Resisting Love: Behind Blue Lines Series

by Christine Zolendz

  “You okay?” Dean asked, swinging his legs over the coffee table and sitting on its edge. I gagged loudly at the smell of his cologne mixed with burnt onions. I tried to play it off like a cough, but he was watching me too closely. He leaned his elbows on his knees, hands dangling loosely between them. “Take a deep, slow breath before you make yourself puke.”

  I did as he told me.

  Inhale slowly, exhale slowly—I did it until the queasy feeling turned into an empty ball of nothing in the pit of my stomach—some hollow piece of me that used to be my guts.

  “You should let them look at your legs,” he said softly.

  “No. I’m fine,” I said low, trying to scoot back unnoticeably. My eyes focused on the gold shield pinned over his heart.

  Back in the kitchen, a blur of voices coaxed my mother to calm down, no one would be taking any of her belongings and yes, she really needed to go to the hospital.

  The firefighters were by the side door, talking about checking around the rest of the house.

  “You want something to drink? A soda or something?” Dean asked, quietly. “I can get you something from my place. Your mom’s frig is empty—”

  “Yes,” I said, quickly, surprising myself.

  “Yeah?” he said, blinking a couple of times like he was surprised too. I couldn’t meet his eyes for more than a flicker at a time. It had been a long time since I stood in front of Dean Fury; the last time it was one of those humiliating teenage angst-filled scenarios I never wanted to remember. He nodded, and slid off the table, graceful and boneless for someone his size, making his way to the front door. My eyes chased after him, watching him move; my hands squeezing hard against my sides. I should have never come back here. What was I thinking?

  When I heard the door close behind him, I slumped forward, dropped my head into my hands, and closed my eyes. I’d get my mother to the hospital, and see if there was some sort of rehab I could force her into—again. I’d set up some sort of grocery service for her and get myself back home. Far away from here. I’ll take on some tutoring for the neighborhood kids on the weekends to help more around here with money. Everything will be okay.

  I opened my eyes at the sound of the EMTs rolling my mother through the living room, strapped down on a gurney. She was wide-eyed and angry. “Don’t touch my stuff!” she said to me. “Livie? Liv? Is that really you?”

  I stood and shifted closer to her, grimacing inside with how she looked. Why was she always doing this to herself?

  Dean walked back in with a black bag slung over his shoulder and a can of soda, which he clanked onto the table next to me.

  “I’m going to meet you at the hospital, okay?” I said, grasping her hand and giving it a firm squeeze.

  “No, Liv. Go home! Get out of here and don’t come back,” she croaked, thrashing against the buckles holding her down. “And don’t you go through any of my fucking things!”

  Automatically, I lifted my eyes to the ceiling, making sure she wouldn’t see my tears. “Sure, whatever,” I said dryly, walking behind the gurney and watching them pull her out of the house and down the front steps. I leaned against the door and listened to her scream as they packed her into the back of the ambulance, only turning back inside when it was moving down the street and on its way to the hospital.

  “Sounds like she doesn’t want you to go through any of her stuff,” Dean said with a mischievous grin, tossing his bag onto the couch and folding his arms across his chest. “You okay?” he asked, locking his eyes on mine.

  For a moment, that old familiar rush of warmth he always produced in me spread out across my chest, unsettling me. I averted my eyes, clasped my hands in front of me, and twisted my fingers together. “Yep. Just perfect.”

  I kept the front door open and took a deep, long breath. First thing’s first, I needed to get my teenage crush out of this house, so I could think. Then, I would make a plan and get back home as fast as possible. “So, thanks for all your help,” I gave him a curt nod and pointed out the front door. “I’m just going to clean up and go to the hospital. Then leave.”

  Dean rubbed at the back of his neck, a lock of dark hair falling out across his forehead.

  Don’t look at him, I told myself. Look at the floor.

  “You should stop by the house before you leave,” he said, clearing his throat, Brooke’s working now, but I bet she’d love to see you. Catch up.”

  I accidently glanced up into his face, right into his hazel eyes.

  And just like when I was fifteen, looking at him left me speechless. Dark hair an unnamable color, offset by his sharp eyes that seemed to notice everything. Whenever he did notice me, I felt his stare, like a touch to the skin—heightening all my senses until I was breathless and dizzy. His body was solid and fierce, towering over me, always eliciting the filthiest of fantasies from my mind.

  I tucked my hair behind my ear and tried to stop my face from heating.

  “I um…uh…I think I should just c-clean up inside and—” I looked down and laughed absurdly, “change my clothes.”

  “I brought my first aid kit. Someone needs to look at your cuts and clean them.” His expression looked hollow, dark half moons under his eyes. I wondered if he had just come home from work or was just leaving. He looked bleary-eyed, but clean-shaven, his eyes softening as he looked back at me.

  “I’m fine,” my voice trembled, betraying me.

  “Come here, Liv. Let me take care of you.” I dreamt of him saying those words all throughout my angst-filled teen years. Focus, Liv, he was just talking about your scrapes.

  My throat knotted up. This really wasn’t how I’d thought my weekend would go. Mother drunk, again. Driving to see her, only to find her collapsed and passed out on the floor, and then him saving the day. Trying to be all hero-like.

  He didn’t seem to be leaving anytime soon, so I kicked the door closed and shook my head, “No. Really, I’m fine. Thanks for the offer.” I walked into the dining room, awkwardly staring at him, not knowing how else to make him leave.

  He pulled up on the strap of his pack from where it sat on the couch, and dragged a hand through his hair. “You’re bleeding.”

  I waved a hand. “It’s nothing, I swear.”

  “Then, you won’t mind me looking at it,” he scowled, shifting toward me.

  I backed up as he walked closer until my bottom bumped the edge of the dining room table, sending a plastic vase of flowers on its side.

  “Why don’t you take off your pants?” he said, glancing at his watch before crossing his arms.

  “Excuse me?” I stammered.

  His eyebrows rose. “Your legs? They’re bleeding Liv, let me take a look at them.” His tone was sharp, his jaw tight. He narrowed his eyes as I stood there in disbelief. I jammed my hands on my hips defiantly, trying to think of something to say to get him to go.

  Then his lips pursed and a smirk fueled smile cracked across his face, a tiny twinge of wickedness dancing just behind his eyes.

  And all I could think was: When was the last time I’d waxed?

  When was the last time a guy asked me to take off my pants?

  “Come on, Liv. Look, how about you hop up on the table and pull up your pants then. I need to see where all the blood is coming from.”

  “Stop trying to get in my pants. I’m fine, and you’re not a doctor.”

  What started as a chuckle turned into an outright laugh, knocking me closer into the table. “Come on, Liv.”

  “I’m not standing here in front of you with just my underwear on—”

  “Fine. Then, take those off too.”

  Arrogant ass.

  “Would you stop, please, I’m kidding. I’ve probably seen you a hundred times in a bathing suit or pajamas or your damn underwear, and it’s never been anything like that.”

  And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

  He had never, nor will ever, see me as more than his little sister’s friend. I was about fifteen the last time I really
spoke with him; he was twenty. I was just a stupid kid to him, but to me, he was a whole lot more. Fifteen-year-olds can mistake a friendly smile for falling in love and an after-school drive home for a chance to…I didn’t want to even think about it. I wasn’t fifteen any more. Thank God.

  “Fine,” I said, unbuttoning my pants. “But, I’m telling you; it’s not a big deal, just a few scratches.” Please let me not have worn my period underwear.

  Black lacy thong! Yes. Eat crow, Dean! Just look at what you’ve lost out on all these years!

  He didn’t even notice. Not even a flicker of those damn perfect eyes or a tremble of his fingers. He just smiled politely and patted the cuts down with gauze.

  My heart raced from his touch. I bit at my bottom lip as his fingers lay close to the edge of my panties, the light pressure of his fingertips into my skin, the gentle way he cleaned out my cuts and, “Ouch, that freaking hurts.”

  “Sorry,” he whispered, ripping open a few Band-Aids. My legs were barely scratched up, just a bunch of superficial scrapes. There was one deep gash high on my thigh, but it wouldn’t even need stitches. Most of the blood on my pants was from my mother.

  “You going into work or coming home?” I asked, watching the heaviness in his eyes.

  “Going to a funeral,” he said, voice thick. He smoothed the last bandage over my skin and stepped back, tossing the rest of the gauze into his bag.

  “Oh, God. I’m sorry. What…who?”

  He shrugged and looked down at his watch. “Damn it,” he mumbled under his breath. “I’m going to be late.”

  Okay then leave.

  Jerk.

  Gorgeous. Sexy. Jerk I’ve had a crush on since I could remember.

  No stay.

  Stay and touch me some more.

  No, he should leave.

  God, why was he not even looking at me?

  My knees knocked together, and goose bumps traveled up my bare legs. I squeezed my thighs together, like some sort of a desperate wonton woman. Him? He packed up his first aid bag and ignored me. I swallowed back all the stupid words I was dying to say. I needed to clean and get to the hospital. Then go home. I needed to go home and not throw myself at someone who obviously didn’t care about a half naked woman who stood right in front of him.

  He waved as he walked to the door, but didn’t bother looking back at me. “If I don’t see you around, I hope your mom’s okay. And make sure you say, ‘Hi,’ to Brooke.”

  That was that.

  Of all the teenage, high school fantasies I’d ever had about Dean Fury, the reality of finally taking my pants off in front of him totally sucked.

  Chapter 3

  Dean

  Thomas’ devastated family filled the first few rows of the church. Behind them a sea of dark blue uniforms spilled out past the front doors into the streets. His four-year-old son wore his uniform cap and stood next to the coffin, saluting him goodbye. His wife, in the middle of it all, stunned and wide-eyed, stared at me through a haze of tears. I had no way of making any of it better.

  Thomas was my closest friend. When I got out of the academy, he took me under his wing and within a few years helped me make detective. I was the best man at his wedding, his son’s godfather.

  Now, I hated him.

  I hated him, because three days ago he left dinner with me, went home, and took so many pills that he’d never wake up again.

  The closest thing I had to a brother killed himself.

  And I had no idea why.

  The experience of losing someone you love is already heart wrenching, but the thought of him taking his own life meant you had to have failed him in some way. I had to have failed him, because I didn’t even see it coming. Now everything is wrong. Wrong and empty. Everything is too painful, too hard, too quiet.

  I was lost—kneeling in the middle of the crowd, hands at my sides, screaming at God.

  There aren’t words to describe it.

  There’s just agony and emptiness.

  There’s a strange silence that surrounds suicide, a moment when no one knows what to say, because they’re all asking themselves the same thing: Why? There weren’t any answers—just endless questions that all circle back to: What could I have done?

  That’s exactly how Lucy, his wife, was looking at me. Why didn’t you help him? What happened?

  How the fuck did I know?

  I self-medicated my grief through the entire funeral. I could only hope I said a fitting eulogy, because all I really wanted to do was tell everybody how shitty Thomas was. How much I hated him for leaving me, us…for not coming to me with this, so I could fix it. I would have too. I would have fixed it all. That’s what I do. That’s what I’ve always done.

  “We’re off employee relations as of tomorrow, Sergeant Kannon just told me.” Jack Creed, one of my teammates, sat down heavily on the seat next to mine—an open bottle of whiskey clenched tightly in his hand. His dress uniform was unbuttoned, his tie loosened and flung over his shoulder, eyes bloodshot red and teary.

  On the other side of me was Callie, a female undercover, quietly staring off into the crowd of people, who were drowning in their own misery.

  None of us had spoken about what Thomas had done yet. It would be an open wound that would never heal. Maybe we’d leave that shit open for years to fester and pus as it killed us slowly. Even though we sat crowded together, we each were totally alone in our grief. We could barely stand to make eye contact with each other, because when we did, we each blamed ourselves for what had happened.

  Callie leaned forward; eyebrows knitted together, “Thought you were going to be late this morning, you good?”

  “Who’s good right now?” I laughed, darkly, thinking about Thomas’ cold body, empty pill bottles surrounding his head like a goddamn halo. Blinking out the image, I turned to face her and sighed, “When I was leaving to go, the neighbor’s fire alarm was blaring. I kicked through her side door and found her passed out on the floor.”

  “She okay?” Callie asked. I knew she didn’t really care, just wanted to hear words and feel a little more human—forget the dead body in the room.

  I shrugged. I really didn’t want to think about what happened that morning in the Rhys house. So tired and emotional, I barely remember what occurred. “She was passed out drunk. I know her kid showed up. My sister and her used to be tight.” I took a deep breath and pulled the whiskey from Jack’s hand. “Weird seeing her after all these years,” I said, swallowing down a mouthful of smooth fire.

  “Mine,” Jack said, grabbing the bottle back from me.

  As soon as my hands were empty, I grabbed my phone and texted my sister, telling her to check up on the Rhys house when she got off shift. Somebody needed to look out for them. I wasn’t in the right frame of mind to do so.

  “She pretty?” Jack asked, peeling the black label off the front of the glass bottle.

  “Who?” I asked, confused.

  “The girl who used to be close with your sister,” he said, scratching at his chin.

  “I didn’t notice. I was busy trying to get to a funeral,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “Why the hell would you ask me that, anyway?”

  “James isn’t doing so well, had a shitty night, a shitty few nights,” he rubbed his hands over his face. “Sophie and I haven’t been…” He shook his head, his words falling short. “And now Thomas.”

  I got what he was saying. He and his wife Sophie hand their hands full with their son James, so much so that I could tell it was putting a real strain on the relationship. He was dealing with all his everyday life issues but wanting to stop for just a minute and deal with what Thomas did. I got it; I really understood. I just had nothing to say to make it any better.

  “They’re putting a new guy in already, transferred from a detective squad, somewhere in Manhattan or the Bronx maybe. I don’t remember. Heard he’s not afraid to get in the middle of shit, though,” Callie said.

  “Thomas’ grave ain’t even shoveled ov
er yet, and they’re already trying to replace him,” Jack complained, sipping again from his bottle.

  Callie shook her head and leaned in closer to us. “I’m just going to say it,” she said, eyes wide. “What the fuck happened? Why would he do it?”

  A sharp pain stabbed through my jaw from my teeth clenching so hard. I didn’t want to sit there and discuss it. I didn’t have the ability just yet to set the reality into stone. My best friend was dead, and he did it to himself.

  “Hey,” a voice came up from behind me. Sargent Max Kannon hovered behind my chair, eyes focused down on me. “We need to talk,” he rumbled.

  “There’s nothing to say. Nothing.”

  He walked around our little seating arrangement and pulled up a chair. “You have to tell me what happened that night. Dean, I need to know. Was there anything going on with him at work?”

  “Fuck, Kannon. No disrespect, but let me fucking breathe okay? You think this is easy?”

  “We all lost him, Fury.”

  “Really? He wasn’t lost. He did it himself. We didn’t take him to a bar and leave him. We didn’t go out on a warrant and watch him die a hero. He took his own life. That’s on him and me and all of us.”

  The question I needed to know is why he didn’t come to me? How did I not see? How could I have failed him like that?

  Chapter 4

  Liv

  The tips of my fingers were numb, and the smell of bleach burned into the bridge of my nose. My eyes watered, but this place still would never be clean enough. I scrubbed harder, faster.

  “Liv?”

  I hadn’t heard another voice in hours. When I looked up from the floor, the side yard door was open. Just beyond it, the sky was drained of color, not even a hint of stars or clouds to mar the blackness. I blinked back the stinging blur that welled in my eyes. Brooke Fury stood out against the darkness, filling the doorway, a shadow of confusion settled over her face. “Whoa. That’s a lot of bleach you got going on there.”