by Kelli Walker
Anything to get my mind off how perfect her lips looked eating my food.
I drew in a deep breath. I was here to protect Dr. Jones. To make sure she came out safe on the other side of all this. I had one threat to protect her from, and the last thing I needed was to protect her from me as well. I couldn’t become another threat to her. Because when I opened up myself to people, they always got hurt. It never ceased to fail.
And I didn’t want Charity hurt. I mean, Dr. Jones.
I didn’t want Dr. Jones hurt. That wouldn't have looked good on my professional record.
“Rocco, I don’t know where you learned how to cook, but you’re going to be doing it a lot more often to pull your weight around here. Which means you’ll be cooking a lot. Because you're a big boy, sir,” Charity said, grinning.
My eyes whipped over to her and I nodded slowly. I had no issues cooking for someone who appreciated it. Especially someone who looked as beautiful eating it as she did.
Stop it, Rocco. Damn it.
“You cooked, I’ll clean,” Charity said.
She started gathering the plates as I finished my food. I watched her movements as she threw open cabinets, placing the leftovers in containers with ease. She scraped every last ounce into those plastic tupperware containers, and watching her made me smile. She didn’t want to waste any of it, and I liked that. She leaned onto the plastic containers, snapping them into place. She opened her refrigerator and put everything away, her body moving effortlessly through the kitchen. She had on nothing but a tank top, sweatpants, and a light sweater wrapped around her shoulders. Her blonde hair was knotted from her sleep, and she still somehow managed to brighten the dark room around us.
Get a grip, Taylor.
Shit. Even the voice in my head was calling me by my last name in frustration.
I stood from my chair and took my plate over to the sink. She had run hot water in one side and filled it with bubbles, leaving the other one filled with cool water and nothing else. She reached around and took my plate from me, then I pulled a rag from around the stove handle and whipped it over my shoulder.
“No, Rocco. I’m serious. I’ve got it,” Charity said.
But I shot her a look. A look that told her she didn’t have a choice. A look that told her that she wasn’t cleaning up all of these pots and pans I had dirtied up alone. A hardened look that made her swallow before she nodded her head softly. A look she easily succumbed to.
I liked that a little too much about her.
She piled the dishes into the warm, soapy water before wiping them down. She handed them off to me and I dunked them into the cool water, then bent down and put them in the dishwasher. Our elbows kept knocking against one another, and every time we touched the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. I tried to ignore it. I tried to keep my attention on the dishes. On the way the bubbles popped immediately against the cool water as I dunked them into the sink.
But I knew Charity felt the same sensation I was feeling. Because every time we touched, she’d look over at me. And every time I caught her stare in the corner of my eye, I watched her draw in a shaking, silent breath.
“Last one,” she said.
I reached over for the dish and turned my head, and it was a grave mistake. I found her eyes studying me. I found her beautiful brown orbs swallowed up by the black pits of her pupils. My hand held onto the dish, but she didn’t release it. And I didn’t want her to. It felt as if she had snagged a hook in my gut and was continuously pulling at me. Tugging at me. Pulling me into her orbit.
And it was there I was able to study her beauty for the first time up close.
It was a raw beauty. An untouched beauty. One I’d never found in any other woman before. Her nose was slightly turned up and the smattering of freckles she had across her nose and her cheeks shone against her creamy skin. She had a small scar on her forehead. Just above her eyebrow. Probably from an accident when she was a child, judging by how faded and concealed it had naturally become. She had wispy blonde eyebrows. Almost nonexistent against her stark brown eyes. She wore no makeup. There was no pomp and circumstance to her form. Nothing but a thin piece of scrap as a tank top, sweatpants that fell baggy around her thighs, and a cardigan slipping off her shoulder.
I reached over and slid the fabric back up her shoulder, watching as goosebumps cascaded up her neck.
“Thanks,” Charity said breathlessly.
I nodded, hoping to fuck I could keep my mouth shut. Because if I opened it, I’d tell her everything on my mind. How I wanted to kiss every freckle on her cheeks. How I wanted to feel her full upper lip pressed against mine. How I wanted to press my nose along the fluttering artery in her neck and feel how my kiss sped it up.
Keep your mouth shut, Taylor.
I felt her step closer and I didn’t move. I felt my body hunching over and I didn’t stop. Her eyes grew closer. The wanton look in her eye captured the whole of my attention. I tugged the plate we each held onto, pulling her body closer to me. Forcing her to take another step forward.
To close the distance between us.
“Rocco,” she whispered.
Oh, how sweet my name sounded in the breath of her voice. I felt it coating my lips. Her curves stepped into my body, teasing my divots with the fullness and the warmth her body could provide. I hunched further. Our faces came closer. I watched her eyes flutter closed and I readied myself for the dessert I knew I could find against the pout of her lips.
My heart slammed wildly against my chest. I slipped the plate from her hand and dropped it back into the sink. I slipped my hand onto her hip, feeling the slope of her body for the first time against my palm.
I parted my lips to capture hers, and then my fucking phone rang out.
I recognized Matthew’s ringtone and instantly pulled back. I watched Charity flutter her eyes open, her cheeks red and parched with a thirst for me. I physically stepped away. I needed space. A moment to breathe. I raked my hand through my hair as she gripped her cardigan and pulled it tightly around her.
“I’ll start the dishwasher. You go get that,” she said.
I nodded at her as I turned on my feet. I pulled my ringing phone out of my pocket and strode into my bedroom. I closed the glass doors behind me, trying to put some sort of barrier between the two of us.
“Thank fuck,” I whispered.
I walked into the corner with my phone in my hand. I leaned against the wall, my eyes watching the moving shadow underneath. I watched as the shadow grew closer. Darker. Thicker. And I waited for Charity to back up. I waited for her to move away from the door before I picked up the phone.
And when I saw her retreat, I finally took Matthew’s phone call.
“What do you got for me?” I asked as I lowered my voice.
“I narrowed down the search for the truck you asked me to do this morning. And I found the truck you were looking for,” he said.
“Okay. That’s great. That’s progress.”
“The truck was reported stolen a few days ago. six, to be exact.”
“That lines up with the first letter that was dropped off at Charity’s place,” I said.
“Charity’s?”
“Dr. Jones’ place. ‘Charity’ is less of a mouthful,” I said.
Holy shit, I hoped that covered my tracks.
“I don’t care what you call her. Just making sure we’re talking about the same person. But yes, my gut feeling is that the truck is the mode of transportation for all of the deliveries to Charity’s place. Which means this shit got personal days before it clicked with us,” Matthew said.
“Which means we’re miles behind this asshole. Fuck,” I groaned.
“Don’t worry, man. Damn. I’ve been working magic all day with our tech department. The good thing about the police report is that it had the exact location from where the truck was stolen. So, I had a couple of guys in our tech department pull security footage from a traffic camera across the street.”
“
Please tell me you’ve got that asshole on camera.”
“Yes, and no. It’s black and white footage, and the man doesn't ever face the camera--.”
“Wait, did you just say ‘man’?” I asked.
“Yep. That’s the bad news. Our hunch at the fact that this was a girl was either wrong, or we’re looking at a team,” he said.
“Shit,” I hissed.
“It’s something to run with, and I know you have a hell of an eye for personally analyzing things. I’m sending the footage to your email so you can pull it up on your laptop to watch it. Let me know what you think. I’ll wait.”
I tucked the phone against my shoulder and picked up my laptop. I saw down onto the bed and placed the thing on my lap, then quickly logged in. After a few seconds, I got the video pulled up. I enhanced it as much as I could and ran it through various filters, watching it from front to back and in reverse. I studied every angle. I watched that man break into that truck over and over again. Basic technique. Nothing fancy. Pried the window down a half an inch or so before jamming a crowbar into the truck and unlatching the lock.
“Rudimentary,” I murmured.
“The break-in technique? Yeah. Not the type of techniques professional car usupers use. I’m thinking the man in the video doesn’t do this often,” Matthew said.
“He’s not very tall. He has to stand on his tiptoes to get the damn crowbar through the window. And if we go by the standard dimensions of a truck that size, he’s no more than five-seven. Possibly five-eight, if he’s wearing the right shoes.”
“He’s massive, though. That much I could tell,” he said.
“He is a brute. Give me a second,” I said.
I opened up the settings and tried to zoom in on the video as much as I could. The video was grainy, but I cleaned it up with a few filters. I studied the man himself. There wasn't enough resolution to pull his face from the reflection in the window, but there was enough resolution for me to find that scar on his shoulder blade.
“Matthew, did you see his right shoulder blade?” I asked.
“I can hardly see where the man’s hair ends on his neck, Rocco.”
“Well, the man has a scar on his right shoulder blade. I mean, it traces his shoulder blade all the way down vertically.”
“That’s a hell of a scar. I’m sure that’ll narrow down the suspect pool almost instantly.”
“Do it. And do it quickly. If this shit got personal days ago, then it completely changes the frame of this morning. When that brick came flying through the window,” I said.
“Less of a tactic to get past the guard and more of a tactic to frighten Charity.”
“Exactly. We need to speed this up and get ahead of this psycho. Otherwise, we’re all going to pay a price for it.”
“It’ll take some time, but I’ll stay up tonight. Talk in the morning?”
“I expect it. Call me sooner if you know something sooner,” I said.
“Always will, always do.”
Charity
I laid there in bed that night staring up at the ceiling. Rocco closed himself off in his room, leaving me alone in the kitchen. Alone in a room I no longer felt safe in if he wasn’t there. I slipped the last dish quickly into the dishwasher and started it up. I needed to get out of there. The electricity that charged the space was sending my mind into a frenzy.
He was so close.
Our lips had been so close.
I made my way upstairs and piled myself into bed. I didn't know what else to do or where else to be. And as I stared at the ceiling, I replayed that moment in my head. Over and over again, on a repeated loop that consumed my thoughts. The way Rocco looked at me with those beautifully stormy eyes. The way his large hand fell to my hip, almost encompassing the whole of it. The way his body gravitated to mine. The way the peaks of his muscles felt against the swell of my curves.
I would have fallen into him had it not been for that damned cell phone.
I fell asleep that night and dreamt of him. Of what would had happened if our lips had connected. I felt his hands grip my hips as he hoisted me into the air. I felt my ass come down onto the kitchen counter as the dishwasher sloshed below me. I felt the warmth of his lips pressed against mine. The sweetness of his tongue as it filled my cheeks. The fabric of his shirt caved to my fingertips as I fisted it and pulled him into me. His lips kissed down my neck. His nose nuzzled against my shoulder. The cardigan he had slid back over my shoulder was tugged off by his callused hands, ridding me of layer after layer.
Until I was naked for him and his lips were wrapped around my puckered peaks.
My eyes ripped open as a horn honked off in the distance. I drew in a deep breath, swallowing hard as my hand came up to my breast. My nipples ached to be freed. They were so engorged that they hurt. I sat up in bed and saw streams of light sliding through the curtains pulled over my window.
The wetness between my thighs made me grimace.
I made my way downstairs, looking for a way to distract myself. And as I made my way around the banister, I noticed that Rocco wasn’t at the kitchen. Nor was he at his post by the double glass doors of his room. Instead, the doors were still closed. The pounding away of keys on a keyboard clicked in my ears. I cleared my throat and walked over to the door, listening as the clacking sound grew.
Whatever he was working on, it didn’t sound like he was in a good mood.
My stomach rolled with hunger and it pulled me away from the door. Breakfast was a good idea. Surely that would pull him from his room. I opened the fridge and started grabbing everything I needed. Cheese. Eggs. Milk. Butter. The rest of the bacon. I took stock of the fridge and how bare it was getting. I’d need to go to the store soon if I was going to continue to feed us. I kicked the door closed and pulled some things from my pantry, then got to work on cooking.
I scrambled some eggs with cheese and made some cinnamon-sugar toast. On a whim, I cooked up a bit of rice and mixed up some hot sauce, sour cream, and roasted corn with it. A breakfast I had on many occasions during my travels to South America with Doctors Beyond Borders. I piled the bacon and toast and eggs and rice onto a plate, then poured Rocco a large glass of juice. I emptied out what I had left of the orange goodness before walking over to his door. I knocked with my elbow. I listened as the tapping of his keys stopped.
“I’ve got breakfast ready,” I said through the door.
But when he struck up his typing again, I felt something crack inside me.
“I’ll just leave it by the door,” I said.
I sat the plate and the glass of juice down, then walked back over to the stove. I piled my breakfast into a bowl, not caring how it looked. I grabbed the rest of the carton of apple juice and found my way upstairs, figuring space was what he needed. Or maybe even wanted.
I couldn't help but be disappointed that I didn’t get to wake up to him, though.
I had gotten used to seeing Rocco every morning. I had gotten used to coming down the stairs and seeing him standing there, his metallic stare trained on me. But maybe space was what we both needed. Maybe space was something that would rid us of whatever it was brewing between us. After all, he was here to do a job. Not get to know me. Him saving me and him protecting me wasn’t because he wanted me, or even liked me. I was because I had hired him to do so. Well, Reese had hired him. I had accepted the hiring of him. Either way, it didn’t change his purpose in my home.
I was a job. Not a fancy of his.
I set the carton of apple juice on my bedside table and crawled back into bed. The darkness of my room was comforting, despite the horrors that lay just outside my window. Until all of this shit died down, I needed to keep my distance anyway. I needed to keep my head focused on protecting myself instead of screwing around with my personal bodyguard. I picked up the remote control off my bedside table and turned on the small television I had mounted in the corner. I didn’t watch television in my room frequently. Only when I was sick.
Or cornered in you
r home because of a psychopath.
I took a bite of my cinnamon toast as the news popped up. And of course, Skylar Lane’s face was still plastered everywhere. I watched the reel of his life flow by. Pictures of him as a child. Of his mother cradling him close. Of him smiling in between the two parents he eventually killed in cold, calculated blood. There were pictures of him from high school. His graduation photo. Testimonies of the type of boy he was from former teachers and classmates.
Then, the news segment took a turn I didn’t expect.
“Of the twenty-two women whose lives Skylar Lane took, the only body that has been discovered--other than his family’s remains--is the body of Andrea McDermott.”
I watched the face of a young woman flash on the screen. Beautiful red hair, cut short. Like a pixie. Multiple piercings in her ears. A flashy choker around her neck. Smooth skin that seemed unmarred by the scars of life.
But her eyes.
She had these piercing gray eyes.
The newscaster continued. “No one knows why Andrea McDermott’s body is the only one that has been found. To this day, she is the only victim recovered after the heinous and brutal attack on her life. And when her body washed ashore just off the coast, authorities split the coastline into sections and enlisted the help of McDermott’s cousin, Rocco Taylor. Owner and operator of the infamous personal security company, TaylorMade, LLC.”
My spoon dropped into my bowl as my jaw dropped wide open. His face popped up, stoic and stone cold. But those eyes. Those same piercing gray eyes the two of them shared.
“Cousin?” I asked.
My eyes whipped over to my bedroom door as the news segment continued on. But, I was no longer paying attention to it. The world felt as if it had stopped. As if someone had pressed the large red ‘halt’ button and brought everything to a frozen standstill. I set my bowl in my lap. I swallowed the food I was chewing on as my eyes danced along my closed door. One of the two barriers separating me from Rocco.