She was completely bent.
She needed a forty-eight-hour hold to be evaluated before she hurt someone. With her level of anger toward them, the school didn't seem like they were altogether safe with her cracked, and running around with a gun.
Smith reached for the spare burner he kept on him, punching in the first two digit of 9-1-1, planning to give an anonymous tip about a crazy woman shooting off her gun.
But even as he moved his finger to hit dial, a shot rang out, deafening in the still night air, making both of us jolt slightly, turning back, dread filling our stomachs.
There was nothing else.
No other sounds.
Smith moved first, turning on his heel, and heading back at a dead run to the back of the house. "Shit," he hissed, exhaling.
"Should we have an ambulance sent?" I asked, reaching for my phone. A good percent of people who took a gun to themselves didn't end up meeting their graves. They simply had chunks taken out of their faces or heads, and, usually, a newfound appreciation of life.
"She swallowed it," Smith said, tucking his phone away. "Her fucking brain was all over the doll heads," he added, making me cringe at the visual as we quickly made our way out of the side street, not wanting anyone who heard the bullets to be able to name us.
"How did it... oh, man," Kai greeted, waiting beside Jules's desk for us even though I asked him to keep Aven occupied for a few hours.
"She took herself out of the equation," I informed him, exhaling hard. What a fucking week. Two people dead. One woman having to live with the weight of that, even though none of it was her fault.
This did mean, though, that it was over for her.
In the permanent way.
She could go back to her life, no fears of any consequences, nothing that could lead back to her.
The cops would find the body.
A clear-cut suicide, there would be no digging around, no need for us to worry about some rogue diary entry about the girl her brother was stalking.
It was done.
Her problem was fixed.
"You gotta go tell her," Kai said, watching me. "She knew something was up and wasn't happy about being handled with kid gloves."
"Go on," Smith said, nodding. "I'll fill in everyone. And get Jules on the file clean-up when she gets back first thing in the morning."
I nodded at him, making my way down the hall, then heading up to the top floor.
And as I made my way down the hall to her room, I realized something that stopped me in my tracks.
If her problem was fixed, then she was done here, she was done with me.
She would go back to her life.
I would go back to mine.
And that was the end of it.
There was no accounting for the strange gut-punch sensation I felt at that realization.
It was almost enough to make me want to turn away, wait another day or two to tell her.
But I couldn't do that.
I owed it to her to give her the information now, not let her worry another day.
And, well, I was a fucking professional; this was part of the job. This was how it worked; I wrapped up one case so I could move on to the other.
Simple as that.
And yet, for the first time, it felt anything but simple.
ELEVEN
Aven
The knock woke me up.
Groggy, a little sleep-confused, I looked at my phone, not quite able to tell if it said it was twelve at night, or twelve in the afternoon.
The knock sounded again, making me slow-blink the sleep out of my eyes.
"I want a rematch," I called out, figuring it was Fenway.
But then the door pressed open, making me realize I had forgotten to lock it. I was a bit too comfortable in this place it seemed.
It wasn't Fenway.
No.
Quin was standing in my doorway, the hall light behind him casting his body in shadow like some dark, avenging angel.
"Rematch?" he asked, reaching to the wall to flick on the light, making me blink hard against the harsh change.
It wasn't until his eyes trailed down that I realized I must have been tossing in my sleep, because the sheets were twisted up around my calves, leaving my thighs - right up to the line of my panties - exposed.
My somewhat damp hair was around my shoulders, the material of my tee underneath wet and cool, making a shiver course through me.
"Ah, yeah. Fenway beat me at Monopoly four times," I admitted, scrunching up my nose, still a little bitter about it.
To that, a small chuckle rolled through him as he moved inside, closing the door. "If it is any consolation, he sucks at poker. Loses his shirt every time."
"I'll keep that in mind," I said as he kept advancing, seeming to be coming toward the bed to sit down.
He looked exhausted.
Bone-deep tired.
The kind of sleep-deprived that said when he crashed, he was going to crash hard.
I pulled my knees to my chest, making some room for him.
"Is everything okay?" I asked, watching as he sat, looking off at the wall as he raked a hand down the scruff on his face.
"Depends on your definition of okay," he mused, turning over his shoulder to look at me, his face unreadable, making me realize he was right; I would never beat him in a card game.
My leg shifted, my toes sliding into his thigh, making his gaze go there for a minute before his head rose. "We found the sister's house."
"And you went there," I guessed.
"We were planning on talking to her. Threatening her to stay away at worst."
"But?" I asked, stomach clenching.
"Both of them seemed to be dealing with some long-established mental health issues. I think the sister has been on a downward spiral for months. When we got there, she was ranting, walking around waving a gun."
"Oh, God... you didn't have to--" I trailed off, not able to force the words out.
"No, babe," he said, reaching out, putting a hand on my bare knee. This moment was serious, gravely so. I shouldn't have felt anything, certainly not a spark that started at the contact and shot upward between my legs, making my thighs press together as my sex tightened hard. "We actually went in to talk her down. In our business, keeping the body counts low is usually a pretty high priority."
"Does she know that..."
"No," he cut me off, shaking his head, giving my knee a squeeze that was meant to be reassuring, but my confused body decided to interpret it differently. "Honestly, she was so fucked, Aven. I don't think she even really considered who we were. Just ranted and raved. Then shot at me, and kicked us out."
"She shot at you?" I shrieked, scooting forward toward him, looking for, well, bullet wounds, I guess.
When did my boring little life start involving looking for bleeding, gaping wounds in the bodies of gorgeous men?
"She missed," he said, but there was a bit of an edge to his words that added Just barely to his sentence. He had almost gotten shot because of me. "But that was the final straw. You can't reason with crazy. We were going to call the cops in, and have her committed. No one was going to believe her ramblings anyway."
"Okay," I said, taking a breath, feeling myself relax slightly. That wasn't so bad. I mean, if she was off her rocker, it was better for her to be with licensed professionals who would know how to handle her.
"We didn't get a chance," he told me, shrugging his shoulder. "We were halfway down the street, and we heard the gunshot."
"No," I said, shaking my head, not wanting to accept that, not wanting another body on my conscience.
"This wasn't your fault, babe. Both of these people had lifelong mental health issues. You can't keep people in a pressure cooker like that. They eventually blow if they can't find the right help. These people, unfortunately, couldn't. It has nothing to do with you."
"I killed him," I insisted, it being the first time I had said it aloud. It tasted bitter and metallic on my t
ongue. Lemon and pennies. A combination that made my stomach twist painfully.
"He was going to rape you. And possibly kill you as well, Aven. I don't give a fuck what some bullshit law says. When someone means you bodily harm, you have a God-given right to protect yourself by any means necessary. Case fucking closed. You did what you had to. It sucks that you had to. And the only reason you had to is that this guy was warped in the head, and didn't get the right help for it."
My gaze lowered, trying to hide the fact that I couldn't quite agree with him the way he wanted me to, the way a lifetime of working in a shady business allowed him to think.
I didn't disagree that the man was crazy.
I obviously didn't blame myself for what he had done.
But I couldn't shake the guilty sensation that came over me in waves here and there. For him. And, now, for her too, I guess.
"Hey," Quin said, voice low, almost soothing, as his hands moved, snagging me under the knees, and dragging me forward until my legs draped over his, until I was within reach. His arms moved around me slowly, dragging me against his chest, his cheek coming down on the top of my chin. "It will get better," he assured me.
"When?" I asked, not even pretending that I wasn't melting into him. I wouldn't even try. It felt too good to have his strong arms around me, his solid chest against me, his warm breath on the top of my head.
"Don't know, babe," he said, his hand dropping from where it had been wrapped around my arm, moving to stroke gently down my thigh to my knee, then back again. Soft, sweet. Not expectant. Not demanding. Just a touch. Innocent, even. "But someday, it won't be the first thing you think of. And then it won't be the tenth thing you think of. And then you will go days, weeks, without thinking about it. Life comes at you fast. Once it does, this will be nothing but a spare thought in that vicious loop in your head in low moments. Nothing more. It won't be like this for long."
"Promise?" I asked, needier than I ever had been before, angling my head up to look at him, to search for a lie in his words.
"I promise."
And there was no lie.
And I somehow believed him.
"Okay," I heard myself whisper, the pressure in my chest too tight to manage anything stronger as my body seemed to shift without me telling it to, knowing its own mind, bringing me along for the ride as I scooted up further, half on his lap, allowing my knee to find the mattress on his side, then my other knee to find it on his opposite side.
"Aven..." he tried, but his voice was already going rough; his eyes heated.
My hips sank down onto his lap as my hands found a new home at his shoulders, seeming poised there, waiting for permission, a sign that he was along for this as well, that he had been struggling with it too, that this was going to happen whether it was logical or not.
His arms hesitated, weighted down at his sides for a long moment before they rose, his strong hands sliding across my hips, then down my back, arms crossing around my ass, dragging me closer.
"Your lip is busted," he said, voice dipped in regret.
My lip was the last thing on my mind. He could break it back open for all I cared, so long as the impossible pressure on my lower stomach could be eased, the fluttering in my chest justified.
My head angled up, my hands sliding to the back of his head, pulling him closer, sealing my lips to his gently, sweetly, the only kind of kiss my lip would allow.
And as soon as I felt the contact, I knew that it was enough. It warmed, sizzled, moved down my jaw, throat, chest, into my belly where it settled with a warm, swirling sensation you could get drunk off of, could get addicted to.
His tongue moved out, teasing over the seam of my lips for a second, seeking entrance, which I allowed on a small sigh, my head falling back, my breasts pressing harder into his chest, the nipples hardening, the weight of them somehow feeling like it was increasing.
His tongue slid to mine, the contact making my hips jerk, grinding down on him, letting me feel the proof that his need was as pressing as my own, his hard cock straining against the confines of his pants, pressing into the material of my panties, already wet with need.
On a needy whimper, my hips shifted away, then ground down into him again, needing the friction, needing the sweet promise of release.
His hand slid down, fingers digging into the soft flesh of my ass, dragging me closer, making his cock slide upward, pressing into my clit with each pass.
"Quin," I whimpered against his lips, feeling him pull away, but only so he could lower his head down, running his lips down the side of my neck, making a shudder course through my system as I felt the tip of his tongue tease over the sensitive skin, as his stubble scraped in its wake, a combination that drove me deeper into the need, until it felt like a clawing thing, like a gripping sensation across my stomach and lower. "Please," I begged, hands sliding from his shoulders, down over his chest, his stomach, snagging the hem of his tee, and trying to drag it up.
He moved back, reaching for the back of his shirt, helping me drag it off, hissing out his breath as my greedy fingers moved over his chest, then between the deep ridges of his abdominal muscles, feeling them twitch slightly under my touch, sending another shot of desire to my core, finding it almost unbearably hot to know I could affect him even a little bit like he affected me.
His hands slid around my sides, then down my back, reaching until he grabbed the bottom of my tee.
"Arms up, babe," he demanded, voice all smoke and gravel in his desire, a sound I knew I would hear in my dreams every night for the rest of my life.
My arms felt weighted, lifting too slowly until they were straight in the air.
I expected his hands to be as greedy as mine, to grab at the fabric, and drag it up impatiently.
But somehow, in the heat of the moment, he found patience, inching the fabric up, eyes taking in each inch of skin as it got exposed, like I was a present worth savoring the unwrapping of, like each sliver of me was worthy of his utmost attention.
The tee slid up over my belly, across my nipples, then finally up my arms, discarded carelessly to the floor at the side of the bed.
"Fuck," he growled, shaking his head as his eyes moved down, drinking me in.
His fingers whispered up my sides, tickling over my ribs, then trailing a path inward, the tips of his fingers teasing over the soft undersides of my breasts before his wide palms closed over the swells completely, fingers curling, cupping, claiming my skin.
I felt that way too, claimed.
In that moment, I was as fully his as he was mine.
If only for the moment.
His fingers shifted to the sides, allowing his thumbs to stroke across the hardened buds of my nipples, working them in soft circles until they strained so hard that the tightness was painful.
Then and only then did his head dip as he arched me back slightly so his lips could close around one of the peaks, sucking it deep, rolling his tongue around it until I was whimpering, until my hips were a shameless, insistent rhythm against his cock.
His mouth shifted, creating the same torment to my other nipple as the pressure seemed to settle in deep, twisting, tightening, threatening to explode, to leave me in pieces afterward.
"Quin, please," I begged, pushing against his chest, allowing room for my hands to slide down his stomach, and find the button and zip to his slacks, working them with clumsy fingers, frustratingly getting the material snagged for a second before it finally pulled free.
My hand slid inside, palm closing over the head of his cock over his boxer briefs, a bead of wetness there that made my sex clench hard.
My fingers moved upward, trying to grab for the waistband of his briefs, wanting to drag them down, free him, let me finally feel him slide inside me, put an end to the twisting torment inside.
"Wait, baby," he said, voice deeper even than a moment before as his hands sank into my hips, pushing, sliding me off his lap and to the side on the bed.
I moved to sit up, to try to rea
ch for his pants and briefs as he twisted to kneel down by my thighs. But his hand pressed into my lower belly, keeping me still, urging me to stay put.
And with the hunger I saw in his eyes as his hands went for the small swatch of silky fabric that was covering me, I knew better than to fight something like what he had planned.
The material slid down my thighs, calves, off my ankles, just a split second before his hands pressed into my inner thighs, spreading them wide on the bed, and his body lowered.
His tongue slid up my slick cleft. A tremble passed through my whole body as his lips closed around my clit, sucking hard, making me sure I was going to come right then and there, before pulling back, allowing his tongue to trace across the sensitive point, driving me upward quickly.
My fingers curled into the rough cotton sheets as my hips bucked up slightly into his mouth, as his fingers left my thigh and moved between, pressing against my pussy for a long moment before sliding inside, thrusting lazily, offering the friction I needed more than I needed my next breath.
"No," I whined, slamming my hand down on the back of his neck when he pulled away, trying to hold him where I needed him, begging for an end to the torment.
"Shh," he said, moving to press up, hands sliding down to the waistbands of his pants and boxer briefs, taking all my objections away at the idea of getting to see him gloriously naked, to feel his body pressed to mine, sliding into mine.
He moved off the side of the bed, snagging his wallet out of his pants before discarding them, reaching inside for a condom as my eyes raked over him, taking in every hard line of muscle, the straining, hard presence of his cock, promising fulfillment.
His hand moved down, stroking himself once before making short work of protecting us, then sitting off the side of the bed, reaching out for my hip, "Come here," he demanded softly, helping me up, pulling me until I was straddling him once again. "Take me in," he demanded, fingers sliding down my back, digging into my ass slightly, pulling my body upward so I could shift forward, and let his cock slide down my cleft until I felt it pressing against the entrance to my body.
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