Too late to shield her from it, to protect her from some of the ugliest things life had to offer.
One second, the men were having a somewhat uncomfortable, yet civil, conversation.
The next, the sound of the gunshot accompanied the sight of a bullet exploding through the forehead of a man who was dead instantly, waving on his feet before his legs buckled, and his body hit the ground.
The scream was what finally dragged me out of my momentary shock.
The godawful, soul-shrieking, ear-piercing scream.
"Fuck, okay, okay," I said, reaching out for Gemma, dragging her to my chest, burying her face in my neck to keep her focus off of the body on the floor just a few feet away. "Alright. It's alright," I assured her, knowing full-well that nothing was going to feel right for her. Not for a while. Not for a long time.
She wasn't equipped to handle this.
And we should have known better than to risk it.
"Shh," I hushed, one arm anchoring her to me as the sobs racked her body, my free hand stroking through her hair. "I know," I added as Smith rushed inside, gun drawn, eyes quickly taking in the scene.
"Well," Phillip said, voice psychotically calm given the situation, "I think I need to hire you," he added, looking at Quin. "I seem to be in the middle of a situation that needs fixing."
"You need to get her out of here," Smith told me, placing a hand at the back of Gemma's head for a second. "Take her home," he added, tone knowing. "We will handle this."
"Keep me updated," I demanded, ducking low, sweeping Gemma off her feet, cradling her to my chest, accepting the keys Smith tossed to me, then leading Gemma out to safety.
She was scary hysterical the drive out of there, the whole time I carried her up my path, into the house, and up into the bed.
I stroked, cuddled, talked, reasoned.
But there seemed to be no bottom to her misery.
"I'll be right back, baby," I said, stroking a hand down her body.
Everyone was about to find out exactly what was going on.
Because I knew Gemma well enough to know what she needed right then.
Reinforcements.
TWELVE
Gemma
The image refused to budge from my vision.
Even with my eyes pressed tightly closed, all I could see was the sheen of the gun in my peripheral vision before the bullet carved out a giant hole in a man's forehead.
Stealing his life before any of us got a chance to blink.
I couldn't seem to focus on the parameters, the justification of it all, whether it was what needed to happen or not.
My brain didn't seem capable of rational thoughts like those.
All it could focus on was that image.
I had been spared brutality in my life.
I had lucked out in that I was born in a time where people generally weren't exposed to horrific violence in the streets, or a place ravaged by wasting diseased, watching from a young age as people writhed in pain right in the streets. Or in my house, until they met a merciful end to the suffering they'd been dealing with right before their passing.
I hadn't been born male in a time when a war was waging, and a draft was enacted, carting me off at a tender age to watch boys as young as me have parts of them torn off, or their lives cut short by supposed enemies' bombs and bullets.
I wasn't a woman brought up in a world as chattel to her male relatives, who could be sold off to the highest bidder, made to marry a man many years her senior only to be held down in bed and then die in horrific pain during childbirth, in an age where one in every three women succumbed to that fate.
Present day in my present place, all things said and done, was a charmed time and place compared to most other periods in history.
It blessed most of us with a veil of ignorance to the ugliest parts of the world.
I'd always known I had been soft. Even compared to fellow softies I had grown up with.
I wouldn't let someone crush a bug. I only listened to music about love and light and personal growth. I couldn't tolerate scary or violent movies.
Gemma has a weak stomach was how my peers would describe me.
Gemma has a soft heart was how my mother put it.
Both were likely true.
I didn't need to see violence to know I wasn't built to handle it, that I wasn't equipped with what was necessary to get through it without it driving an axe through my psyche, cracking me in two.
I wasn't aware of being carried out of there, of being brought back to Lincoln's.
I was vaguely aware of his voice, soothing, sweet, though the words seemed lost to me, as though I suddenly wasn't able to understand them, as though he was speaking a foreign language.
I could feel his arms around me, squeezing me tight, his lips on my forehead, temples, cheeks.
But my brain was just assaulted with the image of David's brutal murder over and over and over, a hideous loop of video. And I couldn't find the off button.
"Gemmy, baby girl," another voice called, somehow getting through, words stringing together in a way that I seemed capable of understanding. "Hey, honey, come on. Open your eyes. Look at me."
"Maybe she needs to go to the hospital." That was my sister. Reasonable. Calm, even. But there was a hint of hysteria underneath it.
"We can't exactly bring her to the hospital and have her tell them that she witnessed a murder. At least not until Quin gets back to us."
Nia.
That was Nia.
"Fuck the job, and protecting some rich asshole," Jules spat, voice chilling. "My sister's sanity is more important."
"If you're going to argue, feel free to take it somewhere else," my mother suggested. "Gem, come on. It's alright. You're alright. Talk to us about it."
"She's shivering," Nia observed.
"I ran her a bath," another voice joined us. The only male in the room. Lincoln. "She likes baths," he added, leaving out how he knew that.
"That sounds like a good idea," my mother agreed, lifting my weighted limbs, pulling off my bracelets, my shoes, carefully removing my earrings from my lobes. "Thank God she isn't a modest girl," she added, tugging at my skirt, then my top, leaving me in a simple nude matching set. "Lincoln--" she said, voice a little hesitant.
"I got her," he assured her. I felt him move in behind me, scooping me, turning my body toward his, cradling me to his chest.
"Nia, can you go make her some tea?" my mom asked. "Jules, find her something to wear."
With that, we seemed to move as a trio into Lincoln's bathroom.
The warm water seemed to part around me, then curling close, enveloped me in a warm embrace that seemed to leech the aches right out of my tensed muscles.
"I will go get an update from Qui--" Lincoln started, pulling his arm out of the water.
It was right then that I seemed capable of commanding my body to do what my mind, what my soul, so badly needed.
My hand shot out, grabbing his around the wrist, holding tight as my eyes opened.
I saw Lincoln's face first.
The tight jaw with a ticking muscle.
The worry flooding his brown eyes.
When his gaze slid to my mother, so did mine, finding her watching the interaction with what I could only call a knowing look.
"Lincoln, why don't you keep an eye on Gemmy? I think I better go keep an eye on those other two," she added, giving me a soft smile. "He'll take good care of you, baby. I'll be right downstairs if you need me."
With that, she turned to walk out, closing the door behind her as she went.
"Baby..." Lincoln started, voice cracking. He dropped down to his knees, one hand reaching out, thumb stroking down my cheek. "I'm so fucking sorry. You shouldn't have seen that. I should have..."
His voice trailed off as my arm pulled, dragging him forward.
"Okay. Alright," he agreed, getting my intention, going with it, kicking out of his shoes. My hand dropped, allowing him to slip out of his pants and s
hirt, then climb into the tub behind me, pulling me back onto his chest, wrapping his arms around me. "I should have been able to protect you from that," he murmured, pressing a kiss to my temple. "I should have put my foot down about you not going. I... I'm sorry you have to live with that image in your head now," he added.
I knew from his tone that he understood what he was saying, that he knew the feeling intimately, that he could truly sympathize because he had been there himself. He had bodies in his mind as well, murder behind his eyes when he closed his lids at night.
He understood.
And that understanding seemed to be the last blow to the fortress wrapped around me, trapping me, keeping me still and mute.
My body moved, turning, wrapping around him as he sat up--legs around his lower back, arms around his shoulders. My face buried in his neck, taking more comfort than seemed normal in his usual scent, breathing it in, letting it wash over my insides like a balm.
"It's going to be okay," he assured me, wrapping me up tight, so tight that it was hard to breathe. "Maybe not today, or tomorrow, or even next week, but I promise, it will be okay eventually."
"Gemmy--" Jules voice started as the door flew open, then dropped off on a sharp inhale of breath. "So, that's how it is, is it?" she asked, sounding both surprised and confused at the same time.
"Jules..." Lincoln started, but didn't so much as release me an inch.
"You know... I get it," she said, surprising me. "Trust me, I get it. But we are going to have words. For right now, though, take care of her."
"That won't be a problem," he assured her as she moved back out, closing the door, her heels clicking all the way down the stairs. "Guess the cat is out now."
Taking a deep breath, I finally found my voice. "Does that bother you?"
"That everyone knows I am with you? Fuck no, Gem. I want the whole world to know. Gonna have to get a skywriter."
"You just want pancakes next month," I mumbled into his throat.
"Well, I mean... I wouldn't turn down pancakes. And the cooking, I won't lie, I like that, babe. But it's more than that, you know that. I want you here when I get home. I want to walk in to hear you singing and dancing around the kitchen. I want to sit across from you, and hear you talk about your day. I want to curl up and watch movies with you. I want you in my bed with me. This house feels like a home when you're here."
"Can I grow herbs on the windowsill?"
"You can grow herbs in the fucking shower for all I care."
"And get rid of those ugly valances."
"Seeing as I don't know what a valance is, I feel confident in saying yes," he told me, hand running down my back. "You could paint the walls in rainbows, and bring home five-thousand stray dogs, turn the backyard into a bee sanctuary, convert the whole house to solar and wind energy. Whatever makes you happy."
It sounded a heck of a lot like he was inviting me to move in.
My heart shot up, but I tried desperately to force it back down, remind it not to get ahead of itself.
"What are you saying?" I asked, hearing the sort of desperate edge to my voice, my cheeks heating in response.
"I'm saying I think I finally stopped fucking it up," he told me, giving me a squeeze. "Think I finally found what my mom wanted me to find."
Love.
His mom had wanted him to find love.
Was that what he was saying?
Or was I overthinking things, jumping to far-fetched conclusions?
I knew how I felt, how I had been feeling for a while already. You didn't see future generations in the eyes of a one-night-stand or a weekender. That only happened with a forever kind of person.
Unsure what else to say, all I could manage was a hopeful, "Yeah?"
"I think we both know my history," he started, voice hesitant, like he was afraid he was putting women between us. When, really, we each had histories. Neither of us came into this as virgins. And that was okay.
"Yeah," I agreed, giving him a little reassuring squeeze.
"Never saw a future with any of them. I wanted to. But I never did. And I never--fucking never--said to them what I am going to say to you."
My belly did a delicious, yet almost scary, little wobble.
"I believe you."
To that, he pulled back just far enough to look down at me, to hold my gaze.
"I love you, Gemma," he told me, shaking his head a little at himself. "I know it is probably too soon to say something like that, but--"
"I knew days ago," I cut him off.
"Yeah?" he asked, tension leaving his face.
"There's this story I heard once about a medicine man who said that when you look into the eyes of your soulmate, you can see every generation you will create," I told him. "I saw generations in your eyes. And I knew."
"That has to be the sappiest, most amazing thing I've ever heard," he admitted, equal parts amazed and amused. He didn't exactly believe, but he didn't disbelieve either. "So, you kinda love me, huh?" he asked, eyes dancing.
"No," I said, watching the smile fall a bit. Just for a second. "I really love you," I corrected.
"I love you back," he told me, sealing his lips over mine.
It wasn't a kiss that was meant to lead to more.
But it moved through me like a healing salve, taking all the stress and fear and ugliness, wrapping it up in the smooth warmth of new, shared feelings.
My head fell to his shoulder, taking in a deep breath.
"Why do you always do that?" he asked, lazily stroking a hand down my spine.
"Do what?"
"Sniff me," he clarified, making me snort a little at realizing he noticed I did it. And I knew just how often I did it too.
"You smell good. I usually hate cologne. It smells like chemicals. But yours, for some reason, doesn't. It almost smells, you know, natural."
"Timber."
"What?" I asked, brows furrowing.
"It's called Timber."
"That sounds vaguely familiar."
"It should. One day, Jules called you in because we had this epic case, and she needed a hand. You had your arms loaded down with reusable grocery bags. And you were talking about all the stuff you had picked up. Then you looked over at me and said you found this cologne called Timber that was the only one men should ever be allowed to wear."
"You went out and bought some?" I asked, my heart just... overflowing.
"I bought every bottle they had," he corrected. "Then bought more when they had it in stock again."
"Why so much?"
"It was a dinky little operation," he told me. "I was afraid they would close down, and I would be out of it."
"Because I liked it?"
"That, yeah. But also because I couldn't wear cologne. My skin itches like crazy when I try. Kinda gave up on it. But then I figured that if you thought it was good, that maybe the ingredients wouldn't mess with my skin. It didn't. Just happened to be a bonus that it makes you climb all over me," he added, hand moving down to give my butt a pat.
"Lincoln," I said a long moment later, voice a little hollow.
"Yeah, baby?"
"I saw a man get killed today."
"I know you did."
"Am I always going to see that when I close my eyes?"
"Maybe for a while," he told me. "I wish I could tell you it won't be like that, but you will see how it is in your own time."
"On a rational level, I know that he had killed three people--and was willing to kill hundreds more--for his own greed."
"It's okay that you feel bad that he's dead, Gem. I know your feelings on killing." Likely because I had once spent an afternoon debating with the team about capital punishment when I learned that four percent of people put to death were actually innocent.
"He wasn't a good man."
"No," Lincoln agreed. "But I understand that you believe that it is not up to another person to make the choice to kill them, regardless of their actions."
"You don't agree."
> "No. I think some people deserve killing, that there is an evil so unforgivable that it can't be allowed to keep walking around with innocents all around. To be fair, I wouldn't have considered David someone who needed killing. But that doesn't mean I'm sad he's gone either."
"I didn't want him to die, but... but I'm not sad he's gone either," I agreed, finding myself more than a little surprised that it was true.
I didn't agree with Lincoln as a whole. Then again, I hadn't lived the life he'd lived, I hadn't come into contact with the people he likely had.
I did believe there were people who couldn't be saved, that there could be a wrongness in someone's genetic code, that they couldn't--or didn't want--to get better, to turn their lives around. But I couldn't quite make myself believe the idea of that meaning we could decide to end their lives.
I certainly didn't believe people should be shot dead in cold blood.
All that said, though, I couldn't help but think maybe, in a way, the world was a slightly better place now that David couldn't plot to allow hundreds of people to die just so he could live in luxury.
"You know what really surprised me?" Lincoln asked, dragging me out of my thoughts.
"What's that?"
"Your old boss," he told me, shaking his head. "I had him figured for a highly functioning idiot."
"He is," I assured him. "But I guess he is a vengeful man on top of that as well."
"He's done that before," Lincoln told me. My brows must have lowered, because he went on. "He was too quick to that reaction. Too sure of himself. That wasn't a crime of passion. He was cold and calculated."
"What do you think is going to happen now? Is Quin really going to take on the case?"
"Hard to say. Quin can be hard to read sometimes. But if anyone can come up with the right course of action, it's him."
"He'd really work with a killer?"
"Honey, we work with killers every day. We are killers, many of us. That won't be the deciding factor."
"What will be?"
"If he can get him to pull the new products."
"I guess, in the big scale of life, that would tip heavily to the side of justice."
One life to save hundreds.
The Middle Man Page 19