Justice For Abby

by Cate Beauman

  A bouncy pop song played through the outdoor speakers. “What about dancing? Is dancing fun?” She wiggled her shoulders and hips in time with the catchy beat, enjoying herself immensely as she pulled him away from the railing. Teasing Mr. Serious was definitely fun.

  He stood still. “Abigail, you know I don’t dance. And I’m on duty.”

  “Uh oh, he’s breaking out the ‘formal.’” She raised his hand above her head and spun. “Why do I always feel like I’m in trouble when you call me Abigail?” She continued her dance, grinning when he did. “Loosen up. We’re at a party.”

  “You’re at a party. I’m working.”

  She shimmied to the left of his solid chest, then to the right. “We’re at Fort Cooke. I don’t see any evildoers scaling the cliffs.” She moved in and bumped her hip to his, looking up into his pretty baby blues, batting her lashes and was rewarded with a chuckle. “Oh. Oh. There it is.” She poked him dead center in his firm stomach. “You make me work too hard for those.” She tugged on his hand. “Come on, bodyguard. Let’s go home.”

  ~~~~

  “Abby.”

  She opened her eyes as Jerrod’s voice penetrated her foggy brain. “Hmm?”

  “We’re here.”

  She glanced toward the bluish glow on the dashboard, surprised Jerrod was turning into the entrance of the underground garage. “It’s already two?”

  “We made good time. Traffic wasn’t bad.”

  She sat up in her seat, fixing the cashmere wrap around her shoulders. “I didn’t realize I fell asleep.”

  “You were out before we made it to the highway.”

  “Huh.” She yawned. “It must’ve been the two glasses of champagne.” Stretching, she watched Jerrod scan the shadows in the dimly lit area, as he did every time he pulled his Audi into their reserved spot. He killed the ignition and unsnapped the strap on his holster.

  “Ready?”

  “Yeah.”

  He gave her a nod and got out.

  She unfastened her seatbelt, waiting for Jerrod to come around to her side. He opened her door, and she stood, blocked by his body, moving just to his right as they walked to the garage-level entrance—a well-choreographed dance they perfected months ago.

  She slid her plastic card in the slot, waiting for the door to release. Jerrod pulled on the handle, letting her in ahead of him, covering his holster with a quick slide of his jacket as they stepped into the warmth and comfort of their swank surroundings. Abby’s heels clicked against glossy marble as they passed potted palms and bold, modern paintings decorating the walls on their way to the elevators.

  “Happy New Year, Mr. and Mrs. T.”

  “Happy New Year, Moses,” Abby smiled, never bothering to correct the night guard’s assumptions that she and Jerrod were married or that their last names started with a ‘T.’ Lily Thomas Brand’s name was on the lease, not hers or Jerrod’s—just one of the numerous precautions Ethan Cooke Security had set in place.

  The elevator doors slid open, and they both stepped in.

  “Good night,” Jerrod said as the doors shut. He gave her a small smile and pressed the button for the nineteenth floor.

  “Ugh, I have to take these off.” Abby balanced herself with a hand on Jerrod’s arm while she slid her feet from her ice pick heels and wiggled her aching toes. “Better,” she sighed, standing straight, looking at their distorted side-by-side images in the gold plated metal. “So, do you think you’ll ever get sick of being Mr. Thomas? I’m pretty sure Lily doesn’t mind, but...” She shrugged, sending a gentle elbow to his ribs.

  “I have no problem being the man behind the woman.”

  She laughed. “Why, Jerrod, you made a joke. Twenty-fifteen is just beginning, and you’re already a changed man.”

  He smiled, flashing her his slightly crooked right incisor.

  She smiled back, wanting another one of those grins. There was something about that imperfect tooth among the straight rows of whites that made her melt. “By February you might start loosening your tie.” She gave the black silk a tug. “Then I won’t know what to do with you.”

  He chuckled.

  “By March you could be walking around the apartment in your pajamas.” She gasped and pressed her fingers to her mouth.

  The door opened, and he stepped out first. “Who says I wear pajamas?”

  She stopped mid-step, pleasantly surprised by his willingness to play. “Mr. Quinn, I do believe I might swoon,” she said in her best southern drawl. “I feel the vapors coming on.” She fluttered her hand in front of her face.

  “We should hurry and get inside then. Dead weight’s a bitch to carry, even with someone your size.” He slid the key in the lock, opening the door to the well-lit entryway.

  Abby walked in before him, passing the wall of glass showcasing the city beyond, tossing her shoes to the floor and her wrap over the closet doorknob. She turned, really looking at the man she shared such a huge part of her life with, suddenly, oddly, and powerfully attracted. Jerrod was hot, there was no doubt about it with his irresistible baby blues, long lashes most women would kill for, and amazing ass in a pair of Levis, but she’d never seen him as anything more than her good friend and bodyguard. Jerrod was just too serious. He wore his professional mask twenty-four seven, which was a major turnoff. But this guy—the one who indulged her pithy comments and laughed, he was irresistible. She’d seen Mr. Funny on occasion, but tonight his grins and rare show of humor sent tingles of lust shooting through her belly—a first in more months than she could remember.

  “I’ll…be right back,” she murmured, surprised, confused, frowning as she headed to the kitchen for a drink and a moment of clarity. She grabbed a glass from the cupboard, opened the refrigerator for the pitcher of filtered water, and poured, shaking her head. The champagne must have packed a bigger punch than she realized.

  Shoving the pitcher back in the fridge, forgetting her glass entirely, she started toward the hall, curious to see if her stomach flip-flopped again or if she had fallen victim to a moment of alcohol-induced madness. “You know, I think I might be a little drunk.”

  He turned as he hung his coat in the closet, shaking his head. “You’re not drunk, Abby. You’re not even half in the bag.”

  She studied Jerrod’s well-muscled build and sexy face, relieved when her belly remained flopless and she only saw her hunky pal instead of a potential love interest. No madness here, thank goodness, just a silly moment of...whatever that was. “Yeah, I guess.”

  “I want to show you something.” He closed the closet and turned toward the entrance, reaching for a thin bar, sliding it across the dark, glossy wood of their front door, locking it in place with a click.

  The slight scrape of metal made her flinch. “What—what is that?”

  “A security bar. I installed it today while you were with Jackson and Alexa.”

  She stared at the white metal trapping her in her own home, swallowing the familiar tang of fear as she stepped back. “Why did you do that?”

  “Jackson and I thought we should take a couple of extra measures with the trial getting closer. It’s easy to use and unobtrusive.” Jerrod pulled the bar up and sent it home effortlessly.

  The piece clicked, scraped and clicked again. Abby stepped further away as past and present blurred. Get in the closet, little bitch. You want to try to run away, you can sleep in here. The slam of the door and slide of metal trapping her in the dark echoed in her head.

  “…wrong?”

  Her eyes darted to Jerrod’s as sweat dribbled down her back, and she clutched clammy hands together, fighting to keep her breathing steady.

  “Abigail.” He walked to her. “What’s…”

  His mouth moved, but she couldn’t hear what he was saying over the pounding in her skull.

  He touched her arm.

  “Don’t!” She cringed, crashing into the table behind her, knocking chunky blue candles to the floor as she shoved at his chest. “Don’t touch me!”
>
  He held his hands palm up and took a step back. “Take it easy, Abigail. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  The wave of terror ebbed as the concern in Jerrod’s steady eyes registered, and she was immediately ashamed. Jerrod would no more harm her than Jackson. “I’m—I’m sorry.”

  He slowly lowered his hands. “You don’t have to apologize.”

  “I’m sorry,” she repeated and turned, hurrying to her room, closing the door as far as she was able. She sat on her bed and switched on her bedside lamp. Why was this happening? Twice in one night she’d freaked. She covered her face with her hands and rocked, fighting back tears of mortification. Not only had she lost it, but she’d shoved Jerrod. Why did she do that? With a shake of her head, she let loose a groan of misery. Jerrod had witnessed several of her panic attacks; he’d helped her through many, and she’d never lashed out the way she did moments ago.

  Sniffling, she dropped her hands and stared out at the city through her enormous windows, rushing to her feet as another thought frightened her. What if she was losing ground? Surely she was. Weighty tension settled along her neck and shoulders as she started pacing. What if Dr. Tate was wrong and she wasn’t doing exceptionally well? She’d had her last session with her psychologist just before Thanksgiving. Weeks, only weeks and she was regressing. Dr. Tate had warned of triggers and temporary setbacks, but this had to be more. She’d gone an entire month without a glimmer of panic, and before that a month again. Now in less than two hours she’d had a double-whammy.

  She clenched her fists and walked to the window, pressing her head to the cool glass. What if this new pattern wasn’t temporary? What if she was finally heading toward the breakdown she’d barely avoided? She slammed her eyes shut as she slipped further into the depths of her fear, thinking of her mother. Maybe this was how everything started for the woman she hardly remembered—the panic attacks and confusion. Would the alcohol abuse come next, and then the stays at the mental health clinic until she decided life was too much to handle and gave up?

  At moments like this she understood her mother’s decision to end it all, which frightened her further. The idea of being helpless and afraid left her as terrified as the damn bar across the door in the other room. She didn’t want to feel weak again or continually fight memories better left buried. She wasn’t sure she would be able to find her way out of the hellish pits she’d freed herself from a second time.

  “Stop,” she whispered on a shaky breath, squeezing her eyes tighter as she visualized her mental stop sign. This type of thinking wasn’t productive. With great effort, she emptied her mind, imagining all of her negative thoughts rolling away. Steadier, she turned from the view she loved and moved to the antique cherry writing desk Gran left her—one of the few nice pieces of furniture they’d had in their tiny apartment in Hagerstown—searching for a sketchpad. Drawing new designs for the runway always soothed when she was troubled. Hopefully by the time she finished sketching the flirty skirt she hadn’t been able to get out of her mind she would be ready for bed.

  With her book in hand she lifted a stack of fabric orders she had yet to sign off on. As she searched for a pencil, she bumped the edge of the small calendar still turned to December on her pegboard. Pausing, she flipped up the page to January and stabbed the pin home, determined to put 2015’s rocky start behind her. This year was going to be a hell of a lot better than the last. She was finally going to have her life back. No more working from home or black caps and nondescript jackets every time she and Jerrod wanted to go out. No more babysitters watching her every move or paychecks being transferred from the Lily Brand financial offices to Ethan Cooke Security for her safety or the hundreds of other precautions she and Jerrod took to keep her alive.

  Eventually she would be able to walk down the runways again and talk to the press instead of hide in the back, leaving before the showstoppers took their marks for each finale. Hopefully she would be able to join the Lily Brand team at Fashion Week in late February instead of wait from the safety of her condo for everyone’s return, like she did in the fall. And maybe this would be the year she finally convinced Lily to help her start the line she’d been obsessed with ever since she wrapped Lex’s sprained ankle with their dresses on Zachary Hartwell’s roof.

  She just had to make it through the trial early next month…unless Renzo’s attorneys found another way to stall, which the Federal Prosecutor assured her wouldn’t happen, but she would wait and see. The United States versus Lorenzo Cruz and Zachary Hartwell should have come and gone in late September, then in early October, and again in November, but Zachary’s brutal prison-cell slaying left both the prosecution and defense scrambling, and the trial had once again been delayed.

  Flipping to the next page on her calendar she stared at the dark black circle highlighting February eleventh and pressed a hand to her jittery stomach as she thought of coming face-to-face with her captor.

  She stepped back from her desk, no longer interested in her sketches as she walked to her bed, unzipping her black dress, letting it slide to the floor. She unclasped her strapless bra and replaced her evening clothes with the maroon camisole she’d designed and sewed herself one afternoon while she was bored.

  Sliding the covers back, she lay down, resting her head on the pillow, closing her eyes, willing thoughts of Lorenzo from her mind. There would be no more fear tonight. Every night she fell asleep afraid, Lorenzo Cruz won.

  Chapter Three

  Jerrod stared after Abby as she rushed to her room, trying to figure out what the hell just happened. Abby had gone from fire-eater to terrified so quickly he didn’t realize something was up until it was too late. He looked from her partially opened door to the security bar resting in its place, clenching his jaw, recognizing that the latest safety feature must have triggered some sort of flashback. “Way to go, Quinn,” he muttered, pissed at himself for putting that wild fear in her big blue eyes. If he‘d been paying attention to Abby instead of clicking the bar in and out of place, he would’ve seen that something was wrong.

  “Damn.” He shook his head as he picked up the candles and set them back in place. First her encounter with Darren and now this—definitely not what she needed. Abby was doing a lot better, but she was still fragile. Two emotional jolts in one night didn’t help, especially when she would see them as setbacks.

  Don’t! Don’t touch me!

  Her words echoed through his head, as did her frantic shove to his chest. He’d witnessed some of Abby’s worst moments, but this was the first time she’d ever directed her fears toward him.

  Swearing again, he shoved his hands in his pockets and stared out at the dozens of partygoers still roaming the streets far below. He should’ve mentioned his plans to add the bar instead of springing it on her the way he did. He knew better, but Adam’s e-mail this afternoon left him more concerned about Abby’s safety than her horrific memories.

  His old roommate and Fugitive Task Force team member sent word that authorities in Las Vegas were investigating a possible sighting of Victor Bobco. Potential dangers threatened Abby every day. She was a walking target no matter where they went, yet Adam’s latest heads-up had him more on edge than usual. Credible tips had come in before, but this threat was different. Vegas was too damn close, and Abby’s schedule was ramping up with the trial date moving closer and Fashion Week only six weeks away.

  Keeping Abby out of the spotlight was more important than ever. Zachary Hartwell was dead, and Lorenzo Cruz was set to take the fall as the primary leader of the most prolific and powerful sex ring the Mid-Atlantic authorities had ever seen. The Federal Prosecution had been unsuccessful in convincing Blondie Williams, Eric Stevens, or the hordes of other bastards on the ring’s payroll to turn state’s witness and testify, which left Abby in the hot seat. She alone had toppled the ring with the access she’d had to financial records and the organization’s inner workings, which she shared minutes after her rescue.

  Brothels and stash houses througho
ut Baltimore, DC, Philly, and into Jersey had been raided and shut down. Dozens of victims had gone home and several more arrests were made, but two key players remained at large, and they had everything to lose if Abby survived to testify. Victor Bobco and Dimitri Dubov would hunt for her until they silenced the ring’s most damaging witness. And Victor was potentially no more than an hour and a half away by plane.

  Jerrod pulled a hand from his pocket and rubbed at the back of his neck in an attempt to ease the painful knots of tension. He and Abby had managed to live off the radar after their return from Maryland in July. The Ethan Cooke Security team had taken every precaution Jerrod adhered to during his three-year stint with the US Marshals’ WITSEC program after Abby refused witness protection and only agreed to testify if her sister was left out of the entire mess. Even with his extensive experience in witness relocation and re-identification he often wondered if the endless measures taken to keep Abby safe were enough. Her career posed a huge threat no matter how behind-the-scenes she stayed. One reporter or photographer in the wrong place at the wrong time had the potential to end in disaster, but he could hardly expect Abby to hide behind the walls of their condo indefinitely. She couldn’t heal if she wasn’t allowed to live her life.

  Sighing, he glanced toward Abby’s room again and started down the hall, wanting to be sure she was okay. He raised his hand to knock and dropped it, watching her pull back her covers in her pretty little nighty designed to make a man want. His gaze traveled over well-toned calves and smooth thighs, along her tiny waist, pausing on small, firm breast straining against filmy fabric. He tightened his stomach against the sucker punch of longing, studying her goddess-like face—big blue eyes, flawless skin, her small nose and pouty lips that haunted his dreams. She was hands-down the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

  He stepped back as she lay in her bed, fighting the need to call her name. She’d come such a long way in the months they’d lived together, but she still struggled, as she had tonight. Abby would bite off her tongue before she let anyone know, but he did. It was impossible to spend twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week with someone and not learn everything about her.