by Shandi Boyes
“Luca picked you?” I ask, questioning the obvious.
“Yes. . . well, after a slight deliberation.”
My grip on her hand tightens when reality smacks into me. “Did this deliberation occur in front of the man responsible for the ultimatum?”
Shame floods her face before she nods. “Hence the need for my laptop. It’s probably nothing, but the look he gave me that night—God. It made me want to hack myself into little pieces.”
I stop recalling the pain, disrespect, and humiliation that rained down on me when Regan picked Isaac over me in that field all those years ago. I barely knew her back then, yet I was devastated I was put second, so I can imagine how immense the pain was for the man Luca dissed.
With this in mind, I snag Regan’s laptop. She looks like she wants to argue, but my next set of questions stuffs her retaliation back down her throat. “Do you recall if Luca said the man’s name? Or was he friends with him on any social media platforms?”
My fingers flying wildly over the keyboard nearly drowns out her faint reply, “No. That’s why I was so shocked by what I walked in on. Luca had never mentioned him, much less hung around with him before.”
The little vein in her neck works overtime as her eyes flicker. “He had a bomber jacket slung over his bed. It had the same emblem as Luca’s football team emblazoned on the back. He was either a part of Luca’s team or a member of their cheer squad—you couldn’t use the emblem unless you were on their team.”
I look at her as if she’s grown a second head. My nose wasn’t buried in a book my entire college career, but that seems a bit excessive.
Regan slaps my arm, her playfulness a welcome addition to our exchange. The tension was getting so muggy, sweat is beading my nape. “Cattle aren’t the only ones branded, Alex. If you didn’t have teenagers copying your style, you were in the wrong crowd.”
I wink, revealing I’m proud of the determination in her eyes before shifting my focus back to the task at hand.
A few keystrokes later, I ask, “This emblem?”
I have a picture of Luca and Regan up on the screen. Luca is wearing a red bomber jacket, and Rae is tucked under his arm, wearing his jersey number on her cheek with paint.
When she nods, barely holding in the tears filling her eyes, I yank her cellphone out of my pocket. She watches me curiously when I snap a photo of the emblem.
Happy I have an unpixellated shot, I hand Regan back her laptop, then run a reverse image search on her phone. Within seconds, numerous matches pop up.
“Who needs facial recognition software when you have Google?” I’m smiling, blind to the fact I’m dropping hints left, right, and center on what I really do for a living.
I’m not looking forward to Regan discovering the truth, but the past four days has made my worry less obvious. She won’t be happy when she discovers who my target is, but I’ve dug my footholds into her deep enough, she’ll at least give me a chance to explain myself before she bolts.
“Do any of these men’s faces ring a bell?” My low tone indicates I’m more worried about losing her than I’m letting on.
She scans three pages of photos before frustration clutches her throat. “How many groupies did his team have?”
Failing to recognize her question is rhetorical, I scroll to the very bottom of the page. “Only fifty-eight pages to go.”
She groans. “Is there a quicker way? We’ll be here all night at this rate.”
“I can probably refine the search by adding hair and eye coloring.”
I do exactly that when she passes on the information I’m seeking. It narrows our list of suspects to thirty-eight pages. It’s still a long list, but not as bad as it was.
A few seconds later, Regan freezes as if a lightning bolt sparked through her brain. “Can we narrow the demographics by adding a fraternity? I confronted Luca at the man’s frat house.”
Hope flares through my eyes as I nod. “I’ve never been overly good with this techie shit, but I learned a few things at the academy.”
There I go again with another little snippet of my real life. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear Regan swapped the water in my bottle for vodka. My lips have only been this loose once before: the night Dane and I got rip-roaring drunk after graduation. Waking up with my head in a bucket of vomit, my feet bare, and my body stripped of clothing ensured it was the last time I used alcohol to enhance my excitement. I doubt it will take more than a glass for me to tiptoe to Drunkville as I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol in over six years.
Within seconds, the list of candidates has significantly narrowed. Only twenty-three men remain.
“Stop. There,” Regan shouts, halting my scan of the photos mid-scroll.
I zoom in on the picture she is pointing to. She takes her time appraising it, wanting to ensure she has all her t’s crossed and i’s dotted. I understand her need to be sure. The message scribbled across her vanity was filled with hatred, but this isn’t an accusation she wants to throw out without due diligence.
Furthermore, Luca died years ago, so why would her stalker wait so long to seek his revenge? She did go a little off the radar after Luca’s death, but she was very much present in all aspects of his life before and after his death.
After tracking her finger down the man’s profound nose and extremely sharp jaw, Regan says, “That’s him.”
“Are you sure? Take another look just in case. We don’t want to start an investigation on an innocent man. Just an accusation like this can ruin a man’s credibility for years to come. . .”
I stop cautioning her when she points to the unnamed man’s dainty, feminine hands. The tick in my jaw ramps up as my nostrils flare. I remain quiet for several moments, sucking in enough oxygen my lungs stop demanding air, but not enough to weaken the red-hot anger heating my cheeks.
Two taps on a phone screen, and one screen shot later, I fire off a message to an unidentified number on Regan’s cell.
“Now what?” Regan asks when I toss her phone to her side and flop my back onto the bed we’re sitting on.
I rake my fingers through my hair as my eyes stray to the ceiling. “Now we do the one part of my job I hate more than anything.” I exhale deeply. “We wait.”
“Wait?! We can’t wait.”
Hearing nothing but utter desperation in her voice, my eyes lift to Regan’s. “As frustrating as it is, this is a part of the process. The information you recalled will be a great help; we’ve got a lot to work with.”
“But?” she asks, hearing it hanging the air.
“But. . . as much as I’d love to pin his nuts to the wall for what he put you through, I can’t. Not without ensuring the evidence stacks up. A lot of men wear vanilla-scented colognes. Nearly as many of them have feminine hands. The likelihood of him having both those features and a prior run-in with you lowers the possibilities of this being a mix-up, but we still need to assess the probables. I made a mistake once thinking Danielle was the only perp on our radar. I won’t risk a second fuck up.”
A sudden wish not to be able to read her as well as she can me smacks into me when I see the words she can’t express in her eyes. She’s not worried I’ll fuck up; she’s petrified I’ll fail her. I’m not talking in the physical sense. It’s an emotional upheaval she’s worried about the most.
This woman is more detrimental to my sanity than the world’s most potent drug. She makes me heedless, which, quite frankly, I’d hate. . . if I didn’t love it so much.
“How long of a wait are we talking?”
My brows perk up from the uneasiness in her tone. “An hour, possibly two.” I scan her body. “Plenty of time for dinner.”
The low growl of my words has her forgetting the seriousness of our exchange faster than I can snap my fingers. Good. She doesn’t need to panic. I’ll never let anything happen to her.
“And perhaps dessert?”
I return my eyes to hers. They’re the most devastatingly beautiful they’ve ever b
een. “And dessert. No ifs, baby. I work off facts, not assumptions.”
Rolling her eyes at my term of endearment, she tosses her laptop to the side before hooking her leg over my waist. We groan in sync when her quick straddle of my hips has my cock grinding against her rapidly dampening crotch.
“Since you only work off facts, let me give you a few.” She waits a beat, needing a minute to control the fire running rampantly through her veins from having intimate parts of our bodies sitting so close together. “First, don’t call me ‘baby’ or any other throw-away name. I’m not your baby. I’m also not your girl.” When I attempt to talk, she talks faster. “But I do love it when you call me Rae, so if you need a nickname, stick with that.”
My lips furl before my chin meets my chest, soundlessly calling in my defeat.
“Second, I think we’ve both established that we have some weird, unexplainable connection going on.” When I nod in agreement, she adds on, “Then can we stop pussyfooting around? I’m not glass. I won’t break if handled roughly. I’m reasonably sure the handprint you left on my ass proves that without a doubt.”
My cock rapidly thickening beneath her makes her last fact the hardest of them all to absorb. “And third, but not at all least, if this man is responsible for what happened in my apartment Friday night, we need to tread lightly.”
I stiffen. Unfortunately, not all the rigidness is confined to my zipper region.
“I don’t want him to get off scot-free; I’d just rather not have another spectacle like the one at Luca’s memorial. Danielle’s defense has created quite a lot of gossip in my hometown, gossip I’d rather avoid.”
I peer up at her, shocked she’s aware of the false accusations Danielle is slinging her way. I wasn’t aware they were common knowledge.
“I spoke to Ayden after our run this morning. He wasn’t impressed he had to go out of his way to track me down. I thought you were going to update him when we landed?”
“I did—just twenty minutes after he would have liked.”
From Ayden’s reaction, anyone would swear I had shipped Regan to the Bermuda Triangle instead of Washington DC.
“Ah.” Regan’s brows lower as her lips turn downward. “I take it your conversation didn’t go well?”
I twist my lips to hide my smile. Regan acts tough, but she hates the idea of me getting hurt. “My life was only threatened three times in ten minutes, so that’s somewhat of an improvement.”
Regan laughs. I can tell she feels guilty about her brother’s bossy demeanor, but she heard the jest in my tone. She’s also grateful I’m taking her family’s overbearing personalities in stride. A lesser man may have run for the hills, but I’m not a lesser man. What I said to Regan on the plane is true. I’m not going anywhere.
My eyes slowly drift to Regan’s when she says, “Your ma is right. You’re a good man, Alex Rogers.” Her praise is unnecessary, but fucking great to hear.
“Hmm.” She squirms as if my deep, thick voice rumbled through her body. “Let’s see if you’re still saying that in the morning.”
The tension in the room evaporates when I complete the maneuver she pulled on me last night. In under two seconds, she is beneath me, panting, smiling, and it is all done without a single bit of hesitation crossing her mind. Who in their right mind has time for anxiety when you’ve got a man as strong and protective as me glancing down at you with lust and admiration in his eyes?
Not anyone sane.
13
I wake up the following morning to six unread text messages, four unanswered calls, and an exhausted Regan wrapped around my body. Within twenty minutes of sending Brandon an outdated copy of the suspect’s photo, we identified her perp, but with his funeral occurring a mere nine months after Luca’s, we soon hit a snag.
Jaxson Kittson’s life oddly mimicked Luca’s. He was the popular jock with a beautiful girlfriend on his arm a majority of his senior year at high school before he scored a highly sought-after scholarship to play football. Unlike Luca, he came out his first month of college.
From what Brandon unearthed in the short window I gave him, Jaxson and Luca met at an LGBT support group at college. Although Jaxson encouraged Luca to reveal his sexual orientation in his own time frame, the exchange between Luca, Regan, and himself saw his stance drastically change. He was the one who leaked the recording of Regan and Luca arguing, hence making him partially responsible for Luca’s state of mind the night he died.
I thought this knowledge would ease Regan’s grief, but strangely, it had the opposite effect. At first, I thought her devastation came from discussing Luca and the secret she kept on his behalf for years, but as our conversation continued, I realized I had it all wrong. She wasn’t upset because I knew Luca’s secret; she was devastated she didn’t know his.
Luca never told her he was attending an LGBT support group. As far as she was aware, he had no intention of revealing his secret for years, if ever. She didn’t care about him wanting to live the life he was born to live. The fact he lost his faith in her broke her heart more than anything. She wanted to support him as I did her last night. Luca never gave her the chance.
After freeing one arm from being entangled around Regan’s naked frame, I attempt to snag her cell phone off the bedside table. I stretch with all my might, but it is just out of my reach. I’d have no trouble attaining it if I weren’t concerned about waking Regan, but after the night she had, she needs her sleep.
I want to pretend my chivalry stems from aiding Regan through her grief, but my ego isn’t willing to take a back seat. Some of her tiredness has nothing to do with Luca and everything to do with how we settled her heartache.
Regan is a sexually promiscuous being. She knows what she wants, and she uses all her strong points to get it. I love that about her. When she expresses herself without concern on how I will react, it frees me from worrying that I’m taking advantage of her. . . I won’t say vulnerability. Regan may be sleeping, but even a murmur of a word close to “vulnerable” would have me skinned.
I pull Regan in close to my chest before my eyes drift around my childhood bedroom. It’s pretty bland compared to the girlish palette of Regan’s room. I was one of those adventurous kids, the ones who rarely spend a moment of their time inside, so I guess that could explain its dull appearance. That and the fact this is more a hotel room than my actual bedroom.
With a husband constantly on the road and four children under the age of five, my mom took over The Manor from my great aunt. Everyone said she was crazy—I still think she’s a little nuts to this day—but I understand her need to keep her thoughts occupied. Regan was only out of my sight for eighteen hours, and I thought about her the entire time, so I can imagine how often my mom’s thoughts stray to my dad.
My parents have an odd relationship. What Regan said two nights ago was right: they’re smitten with each other, but it’s not in an all-encompassing, must spend every single waking moment with each other way. The bouts of separation their relationship constantly face have strengthened them as individuals. They enjoy their alone time before coming together to relish the benefits of having someone at your side, fighting with you instead of against you.
I’m hoping to have a similar relationship with Regan. At times, the Bureau does me wrong. There have been many occasions I’ve wanted to hand in my badge. But, in reality, the good far outweighs the bad. Furthermore, being a federal agent is a big part of who I am. I trained for my position for years, way before I joined the academy. This life is in my blood as surely as Regan has burrowed herself into my heart. They are both there—permanently—never to be removed.
I’m just praying I can keep them both.
The quickest squeeze of my heart wakes Regan from her restless sleep. Her eyes dart around my room in confusion before she gingerly lifts her head off my chest. The beat of my heart returns to its normal rhythm when the panic on her face relaxes upon spotting me. She was hesitant to come here, but the more time she spends here, the l
ess reluctant she is. I’d say my mom and sister have more to do with that than me, but I don’t mind claiming a small slice of the victory pie.
“Good morning.” Her usually smooth voice is groggy from just waking up. “Have you been awake long?”
I shake my head. “I just woke.” I tuck a wayward strand of hair behind her ear, hoping it will hide my lie.
The lazy smile on my face turns genuine when I spot the cause of her hair being stuck to her face. She has a smidge of icing smeared from her right ear to the little dip in her collarbone. The generous swell of her breasts must have distracted my tongue before I cleared all the evidence of the impromptu buffet I served on Regan’s gloriously naked body.
“Well, good morning to you too,” Regan purrs in a husky moan when I scoot down low so my tongue can fix the injustice it made last night. “Next time, feel free to help yourself before I wake up. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be woken by a man eating me for breakfast.”
Her voice jumps a few decibels at the end of her statement, her response a consequence of my teeth sinking into her sugary skin. “Switch that generic statement to one more specific to the individual standing before you, and I may consider testing out the theory tomorrow morning.”
As her eyes drop to mine, her legs scissor together. Even with her arousal slowly stirring, she slits her eyes to fake anger. “That means I’d have to wake up in your bed tomorrow morning. I don’t recall this being a long-term arrangement. I thought we were having a bit of fun?”
“Oh, we’ll have fun alright.” Her stomach muscles tense when I drag my beard down them, only stopping when the scruff on my chin grazes her milky-white thighs. “We’re going to have so much fun, you’ll forget what day of the week it is.”
Before she can respond, my tongue lashes her glistening slit. I groan, loving the odd combination of sweet and tangy stimulating my taste buds. The frosting I slathered her in last night is invisible, but its super sweet flavor is still detectable.