by Beth Yarnall
When I was released, Super Agent drove me home. We hadn’t spoken more than the necessary words to each other since he’d come to bail me out of jail. We got to my house and found a plain brown box about the size of a shoebox on my doormat. Probably those shoes I shouldn’t have ordered but were too cute to resist. Super Agent picked it up and set it on the coffee table for me when we went inside.
“Thanks for…everything.” I tried for cheery, clasping my hands together and pasting on a smile. “I was thinking of ordering a pizza if you want to stay. Or if you have plans, that’s cool.”
“I’ll stay.”
“Okay, well.” This was awkward. “If you want to go ahead and order the pizza, I’m fine with whatever.” I hooked a thumb down the hall behind me. “I’m just going to take a shower and wash off the prison funk.” I started to back up. “There’s wine on the counter and beer in the fridge. Just help yourself.”
“Do you need any help?”
“No. I’m good. Been taking a shower on my own for a while now.”
“Maggie?”
I’d turned to go down the hall, but his voice brought me back around. “Yeah?”
He looked around the room as if it might give him a clue as to what he wanted to say. Finally his gaze landed back on me. “Could I stay with you while you take a shower?”
I tilted my head to the side.
He rubbed a hand over his smooth head. “I’m not asking to…you know. I’ll just lean against the counter or sit on the toilet lid and keep you company. If you want.”
Now it was my turn to search for words, but I couldn’t come up with any so I just nodded and headed down the hall. He followed. I turned the water on and started to undress. He stood just outside the bathroom door, his face averted. He’d seen me in my underwear. Heck, he’d seen me fully naked on one occasion and been nose to skin with my body. His chivalry was sweet.
As soon as I’d climbed in and closed the shower curtain, I heard Super Agent lower the toilet lid and sit down. Tipping my head back and closing my eyes, I let the hot water flow over me. And that was when everything hit me. I buckled under the weight of the images that crashed over me. His face, the way he’d smelled, the ugly things he’d said…and done. The pain. Gasping, I swiped a blind hand out for purchase, hitting the shower curtain. Super Agent caught it, then stepped in and caught me.
Wrapping myself around him, I gripped handfuls of his shirt, needing his solidity. The water beat down on us, soaking his clothes. He held me, whispering nonsense to me as I tried to catch my breath. I fought hard. I wasn’t going to break down. I wasn’t going to let that jerk get any more of me than he already had.
Somewhere along the way my lips found Super Agent’s and I kissed him as though I needed the feel of him to keep breathing. He kissed me back the same way. I don’t know what happened to his clothes. It all got so frenzied and overwhelming. Hands were everywhere, his and mine. And then he lifted me, shut the water off, toweled us both off and carried me into the bedroom.
Ever so gently, he laid me on the bed. The look in his eyes made me flush, heating up my already oversensitized skin. He was so beautiful in the meager lamplight that for a moment I almost didn’t think he was real. His gaze traveled over my body, taking in the bruises and marks between my tattoos.
“Don’t,” I warned. “Don’t look at them.”
“I’m not sure how to touch you.”
I reached over and turned out the light, settling the darkness around us. “Now come here, close your eyes, and figure it the hell out.”
I’ve never been good at asking for favors even though I was often too generous when it came to granting them. I’ve never borrowed money other than from a bank. I’ve never gotten a pet or house plant so that I didn’t have to ask anyone to take care of it when I went out of town. I’ve never asked anyone for help with anything. Ever.
But the night before I’d come so close to begging Super Agent to help me forget. Fortunately I didn’t have to. Somehow he knew what I’d needed without me having to ask. His touch was a balm that soothed more than my fear—it smoothed out some of the roughest places inside me. He made me feel treasured. This man gave me what I couldn’t and wouldn’t ask for.
In the cold, pale light of morning, lying next to him, I wanted to reach out to him. It seemed that I wasn’t done needing him and that scared the ever-living heck out of me.
Or maybe it was because this was an old pattern for me, getting swept away in the moment without thinking things through. I wanted to be with Super Agent. I did. But I didn’t exactly have the best record where men were concerned. No looking before leaping for me. No, I was a dive headfirst kind of gal only to find out later there was no water, or if there was, it was infested with sharks.
I was supposed to be changing my life and my habits, and yet last night I’d slipped right back into them without a thought or backward glance. Part of me didn’t regret it. But that part was an avid slut who’d loved every single minute of tangling the sheets with Super Agent. The other part of me, my practical side, was holding the umbrella of regret over the whole business, casting shadows over my enjoyment. She was an evil bitch who took the fun out of everything. She was also the one I should’ve listened to in the first place.
Sliding to the other side of the bed, careful not to wake Super Agent and face the morning-after good mornings, I climbed out and put on my robe, then went in search of coffee. My body complained, reminding me of what I’d been through yesterday. I still hadn’t been able to bring myself to see the damage. Cleopatra had nothing on me.
While the coffee dripped I went to my small corner desk and opened my laptop. My email had exploded overnight. There were about twelve from Xavier. I groaned at one subject line: Maggie’s perp walk take #36. Great. The reporters hovering outside the store must’ve caught Cruz dragging me out to his car.
I opened the email and clicked on the link. Yup. There I was in all my handcuffed glory. The video was choppy and grainy, but I could clearly make out the shouts of the reporters. It hadn’t been that long since my last videoed perp walk when I was wrongly arrested for murdering Chuck Puckett. It seemed that the reporters hadn’t forgotten me or the clever nickname they’d given me—Murdering Maggie.
Oh, yay. Someone had created a YourVid channel just for my perp walks. Some of them were duplicates, but still! There were nine videos in all. I groaned and deleted the rest of Xav’s emails unopened. He was such a jerk.
Wait. I didn’t remember sending myself an email. I opened it. What the…?
I stood up so fast I knocked the chair over. No. No, no, no, no, no. That couldn’t be right.
“What’s wrong?”
I turned to find a very naked Super Agent holding a big gun. And no, that wasn’t a euphemism. Stunned beyond the ability to form words, I jabbed a finger at my computer.
He strode over and had a look for himself. “My dearest Maggie Mae,” Super Agent read aloud, a deep frown settling between his dark eyes. “I’ve watched and worried about you. You’ve been so upset. I would do anything for you and so I have. Imitation is not the sincerest form of flattery. She had to go so I could see you smile once again. Remember…you’re mine, Maggie. Only mine.”
Super Agent’s furious gaze met mine.
“Is he saying what I think he’s saying?” I’d read it and had it read to me and I still couldn’t believe it. Why? Why would someone do such a thing?
“That he killed your coworker because he’s obsessed with you…yes.”
Poor Shasta. Poor Mr. Stratford. Some maniac had killed Shasta because of me. Me. I was hardly worth obsessing over, let alone killing for. What had I done to attract and encourage this person? This was all my fault.
He pointed to the return email address. “How is this right? You sent the email to yourself?”
“No. Of course not. He must’ve hacked my account or sent it from my cell phone. My cell phone!” I rushed to my purse and started pawing through it. “Nooooo. Not
my cell phone too.”
“When was the last time you saw it? Wait. What do you mean not your cell phone too?”
“I’ve been misplacing things. Just little things…until now. Darn it.”
“What kinds of little things?” He was using his FBI-Special-Agent voice again, questioning me like I was a witness before I’d even had my coffee. Not smart.
“Remember when I couldn’t find my pill case? That’s one thing. Ah, the lipstick I keep in my uniform pocket. The lucky Euro my ex-boyfriend Niccolo gave me when he took me to Italy. The hairband I always keep in my purse to put my hair up. A pair of earrings Chuck Puckett had given me that were also in my purse—”
“So things that you carried in your purse or on your person, correct?”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
“Hmm.”
“Hmm, what?”
“What does this part mean?” Super Agent pointed to the postscript at the bottom of the email. “What ‘gift’ is he talking about?”
At first I had no idea what he could be referring to, and then it hit me. I swiveled my head toward the package Super Agent had brought in that had been sitting on my porch last night. There it sat on my coffee table in all its creepy glory. Super Agent followed my gaze, then stomped over—still gloriously, fantastically naked, my slut side pointed out—and picked up the box with his non-gun-toting hand.
I averted my eyes and swished a hand at him. “Would you put that thing away?”
“I don’t remembering you having an issue with guns.”
“Yeah, no. You should probably put your gun away too.”
He grunted a laugh and put the box back down. “Don’t touch that.”
While he went to cover himself up, I couldn’t stop myself from tiptoeing over to the coffee table for a closer look at the package. I didn’t recognize the neat block lettering. And unfortunately there was no return address like Stalker McObssesion, 1234 Crazy Drive, Insane Town, AZ (come and get me!). That would’ve been a tremendous help.
Super Agent came back with a towel wrapped around his waist and his wet clothes. “Can I put these in the dryer?”
Oh, right. I’d forgotten how he’d left his clothes in the tub when we’d erm…ah…you know. I took them from him and put them in to dry. When I got back he was sitting on the couch with the box open in front of him.
“Hey,” I said. “You’d think I’d get to open my own present. It’s not like I get very many.”
He scowled at me as I sat down next to him. “You mean like trips to Italy and jewelry?” Well, when he put it like that, I guessed I did get the occasional bauble or two. “I’ll buy you a present. Or three,” he grumbled. He was so touchy on this subject. “And flowers.”
“Well, gee, you sure know how to make a girl feel all gooshy and special.”
“You think I like some sicko sending my girlfriend flowers and gifts?” He gestured toward the beautifully expensive box of chocolates nestled in gold tissue paper. “He’s making me look bad,” he complained.
That was the second time he’d called me that this week. We hadn’t discussed the particulars of our relationship, preferring to zigzag back and forth in the nebulous Going Out but Not Formally Committed Even Though We’ve Slept Together zone.
“So…I’m your girlfriend?”
He picked up a ropey strand of my hair and twisted it around his finger, bringing me closer. “You got a problem with that?”
I shrugged.
“Most women would’ve nailed that down weeks ago.”
“I’m not most women.”
“No kidding. Anyone ever tell you that you have intimacy issues?”
“Oh, do tell me about them, Mr. No-Talk-Unless-I-Absolutely-Have-To.”
“I’m a guy. We don’t do chat.”
I looked down to where his towel gaped, displaying how very much a guy he was. I pointed at his crotch. “You got a permit for that?”
He readjusted the towel. “What was I saying about intimacy issues?”
“I showed you intimate last night.”
“No. You showed me avoidance.” He released my hair and clasped my hand. “When are you going to talk about what happened yesterday?”
“I talked about it.”
“Not with me.”
“Can I eat the chocolates?”
“No.” He squeezed my hand. “Avoidance.”
I rolled my eyes and huffed out a breath.
“We’re going to have to report the email, missing items, and the presents to the police. They might be able to track down your phone if he still has it.”
“Do I have to be here?” I wasn’t super excited to be in a room with cops again even though I’d essentially had one in my bed last night.
“Yes, but I’ll be with you.”
I nodded. “All right. If you’re there. But you can’t leave.”
“Why don’t you go get dressed? I’ll take care of everything here.”
I got up and headed for the hall, then turned back. “Hey, ah…about last night. You gave me something better than any present. And I’m not talking about the—” I made a back-and-forth gesture between us, blushing like a virgin, “—you know. So…thanks. For that. And the other thing. The other thing was good too.” Clearly I didn’t excel at gratitude either. “You don’t have to buy me a gift. Not that I wouldn’t love getting presents from you just…you know…don’t kill anyone for me.”
The good news was that I found my cell phone and the FBI was getting involved. This was now a computer-hacking incident, as someone had hacked into my computer to send the email through my own account. The FBI being all up in my business—again—also might have had a little something to do with Super Agent being pissed off that a murdering bastard was hassling his girlfriend. And giving her presents. Would he ever let that go?
The bad news was that I found my cell phone and the FBI was getting involved. My voicemail was jam-packed with messages from reporters, salivating over the news of my arrest, the charges I’d brought against Cruz, and the FBI’s involvement in Shasta’s murder. Evil ninjas! Everyone wanted a piece of me, including the FBI, which had taken my computer, my statement, and way too much of my free time. More paperwork had been added to my brick-thick FBI file. Yay.
Daryl called to let me know that Stratford’s department store was still closed because of the ongoing investigation but would probably reopen tomorrow. So no work for me. Xavier wouldn’t stop texting me, much to Super Agent’s annoyance. My mother had gotten wind of my arrest and so I had to endure an endless lecture about responsibility and all the disgrace I’d brought down on the family. Of course no mention was made of my brother and his multiple brushes with the law. On top of all of that, Super Agent had taken it upon himself to hover over me like a nervous, new mother. Again.
This feeling of déjà vu was starting to feel all too familiar.
“Your place or mine?” Super Agent asked as we climbed into his car outside the Phoenix FBI office.
I was twitchy and on edge, having spent way more time with law-enforcement types than I could handle in the past couple of days. Even Super Agent was starting to scrape against my shredded nerves.
“I really just want to go home,” I answered.
“Okay, we’ll stop at my place and I’ll pack a bag.”
“Are you going somewhere?” Seemed kind of inconvenient given what was happening, but okaaayyyyy.
“I’m staying with you.”
“Whoa.” I put my hands up palms out. “Slow this ride down. Since when did knocking together and calling me your girlfriend mean moving in together?”
He ticked off points on his hand. “This guy knows where you live. He’s stolen from you. He’s hacked into your email account. Who knows what else he knows about you and how he’s going to use it. He’s so obsessed with you he killed somebody for you.”
My slut side got distracted by his big hands, remembering how skilled they were. She wanted to know why I was turning down the chance to h
ave those hands on me again. I was beginning to come around to her way of thinking. Almost. Maybe. Her argument was flawless.
My practical side threw a flag on the play. Hello! Murderer after you! Protection!
“I get all that,” I said, hating my practical side. “But I don’t think you staying at my place is such a good idea.”
He studied me for a moment. “It’s about last night, isn’t it?”
“No.” His FBI-Special-Agent gaze practically drilled a hole in me. “Sort of.” I really didn’t want to talk about this. “Yes,” I finally blurted out. “Okay?”
“You regret what happened.”
“Regret wouldn’t be the word I’d use.” But it was close.
“What would the word be?”
I thought on it for a moment. “Rethinking.”
“Rethinking.” Now it was his turn to be contemplative. After a couple of moments he nodded. “Okay. Can I ask why?”
I pulled my sleeve up and pointed to the tattoo I had of a bunch of forget-me-nots with ribbon-wrapped stems on my forearm. “Read this.”
“The flowers?”
“Look at the words in the shading of the ribbon.”
“‘I will make better mistakes tomorrow,’” he read. When he looked up at me I couldn’t quite pin down the expression he wore. “Is that what you think it was, a mistake?”
How to explain? “The same part of my brain that thought last night was a good idea—” I moved my finger to the handcuff marks on my wrists, “—also thought it was a good idea to question a pissed-off cop’s ability to get it up while I was handcuffed in his backseat.”
He leaned back in his seat, disbelief parting his lips. “You’re comparing being with me last night to what that asshole cop did to you?”
“No.” Oh crap, this wasn’t going well. “This isn’t going well.”
He just stared at me. Uh-oh. I’d hurt his feelings. And pissed him off. The anger was just now fading in across his features.
“I got the tattoo hoping it would remind me not to act on impulse,” I tried to explain. I really sucked at this touchy-feely stuff.