by Dale Mayer
She hadn’t caught sight of the license plate. For that matter, she couldn’t tell if the biker had been male or a female. The frame had been long and lanky, but that meant nothing. There had been a decent set of shoulders on him/her. The rider had worn a helmet and a set of leathers. The sex could easily be disguised. Damn. She couldn’t still the panic over her race to the shop, so afraid she’d find him dead on the floor.
Inside the house, the shaking got worse. She looked down at her toes to see them turning grayish blue. Shock.
Oh God. What if the shooter had succeeded? Had the shooter seen Morgan at her house? Maybe that had been the first attack on him and this one the second. Maybe this had nothing to do with her.
It made more sense. She was a tattoo artist. She drew dragons and flowers and immortalized people on skin for crying out loud. She didn’t deal with shooters, killers, or psychos. Well maybe…there were always a few oddballs in and out of the shop. But not this odd.
Then again, she couldn’t help but think of all the drive-by shootings in neighboring counties. It wasn’t so hard to believe something like that was happening here, right?
But it just didn’t seem likely. This was a small town. A tourist town. People came here to enjoy the weather, swim in the lake, and taste the local wines. Not to get involved in shootings.
Upstairs in her room, she realized she still had a problem. No clothes.
She walked into Morgan’s bedroom and stopped. A huge bed. Chocolate brown walls. Lots of closet space but only a few clothes. She opened a drawer to find underwear and socks neatly laid out. Seeing that helped her to realize another side of him. He actually kept his laundry neat and tidy. She cast her mind back, but all the clothes that she remembered where the ones they had been tossing to the floor in their panic to get at each other. She didn’t remember them caring beyond that.
The next drawer down had T-shirts. Perfect. She pulled out a simple black one and dropped it, with some difficulty, over her head. It fell to her hips. Better. But not enough. She opened the top drawer and grabbed a pair of warm socks. Her feet were cold and now that the shock was wearing off, she realized her shoulder was killing her. Getting the socks on proved to be almost too much.
But she made it. Now for something to cover her lower half. Dirty jeans it was going to be. She had nothing else. Hating to, but realizing that it was better than nothing, she walked back to her bedroom and struggled into her pants.
She lay on the bed afterwards, exhausted. The thought of going back to sleep appealed at this point, but the blood still pumped through her veins. She was too edgy to relax.
And the thought of undressing after finally getting dressed – just too much effort.
Sitting up carefully and wincing with the pain, she walked slowly to the doorway, intent on going back downstairs, when she heard voices below.
She walked into the kitchen, hating that she was moving slower than before. Morgan took one look at her and pulled out a chair at the table. “Sit down and rest.”
She sat down and shivered. Immediately he poured a cup of coffee for her. She wrapped her hands around the hot mug and studied the cop across from her. Technically he was an Royal Canadian Mounted Police officer, but same difference where there were no city cops.
She nodded at the newcomer as Morgan made the introductions.
Constable Shawn Proctor smiled at her. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I’ve been shot,” she said in a low voice. “And now I got to witness Morgan almost go through the same fate, if not worse.”
“Did you see the shooter?” the constable asked.
She nodded. “But no details as I was watching out the upstairs window.” She quickly told him everything she’d seen. “So I’m sorry, but I can’t even say if the rider was a male or female.”
The cop took notes. Morgan hadn’t added anything to her explanation, so she didn’t know if he’d already relayed his experience or not. She turned to face him, wincing at the sharp pain on her shoulder. “Did you recognize the shooter?”
He shook his head. “No. I didn’t.” He frowned, his gaze tracking outside the kitchen window. “I also don’t know the bike.”
She wondered about that. Between them, most bikers could identify the machines they loved so well more than the women.
Still, if Morgan said that, then she believed him. He would certainly recognize the bike again.
The cop stood up, folded his notepad, and walked outside with Morgan. She watched them go but stayed behind. She felt like shit again. But the bed was too far away and she wasn’t willing to make the effort to go back upstairs. In fact, she wasn’t sure she was strong enough.
Lowering her head to her arms, she closed her eyes and rested. Waiting for Morgan to return. Again.
*
Morgan walked outside, Constable. Proctor at his side. “You think they are related, don’t you?”
“Don’t you? Two drive-by shootings. One at her place and one at yours? Of course I think they are related.” He walked toward his cruiser. “The real question is, are the shootings related to the man in the morgue.”
Morgan watched the cop walk away. He didn’t know what to do. For the first time in his life, he didn’t know how to react. Anger was a given. Fear was evident, even if he’d stuffed it down deep inside. And so was panic. If the shooter had taken him out, would he have gone after Jazz next? Did he know Jazz was here? Had Morgan been the intended target? He’d mentioned the possibility to the cop, and they’d batted the idea around, but with no leads and no answers, that was about all they could do.
He returned to the kitchen to find Jazz slumped at the table, her eyes closed. Damn. She’d raced to the garage in her underwear, her breasts barely contained in the thin cami and her lacy boy undies not hiding a damn thing. He’d wanted to toss her on the bench beside him, but she’d needed him and in a different way, he’d needed her.
It warmed his heart to see her so concerned for his safety.
Now he didn’t know what to do. He wanted to pick her up and drive her away. Find another town to live in. Start over again somewhere new. He had some money. She could get a job at any tattoo parlor. But for the first time, they’d both put down roots. Here.
And he didn’t want to be chased away.
He refused to. This was his home. If this asshole wanted war…had brought it to his doorstep… then war he was going to get.
But first he had an angel that needed some attention. He stepped up behind her.
“I’m not asleep,” she whispered. “Honest.”
“Maybe you aren’t, but I think you probably should be.”
“It’s the painkillers,” she murmured as he picked her up and carried her to the bed. “They always knock me out.”
He remembered a couple of times when that had happened before. And she was right, drugs of any kind appeared to take the stuffing right out of her. “It’s also shock. And fear.”
She didn’t answer.
No wonder. She’d fallen asleep.
He lay her down in the bed, removed her jeans, and covered her up, then stood over her, watching her chest rise and fall in slow motion. With a start, he realized he’d taken her to his bed, not hers.
Chapter 12
Jazz woke in a hot sweat, uncomfortable and in pain. She cried out as she tried to roll over and barely stopped herself from sobbing as she tried to prop herself up on an elbow.
Strong arms immediately wrapped around her and tumbled her down against a warm chest.
She lay confused for a moment. “Morgan?”
“Yes,” he whispered. “Go to sleep.”
“I can’t.” She tried to pull out of his embrace, but it hurt too much. She fell back, whimpering. “The pain… I need a pill.”
“I’ll get your pills.” He shifted her until she was sitting in the middle of the huge bed. Confused, she stared at Morgan’s bedroom. How had she come to be here? She’ d gone to bed in her own bed, hadn’t she? Not that she remem
bered. She was wearing his T-shirt. But not jeans. She kicked the covers back. She smiled at the socks.
She shifted to her side of the bed and yawned. There was a light from the en-suite. She struggled off the bed. After using the facilities, she washed her hands, trying to ignore the mass of hair flying wildly around her head and the peaked look to her face. The bedroom was still empty when she returned to the huge bed.
She still didn’t understand how she got here, but…it felt wonderful. Safe.
And that was huge right now. Bullets had ripped through her world twice in the last twenty-four hours. Those horrible popping sounds were unforgettable.
Considering the man in the morgue had been shot, it wasn’t hard to consider the events were related. Although different guns had been used.
Morgan returned with her prescription pills and a small glass of water. She accepted both gratefully and washed it down with the rest of the water, then handed back the glass and lay down again.
He disappeared into the bathroom. By the time he returned, she was curled up and feeling much better.
She waited for him to get into bed and turn off the lights.
When the room was dark and the bed rippled as he adjusted his weight, she tensed. Why? Because she didn’t want him to touch her? Or because she did?
He wrapped an arm around her waist and gently tugged her back against him. “Sleep,” he whispered into her ear. “Just sleep.”
She closed her eyes, a smile on her face, and slept.
It was the heat that woke her again hours later. Heat that licked the bottom of her toes and raced up her calves to center at the very heart of her. She sighed as a long caressing stroke covered her thighs to her knees and back up again. Long caresses that spoke more than of just sex but of longing. Of love. Of missing her.
She sank deeper into the sensation. Loving the heat. Needing the joy that came with the sensations. It felt so good. So familiar. So right.
There was no sense of pressure. No demand. Just a gentle bliss in being here like this. She closed her eyes, letting herself believe in the fantasy for a moment. Surely it couldn’t hurt.
“How are you feeling?” Morgan’s deep dark voice rolled over her, offering her the caring and tenderness she desperately wanted.
“Better,” she murmured, not wanting to break the spell. She didn’t want to move. She didn’t want to do anything to break the intimacy.
Foolish. Fantasy. But so lovely to indulge – at least for a moment.
His long fingers moved up to her ribs and gently massaged the muscles she hadn’t been aware were sore until he worked them.
He dug a little deep on one spot, making her gasp. His fingers stilled. She heard his breath suck in then, a whisper, “Sorry.”
She wanted to shrug, but so not a good idea.
He shifted away. And she damned herself for having reacted. It hadn’t hurt as much as the shock of having the sore muscles touched in any way. At the same time, she realized he was doing the right thing.
The blanket was lifted slightly and her t-shirt – his oversized t-shirt – was raised enough he could look at her back. Relieved he hadn’t left the warm bed, she rolled over on her stomach, giving him better access.
Gently, he inspected the bandages.
For the longest time she lay there, knowing he was studying her back and wondering what he was seeing.
And felt something so soft and gentle that it took a moment for her to identify what it was. Then he did it again. A little harder. His third kiss dropped to the left of her bandage and the next one just below.
She wasn’t going to cry, but there was something about the tenderness of his touch. The loving way he was kissing her owie that made her eyes burn with the pain of broken dreams and broken hopes of what could have been.
“I’m so sorry you got hurt,” he said and dropped a kiss on her ribs.
“It’s not your fault.” But she didn’t roll over. She couldn’t. She wanted what he had to give, even knowing it wasn’t going to be enough.
A single tear rolled down her cheek.
He kissed her again, this time on her shoulder at the edge of the bandage, then high up on her arm and working his way down to her hand.
She loved each and every one. She needed them all. To preserve for later when he was gone.
He shifted again, her body rocking gently with his movements. He wrapped an arm around her waist and tugged her back against him. His long legs curled up under her bent knees, spoon-style. His arm over her waist slid up and gently covered her hand with his. Her fingers, reading her heart correctly, interlocked with his fingers.
He squeezed gently, letting his head come to rest beside hers.
They lay wrapped up for several long moments, neither making a move to break the gentle truce that they’d somehow come to. A gentle understanding of…of what?
Nothing in a way. Maybe it was more rejoicing in having survived the shootings. The trauma. The emotional shocks that had rocked their system. So much had happened.
So much could still happen. Their shooter might try again. They might not survive. They might part ways today and never see each other again.
Did she want that? Yesterday when he’d first called, that had been exactly what she’d wanted. Now, after the first attack and the second where she’d come close to losing him too, her anger had faded to a dark gray place in the back of her mind where the old hurts dwelled. She’d need to look at them again some time. Get some answers from him, if she wanted to reopen old wounds. Only they had enough current ones to deal with now.
Morgan shifted again, lifting his head and moving to disengage his fingers.
She wouldn’t let him go.
She felt his surprise. His stilled motion before he relaxed back down to the same position, cuddling her close.
Because that was the bare truth, right or wrong. And tomorrow could be a different story, but right now, she didn’t want to let him go. Didn’t want to have him slide away from her and have a cold distance grow between them. If she did nothing, closeness might develop.
And it might not.
Right now, she had an opportunity to cross a divide – if she was willing to accept the consequences.
He murmured against her ear, “Are you okay?”
She gave a tiny shrug.
He rolled her over slightly so he could see her face, his gaze deep and dark and so damn sexy. She sighed and her doubts settled deep inside. She smiled up at him, “I’m okay.”
He searched her gaze, his own warming and shifting so the light inside deepened and shone brighter. She watched the sexual awareness shift, a little light of hope surrounding it, and heat warmed up the mix.
Yeah, she was okay. Now.
*
Morgan hadn’t intended on this becoming a sexual interlude, knowing she was hurt, that they had a history of pain, that she was a long ways from being ready…he’d chosen to offer comfort and friendship. To let her know he was here.
But what he was reading in her eyes, seeing in her body as it curled toward him…he was more than ready. Then he’d always been with her. She’d been the yin to his yang. He’d no idea how the hell it had all gone so wrong, but right now, he’d been given a gift.
And he knew it.
He also knew there was no way he was going to screw this up.
This was his arena. He knew what made her hot. What made her cry out in joy and what could send her crashing to the shores of completion. And he was going to make sure that she didn’t regret this right now.
He lowered his head, his kiss a promise, a benediction, a murmur of apology for all that had gone wrong. He was responsible and he couldn’t go back in time and fix it. But this was here and now.
And he was so damn grateful.
His lips were gentle.
Hers were not.
She was hot and greedy. As if the dam had broken and she wanted as much as he did. He’d always been a morning person, loving the slow building heat and sleep
-tousled murmurs she’d make. Anything she did made his blood boil, but knowing she was ready and hot, waiting for him right now, well, his erection nudged her thigh insistently.
She let her hand drift down to reach between them and grasp him, and he knew he was going to be in trouble. She wanted satisfaction now and he wanted slow mo.
This was his time to enjoy her, and he’d be damned if she’d take that away from him by rushing through this.
He reached down and lifted her hand away from their entwined bodies. She murmured a slight protest, but it wasn’t one of pain so he ignored it. Her skin was so soft. Her scent so damn female. He burrowed between her breasts for a moment, overcome with emotion, then feasted on the bounty before him. He laved one breast completely, finally taking the nipple into his mouth and tugging on it in long firm movements. She shuddered beneath him, shifting and twisting. He loved the tiny mewling sounds coming out of her mouth.
The second plump breast awaited, and he’d no intention of shortchanging this one.
Taking his time, he renewed his faulty memory with her body and her scent, loving her gasp when he ran a tongue across her ribs.
Loving her shiver when he slid his hand down to rest on her hip. The bone so fine, yet strong as it rose above her creamy skin. God, he loved her body. She was lean and taut and so damn soft. She was skinnier now than she’d been before though. He dropped a kiss on her hipbone that appeared slightly more gaunt than last time. Another reminder that she hadn’t had an easy year. Neither of them had. He deserved it. She didn’t.
He lifted up and away to look down at her long sleek legs and caressed the rounded curve of her thighs. He sighed happily. She was glorious. He’d had many women in his life, and none could compare. He’d be content to worship at this altar for the rest of his life. If she’d have him. With that thought uppermost in his mind, he leaned over and drew kisses down the front of her thigh, stopping at her knee to pay special attention to the round curve then down the delicious calf muscle, with a smile he removed his socks from her feet, and continued on to her delicate foot. Narrow and fine-boned, they were nevertheless strong and agile. He’d seen her play sports with friends and snowboard down a mountain. He knew just how much whipcord strength that lean body of hers contained. And he admired each and every bit of it. She gave a broken laugh and tried to pull her foot out of his hand when he licked the bottom of her foot from the heel to the toe like a favorite ice cream cone.