Unbearable (The Port Fare Series)

by Sherry Gammon

  “Does this have anything to do with your disguise and the person you’re hiding from?” I asked, handing her a tissue from the box on the counter next to me.

  “Does everyone know I’m in disguise?” She pulled away, tossing her arms up and sinking onto the couch, burying her face in her hands again.

  “Everyone who’s a highly trained detective for the past twelve years, yes.”

  “And Lilah,” she said, exasperated.

  “Yes, well, Lilah has her own reasons.” I sat next to her. “Do you want to explain what’s going on?”

  Why did I know I didn’t want to hear this? Oh yeah, because I’m the guy with the Midas touch . . . except with women. With the fairer sex I was the black plague. Case in point: Tess. We hadn’t even started a relationship yet and she was about to dump me. I just couldn’t seem to get it right when it came to women. If I had half a brain, I’d plug my ears and start humming right now. Or better yet, I’d leave and let her work this out herself. She’s probably PMS’ing anyway. Crying was the best thing for her at her moment.

  And that thought alone was exactly why I sucked when it came to women. You have the sensitivity of a mountain goat, Gatto.

  I inhaled slowly and waited for her to blow her nose.

  “I was in . . . an abusive relationship.” She pinched her eyes shut. “He was a monster,” she whispered. “I’m trying to move past the nightmare, but in my gut, I’m petrified he’s going to show up again.”

  “By abusive, you mean physically?” My stomach knotted. I knew the answer, deep inside suspected it from the beginning, I only hoped I was wrong.

  “Very much so. I barely escaped with my life. Not only was he abusive, he was a control freak. I had no freedom. He controlled and monitored my every move. If I went shopping, he’d check the receipt to see what time I left the store.” Tess straightened and took a deep breath, forcing the tears back. “He’d installed a Stalk my Buddies app on my phone without my knowledge to track me.” She dropped her head back on the couch and let out a heavy breath. “In the end, I was literally a prisoner in our home.”

  “I’m so sorry, Tess.” I wrapped my hands around hers. “I’m guessing that’s why you don’t want a cell phone?”

  She nodded. “Booker, I’m not ready to get involved with anyone yet. I’ve made some great strides in my life lately, but I’m not there yet.” She wiped the tears from her eyes before continuing. “I . . . um . . . think it’d be best for me to find a new job. I’ll stay until you find someone else, but I can’t stay.”

  “You’re quitting? Why? Tess, you don’t think I’d ever hurt you, do you?” The thought of not having her in my life was too bitter a pill to swallow. We could be friends. Just friends worked for me. Anything was better than not having her around at all. I couldn’t let that happen . . . nor could I force her.

  “No. I can’t imagine you ever hurting me. But I’m not ready for a relationship either.”

  “We’ll keep it platonic,” I bargained.

  “Unless I’ve misunderstood your body language over the past couple months, you’re as drawn to me as I am to you. Booker, the attraction between us is too strong.”

  I stood and paced to the window, pushing the curtain aside to see out. I saw nothing. My brain focused only on the thought of losing Tess. There had to be a way around this. She came next to me.

  “Maybe when I’m stronger we can try this again, a relationship, I mean,” she said gently. “If you’re not involved with someone else by then, of course.”

  Yeah, like that would happen. It’d been five years since I found a woman I wanted to have any kind of relationship with. I turned to look into her eyes. They carried so much pain. “Tess, please don’t quit on me. Business is starting to pick up. I need you. You’re the best secretary I’ve ever had.”

  “I’m the only secretary you’ve had,” she correctly pointed out.

  “Technically. But I’ve worked with many secretaries at police headquarters. Trust me. You’re remarkable. In fact, you deserve a raise.” I wasn’t proud at my attempt to bribe her, but I couldn’t let her slip through my hands either.

  “Booker, this won’t work. We’re too drawn to each other.” She sat back down on the couch, crossing her arms over her middle.

  I paced the floor. There had to be a way to make it work. Come on, I’m a lawyer. Loopholes are my specialty. Think.

  “Why did you come back anyway?” Tess asked.

  “I forgot that file. I need to do some work tonight on the con . . . tract.” I spun to face her. “That’s it. We’ll make a contract. No, better yet, I’ll make a promise. And you know I’m good at keeping my promises. Remember that day at Lilah’s? How many men would go so far as to wear chaffin to fulfill a promise?”

  “Chiffon,” she corrected, with a slight twinkle in her pained eyes. “But I don’t see how that is going to help.”

  “Simple. I promise not to kiss you again. We’ll keep our relationship platonic. I promise.” Then I coyly added, “As long as you work for me. If you quit, the deal’s off. In fact, if you quit I’ll send love notes and roses to your new job, every day. I’ll drive your new boss nuts, and you’ll be fired. Then what will you do?”

  “You will not.” She rolled her eyes.

  “Yeah, okay. You’re right.” I dropped my shoulders. “But we can make this work.”

  “Booker, this is crazy. Why torture yourself? Isn’t it better if I’m not around every day, reminding you that we can’t have a relationship?”

  Think, Gatto. I smiled. “So you’re telling me that you’re afraid you can’t handle yourself around me. That all this,” I waved a hand over my length, “is just too tempting for you to control yourself.”

  Finally a laugh. She buried it behind her hands, but at least it was a laugh. “It’s not going to work,” she said, serious again.

  I pulled her up off the couch, taking her hands in mine. “Tess, I’m begging you not to toss us aside without giving it some time. You’re right. I’m attracted to you. Very attracted. But I’m willing to wait.” She opened her mouth to protest and I added, “Even if it takes a hundred years. Just don’t say no.”

  “But what if I’m never ready?” Her eyes dampened again.

  “I’ll risk it.” I cupped her face in my hands, realizing I was putting a lot of pressure on her. I had to give her an out. Otherwise she’d stay for all the wrong reasons. “Tess, I’m not going to force this on you. This is your decision. I’ll respect whatever you have to say. I mean, I know I’m begging,” I teased, kinda, sort of, “but in all honesty, you have to do what is best for you. I’ll understand.”

  Her eyes searched my face. “My decision. My ex-husband, Garen, seldom let me decide anything. I appreciate you saying that.”

  “You were married to the . . .?” I bit down to keep from swearing.

  “For eighteen months. It seemed a lot longer.” She curled her slender fingers around my wrists. “I think you’re insane for wanting to torture yourself like this, but I’ll give it a try.”

  My heart flipped in my chest. “Thank you.” I reached in to kiss her forehead, then stopped and stepped back. “See?” I said proudly. “I’d better get going. I’m late.” I turned and picked up the file I’d left behind and turned for the door.

  “I’ll see you on Monday, then.” She held the door open for me.

  I wanted to remind her we’d set a date for tomorrow, but decided not to press my luck. “Yes. Monday. And would you mind wearing that pink shirt with the blue flowers? You look pretty in it,” I said. Her hands snapped to her hips and her eyes narrowed. “Just kidding.” I smiled. “I’m here if you need a friend to talk to, Tess.”

  “Thank you,” she said quietly, closing and locking the door behind me as I left.

  ***

  “Well, I made it a month,” I snarled, slamming the filing cabinet in my office shut and folding my arms on top of the cold metal. A whole month with no flirting, no ogling, no touching . . . okay, may
be not the touching part. I did put my hand on her shoulder when I looked at the computer screen whenever we worked on a document together. And, of course, when we left the building together I’d touch the small of her back as I guided her out. It was the gentlemanly thing to do. So, yeah, I touched her. And I’d better cross off the no ogling thing too, because I most certainly did ogle her whenever she came into my office. Or walked past my door. Or when I peeked out of my office to . . . ogle her. At least I kept my longing stares private . . . and stalker-like.

  I dropped my head down onto my arms. The only thing I succeeded at for the past thirty days was not kissing her. Rocking my head back and forth I grumbled, “I suck.”

  “Hello, I’m here to see my husband.”

  No! I cringed at the voice coming from the outer office. It couldn’t possibly be . . . I jerked my head up and in two strides all but ripped the door off the hinges as I jerked it all the way open. There stood my own personal nightmare, all five-foot-three inches of her, dressed in a short pink skirt and white shirt. Vintage Nikkolynn outfit: too tight and too provocative. Still too sexy for her own good. The only difference was that her long blond hair had been cut short. And she’d aged. Prison life’s not for wimps.

  “Ex-husband, Nikkolynn. What the he . . . eck are you doing here?” Okay, I deserved to take a quarter out of the curse jar for not cussing at my lying, two-timing, manipulative ex-wife.

  “Bookie!” She smiled her sassy little grin. There was a time I’d have melted on the spot when she did. Not anymore.

  “Prison life been good to you?” I snipped back. “How did you get out already? Who’d you use this time, Nikkolynn?”

  “Bookie, I haven’t seen you in five years and that’s all you can do, insult me?” She pouted and strutted my way. Tess sat frozen, her eyes wide. Her mouth twitched. Not sure if she fought a laugh or tears. I stepped aside and signaled for Nikkolynn to come in. She sashayed past me, shaking her moneymaker. Didn’t even faze me.

  “If anyone calls, if anyone comes in needing to see me, if Mormon missionaries come knocking with promises of eternal life, please interrupt us.” I winked at Tess as she pressed her lips together, fighting a smile for sure this time.

  Girding up my loins, I turned to my bombshell of an ex and snapped the door shut. “Why are you here, Nikkolynn?” I asked, no hint of caring in my voice.

  She sashayed up to me. “Call me Nickel like you used to, baby,” she said in her infamous dumb blond voice as she walked her fingers up my chest.

  I rolled my eyes and plucked her hand off me, dropping it in the air. “I repeat, why are you here, Nikkolynn?” I folded my arms over my chest.

  “Still working out, I see.” She smiled and bounced her eyebrows. I paced to my desk and sat down, picking up a magazine with Justin Beaver, or whatever the heck his name was, on the cover that I’d been meaning to look over. Yeah, right.

  “Okay. No need to be rude.” She plopped onto the corner of my desk and crossed her legs. Her skirt rode up, barely covering her—

  “Bookie, I came to apologize for what happened with, well, you know who.” She shifted uncomfortably on the desk and her skirt rode up even higher. I reached over to the corner chair and grabbed the jacket I’d tossed there earlier and laid it across her legs.

  “I still get to you, don’t I?” she said smugly.

  “No, Nik. Not even a little bit. You’re embarrassing yourself, is all.” I turned my attention back to the magazine. Why do people read this drivel?

  “Come on, Bookie. It was you I loved, not Josh,” she insisted.

  “If that were true, and it’s not, you had a funny way of showing it,” I snorted, slapping the magazine closed and tossing it in the garbage where it belonged as I stood. “You married me hoping to get confidential information about cases I worked on to help Josh, drug dealing Josh,” I reminded her. “You set me up. I could have lost my job if I hadn’t found out in time.” I pushed a hand through my hair. I needed a haircut. It was past my ears. I’d gotten lazy about it since quitting the MET.

  “I admit I used you at first. But by the time we got married, it was you I loved, not Josh.” She tossed in a pout with her lie.

  “And yet you still slept with him, in our bed, I might add, and you still tried weaseling information out of me to help him avoid being caught.” I didn’t mean to raise my voice, but the bitter taste of betrayal fueled me.

  “I know, Bookie. You’re right. I should’ve come clean when we got married. It was a lapse of judgment on my part.”

  “You think?”

  “I’ve paid my dues. I’m here to ask, no, beg you for another chance.” She sauntered in my direction, looking up at me through her thick fringe of lashes.

  “Good bye, Nikkolynn,” I said stoically.

  “But . . . but I love you,” she said. She actually had the nerve to force a few tears down her cheeks.

  I softened my tone somewhat. “But I don’t love you. Not anymore.”

  Nikkolynn dried her face, stomped past me, and bee-lined straight to the exit. “I’m not giving up on us, Bookie.” Dramatically, as per her usual style, she flung the door open, and with a turned up nose, left.

  I turned to Tess. “Suppose you heard all of that?” I said, knowing how thin the old building’s walls were.

  “I tried not to listen,” she said with a guilty edge to her voice.

  I exhaled loudly. “You and me, we know how to pick ’em, it seems.”

  She chuckled. “I do believe you’re right. She doesn’t seem your type. What drew you to her, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  I chuckled. “I’m embarrassed to admit it but three things: short skirts, smoldering eyes, and great kissing.”

  “That’ll do it every time,” she said with a wide grin.

  I set my hands on her desk and, being the sadomasochist that I was, leaned in, hoping to catch the scent of her hair. “I’m starving. Do you want to go get some lunch?”

  “So that’s it, huh? You got a thing going with your secretary.” Nikkolynn’s shrill tone reverberated in my ears.

  “We’re just friends, not that it’s any of your business.” I straightened.

  “Right,” she said, her arms stiff at her side.

  “Why are you back?” I demanded.

  “I forgot my coat.” She snatched up a white furry-looking coat from the chair in the reception area, glaring at Tess as she left.

  “Sorry about that. She’s harmless.” Tess nodded stiffly. I wanted to tell her that not everyone dealt with their issues using violence, but I’d had enough of Nikkolynn for one day. I’d had enough for a lifetime.

  “Grab your coat. I’m treating you to steak,” I teased. Sort of. She could eat her veggies. I had every intention of having a thick juicy steak.

  Chapter 11

  Tess

  Five years ago

  Garen insisted I go to counseling with him, pointing out that I too had faults that needed to be addressed if we hoped to have a healthy marriage. He asked me not to mention the physical abuse to the counselor, fearing that somehow it’d be leaked to the press. Reluctantly, I agreed, although I told him that it’d be hard to get the proper help if we weren’t honest with the therapist.

  After four sessions Garen stopped going, and demanded I quit, claiming the therapist blamed everything on him and not the underlying reason for our troubles: my inability to measure up. His agitation with my imperfections grew daily. He criticized everything from the way I cleaned the house to what I wore. It didn’t take long to lose myself under his visceral criticisms.

  Gone was the girl who, in high school, had the world by the tail. In her place an uncertain screw up remained. I struggled to understand why Garen didn’t love me enough. Was I that bad of a wife? Had I disappointed him to the point that he no longer loved me? I truly believed that if I just loved him enough, everything would be better. Clearly, I failed. That guilt hung around my neck like an albatross.

  One day, in the midst of one
of his rages, he tossed all my clothes away. If it were possible, I’d have sworn the guy had PMS. He purchased boring pantsuits for me as a replacement. They weren’t exactly my style, and when I tried to gently mention that he said, “If it’s good enough for Jackie Kennedy, it’s certainly good enough for you. My wife will not dress like a slob.” It was a slap in the face. I liked the way I dressed. But then again, he did have a point. The conservative pantsuits did look more professional and I’d be looking for a job soon. I guessed it was time I stopped dressing like a teenager. I swallowed my pride and wore them . . . as if I had a choice.

  If anything was out of order at home, he still lost it, but never like the day on our half-year anniversary seven months ago. He’d just shove me against the wall and yell in my face, or push me down onto the couch in fits of anger. By far better than being hit.

  When I received a B- in a math class, he went on a tirade yet again. “I won’t have a stupid wife embarrassing me,” he said, jabbing my breastbone with his index finger. I was bruised for a week. My already fragile self-esteem slipped even lower. My drive to succeed, to never give up, had lost steam.

  To make matters worse, my father was diagnosed with prostate cancer. I didn’t dare burden my parents with my troubles and we seldom talked anymore, fearing they’d catch on. They had enough to deal with. They didn’t need my failures to weigh them down, too.

  It didn’t matter anyway. We were on a strict budget and therefore had the cheapest cell phone plan available. Garen would only allow me limited minutes on the phone each week because he needed the lion’s share for work. I did write them regularly, and Garen mailed the letters from work since he didn’t want to squeak out the money for stamps. “I pay taxes. These can be mailed on Senator Graft’s dime.”

  “Graft’s coming to dinner tomorrow. I want you to prepare a spectacular meal. He’s considering making me head of his reelection campaign. Oh, and he’s a strict vegan. No dairy, or meat, not even fish. Got that?” Garen laid out his demands before he even put his briefcase down. “None of your lazy vegetarian crap either. Unlike you, Graft has self-control.”