Brilliant, you stupid punk.
He stood, wishing he could leave the old, self-destructive Kerry here and take home a shiny new model. “I should get going. And I don’t want you staying here by yourself.”
“Don’t worry,” she said, also getting up. “Will you stay in touch with me? Let me know you’re okay?”
God, he wanted to. Except that he still had a tiny flicker of a protective instinct left—hard to believe, wasn’t it?—and he was smart enough to know he couldn’t handle being halfway in Kira’s life.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
Naturally, Kira wouldn’t make things easy for him. She turned those sweet brown eyes on him, pleading now, and he could no more turn her down than he could run for president.
“Just send me a text every now and then, so I won’t worry, okay? Please? You can do that for me, can’t you?”
I would do anything for you.
“Yeah,” he told her. “I can do that for you.”
Chapter 14
Back at the motel, Kira took Max out for a quick walk (the manager had taken to pretending he didn’t see her or the dog when she came and went) and then defrosted her limbs with what was meant to be a long shower but in reality only lasted until the hot water gave out, a period of roughly thirty-eight seconds. Then she snuggled down for the night in a long-sleeved T-shirt, a pair of plaid flannel pajama bottoms, and her lined pink moccasins.
After ordering a pizza, she clicked the TV onto the Discovery Channel, where they were showing a bunch of Shark Week reruns, and collapsed onto the oversized chair to work on the list that had gotten sidelined when Kerry appeared out of the blue. Max made this task more difficult, if not impossible, by curling up in her lap the second she sat cross-legged, but she compensated by twisting at the waist and resting her pad on the chair’s arm.
Okay. Where was she?
Apartment.
Credit card.
Therapist recommendations.
Oh, and she couldn’t live without a laptop, so she’d better start saving for one of those.
Thank goodness she’d wear scrubs at the hospital, because she sure didn’t want to have to buy a whole new wardrobe for work—
Max’s head came up. He stared at the door, tilting his head and cocking his ears. As warnings went, this one was pretty clear, but she still jumped straight up in the air when someone knocked on her door.
On cue, all her hard-won relaxation went straight out the window, and her pulse rate rocketed up into the triple digits. Paralyzed with a fear that was faceless now that she knew Kareem was dead, she stayed where she was and ran through her options while Max trotted to the door and glanced back at her like she’d lost her mind.
She was seriously considering either grabbing her gun, which she’d stored under her pillow for just such an emergency, or hiding in the bathroom and locking the door—see? This was why she needed therapy—when a voice came through loud and clear.
“Kira? You in there?”
Brady.
Oh, thank God.
Her body going jelly-boned with relief, she got up, checked the peephole, and opened the door. Having changed since the funeral, he had one sardonic eyebrow raised, wore a leather jacket, hoodie, and track pants, and held two stacked pizza boxes in his hand.
“Everything okay in here?”
“No, it’s not okay. You scared me to death, but since you brought food, I’ll forgive you.”
“Must be my lucky day.”
Relieving him of those precious and savory boxes, she set them on the small table between the chairs and grabbed a couple of washcloths to use as napkins.
“What are you doing here, Brady? Don’t you have a life?”
“None to speak of.”
“What about your little booty-call friend? Won’t she be looking for you?”
Taking his jacket off, he tossed it onto the bed, chose a chair, sat, and glared. “There you go being nosy again.”
She laughed. “It’ll take more than that to get me off your tail. So what about her?”
“She’s not really a consideration. And have I complimented you on your attire?”
Another laugh rose up her throat and out, more laughter than she’d generated in the last two years. “I’m not trying to win a fashion show. I’m allowed to choose my own clothes and be comfortable now rather than look like I just slithered out of a La Perla lingerie catalogue, aren’t I?”
She said it all without mentioning Kareem’s name—at some unidentified point today, she’d decided never to speak his name again if she could help it—but he understood anyway.
His eyes crinkled at the edges, warming her far better with his approval than the shower had. “Damn straight you are.”
Ridiculously pleased with herself, she set to work on the pizza boxes and opened the first one, which was a thin crust with spinach, tomatoes, and hunks of sausage the size of grapes.
“Wait a minute—this is the pizza I ordered.”
Brady frowned at her selection. “Yeah. I intercepted your delivery guy in the lobby. It’s a good thing I did, too, isn’t it? What kind of crap is that?”
“It’s my favorite pizza. And you got—?”
He opened his lid with a flourish to reveal ... extra cheese.
“That’s it?” She looked back and forth between man and pizza, just to verify, but there was, in fact, nothing else on that pizza or in that box, not even a little packet of red pepper flakes for flavor. “Brady, you’re boring. How is it possible for a DEA agent to be this dull?”
This didn’t abash him in the least. Taking a huge slice, he folded it in half, chomped off about four inches’ worth from the point, and spoke out of the side of his mouth before chewing approximately once and swallowing.
“Guess what my favorite ice cream flavor is?”
“Please don’t tell me it’s vanilla.”
“Bingo.”
More laugher came and she leaned back her head to let it flow until she was giddy with it. Was this what freedom felt like? Was happiness something like this? A slice of pizza with a friend without having to fret about what her husband would say or do next? Could life really be this simple?
“You have to try my pizza. You might like it.”
He shuddered, gulping down another big bite. “I want no part of that pizza.”
Helping herself to a piece of hers, she sank her teeth deep and nearly moaned with ecstasy. “This is sooo good.”
Brady wiped his mouth, reached for his jacket, and pulled a Pepsi out of each pocket. Passing one to her, he gave her a considering look. “You have eaten since this morning, right?”
Uh-oh. “Define eaten.”
“Consumed something with protein in it.”
“Not exactly,” she admitted, thinking fondly of the Egg McMuffin she’d had on her way to the funeral. His brows lowered, and she held up a hand to forestall a lecture. “I’m going to do better.”
“See that you do.”
His voice had that quiet authority you wouldn’t think of questioning, but his heavy-handedness didn’t bother her. Much. Someone out there in the world cared whether she ate or not, which was a first in a really long time. Yeah. She could get used to that, but that didn’t mean she had to make like a doormat.
“Aye, Captain.”
Apparently he didn’t appreciate the humor, because he shot her another of those flinty looks. “How’s your head?”
“Still attached.”
Another frown, but this time, instead of the stern talking-to she expected, he did something exponentially worse. He reached out and took her wrist in his firm grip while his thumb caressed the back of her hand.
“Stop the bullshit, Kira,” he said urgently. “Tell me how you are.”
With that, she unraveled. Emotions she’d managed to suppress, more or less, for most of the day, squeezed her chest and throat and burned her cheeks into cinders. What was it about Brady? Why couldn’t she put up brick walls with
him the way she could with Kerry? Why didn’t she want to? Was it because it was such an unspeakable relief to shift some of her burden to his broad shoulders for a little while? Was it that she needed a brief reprieve from keeping all her balls in the air while tap dancing and trying her best to be strong?
“I’m okay.” Embarrassed, she swiped at her sudden tears and worked at giving him a reassuring smile. “I’m trying to be okay.”
“How’s your head?”
“It hurts. Not so bad, though.”
“Did you take your meds?”
“Yeah.”
“What happened to you at the funeral? I was worried.”
“I can’t explain it. I thought I saw him everywhere. I felt him there, like he was watching.”
“What about now?”
“Now I know he’s gone.”
“And how does that feel?”
“It feels like I’m free,” she said simply.
“And how does that feel?”
It sounded so cheesy to say it, but if there was another possible description, her floundering brain couldn’t find it.
“It feels like I’ve been born again.”
“Good.” Brady dimpled with obvious satisfaction, smoothed his thumb over her hand one more time, and pointed to her pizza. “Now eat.”
They ate.
Dexter had the strong urge to count every bite of food that went into her mouth and watch her swallow it but, thanks to his long years of law enforcement training and resulting self-control, was able to resist the temptation.
But she ate two and a half pieces, and that was pretty good for someone her size, even if her pizza was nasty. He only wished he’d brought her some milk or fruit to go with it. Whatever it took for her to get strong and healthy again.
Still, she was looking better by the time he returned from dumping the boxes in the trash down the hall by the vending machines. Her cheeks had a little more color and her expression wasn’t quite so feral. Maybe one day soon she’d realize that she was no longer being hunted, and wouldn’t that be a beautiful thing?
Letting himself back into her room, he checked his watch: eight-twenty. Time to go. He’d come, delivered the sustenance, watched her eat it, and the official portion of his mission was at an end. Anything beyond this would be purely personal and, therefore, indefensible, and he wanted that to matter. He reminded himself about their relative positions. She: drug kingpin’s widow. He: DEA agent. He reminded himself that she was emotionally raw right now and therefore vulnerable. Duly noted. He reminded himself of his father’s stricture to always do the right thing—the honorable thing—even when it was hard and no one was watching. Check.
And then he looked over at Kira, sitting on the sofa with Max’s furry head resting on her thigh. He saw the curve where neck met shoulder, and the velvety warmth of her skin in the lamplight. Beneath his fingertips he felt the phantom memory of her wrist in his hand and wondered what she’d do if he ever kissed her there. He caught the elusive and delicious scent of her flesh—water lilies, he thought—and imagined that the smell would be stronger if he pressed his mouth to the valley between her breasts.
Then he put all those considerations on an invisible scale and tried to balance them out, which was about like putting a mastodon on one side and a dragonfly on the other:
The thrill of being with Kira vs. the trouble he could buy for himself if he developed a personal—well, more personal—relationship with Kira.
It wasn’t even close.
So he told his yammering conscience to shut the hell up, walked back to the sofa, and sat.
Max, the manipulator, rolled over and squirmed around until his head was on his thigh, and Dexter concentrated on stroking the dog’s sleek fur to keep his twitchy hands from reaching for Kira.
While it was great to be occupied, the silly dog only deepened his sense of comfortable belonging, and he thought, with increasing dread, about going home to his empty house, which he was beginning to think of as the Fortress of Loneliness, once he left here.
Yeah. Not fun.
But he was here now, and that was enough. For now.
He stared at the TV, which was on some animal show—sharks, apparently—and tried not to notice that Kira’s eyes were growing drowsy with sleep and her yawns were growing much more frequent.
“Sharks, eh?”
“I love animal shows.”
“Yet you call me boring.”
“You are boring. So did you see my list?” She handed him a pad from the table and waited while he read it. “All the things I need to do to get my life together. Well”—she shot him a wry grin—“it’s a good start, anyway. This should keep me busy for a while.”
“Impressive,” he said, meaning it. “And what will that look like—when you get your life together?”
“That’s easy. It’ll look like me being a self-sufficient and productive member of society for the first time in my life.”
“Yeah?”
“And I want to feel content, for once.” Curling her legs under her, she shifted and came closer—dangerously closer. Close enough for him to see how bright her enthusiastic eyes were. “And I want to be proud of myself. You probably always feel proud of yourself, don’t you?”
He stared at her, thinking of all the times in the past year when she’d come to him for help and he’d questioned her motives and then sent her away, back to the monster who’d made her life a living hell before raping her and giving her a concussion.
Swallowing hard, he prayed he had enough voice left for a coherent sentence and produced only a rough croak. “Not always, no.”
“That’s hard to believe, Brady. What did you do—jaywalk once ten years ago?”
“I’m not real proud of the way I’ve treated you, now that you mention it.”
This was the wrong thing to say because it made her question his motives. “Is that why you’re here, then? Pity for a crime victim?”
“No,” he said softly, holding her gaze and willing her to see. “That’s not why I’m here.”
He’d wounded her pride, so it took a couple of long beats for her to switch gears and come up to speed on this subject he hadn’t meant to broach just yet. But now it was here and he wasn’t going to turn away just because the path was twisty and he couldn’t see the end.
He couldn’t turn away.
“Brady,” she gasped, her eyes widening with slow comprehension. “Are you telling me you like me?”
The utter astonishment in her voice was understandable. Hadn’t he bent over backward, twisting himself into advanced yoga poses to keep his fierce attraction to her under wraps the whole time he was trying to bring down her husband? Hadn’t this made him surly and gruff around her? Hadn’t he forbidden himself from ever giving her so much as an appreciative glance? And, worst of all, hadn’t he tried to hate her for being married to someone else—the worst possible someone else—when he wanted her so much it threatened to choke the life right out of him?
“Like you?” he echoed, trying it on for size. “Yeah. Let’s go with that. For now.”
Taking advantage of her drop-jawed silence, he got up, found his coat, and went to the door. This wasn’t the time, and it wouldn’t be the time for a while yet, if ever. And she needed to decide because she’d had way too many decisions snatched away from her capable hands.
“I’ve gotta go. You take care of yourself, okay? I won’t be seeing you for a while.”
This snapped her out of her temporary paralysis. “What? Why?”
He tipped his head toward her notebook. “Because you need time to get yourself together, like you said. And I’m trying not to pressure you, but I’m not the Boy Scout you seem to think I am, so I’d better make myself scarce so you can have space.”
“But—”
“And because ...” He paused, taking his time to get to the heart of the matter so she’d have the chance to see it coming. “I really hope that, when and if you ever get ready, you’ll come to me an
d we can find out whether we have anything to talk about other than your first husband.”
Their gazes locked across that space often feet or so, and he was pretty sure, honest to God, that he heard her shallow breathing stop. He was gratified to see that she didn’t recoil in horror, thrilled to see the deep flush of awareness that crept up her neck to her face and made her wide eyes sparkle.
“Brady,” she began.
“And when you come,” he continued, because he could feel the growing and absolute certainty as a part of himself, the same as his pulse or his heartbeat, and there was no longer any question in his mind of if now, only when, “I want you to work on calling me Dexter.”
He left, taking care not to let the door bang behind him.
Chapter 15
Six Months Later
Dexter strode through the sliding glass doors of the Pine Lake retirement community, his brain already scrolling through his checklist like a clipboard-carrying state inspector. The receptionist was sitting her post behind the marble counter, her smile cheery, welcoming, and wide, so that was good; but the place still—always—had that unfortunate scent of determined freshness layered over the stronger scents of bodily functions and illness, so that was bad.
All the employees he passed in the hallways sported pristine uniforms and attitudes of open friendliness, so that was good; but that one poor woman, the ancient one who moaned and babbled in an endless and excruciating loop, had been left to her own devices in the corner chair over by the wall aquarium, and that was bad.
Mom, a former nurse named Lorraine, was looking lovely, with her salt and pepper hair curled and her makeup on, which was great, but she was dozing in her wheelchair over by the huge cage occupied by chattering yellow finches, and that was terrible because her disorientation was always a thousand times worse after she woke.
He hovered near the doorway, undecided.
Option 1: sneak out like a cat burglar and come back tomorrow morning, when she was more likely to be awake and reasonably lucid.
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