The Acceptance s-2

by L. L. Foster

  “Proof of what?” Mort demanded.

  Trying to soothe him, Ann said, “We just got a call about a murder victim, a man mutilated much like Lucy, except his heart and testicles were removed.”

  Oh shit. Gaby knew it was the same man, the one she’d threatened with just that retribution. Someone had heard, and was setting her up.

  Mort now matched Luther’s outrage. “You think Gaby was involved?”

  “She split, didn’t she?” Luther shot right back.

  Bliss started crying again. “She went because of you, Luther.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?” Rage vibrated in his every word.

  Hiccupping, Bliss said, “She knows you’re in trouble and I guess she knew about the dead guy—”

  “Of course she did.”

  “—and she said she can’t keep you safe if you arrest her.”

  “Perfect. Just fucking perfect.” Luther laughed without an ounce of humor. “God save me from Gaby’s half-witted delusions of grandeur.”

  An anvil of hurt crushed Gaby’s chest. She gasped with the pain of it, the humiliation. Slumping against the wall, she almost crumbled.

  But she couldn’t be weak.

  No matter what Luther thought of her, he was in trouble. She believed Bliss, believed the authenticity of her portent.

  Trying to contain the hurt, Gaby pressed a fist to her heart and staggered away from the alley.

  Half-witted, he’d called her. Delusional.

  That’s what Luther really thought of her, and it mattered, when she’d never before cared what anyone thought.

  Or so she’d convinced herself.

  Now, she had to admit to her own vulnerability. She’d trusted Luther. Against a lifetime of learned response, she’d opened her soul to him.

  God, she was stupid. And delusional. He had that right. Only a half-witted fool would believe the two of them had any sort of future.

  At a corner pay phone, in plain sight should Luther leave the apartment, she called him.

  He answered on the first ring. “Damn you, Gaby, where are you?”

  Unemotional, barren of feeling, she said, “Nowhere that you’ll ever find me.”

  “You have to go back to your apartment sometime.”

  “For what? I don’t have a life, Luther. You know that.” She didn’t explain to him that she could get in and out of her place—and would—with the expertise of a wraith. Luther would never see her. No one would. From now on, she’d be invisible.

  “Gaby, you have friends . . .”

  “Who think I’m delusional with visions of grandeur. Yeah, I know.”

  He went silent, then she heard his footsteps as he rushed through the apartment with the realization that she’d overheard him. “Where are you? We can talk. Let me explain—”

  “I’m gone, Luther. Stop chasing shadows and listen to me.” She drew a pained breath. “It doesn’t matter what you think of me. Not anymore.”

  “You have no idea what I really think.”

  “Yeah well, like I said. It doesn’t matter now. So listen up. I’m only going to say this once. You have to be careful.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “You sound like me.” A small, poignant smile teased her before Gaby realized it and wiped the expression away. “If you hear from anyone who wants to meet you, possibly an anonymous source, you can’t go alone. No matter what he says. Do you understand?”

  “If you know something I should know—”

  “I know a lot of things you should know, but we’re no longer cohorts. I’ll be in touch.” She hung up and faded back into the alley. For tonight at least, Luther had Ann with him. He’d be safe.

  Probably.

  But as Gaby went through the alley and over a broken wall to cut back to the street, doubts gnawed on her peace of mind. She hadn’t made a conscious decision to follow Luther until she found herself near her car with the need for haste prodding her.

  It proved a simple thing to drive back to Mort’s, wait near the curb, and follow Luther when he left. Gaby kept a distance so he wouldn’t notice her, but she never let him out of her sights. He stopped at a grocery store, went inside for about ten minutes, and exited with a bag of items. Next he stopped to put gas in his car.

  Impatient, Gaby hung back, watching, noticing the limpness of his clothes, his posture. Frustration and tiredness etched every line of his big, muscular body.

  Before an ominous moon, evening breezes scuttled shadows and disrupted Luther’s dark blond hair. With one hand he held the gas nozzle to his car, and with the other he tugged at his tie.

  She’d wanted to know him—in every way.

  She’d wanted to touch him—everywhere.

  And he’d ridiculed her to her friends.

  Little by little, grating outrage shoved aside the anesthetizing hurt.

  How dare he accuse her of insanity?

  Gaby snorted to herself. She wished her only issue was a little lunacy. Her life as a crazy person would be much, much easier than that of a paladin.

  Luther got back in his car and pulled out to the road.

  At a discreet distance, Gaby followed.

  No, she wouldn’t let anyone hurt him. But she made no promises about what she’d do.

  Before long, impecunious surroundings gave way to bourgeois dwellings; tidy homes with immaculate lawns lined the streets, enhanced by compact cars in the driveways and landscaping of flowers and shrubs.

  Gaby slowed to a crawl when Luther’s turn signal came on. He pulled into a driveway and his car lights went off. Seconds later, she heard the closing of his garage door. A streetlamp illuminated him as he hauled out his grocery bag and strode to the front door of a small Cape-style home.

  Keys in hand, he unlocked a wooden door, went inside, and the porch light went on. The door closed.

  Gaby sat back and studied his house. Showing his bachelor status, Luther had a well-kept lawn, but lacked flowers of any kind. A tall oak tree grew in the front. A stone walkway led to the porch. At the right side of the house, a tall brick chimney climbed to the top of the roof.

  Colonial blue wood siding and cottage windows with black shutters added agrestic charm.

  It was a beautiful home. A real home.

  Longing and regret lacerated the last fragile thread of Gaby’s temper. As silent as the breeze, she opened her car door and slunk out.

  She’d peer in the windows, that’s all. Nothing more. Not right now.

  Avoiding the streetlamp’s glow, she dashed across the street and onto the cushiony lawn. Thanks to the settling of dew, she could smell the friggin’ grass.

  Starved for any taste of normalcy, she paused to stroke the rough bark of the towering tree and let her lungs drink in the fresh air. Somewhere nearby, a cricket chirped.

  Her eyes closed, her heart ached—

  “Spying on me?”

  Gaby struck without thought. The heel of her palm came up with killing force. Quick reflexes saved Luther from a broken nose, or worse. Instead, her palm clipped his chin, snapping his head back.

  Appalled, she stifled the next automatic move. “Luther!” Well damn. She was pissed, yeah, but she didn’t want to damage him.

  He didn’t fall. He worked his jaw—and the next thing Gaby knew, he had tripped her and that dew-wet grass kissed all along her back. Luther’s crushing weight compressed her lungs.

  Incensed, he breathed fire against her face, while at the same time, one of his legs shoved with brute force between both of hers.

  She wasn’t moving much, either by way of objection or defense, but still he caught her wrists in an iron grip and wrested both of her hands high above her head.

  His mouth almost touching hers, he said, “Answer me, damn it.”

  For most people, her current position would be alarming. For Gaby, it didn’t matter. Not even a little. “You startled me.”

  His whole big body vibrated with rage, and then he kissed her, hard enough that it wasn
’t fun.

  When he lifted his head, Gaby fried him with a glare. “I wouldn’t suggest you try that again.”

  “Or you’ll do what? Stalk me?”

  She head-butted him, and the solid thwack even made her see stars.

  For a single instant, Luther loosened his grip and slumped over her, giving her the opportunity to twist out from under him.

  She shot to her feet.

  He rolled to his back, a hand to his forehead.

  Now standing over his supine form, Gaby said, “I could destroy you, you arrogant bastard, and that is not delusions of grandeur. If you don’t believe me, then come on, big boy. Let’s go. Right here, right now.”

  He lay there, a forearm covering his eyes. Even his breathing seemed to still.

  Oh hell. “Luther?” Had she knocked him out?

  Gaby nudged him with her foot. “Say something, damn it.”

  He dropped his arm. “What do you want me to say? That I’m sorry? Fine.” His gaze bored into hers; his voice softened with rueful sincerity. “I’m sorry.”

  No! She would not be drawn in so easily. “Get up, damn it.”

  “To fight with you? No thanks.” At his leisure, he propped himself on an elbow. A swelling knot showed on his forehead.

  “Why not? Chicken?”

  His lips twitched. “You know, if you don’t lower your voice, my neighbors will call the police.” He looked struck with that possibility. “Or they might call me—since I am the police.”

  Her heartache swelled to impossible proportion. “You think this is funny?”

  “I think I’m bewitched. There’s a difference.” He patted the ground beside him. “Come here, Gaby.”

  “No.”

  “Why? You were enjoying the grass.” His expression remained impassive. “And the tree.”

  Oh God. “How do you know that?”

  “I could see it on your face.” His gaze ranged over her, head to toes and back again. “It’s not just danger, or evil, or . . . bad things that transform you. You’re like a chameleon, forever changing on me, always unpredictable.”

  After many vicissitudes of disappointment, she’d had no choice but to change in order to survive. “That’s nonsense.”

  “You’re a beautiful woman, Gaby. Not in the typical sense of shallow society standards. You’re more striking than that.”

  “I must’ve hit your head too hard.”

  “Even when you alter—”

  “Morph?”

  “Semantics. But even then, your looks are compelling. And sexy.” He patted the grass again. “Now don’t be cowardly. Accept the compliments as truth.”

  “How can I when you’re delusional?”

  “Possibly. But I’m trying hard to see things clearly. With you, that’s always a challenge.” He held up a hand. “Come down here so we can talk more comfortably.”

  Instead, she took a step back. She didn’t trust him in this awkward, sensual mood. “What do we have to talk about anymore?” Far as she was concerned, it had all been said.

  “Life,” he offered. “And possibilities—for the past and the present and the future—”

  She almost kicked him. “There is no future.”

  “For us, you mean? I think you’re wrong.”

  That stymied her, so she addressed his most recent insult. “I am not a coward.”

  “Not usually, no. But I scare you.”

  He did. So much. Resistance fading, Gaby said, “The ground is wet.”

  “And mosquitoes are likely feasting on me in hordes.” He sat up, brushed off his arms and the back of his head. “Okay. How about we just sit in the grass, then? You can lean against the tree. What do you think?”

  Gaby couldn’t get herself to move. Filled with skepticism, she asked, “What are you sorry about?”

  “A lot of things. Let’s start with I’m sorry for being a cop, and therefore being bound to certain types of conduct and practices.”

  “Meaning the edicts that would have you arrest anyone suspicious.”

  “Yes.”

  “You think I’m suspicious.”

  “Tell me what really happened, and then I’ll decide.”

  Putting her chin in the air, she said, “Fine.” She dropped down to sit yoga-style and leaned her back against the tree. “I hear the insects.”

  “They’re hungry little bastards.” One finger moved up her arm. “And you’re tasty.”

  Gaby snatched her arm away. “Some deranged asshole hurt Marie.”

  “But he wasn’t the guy we want?”

  “No. Just a cretin with an abusive streak.”

  Luther didn’t question her authority on that. “How badly did he hurt her?”

  Feelings, visions, demitted her cloak of bravado. “It was awful, Luther,” she whispered. “He knocked out one of her teeth, beat on her, and . . .” Her throat hurt, and it seemed impossible to swallow. Gaby touched the choker Luther had given her, the choker she never removed, as if that could relieve the restriction. “He burned her with his cigarette. Twice.”

  Comforting, lending strength, Luther’s hand rested on her thigh. “And you being a champion of all the little people, delivered your unique form of retribution?”

  Her muscles tightened all over again. “Mock me all you want. I don’t care.”

  “Actually, that was my asinine way of accepting you for who you are. You are a champion, Gaby. A defender. You know and care about Marie, but you’d have done the same for anyone you considered an underdog. I know that.”

  “Well, whatever you want to call it, I pulverized him.”

  “Describe pulverize, please.”

  “His arm was broken beneath his elbow.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “The bone was sticking out.”

  Luther made a face. “Definitely broken.”

  “When I finished with him, he was pretty bloodied and battered. I only stopped because he couldn’t fight anymore. But before I left him, I told him that if he ever again hurt anyone to get his jollies, I’d cut out his heart and remove his balls.”

  Luther winced. “But you didn’t kill him.”

  “No, I didn’t.” She picked at a sweet blade of grass, brought it to her mouth. “There were a lot of people there. Jimbo, the hookers, shop owners, renters. Any spectacle is entertaining.”

  “What happened to the guy?”

  “Jimbo had a friend take him home where we both assumed he’d have someone take him to the hospital.”

  “And you think it’s possible that our guy got to him instead, and killed him to set you up?”

  Dropping back against the rough tree trunk, Gaby shook her head. “I think he killed him because he gets his rocks off that way. Setting me up is just a bonus.”

  While contemplating that, Luther began stroking the bare skin of her leg, over her knee, higher on her thigh. “You’re especially sensitive about anyone hurting women, aren’t you?”

  “Or kids.”

  Using his hold on her knee for leverage, Luther sat up, moved closer. Whenever he touched her, the size of his hands struck her. He was a large man all over—a large, capable man who helped society without walking the fine line between corruption and morality.

  He cupped her face, making her feel small, fragile.

  “Tell me, Gaby. Is that because, at some point in your life, someone hurt you?”

  Chapter 15

  Luther saw the memories slipping through her thoughts, and he saw her reticence to share with him. He’d hurt her with his careless words, and now he’d have to make things right.

  If he could.

  “Gaby?” Catching the edge of her chin, he brought her face around. “Will you forgive me for losing my temper and saying things I didn’t mean?”

  In the most relevant show of vulnerability he’d ever witnessed from Gaby, she avoided his gaze.

  The moonlight limned her features. Somewhere nearby, an owl hooted. It was a romantic night—but with Gaby, that’d mean ver
y little.

  She glanced back at him. “Are you sure you didn’t mean them?”

  “Positive. It’s just that I’m human, and sometimes prone to the same failings as any other man. I get pissed, and idiotic garbage spews from my mouth. It’s just venting, honey, not my real feelings.”

  Gaby frowned. “So what are your real feelings? And be honest. I can take it.”

  He cupped her chin again. “I think you’re one of the most intelligent women I’ve ever met.”

  “Yeah right.” She made a sound of disdain. “Did you forget my lack of education?”

  “With you, it doesn’t matter. You’re smart, sharp, perceptive, and savvy. And for all your lack of formal schooling, you have something better. You have street smarts.”

  “So then why were you so pissed?”

  Luther searched for the right words to help her understand. Gaby was smart, but she lacked the social skills that would enable her to understand the give and take, the ups and downs, of a relationship.

  “I get insulted when you want to protect me, just as any six-foot, three-inch tall man would be. I lashed out—but I didn’t mean it.”

  “So you know I could kick your ass?”

  Luther stalled. Damn it, she always had to push him, but for once, it didn’t infuriate him so much as exasperate him. Trying for judicious neutrality, he said, “I know you’re exceptionally well trained in fighting. And that’s another question—who trained you?”

  She shook her head in pity. “Poor Luther. You persist in trying to find logical explanations for every facet of my being.”

  “Logic is good.”

  “Sure. But it doesn’t apply to me, because no one trained me. I just know what to do and when to do it. Don’t ask me how I know, though.”

  If she lacked formal training, then had a lifestyle of abuse fashioned her reflexes? He hated to think so, but . . . “And my other question?”

  When she started playing with the grass again, Luther forced her to meet his gaze. He felt a fine tension in her that hadn’t been there moments before.

  As gentle as he could be, he said, “You spent a lot of time in the foster care system. Not everyone is in it to help kids in need. And you had special concerns . . .”

  “Guess you just answered you own question, huh?”