Cut So Deep: A dark second chance romance (Dark and Deep Book 1)

by Jax Colt

  I set up the voice recorder on the table between us, and start gently probing her to go through the events of the night from start to finish.

  We talk about the reasons for the New York vacation, and why they both needed it so badly. Carrie had forced April to take a break from work at the vet clinic, and they’d set off with plans for a girl’s weekend with rooms in a hotel.

  “We even booked massages,” she says, scoffing at the extravagance.

  This woman is not used to having a lot of money at her disposal, and I see how big a deal the trip is. Carrie tells me that April hasn’t been coping with the death of her parents, and that she saw the accident footage before her friend was even aware of their deaths.

  We order another round of coffee, and she seems more comfortable here than she did at the station. I assume it’s because I shared my story last night. It may have been a calculated move, but I also wanted to confide in her. I’ve wanted to for years, so I don’t feel it’s manipulation. I’m only trying to help her, like old friends and police officers are supposed to.

  Next, we run through the restaurants and bars the girls visited that night. The alcoholic in me feels a small twinge of jealousy as she talks about the tequila shots and the dancing. There’s something so attractive about heading out on the town to cut loose. Yes, it’s an escape, and admittedly I don’t use those to deal with life anymore, but I sort of wish I could.

  Unfortunately, much like Robert Downey Junior in Iron Man, my first drink always seems to bring on twenty more and a set of handcuffs. I can’t do that shit these days. First of all, my liver couldn’t take it, but secondly, Lieutenant Jacobs would have me on probation so fucking fast my head would spin. I’m glad Jacobs knows my history. It’s good to have an emergency handbrake, as I can’t afford to get fired ever again.

  We talk through the attack, and that’s when Carrie starts to cry again. She chokes up as she describes the guy beating April around the head with the gun. Tears run steadily down her face as she explains the burns on his hands, and the way he grabbed at April’s exposed breast. I ask my questions as sensitively as I can, but she seems ashamed of what happened, and apologizes more than once that she couldn’t stop them from taking her. I tell her it’s not her fault, but she won’t be swayed, and this is where I sense a window of truth start to open up.

  Changing the subject a little, I bring up the concept of fault, and ask her to estimate the odds of one smallish woman overpowering that many big men. She agrees that even with training, it’s not a realistic expectation.

  “It’s more than that, though,” she says. “I was supposed to be looking out for April. She didn’t even want to go to Caliber, but I kind of made her come with me. Who doesn’t want free drinks and VIP access to a club like that?” I laugh because I agree, and her humor seems to diffuse the tension.

  “So, you think that April actually didn’t want to see her uncle? Or was it just that she didn’t want to seem like she was taking advantage?” We haven’t really talked about Jessup yet, but I can sense we’re getting somewhere, so I don’t change my tone or the subject.

  “Jessup was weird. April’s mom and dad didn’t like him much, and they never had him over for family dinners. I didn’t even meet him until the funeral. Anyway, April was pretty mixed up about it, but she’s always been independent, so when he started offering to help her fix up the house, and gave her money for food, it made her uncomfortable. It was like he decided to make himself her godfather or something.”

  I push her a little further. “Well, that sounds like pretty normal behavior for an uncle of an only child who’s lost her parents.”

  “I totally agree,” she says, looking relieved. “I thought she was overreacting. That’s why I made her come to New York with me. She was such a worrier, even when someone was trying to help her.” Carrie sobs again. “I had no idea about Jessup’s business, but April must have known. That has to be the reason she didn’t want to be around him. And here I am telling her to chill out so I can save a little money on champagne cocktails.” The look on her face is deeply guilty, and I feel for her pain. I decide I’ve learned enough for this interview, and switch off the recorder that sits between us.

  She’s still crying quietly, so I reassure her that it wasn’t her fault. “You knew nothing, Carrie. There’s no way you can take the blame for this. The attack could have been random, but surely it’s someone trying to send a message to Jessup, and that’s not your fault. You were just unlucky enough to be there at the time.”

  Elbows up on the table, she covers her face with her hands. I tell her to scoot across, and I slide in to the booth next to her. She just needs a hug from an old friend right now, so I pull her toward me. I let her cry, and I wait, not letting go. Eventually it feels right to pull away, and I examine her face.

  Tearstained and flushed, she still looks beautiful despite the anguish in her eyes. I don’t have a tissue, so I wipe a tear from her cheek with my thumb. She looks up at me and tilts her chin. I gently cup her neck above the bruises, letting my thumb stray to clear another tear from those plump lips. As the look in her eyes intensifies, I lean in and kiss her gently.

  I feel her body sway into me, and a soft moan in her throat has me pulling her onto my lap. She turns her body at the waist and for the first time, we’re face to face at the same height. The café is now empty, but I almost wouldn’t care if it wasn’t. This has been years in the making, so I take my time, sampling her mouth and her lips, tasting her tongue against mine. I pull her into me and can’t help the groan that echoes in my throat.

  God, she’s beautiful. I deepen the kiss and she leans in, rubbing her body against me. I’m lost in the sway as she presses up against me, our mouths moving together, the heat building in my chest and stomach.

  Her hands roam my neck and when she playfully nibbles at my bottom lip, my hips thrust of their own accord, pressing into her softness. Her nipples are hard through the thin cotton top, and I know I’m going to lose my mind in a second. I place one hand on her breastbone at the center of her cleavage, snaking the other up her back, pulling her down against my hard cock.

  She tips back her head, and I nibble up behind her earlobe, breathing into her neck, my tongue darting and licking.

  “We should stop,” I say, not really meaning it.

  “I know,” she says, but it’s not until the barista interrupts us that she pulls away from me. Flushed and bright-eyed she slides off my lap and back onto her butt with a plop.

  We look at each other for a second in shock. I can’t believe I just did that. Shit, I need to cool off. She must be having similar thoughts because she’s breathing heavily when she says, “Umm, I think I need some time alone.”

  I have to pick something up at the station anyway, so I tell her I’ll drop her off at home on the way. I don’t know what to say except goodbye when she hops out of the car, and my thoughts are consumed by her as I watch her hurry safely into the building.

  20

  Carrie

  Oh my god. Oh my god. That was the hottest thing ever. Now that he’s driven off, I melt, slumping against the back of the apartment door with a grin on my face. I can’t believe I did that. It’s about frigging time something happened between us. I am sweating. I was not expecting that to happen.

  Okay, I need a glass of water. The fridge is full of chilled bottles, so I grab one and lean back against the counter. I know Blake’s sister and nephew will be home soon, so I prepare the story we’ve planned. Suddenly, the old friends line has so much more significance, and I feel myself blush. Focusing on the door of the fridge, I see Blake’s roster sitting under a frog magnet. I wonder what he’s doing now, and a thrill of pleasure runs through me as my body remembers his hand between my breasts.

  The man is shameless, and I like it. I scan along to today’s date, and then my stomach clenches in a different way. I see that he’s not even supposed to be going to work. Today is blocked out as a scheduled evening off, and there’s e
ven a note about cooking. This is his day off, and instead of spending it with me he’s decided to go to work?

  He’s supposed to be looking after me. This is his job, but for some reason he decided to bail. Humiliation washes over me. Of course he’s gone. After all these years, we kiss and then he bolts. I don’t know what to think. One moment he’s all over me, the next he disappears. I feel the shame burn in my cheeks. He must have realized what a tragic mistake it was. There’s no other explanation. I’m slumped against the counter. I feel totally rejected and decide to just lie down upstairs.

  Then I hear the sound of the key in the lock and a little kid chatting excitedly.

  “So, is Carrie going to be Uncle Blake’s girlfriend?” He sounds enthralled with the idea, and I can’t hold back a laugh, especially considering what’s just happened between us.

  The voice is quickly matched to the face of a small enthusiastic boy who’s dragging his mother in tow. This must be Brenda and George. I paste a smile on my face, and make sure they see me before I say hi. The last thing I want is to scare them, but it looks like Brenda has been prepared to expect me.

  “Carrie, hi!”

  She looks nothing like the girl she was in high school. I didn’t really know her back then, but she acts like she knows me now, coming straight over and wrapping her arms around me. “I’m sorry to hear about what happened. How are you feeling?” Her gaze is friendly and warm, and I start to relax.

  “I’m good,” I start to reply automatically, then stop myself. “I’m better, anyway.”

  She smiles at me, and turns to her son. “George, this is Carrie. Carrie, this is George.”

  He reaches up to shake my hand formally, and I acknowledge his little handshake with one of my own.

  A smile creeps up onto the corners of his little mouth, and his eyebrow shoots up as he asks if I want to play Xbox. This kid is literally a tiny version of Blake. Blond hair and a firm jaw with those blue eyes. It’s uncanny, and Brenda nods as she sees my surprise at the likeness.

  “Yep Blake’s got a mini-me.”

  I let George sit me down in front of the Xbox and immediately commence into a grueling game of Forza 4. Within minutes, he has kicked my butt. I beg off, and tell him I have to help his mom with the cooking. He’s a good kid, and with no protest at all, slips on his headphones. I turn to Brenda and widen my eyes at the video game slaughter that just took place.

  “Seven years old and he’s already a street racer.”

  She laughs and ushers me onto a bar stool next to the kitchen counter. “Blake’s the only one who can even get close to him on the Xbox these days. It’s George’s one true love.”

  She turns and starts to pull food from the fridge. Although I just ate, I feel my stomach growl at the thought of a home cooked meal. A flash of guilt comes over me as I wonder if April is safe or hungry, and in pain right now. Brenda says something about a glass of wine, and I’m brought back to the warm kitchen immediately. She pours us both one, and when I offer her help with the cooking, she tells me I can help on the other end with the cleanup.

  I sip the wine from my large bowl wineglass. It’s a buttery chardonnay, and goes down beautifully after the last couple of days. We chat about what the people we used to know have been up to since high school, but we leave the tougher topics out of it with George still in the room. It’s good to be normal. Being with Brenda is like chatting with a girlfriend, and I thank her for her generosity with the clothing.

  I want to ask her about Blake, and she must have read my mind because she says, in a conspiring tone, “So, what do you want to know about Blake?”

  I feel my face redden, and Brenda laughs. “It’s obvious, girl, you’ve always been made for each other.”

  I wish I could agree. If we were made for each other, wouldn’t he have made more of an effort back then? Wouldn’t he be here with me now? It’s confusing as hell. I’m finally with the guy I’ve been crushing on for so long, and I don’t even know how to tell him. Well, I did today in public, without even considering the consequences. I’ve never been so hot for a man. I just wanted to strip and roll around on the floor. The thought of his skin on mine still sends a thrill to my core. I must have a doubtful look on my face because Brenda puts her hand on my shoulder.

  “Carrie, he’s different now. There was a lot going on back then, but he’s different now.”

  I wonder if I should share that I know, and that he told me his story, but it’s her story, too, so instead I just nod and try to smile. The rejection still feels sharp in my gut and I’d rather change the subject.

  “Let me tell you one thing,” she says. “He talks about you. That man doesn’t talk to me about any other woman, he never has. But with you, it’s different, back then and now, too. He cares for you, Carrie. Just don’t forget he also has to do his job.”

  Her words make me look at it from another perspective. There are work pressures I don’t even know about that are swaying him. Maybe it’s not even me. Am I already projecting my insecurities on this gorgeous hunk of a man? He keeps his cards pretty close. I can’t figure out whether he’s hiding something, or just being a diligent police officer.

  We change the subject, and start talking about some of the current movies. The lasagna smells incredible. It’s nearly ready, and we’re both into our second glass of white when I hear the sound of another set of keys in the door.

  Blake waves at us and smiles. “Mmmm, smells good, girls!”

  “You sneaky you-know-what,” Brenda jokes. “He was supposed to be cooking tonight, but I’ll make sure I get him back.”

  I turn to say something to him, but Blake is already snuggled next to George. All I can see is the backs of their heads. Same color, same shape, one big and one small, as they race through the fictitious streets on the Xbox. I wonder if all cops head home and race cars after they finish work, and I wonder if Xboxes and small boys would always be more important than me if we were together.

  Here I am imagining a future with this guy who has already broken my heart once, is a fucked-up alcoholic, and is likely to be keeping important details on the case from me. Classic Carrie always goes for the unavailable ones. I could kick myself. Why can’t I be attracted to nice, normal guys, just once?

  George zaps through the finish line with a satisfied, “Yessss, eat my dust!” Blake does a mock bow to the winner.

  He looks up and sees me watching. “How was your afternoon, Carrie?” His voice is mischievous, and the edge of his lips curl upward as he comments on the humidity. “Change of season must be rolling around.”

  I almost spit my wine out. We were hardly outside for a second between the café and the apartment, but he’s obviously referring to a different kind of heat. The promise in his eyes in unmistakable, and my skin feels too small for my body as I think about what happened. Brenda is busy checking the lasagna, so she misses the long look we share across the lounge. But George doesn’t, and I see his little head pop up over the edge of the couch in inquiry.

  “So, how was your day, George?” I ask him, desperate to throw his intuitive little nose off the scent. It works.

  “It was great!” he says, and proceeds to relate the details of everything from who won monopoly at game time, to how he felt about his bologna sandwich.

  21

  Carrie

  Blake was right; he is a talkative kid. It’s not long before he asks what happened to my neck. I smoothly deliver the unknown mugger story, and he takes it in his stride.

  “You have to be more careful in the big city, Carrie,” he says solemnly. “Lots of people are poor and need to steal to eat.” He reaches up toward my neck. “Can I touch your bruise?” I angle my neck so he has access, and his little finger strokes the welt gently. “Poor you,” he says. “That must have really, really hurt.”

  I share a look with Brenda. Bless his little cotton socks for being so empathetic.

  “Thanks, George. It did, but luckily I ran into your Uncle Blake, and he’s go
ing to help me get my purse back.”

  The boy seems to accept this without question, and I’m relieved. No more questions for now.

  Soon, dinner is ready, and the four of us sit together. Blake drinks soda, and doesn’t seem to mind that we don’t join him. I wonder if it’s hard seeing other people drink, but he seems totally at ease. The conversation starts, and we cover everything from baseball to politics. Brenda and Blake have opposing views on several issues, but the banter is friendly. They’re obviously used to disagreeing.

  The food is beautiful. I can see they’re a family that eats well, and George has learned excellent table manners. He joins in on the conversation, commenting on how yummy it is, and scaling back the questions. Brenda talks with him instead of down to him. The conversation is censored for content rather than complexity, and I can see how smart and able he is. These two have been raising the model kid, without any help from their family or his father. I look back and wonder how they’ve done it.

  The meal draws to a close, and Brenda begins what is clearly a well-worn routine to get George into his pajamas. I take the lead, and start clearing the table of plates, and Brenda looks gratefully at me.

  “Back in a sec,” Blake says, grabbing his laptop bag and heading upstairs. I keep my head down, forcing myself not to look at his butt as he makes his way up to his level of the apartment.

  Instead, I clear and wipe down the table and juggle the plates over to the sink. I’m rinsing the sauce off each of them, and placing them in neat stacks in the dishwasher, when I feel his hands on my hips. He’s gently telling me he’s there so I don’t step back into him, but I feel like pressing against him instead. Brenda and George are busy in the boy’s bedroom, reading stories, so there’d be no harm done, but instead I make sure I bend right over as I start loading the washable pots into the back of the machine. Turning, I see that he’s changed into a pair of low-slung workout pants and a t-shirt. His arms are cut, the muscles totally defined. His shoulders are wide, and I see the skin across the top of his chest is marked with a tattoo that reads Hell on Earth. I don’t ask him why such a dark theme to his tattoo, and try not to stare, but that flat stomach and the hair curling gently up from under his pits makes me want to rub myself over him like a wild cat.