Keeping 6 (Rock Point Book 1)

by Freya Barker

  Given how late it has gotten by the time I finally hit Durango, I figure I should probably hit the office first to drop off the key for Bella. But when I pass by the bookstore on the way, I notice the ‘Open’ sign on the door and swing my wheel around into the parking lot. Looks like Kerry’s back.

  “You’re the FBI agent,” the short brunette I saw once before points out when I push open the door.

  “Damian Gomez,” I introduce myself. “And you’re Marya. Kerry’s told me about you. Is she in?” I ask as I scan the shelves for a sign of her.

  “Actually, no. She’s holed up with that hunk of a detective at the police station. Something about going over her statement?” The woman doesn’t even notice I’m already moving toward the exit until the little bell at the top of the door alerts her when I pull it open. “Feel free to wait here,” she calls out. “I’m sure she won’t be too much longer. It’s been hours already.”

  Ignoring her invitation, I lift my hand in goodbye and jump behind the wheel, urgency settling like a stone at the bottom of my stomach. Until I spot her coming down the hall of the police station with that bastard’s arm tucked cozily around her shoulders. Then the urgency is replaced with an involuntary and barely controlled rage. I’m sick and tired of Keith Blackfoot pushing my buttons every turn I make, and I don’t trust him not to take it too far with her. I’ve been accused of being too straitlaced, too unflappable, and stirring me up seems to be high on the man’s agenda these days. Asshole.

  I’m so focused on cutting Blackfoot to size with my death glare, I only notice Kerry has vacated the scene when I hear the exit door slam shut behind me. “Don’t fucking move,” I grind out at the smugly grinning son of a bitch I once considered a friend, before tearing off after her.

  Still seething inside, I barely hear her question as I speed through historic Durango, ignoring every stop sign on my way to CJ’s Diner: Durango’s best place for all-day breakfast. “What was that?” I ask her distractedly, swerving around another typical tourist driver taking in the sights through the windshield of his Toyota Camry.

  “Why were you at the police station?” she repeats as I pull into the diner’s parking lot.

  “Dropping off some information,” I lie. I’m not about to confess the thought of her in the claws of Blackfoot had me racing over there. I don’t wait for a response and am out my door, round the front, and open hers before she has a chance to react.

  “I don’t like eggs,” she says when a waitress shows us to a table for two and leaves behind a couple of menus.

  “Say what?”

  “I don’t eat eggs,” she repeats. “Not in their natural form.”

  I must’ve looked confused because she goes on to clarify, “I like omelets, though. And pancakes. They have pancakes, right?”

  “Omelets are eggs. And pancakes have eggs in them, too,” I point out. The waitress comes back with two coffees and patiently waits for our order. “I’m afraid we might be a while,” I apologize to her, ignoring Kerry’s eye roll.

  “Yes, they do,” Kerry confirms. “But then they’re mixed with other things that I do like. Mushrooms, cheese, ham...”

  I cut off her explanation and turn to the waitress. “I’ll have three eggs over easy, bacon, hash browns and white toast. She’ll have a mushroom, cheese and ham omelet. Thank you.” I grab the menu from Kerry’s hand and give both of them back to the girl. My stomach is growling at the smells from the grill and needs quieting.

  “Rude,” Kerry finally says after throwing angry daggers with her eyes.

  “Hungry,” is my retort. “I’d really like them to get a start on our food before we waste away. You were about to launch into a detailed description of all the food items you enjoy, and I made a judgment call.”

  “Well, what if I wanted pancakes?” she huffs indignantly.

  “I’ll cook you pancakes for breakfast.”

  Her eyes pop open at the implication I leave hanging thickly in the air. The first grin of the day works its way onto my face at the sight. She’s cute. Sure, she’s ornery, contrary, stubborn, and has peculiar tastes, however she’s also sharp, refreshing, beautiful, and unique. Still, mostly she’s cute.

  I’m about to tell her that when my phone buzzes in my pocket. A quick glance tells me it’s the office calling, so I lift a finger in apology before answering the call.

  “Where are you?” my sister’s voice whines.

  “Shit,” I spit out, having completely forgotten about the spare house key still in my pocket. “Sorry, Bella. I got held up, honey.” I look at Kerry to find her head slightly tilted and one eyebrow raised in question. The tight line of her mouth a clear indication she is not happy. I cover the mouthpiece with my hand. “I won’t be a minute,” I promise Kerry as I get up and head to the men’s room for some quiet.

  By the time I’ve convinced my sister to grab some lunch while I ‘finish up what I’m doing’ and exit the bathroom, our table is empty. Kerry’s gone.

  “She said something urgent came up and took her omelet to go,” the waitress says from behind me. I turn to find her handing me my food and the bill. “She told me to keep yours warm and you’d pay.” The girl shrugs her shoulders apologetically as I take the plate and the receipt and sit down dejectedly.

  I can’t seem to catch a break.

  CHAPTER 10

  Kerry

  It’s been almost a week since I hightailed it out of CJ’s Diner which, by the way, serves the best omelet around. My desperate stomach wouldn’t allow me to leave the food behind, so I had them pack it up and I speed walked, Styrofoam container in hand, back to the downtown core to snatch a cab. By the time I’d picked up my car at the police station and made my way to the bookstore, the food had been cold, but still it was the best-tasting damn omelet I’ve had.

  Since then, nothing but silence. Good thing, too, because Special Agent Gomez is far too irresistible and resist I must.

  I work hard at convincing myself I’m lucky I dodged the bullet. I’m not about to become another notch on his clearly crowded bedpost. So why is it then that the fact he hasn’t even tried to contact me is bugging me so much? It only confirms he wasn’t worth my time in the first place. Sure, he’s hot and his touch on my skin is like striking a match, but I refuse to let my judgment be clouded by that. Even though thinking about his lips on mine, remembering the feel of his hands skimming my body, has me in a perpetual state of craving. Damn him.

  And damn Marya, too. She’s not making it easier, walking around the shop every day with that damn healthy blush on her cheeks and a smile that threatens to split her face. It doesn’t take a genius to see she’s getting some, and getting it regularly these days, even though she insists she’s taking things slow. Other than that his name is Trevor, she hasn’t shared much. Says she doesn’t want to get ahead of herself, in case things go south. She may be onto something, because what self-respecting man goes through life calling himself Trevor? It may be because I knew a Trevor once. It was in high school and the guy was a pretentious twat. Every time I hear that name, I’m reminded of the creepy kid who hung around the girls’ locker room to catch a glimpse and then went and told his buddies. A rich kid with questionable morals, that’s what that name sounds like to me.

  Argh! I’m being snarky. And immature.

  I slam the mug I’m holding down on the counter, sloshing hot coffee all over my hand.

  “Fucking hell!” I can’t help the curse flying from my lips.

  “What is wrong with you?” Marya comes flying from the back of the store, where she was helping a customer. Said customer hesitantly follows behind but lingers between the shelves, looking worriedly in my direction. “Are you PMSing or something? Go home. Have a nap. Do something instead of moping around here, glaring at customers. At the rate you’re scaring off customers, we’ll be out of business by next month.”

  I’m in shock. Both that my usually good-natured employee and friend just tore a strip off me and that my current bout of
self-pity has reached the crying point. For cripes’ sake, I have fat tears spilling over my cheeks and I swear my bottom lip is quivering. I’m a pathetic disaster.

  Not sure whether it was Marya’s outburst or my emotional breakdown, but from the corner of my eye, I can see the customer sidling stealthily toward the exit. Another one run off.

  “I’m sorry,” Marya sounds contrite as she steps close and pulls me into a hug. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “Don’t be. You’re ri-ight,” I hiccup through my tears. “I’ve been a drag. Maybe it’s hormonal, although I hope to God I’m not one of those women who hits early menopause way before their time. That would seriously suck.”

  “I doubt that,” she says, patting me on the back. “It’s just been a chaotic week, scrambling to recover all the information that disappeared, along with the damn computer, and trying to set up the new one. Maybe you just need a day off. An entire day to decompress. Get a haircut or go hiking; do something fun. Go out for a nice meal or have a few drinks at a bar. Take a break—it’s obvious you need one.”

  She’s right. I give myself a mental shake and straighten my shoulders. “Maybe I’ll head to Cortez tomorrow. Pick up that box from Kim and get some cuddle time in with her boy, Asher,” I muse out loud, the prospect of a visit with my best friend taking shape in my head. I have to remember to call Detective Blackfoot as promised when I have the box.

  “Good plan,” Marya concedes. “Mom’s got my kids tonight anyway. I’m sure she won’t mind keeping them for the day tomorrow.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive,” she confirms. “Go. Get out of here. I don’t want to see or hear from you until the day after tomorrow.” With a gentle push, she shoves me toward the door.

  I’M NOT SURE HOW LONG it’s been since I’ve taken a bath. I’m usually on the fly and resort to quick showers, but I have to admit; lounging in the tub, surrounded with bubbles, goes a long way to easing the tension from my body.

  Dressed for comfort in my favorite pair of ratty jeans and a loose-fitting peasant blouse, I finish drying my hair and slip on a pair of old flip-flops. The perfect attire for a balmy June evening.

  In a much better mood, I drive down the mountain and head into town, looking for a place to grab a quick bite. I already spoke with Kim earlier, and she’s as excited about my visit tomorrow as I am. I pull into a vacant parking spot across from the Strater Hotel on Main Street and spot the sign for the Diamond Belle Saloon on the corner. The Strater has two restaurants on the main floor, but I’ve only eaten once at the Mahogany Grille. The Diamond Belle always seemed so cheesy to me, with the waitresses in corsets and feathers, reminiscent of a different era. It had always struck me as a typical tourist place and like any self-respecting Durangoan, I’d avoided it. Until now. For some reason, the honky-tonk piano sounds drifting onto the customarily busy sidewalk draws me in.

  The pretty girl in the emerald green strapless dress doesn’t even blink at my ultra casual attire and with a smile leads me to a table for two next to a small stage. On it stands an old upright piano with an arguably even older gentleman behind it, pounding the keys in a honky-tonk rendition of Billy Joel’s “Piano Man” with great enthusiasm. When I sit down, he glances over and winks. I smile back, glad I decided to wander in. The atmosphere in the place is light and fun, with a huge variety of diners; from a group of lilac-haired seniors to a pair of leather-covered bikers and just about everything in between.

  The waitress returns with a glass of ice water and a menu, and it doesn’t take me long to make my selection. I order the pot roast, craving something wholesome, and as a splurge, I add a Patrón margarita, which is on special. I’m already halfway through my yummy drink when a huge plate, piled high with fluffy mashed potatoes and slices of succulent beef, is slid in front of me. With big eyes, I look up at the waitress.

  “That’s enough for a family of four!” I blurt out, and she giggles.

  “I know,” she says before leaning in and whispering conspiratorially, “but it makes for great leftovers.”

  With a feeling of well-being—a result of the relaxed vibe and the help of my delicious cocktail—I dig into dinner, barely able to contain the appreciative moans that want to escape. It takes everything in me to stop shoveling the delicious food down my gullet. My stomach’s already full to bursting, and I quickly wave over my server.

  “Could you box this up before I eat myself sick? And I’ll take the check, too.”

  “Sure thing,” she replies. “Just give me a minute.”

  As promised, she returns with the white Styrofoam container and my bill promptly. I leave her a generous tip and pull out my chair. The pianist launches into the familiar chords of Scott Joplin’s “The Entertainer” just as I tuck a bill into his tip glass, when movement on the other side of the small stage catches my eye. A familiar broad back is turned toward me, and I feel the hair on my arms stand up as I watch Damian with a voluptuous dark-haired beauty. He’s moving toward the exit to the hotel lobby, tucks the woman under his arm and smiles at her as if she hung the moon. The gorgeous meal I just enjoyed is turning sour in my stomach as I hear him laugh with her.

  I don’t realize I’ve been staring until the waitress touches my arm, and I swivel around. “Are you okay?” she asks concerned. Swallowing hard, I attempt a smile and simply nod. I turn and with my head down, I weave through the tables to the door. When I risk a quick peek behind me, it’s clear Damian has spotted me. His dark eyes zoomed in on me, he eats up the distance with his long strides. Determined to avoid any kind of confrontation, I rush through the door, and without looking properly, I cross Main Street.

  Next thing I know, I hear my name called, car horns are honking, and I’m suddenly airborne.

  DAMIAN

  “Are you okay?”

  It’s not the first time my sister asks. I haven’t been able to shake my foul mood since she got here last week. It doesn’t have anything to do with her. At least not all of it.

  After her excitement over the successful interview at the Mercy Regional Medical Center last week had worn off, she mentioned Philip Presley, her asswipe ex, had resurfaced and came knocking on her door a few days prior. Apparently one of his sexual harassment victims had decided to charge him with sexual assault. He sought out Bella—after disappearing six months ago without a word—in hopes she might be willing to provide him with an alibi. For old times’ sake, he’d said. Bella slammed the door in his face, but he wasn’t letting up, and she needed a break. Of course, I was ready to jump in my truck, drive to Farmington, and deal with the slimy weasel, but she held me back.

  She’s been staying with me since, even though I’ve hardly had time to hang out with her. A couple of investigations simmering on the back burner heated up simultaneously and have kept me tied up at the office most of the week. The stress is getting to me.

  The bulk of my miserable attitude, however, has everything to do with Kerry. I was almost going to chase after her when she up and left the diner without a word, but I didn’t. It seemed, at the time, perhaps the universe was trying to let me know this relationship business was not for me after all. Something I’d been quite sure of until the first time I walked into her bookstore. So I tried to tell myself it was for the best, but that didn’t last more than the time it took me to drive to my office and meet up with Bella. By that time, I already regretted letting her go so easily. I didn’t want to call, though, I figured clearing the air with her would be better done in person. There just hasn’t been time—at least not enough. That’s what’s been eating at me mostly, and the more time passes, the more difficult it becomes.

  “No,” I tell Bella honestly, which clearly surprises her since I’ve been lying all week. I finally managed to get home early tonight, and we were just figuring out what to do for dinner when she asks me. “I’m not fine. I’m angry at that son of a bitch ex of yours, I’m stressed with my workload taking up all my time, and I’m frustrated I haven’t had a c
hance to fix a mistake I made.”

  Bella’s eyebrow shoots up. “Mistake?” she echoes, but I just look at her. After a brief pause during which she regards me through slitted eyes, her face finally clears with understanding. “Gotta be a woman,” she astutely observes. “What did she do?” I chuckle at her automatic assumption the fault was Kerry’s and not mine. Bella and I have always been close and very protective of each other. I have three other sisters, but they are all married and have families. Bella and I have always been the odd ones out, although Bella came close to breaking ranks with that douchebag, Philip. She was actually living with him. I’ve never been tempted to take it even that far with a woman. Not yet.

  “She didn’t do anything but draw the wrong conclusions. Something I could have easily rectified but didn’t.” Knowing she’d drag the full story out of me eventually anyway, I saved us some time and told her about Kerry. How we met the first time a couple of years ago when she was still married. That I was pumped when I bumped into her again in her bookstore and discovered she was now single. Bella doesn’t say much, she just listens as I describe the course of events over the last couple of weeks, up until my phone ringing at the diner.

  “You did what?” she finally interjects when I mention accepting her phone call and looking for some privacy. “Are you nuts? How would you like it if she got a call in the middle of a date, said 'Hi, Fabio, honey!’ before disappearing into the ladies’ room so she could talk in private?”

  “Fabio?” I chuckle.

  “Christ, Damian—for a reportedly intelligent man, you sure can be teenage-boy stupid sometimes.” Bella props her hands on her hips and glares at me.

  She’s right. I’d probably have ripped the phone from her ear and demanded to know who the fuck he was, talking to my woman. Idiot. I should’ve gone after her and set this straight right away. Yes, she’s the one who ran without giving me a chance to explain, but given her week to that point, and her earlier witness to my phone call with Cora, I can’t really blame her. “I’m thinking I may have fucked things up before we ever even started,” I admit to my sister.