Fine Line (Crossing Lines Book 1)

by A. D. Justice

  The best thing about this quaint little shop is it’s not a chain. There are no hipster kids taking up all the seats, trying to appear cool or studious. This place just serves great coffee with equally delicious food, and everyone leaves me the fuck alone. I’ve come here every day for the last two weeks, ordered the same drink, and walked the couple of miles back to my brownstone in Georgetown.

  Routine. Order. Peace.

  I order my usual coffee and move to the end of the counter to wait for my name to be called. The bell over the door chimes so frequently with customers coming and going, I’ve almost tuned it out. But the energy in the café changes instantly, becoming stifling from the nervous electricity arcs crackling in the air. The tingling sensation zings up my spine before I even turn my head to look at who just walked in the shop.

  “Get your fucking ass up and get out of here right now!”

  The shop is filled with people this morning. They’re talking, laughing, or furiously typing on their phones. But they all stop at the same time. I know, because the only noise in the room now is coming from the mouth-breathing bottom-feeder causing a scene. I drop my head forward because I know—I fucking know—no one else will step in and stop him. They’ll watch. They’ll say what a dick he is under their breath. One may be brave enough to threaten to call the police, but that won’t faze a motherfucker like him.

  I know his type all too well. He’ll get off on showing them just how fucking evil he can be. The person who will take the brunt of his pathetic display of power will be the defenseless woman sitting in the coffee shop. No doubt she thought she’d be safe in such a busy public place. But this dickhead is banking on being the only tough guy in a room full of nonfat soy latte drinkers. Not a flask of whiskey in sight.

  “I said get the fuck up!”

  The unmistakable sound of scraping against the wood floor followed by a chair toppling over suggests he’s jerked her out of the seat.

  Still, no one moves.

  “Let go! You’re hurting me!” Her shrill shrieks fill the coffee shop, and I close my eyes, willing the scene to go away.

  But it doesn’t, and she’s terrified. Still, no one says a word or tries to intervene in any way.

  “You don’t know what hurt is yet. But you will after this fucking stunt.”

  “Stop! I have to get my laptop and my purse.”

  “You spend too much time on that fucking thing anyway. You must be talking to some other guy. You’re such a slut. I should stomp that fucking thing into a million pieces so you can’t whore around anymore.”

  No one steps forward to stop him or his ridiculous tirade.

  She cries out in pain, and I can’t take it any longer. I turn around and stride toward him, determination set in my stance and murderous rage written on my face. As if on cue, every person between him and me takes two steps back, giving me plenty of room to move. “Get your fucking hands off her before I break them off your arms and shove them so far up your ass, you’ll be able to wave at people from the back of your fucking throat.”

  The expression on his face is priceless. He’s a big guy, but then I am too. The difference is, I’m a hell of a lot meaner than he has ever thought about being. I’ve committed acts of violence that would make him piss in his pants like a little baby. Breaking him with one punch will be the easiest task on my to-do list for the day.

  “Who the fuck are you?” His sneer and intense stare-down are meant to intimidate me.

  I’d laugh in his face if I weren’t so pissed off over his treatment of this beautiful, terrified lady.

  “I’m the man who’s going to fuck you up one side and down the other if you don’t take your hands off her right now. I won’t say it again.”

  I know the instant he decides to call my bluff. He’s gotten away with this too many times. He’s been given too many idle threats by guys who didn’t have the ass to back up their words. He thinks he’ll get away with it again with me because his fingers on his left hand tighten on her arm and he jerks her harder toward his chest as he nonchalantly drops his right hand. She loses her balance and falls into him, causing him to manhandle her even more until she regains her footing.

  His right arm juts toward me, but I see his pathetic punch coming from a mile away. That’s when I take him. A quick, swift jab to his nose makes his head snap backward. The pop of the bone breaking echoes through the room, and he stumbles backward before crumpling to the ground. His hand is still firmly wrapped around her bicep, though, so I rush forward to break his hold and keep her from falling to the floor with him. Once I free her of his grip, I instinctively wrap my arm around her waist, pulling her into me, and move her farther away from him.

  The small shop erupts in claps and cheers as the dickhead lies bleeding on the floor, but she buries her face in my chest to hide. Shame, embarrassment, guilt—I’ve seen all the emotions written in her posture and her reaction too many times to count. And every single time, it enrages me because the abused woman thinks it’s her fault instead of the man who can’t fucking control himself. If I never see this unwarranted shame on an innocent woman’s face again, it’ll be too soon.

  But I’m not ready for what else I see when this lady in particular finally peers up at me.

  Through the tears shining in her deep green eyes and the black streaks of wet mascara on her face, she looks up at me with admiration. Adoration. Her champion. A hero.

  “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?” Somehow, I manage to ask her the most basic questions about her well-being, but she has rattled me to my core without uttering a single word.

  I’m no hero. I can’t even say I’m a good man anymore.

  “I’m okay. Thank you for what you did, stepping in like that. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”

  I wipe the mascara away with the pad of my thumb. Dickhead has embarrassed her enough for today. She doesn’t need raccoon eyes to add insult to injury.

  As the dickhead tries to stand, two police officers step into the café. He wipes the blood from his face when he’s finally on his feet then startles from the red smear on his hand. His angry gaze flies up to me and amps up tenfold when his eyes trail my arm around her midsection. An ugly snarl covers his face, and I pull her tighter into me out of sheer spite. My eyebrow quirks up, and a smirk covers my face.

  It’s a blatant dare. He knows it. I know it. I don’t fucking care. He can bring his A game, and he’ll still get his ass beaten down.

  “What’s going on here?” One of the officers takes control of the situation. His authoritative tone defuses the angry spark in dickhead’s eyes.

  “That guy just punched me and broke my nose.” He points to me, and the officers’ gazes follow his finger.

  “Is that true?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Several patrons start chiming in at once.

  “That man was abusing that woman.”

  “He got punched in the nose because he was hurting her.”

  “That’s not all that happened, Officer. That man saved her.”

  “Okay, okay. Everyone calm down until we get to the bottom of this. We need to see some ID.” One officer takes the name and information of the other guy. “Butch McMahan. Is the address on your license still correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Oh, now he’s polite and respectful.

  The other officer approaches me cautiously. “You got some ID?”

  “Sure, Officer.” I smile and pull my own badge out from under my jacket. “Special Agent Nick Tucker, DEA.”

  All the color drains from Butch’s face. My smirk morphs into the first real smile I’ve had in a long time.

  “Special Agent Tucker, can you tell me what happened here?”

  “Absolutely.” I give him the play-by-play of the events leading up to the altercation that rendered Bitch temporarily dazed and incapacitated on the floor. Every time I say “Bitch,” he corrects me with “Butch,” but I keep going. It’s the little things that make me feel b
etter. Like calling Butch “Bitch.” By the time I finish relaying the events, both cops have to actively work to avoid laughing out loud.

  I don’t even try to hide my mirth. Bitch deserves it.

  Then one of the officers checks the license of the woman still clinging to me. “Savannah Fields. Is this address still correct?”

  “No. That’s my old address. I moved a couple of months ago but haven’t had my license updated.”

  “What’s your new address, then?” The cop waits with his pen pressed against the paper, looking up when she doesn’t answer.

  “I don’t want to give it out.” Her eyes jerk toward Butch then back to the officer’s. I immediately understand the situation.

  “Let’s step outside so she can give you her information in private, Officer.”

  “Absolutely. Better yet, I have another idea. Frank, can you take Mr. McMahan outside and finish getting his information, away from Miss Fields?”

  “My pleasure. Step outside, sir. We’re not finished yet.” The other officer opens the door and motions with his head for Butch to step through.

  When the door is closed and Savannah is assured he can’t hear her, she rattles off her new address to the officer, and it’s immediately committed to my memory.

  “I don’t want to press charges, Officer. It’ll only provoke him more than he already is.”

  “Are you sure about that, Miss Fields? This is a clear-cut case of simple assault and battery. You have plenty of credible witnesses who are more than happy to testify to that fact, if needed.”

  I watch her face as she weighs the pros and cons, and I know the very second she’s made up her mind. “No, I just want him to leave me alone and put all this behind me once and for all.”

  The problem is, I’ve been around men like Butch for the past two years. He won’t leave her alone. He won’t let this slight against him go unanswered. His pride has been wounded whether he leaves here in the back of the patrol car or not. And he will want revenge for that insult. But her mind is made up, and she urges the officer to wrap this up so everyone can get back to their business.

  With the paperwork done, Bitch and the other office rejoin us in the warmth of the coffee shop.

  “I want him arrested.” Bitch thrusts his finger at me as he approaches, and I’m sorely tempted to break it. “He assaulted me. Broke my nose. Look at me.”

  “Go ahead and press charges. Savannah and I will both press charges against you too, and we’ll see who walks out of the precinct and who spends the night.” My blatant dare is meant to incite him again. He doesn’t take much goading to push him over the edge, and I’m in the mood to have another go at him.

  The cop finishes writing on his form and turns to Bitch. “Here’s the deal. You can either leave now and stay away from her for good, and I mean forever, Mr. McMahan. Or, we can arrest you right now for assault and battery. You can try to press charges against Special Agent Tucker, but I guarantee his director will have already talked to the chief of police before we even get to the station.”

  Butch hesitates for just a moment, weighing his options, before he concedes. “I’ll leave. I never want to see her again anyway.”

  The cop turns to Savannah. “Go file a restraining order against him. If he breaks it, we’ll haul him in.”

  “Like a piece of paper can save her if I wanted to get to her.”

  “Did you just threaten her in front of me? Because I’ll arrest you right here and now if you want to play this stupid game.” The cop grabs his cuffs and advances on Bitch.

  “No, no, I’m not threatening her. If you’re finished with me, I’ll go now.”

  “That would be best. Stay away from her. Don’t call her. Don’t look for her. If you see her out somewhere, turn and walk the other way. You get me?”

  He nods then storms out the door. A collective sigh echoes through the shop when the door closes behind him. When I look down at Savannah, I’m surprised to find her still attached to me even after Butch is gone. The two cops leave soon after Savannah promises to pursue the restraining order so they can arrest his ass when he approaches her again. They know he will—they’ve seen the signs too many times, too.

  “You okay?” I wait for her to tip her face up to me, and those emerald-green eyes hypnotize me instantly.

  She nods. “I think I’m okay now. Thank you for not leaving me to deal with this mess alone.”

  “My pleasure, Savannah. Let me grab a hot coffee then I’ll walk you home to make sure you get there safely. Can I get you anything?”

  “I think I’m already jittery enough. I don’t need more caffeine to add to it.” She laughs nervously and glances away. “I’ll just grab my things then I’ll be ready to go.”

  With my coffee in hand and Savannah’s laptop bag slung over my shoulder, she and I set off on foot. The chilly air hits us the second we step out of the café. “Good thing your place is only at the end of the block. You’d freeze to death if you had to walk much farther.”

  She nods and looks down, a sure sign of the low self-esteem. “I know, but I’m too fat, so I need the exercise. Butch used to complain about my weight frequently.”

  I place my hand on her arm, careful not to alarm her, and halt her steps. “That’s not what I said at all. You’re gorgeous, built, and sexy as hell. I don’t give a shit what that fucking moron said—you’re perfect exactly the way you are right now. From what I’ve seen and felt, you have all the right curves in all the right places.”

  Her face burns bright red and her eyes drop to the ground, but a smile spreads across her face. “Thank you, Nick. That’s very sweet of you to say.”

  With a chuckle, I shake my head. “I’ve never been accused of being sweet before.” We continue our short walk to her apartment building. “Do you mind if I come up for a minute? Before you get the wrong idea, I only want to make sure he’s not waiting for you up there before I leave you alone.”

  “Um, sure. I guess that’s a good idea, considering he just showed up in my neighborhood today, and I have no idea how he found out where I live now.”

  “You’re still in scrubs, so I’m guessing you work nights. Any chance he could’ve followed you home from work?”

  “Maybe. But I was very careful, watching all around me and everything. I didn’t even drive to work today. I took the Metro and walked to the coffee shop.”

  I can tell she’s very uneasy about being alone with me in the elevator, but I know this guy isn’t going to give up as easily as he said. So I take advantage of the time to learn more about the clusterfuck that just happened. “I take it Butch McMahan is your ex-boyfriend?”

  “Unfortunately. It’s actually a long, ugly story, but we haven’t been more than acquaintances for about three years. Though, he obviously thinks that means he owns me and gets to boss me around. I know the cop was adamant about the restraining order, but it won’t do any good to get one. It may even make the situation worse because Butch would take it as a dare. I don’t want his temper to escalate.”

  I’m leaning against the elevator wall as we slowly climb to the fifth floor, watching her every move and expression, when a sobering fact hits me.

  The threat of danger to Savannah is far from being over. Undercover work sharpened my gut instincts. My intuition kept me alive at times I could just as easily have died, but I heeded the warnings even when I questioned the logic behind doing so. I learned quickly not to ignore them, and right now, they’re screaming at the top of their lungs at me.

  Can I simply walk away knowing that?

  Chapter 3

  Savannah

  This enormous man moving through my apartment like he owns it is reassuring and intimidating at the same time. And sexy. Very, very sexy. That’s something I shouldn’t even be thinking about right now. I’ve sworn off men completely until I get my own shit together. I don’t need another complication in my life right now. I mean, I haven’t even fully gotten rid of Butch yet, despite my best attempts. I wouldn�
��t feel right about starting something with another man with that kind of loser baggage still clinging to me.

  But there’s something innately calming and reassuring about Nick. He didn’t even flinch over the extra time it took to open all my dead bolts and door locks—and lock them back again once we were inside. Now, I can’t help but follow him around like a lost puppy and watch his every move, explaining my reasoning for decorating or furniture arrangement. He has no idea how much I appreciate his good-natured replies to my rambling. He’s definitely lethal to the female population in those jeans that cling to his legs perfectly, outlining the muscular tree trunks underneath the denim fabric. And I find myself jealous of the thermal Henley stretching across his broad shoulders, thick chest, and muscular arms, clinging to his fine physique like a tattoo.

  Speaking of a tattoo, I see hints of extensive ink across his chest now and then when he moves in just the right way. The tips of an elaborate design peek out from under his shirt, and I’m dying to ask him if I can see it. When we walked into my apartment, he took off his jacket and draped it over his arm, no expectations for me to pick it up off the floor wherever he decided to drop it. Unlike someone else I know but wish I didn’t.

  “You don’t have an alarm system?” His tone is nonchalant, absent any judgment or condemnation. But I have a feeling it’s anything but benign from the way he thoroughly checks and rechecks my doors and windows, as if I don’t check them a hundred times a day without his help.

  “No. I’m only renting and have no intentions of buying this place, so I didn’t see the point in investing the money.”

  He nods his head, but his demeanor clearly says he doesn’t agree with me. “Maybe you’ll change your mind after the incident today.”

  When I’m silent for too long, he turns and pierces me with his amber-colored eyes that make me think of a shot of whiskey—smooth and warm, but with an extra kick that comes from out of nowhere. But something deeper in them speaks to me. I feel an instant connection to him, past the acts of kindness he’s shown me.