry.
“I'm thinking your tattoos look incredibly painful,”
“Some of them were,” I agree before wiping antiseptic around the wound. “It’s deep but I don't think you're going to need stitches,” I say, reaching down for the gauze before applying it lightly to her hand and wrapping it.
“You really don’t think so?” She frowns down at the bloody bowl of water.
“As long as you don't use it, I think it will be fine. We'll just keep an eye on it to make sure it doesn't get infected,” I say, glancing up at her, watching the way her eyes roam my body.
“Okay,” she whispers, and my eyes move down to her forearm. “I’ll need to clean these cuts too.”
She hisses in a breath, as I begin dabbing at her arm. The blood is mostly dry now and the cut looks shallow, though long. It won't need stitches either.
“Which tattoo hurt the worst?” she asks, gasping again as the rough cloth grazes her. I frown, trying to remember.
“I don't know, they all kind of blur together. I have so many,” I look down at my left arm that is covered in a sleeve of tattoos, crossing over my pectoral and knowing that it stretches down my back as well. “I think it could have been the one on my shoulder blades,” I say, looking behind me. “Shoulder blades hurt pretty bad, and so does the wrist.” I nod down at the words “Lucy,” and, “Abbie,” written in calligraphy.
“Why do you think they hurt the most?” She cringes as I pour the peroxide.
“I think it's the tendons for the wrist, and as far as my shoulder, anything that goes over a bone like that hurts,”
“I guess that makes sense,” she nods. “How many do you have?”
“Um, I honestly don’t know. A lot of them I put together as pieces and took them to Marcos, my tattoo artist. Tattoos take time. So, my arm is composed of maybe ten designs, but it’s one large piece.”
“Did you say that you put them together as pieces? You drew these?” She stares in awe at the vivid images printed in ink across my body.
“Yeah, I did,” I say, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious.
“That’s impressive. I didn’t know you could draw.”
“I don’t draw as often as I used to, but it’s something I do when I have the time.”
“Did Lucy tell you that we almost got tattoos once?” she asks, and I jerk my head up.
“No, she never told me that. She didn't get one, did she?”
“No, we chickened out,” Charlie laughs.
“Good,” I say with a quick nod of my head.
“What, so you can be all tatted up but we can't?” she asks. “That’s a little hypocritical don’t you think?”
“Maybe,” I chuckle, and smile up at her. My eyes are drawn down to her soft lips, and I have to push down the desire to take her mouth against mine in a passionate kiss. I need to remember who she is. She's not some girl I met at a bar, she's Charlie and I have to be careful where she is concerned.
“What were you guys planning on getting anyways, butterflies?” I ask sarcastically.
“Maybe,” she teases. “Though, I think Abbie was leaning more towards the unicorn,”
“Good God,” I groan, and she laughs.
“I'm kidding. I'm kidding. No, we were going to get matching tattoos. We just couldn't agree on what we would all have. So, it hasn't happened. Well, that and the pain factor. So, yeah, two reasons why we didn’t get them, and may never.”
“Happy to hear it,” I say, wrapping her forearm carefully with the bandage.
“Does it hurt?” she asks, gesturing to my chest.
I didn't finish cleaning it nor did I bandage it.
“Oh, it's okay,” I lie, the truth is, it hurts like crazy, and every time I raise my arms, I have to hold back a grimace. Now that the adrenaline is gone, I can feel it throbbing.
“Here let me help,” she says, taking her hand from mine and moving closer so that she can get a better look at the stab wound.
“It's so close to your heart,” she whispers, sliding her fingers carefully over the damaged tissue surrounding it. “I think we should take you to a doctor. We don't know what could be wrong with it, could be serious internal damage. We just won't know it until it’s too late,”
“I think I'll be okay,” I say, smiling to conceal the pain. “I'm just too tough to die.”
“Yeah, sure you are.” She rolls her eyes and reaches down to the bowl of water. “I'll be right back. I'm going to fill this up with clean water and patch you up.”
Watching her walk away, I groan as I rotate my shoulder trying to loosen up the tense muscles; only causing more pain.
“Don't move yet!” she orders, kneeling beside me with a clean bowl and cloth. Watching as her hands move deftly across my chest, I can't help but smile.
“You're pretty good at this,” I say.
“Thank you. I’ve just been accepted into the nursing program at the University.”
“Were you really?” I ask in surprise.
“Yep, two more years and I'll be patching up badasses like you every day,” she grins.
“That's impressive! I'm sure your father's proud,”
“He is. I'm trying to talk Lucy into joining the program with me,”
“Really?” I ask, my brow furrowing. “Surprised she hasn't said anything about it,”
“I'm not surprised, she's kind of wrapped up in my dad right now.” She rolls her eyes.
“Yeah, I guess she is,” I agree, and I feel a bitter taste come into my mouth. “I hope she isn't focusing on him more than her studies.”
“I don't know. Either way, she seems happy and I think that's wh
at's most important, don't you?” she asks, and I know that she's trying to tell me it's not my place to judge and that I should just want her happiness.
“Yes, I suppose.” My chest now all the way clean, Charlie slides her gentle hands across the smooth skin, gently rubbing antiseptic.
My breath hisses in pain, and I try to ignore the burn.
“I'm sorry,” she whispers and my eyes close.
I can feel her closer to me, her breath against the skin as she looks closer in the low light and applies the bandage. My skin hums where her fingers are, and I let out a shaky breath.
“Are you doing okay?” she asks, and I open my eyes and see her face close to mine. Her bright green eyes are full of concern for me. She really is the sweetest person I know.
“Yeah, I'm gonna be okay, thank you.” I nod, looking down at my chest where her hands still rest over the bandage.
There is a moment here, I know she senses it as her eyes stare into mine, and my heartbeat quickens under her palm. Her eyes flicker down to my lips for just a moment, and then she looks down at her hand and pulls it away.
Christ, what the hell am I doing? This can't happen; I can’t have feelings for Charlie. I can't long for the woman before me when I saw her as a girl, playing with my own child. Hell, she played in my backyard as a kid. She had sleepovers with my Lucy and Abbie. How can I forget that?
Shaking my head, clearing it of lustful thoughts. “I'm going to help you Charlie,” I say my voice low. “I think that you are in serious trouble.”
“That's nice of you to offer,” she says slowly, still looking at her hands. “But I've been thinking it was probably just a robbery. Everyone knows that Denton’s closes by seven, and then I lock up. He probably staked out the place and decided that it would be an easy time to rob it. I think he would have just grabbed the cash after he killed me. Can’t have any witnesses, right?”
“Charlie,” I protest, my voice grave.
“It's fine, I want to go back and get my car and then we can call my dad and let him know what happened.” She rises from the floor and bends down, picking up my jacket. “You're going to need a shirt.”
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