That memory brings a smile to my face. “Yeah, I figured he would. I waited around for him to show his fugly mug. An idiot thug like him couldn’t resist, not even realizing all he accomplished was showing his entire hand.”
“What do you mean?”
“I knew he was tracking you somehow. He found you here in the coffee shop after you said you moved without telling him where you went, didn’t he? When he rolled up at your building, I approached him, made a few not so vague threats to his person, and took his phone from him.”
“His phone? Why would you take his phone? What does that have to do with anything?” Her eyebrows draw down, her head tilts to the side, and her lips part slightly. On top of being too fucking beautiful to look at, she’s so damn cute when she scrunches up her face.
“He had an app on it so he could trace you. It was still open when I snatched his phone from his cut. It was a burner phone. With a guy like him, I made an educated guess he doesn’t have your number memorized. Still, I suggest changing your phone number and your email address in case he’s actually smarter than he looks.”
“You mean I went to all the trouble of packing and moving in secret, to a new location he knew nothing about, only to have him track me with an app on his phone? Oh my gosh, Nick. I feel so stupid. I should’ve anticipated something like that, but the thought honestly never crossed my mind. I can’t believe you stayed out in the cold for so long, waiting for him to show just so you could make him leave me alone. Saying thank you—again—seems so inadequate. The news anchor had it completely correct when he said you’re an undercover hero.”
“I’m no hero, Savannah. Not at all. But I’ve witnessed firsthand how some sorry excuse for a man treats women. If I can help keep one of them away from you, I’ll do whatever needs to be done.”
“He’s one of them, you know.”
My head snaps back toward her fast enough to give me whiplash. “He’s one of who?”
“The Devil’s Dominion motorcycle club. The club president sent him out here a little over two years ago to oversee bringing a smaller gang into their circle. Things didn’t go too smoothly with that assignment, though. He never told me anything, of course. But his voice is naturally loud, so I overheard everything he said about it when he came around me. He wouldn’t go back out to LA because he’d failed at the assignment he was given, and he knew he’d never be promoted to an officer after that.”
“He was a Devil, and he doesn’t know who I am?” I can’t fucking believe what I’m hearing. “And he just ditched his colors and ran?”
“Butch never watched TV—not even the news—so it doesn’t surprise me he didn’t recognize you. He hasn’t owned a TV since he put his foot through one before we left LA because something someone said pissed him off. I kept mine off when he was around so he wouldn’t break it. As far as his colors, I was never involved in that side of his life, so I don’t know much about how it works. The other group didn’t like the raw deal they were getting, and there were more of them than there were Devils here, so they ran Butch and a couple of his buddies off. It was after that when he quit wearing his vest with their patches. Is that what you mean?”
“Yeah, a cut is the vest, and the colors are the patches—the top and bottom rocker panels and the middle patch. Under the club bylaws, he’s supposed to wear his colors every time he’s on his bike. He must’ve tucked his tail and run when the other club refused him. Rather than make believers of them himself, or even call in the reinforcements to help him, he just dropped his colors and hid instead. He’s even more of a coward than I thought. What do you know? I’ve given Bitch way too much credit.”
She snickers at my choice nickname for him. “He may not be too bright, but don’t underestimate him, Nick. He’s as cruel and malicious as they come.”
“I’m sure he is. But there’s always someone bigger, badder, and meaner just around the corner. Let me know if he comes sniffing around, looking to cause trouble for you again. I’ll make good on those threats I made.”
Not that I think she will, but the offer stands. I can’t stand guard outside her place day and night, but I’ll gladly jump on my bike, whisk around the stalled traffic, and make a quick dash of the two miles separating us to face off with that dickhead again. All this pent-up energy and frustration have to vent somewhere.
For some reason, I’m still standing here, staring into those emerald-green eyes and those flaming strands of auburn-colored hair that are pulled back in some kind of beautiful, intricate braid. I’m sure I look like a fucking idiot. What I’m thinking about her is the last thing I need right now. My life is complicated enough as it is. After two raps on the table with my knuckles, I make my exit. “That book won’t write itself, Savannah. I’ll leave you to it.”
Over the next two weeks, Savannah is in my favorite coffee shop every morning in her nursing scrubs, sitting in the same seat, with her fingers furiously flying across the keyboard. My routine is also the same—walk in, say hello, grab my usual order, and take a seat with her while she types away on her laptop. After the first couple of days, I noticed she rarely ate, still stuck on that stupid fucking notion that she’s too fat. So I started ordering breakfast to go with my coffee. She isn’t fat. She is fine. And watching her enjoy the variety of menu items I deliver to her every day gives me an unusual satisfaction.
These visits with Savannah are not dates. I’m just getting to know the beautiful redhead with emerald-green eyes better every day. There’s a difference. Besides, I’m enjoying just spending time with her. The aroma of coffee mixed with cinnamon buns and every other imaginable pastry is the icing on the piece of delicious red velvet cake sitting across from me. Plus, she’s smart and funny. For the first time in a long time, I enjoy talking to someone about everyday mundane topics instead of the logistics of an undercover operation.
“So, tell me, what made you leave your private employer and join the DEA?” She watches me over the rim of her mug, blowing on the piping hot java before touching it to her mouth. I can’t help but watch every movement of her lips and tongue until they disappear behind the bottom of her cup.
“The owner of the company, Dominic Powers, got married. He and his wife Sofia had a baby. Dominic hired someone else to run the company while he sat back and made the money. His home has state-of-the-art security with monitoring stations and impenetrable fences. My unique services were no longer required, not at the level I was used to providing anyway. After serving in the Army, I still had a strong conviction of serving my country, so the DEA became my new home.”
“And the undercover work? Weren’t you scared? I mean, if they’d found out you were a federal agent, they would’ve killed you on the spot.” She looks at me with awe, waiting for my reply.
“They would have—and actually tried to there at the end. They almost succeeded in killing a buddy of mine from the CIA. He joined late in the investigation for a different reason, but he ended up blowing his cover to save a girl he was in love with. Almost blew my entire case, but so far, it hasn’t completely unraveled. Once the trials are over, I’ll be able to breathe freely again.”
“I can’t tell you how impressed I am with everything you’ve done. You’ve been all over the world. Done all kinds of work. Met all kinds of people. You’ve faced real-life situations that would make me pee the bed if I only dreamed about them. Besides work, what do you like to do?”
“I’ve been undercover for the past two years, until recently. I don’t do anything besides work. Except go to the gym, if that counts as a hobby. I use weights to work off stress and keep in peak physical condition. Never know when you’ll need that extra bit of ass to back up your threats.”
She smiles and her eyes sparkle. Like emeralds. “You, threaten someone? Surely not. I can’t even imagine that. You’re just a big teddy bear.” She puts her hand on my arm as she speaks. An innocent act to emphasize her tease, but the mere contact of her soft skin ignites every nerve in my body.
Fuc
k. It’s been way too long since I’ve enjoyed the scents and sounds of a willing and beautiful woman underneath me. And I shouldn’t be thinking any of the thoughts about a certain auburn-haired woman that are running through my mind. Or seeing any of the visions surrounding her that are parading through my mind’s eye at the moment. “Yeah. You just keep thinking that, darlin’.”
“You’re still my hero, Nick. My undercover hero. Don’t you ever forget it.”
“No, you won’t let me forget that moniker for shit.” We laugh together, comfortable with the playful joking between us. “Speaking of the gym, I should get going.”
“Will I see you tomorrow? Same time, same place?” There’s a hopeful tone to her voice that wasn’t there yesterday or the day before when she asked me the same question.
“Never know what tomorrow holds, darlin’.” My standard response doesn’t have quite as much conviction as it’s held every other time I’ve used it either. Maybe we’re both looking forward to seeing each other tomorrow.
Maybe a little too much. I leave with a wink and a quick wave before I say something I’ll regret later. I’m not looking for romance. She’s not looking for a good time. We’re definitely not a match made in heaven.
Thinking of working off pent-up frustration leaves me with two options. One, start going through my little black book and seeing which friend-with-benefits still feels friendly after I’ve been away more than two years. Or two, go to the gym and hit the weights until I lose control of all voluntary muscle movement and regret my decision in the morning.
The gym it is.
After a quick jog back to my brownstone, I change into my dark gray sweat pants, throw on a tank top, and slide my thick hoodie over my head. After stuffing a change of clothes in my old gym bag, I’m out the door and on my way to wear myself out. Bypassing all the boutique gyms in the area, I head toward a man’s-man gym—no machines, only heavy weights that take two hands to lift. No yoga classes. No Zen rooms. No safe spaces. Just free weights, free water, and freedom to work out undisturbed. Down the steps and into the basement I go, to my favorite unknown gym, The Dungeon.
Many other agents work out here from every agency identified by initials. We share a mutual understanding of how a labor-intensive workout helps more than any mandated therapy session could. Punishing ourselves while simultaneously making our bodies harder and stronger is the ultimate win-win scenario. Likely the only one of those we’ll ever have in our line of work.
Hours pass as I lift weights until I’ve pushed my muscles beyond fatigue and into exhaustion. It hurts so good, though. My arms are made of cooked spaghetti now, and I can barely push the bar back up on the holder on my last rep. After putting my weights back on the racks, I hit the treadmill for a long stretch of my legs and my lungs. This is when I completely clear my mind, only listening to the way my feet fall on the conveyor belt and focusing on keeping my breathing consistent. The rest of the world doesn’t exist for this hour. It’s mine and mine alone.
It’s when I’m in the shower with the scalding hot water soothing my exhausted muscles that my thoughts are overrun once again. The news coverage is still running. The nickname the anchor gave me is used every day on every station now. The way Savannah looked at me when she called me an undercover hero was the same way she looked at me when I tossed Bitch around like a little bitch doll for manhandling her.
That expression will change when the smear campaign begins.
The higher they rise, the further they fall.
And currently, they’re trying to launch me and my superhero alter ego they’ve created into the fucking stratosphere.
Back in my brownstone, I grab a gallon of water from the refrigerator and stand in the open door, guzzling it down to quench my thirst and cool my engines. Out of nowhere, someone starts pounding on my door and frantically screaming my name. On my way to the commotion, I drop the jug of water on the table and grab my gun instead. When I jerk the door open, I find a battered and bloodied Savannah.
Her once expertly styled hair now hangs in tatters—parts of it frizzy but still in place, and other large chunks hang loose. Two large sections next to her scalp are matted and still wet with blood. One eye is nearly swollen shut, and both her lips are busted and bleeding. Her cheeks show scrapes and abrasions, while bruises in the shapes of long fingers are already forming in angry red tendrils on her neck. Some of these injuries very recently occurred because not enough time has passed for the coagulation process to begin, but others are at least a couple of hours older.
That son of a bitch.
“Nick.”
Her voice breaks when she says my name, then her knees buckle under her weight. I easily scoop her up with one arm and carry her inside my home. All the adrenaline and rage flowing through my veins must flush the lactic acid from my muscles because I am primed and ready to give Bitch the beatdown of his life.
Chapter 5
Savannah
The sensation of strength and warmth envelops me, and I feel protected and sheltered for the first time in far too many years. Every inch of my body hurts, but Nick’s muscular arms cradle me with such care, I feel as well cared for as a newborn baby. His scent is soothing too—sandalwood mixed with hints of the aroma of coffee, reminding me of the first time he saved me. Those scents are forever ingrained in my psyche and associated with Nick.
Safe. Secure. Protected. Cherished.
He places me on the soft cushions of his couch and covers with me a blanket. “Just relax, darlin’. You’re safe. I’m here with you, and I guarantee he won’t get through me to reach you.”
With one hand on my shoulder, giving me all the reassurance and sharing his strength, he uses the other to call the police. A fleeting thought to protest getting them involved pops into my mind, but I quickly dismiss it. Butch has had way too many chances, and this time, he’s gone way too far. Nick gives the police his address and a rundown of my injuries, then he pauses—the first sign of hesitancy I detect.
“Savannah, do you need to go to the hospital? Did he…did he rape you?” He’s seething just below the surface, barely able to contain his anger. But it’s all directed at Butch, that much I already know.
“No, he didn’t. He wasn’t interested in that kind of power. Tell them to send Detective Spencer Donovan. He’s my best friend’s husband.”
Nick finishes the conversation with the dispatcher and releases a long, heavy sigh after he hangs up. “They got a hold of Detective Donovan. He will be here in a few minutes, darlin’. We’ll get Butch, and he’ll pay for every mark he put on you. Just rest until your friend gets here.”
Sure enough, only a few minutes pass before someone knocks on the door, identifying himself as a DC detective. Nick partially opens the door and checks his identification before inviting him inside, even though I’m right here and can hear Spencer’s voice loud and clear. After giving Spencer all my pertinent information and assuring both men, again, I don’t want to go to the hospital, I begin telling them what happened today.
“I’d been out for the early part of the day, running errands and shopping. When I got back to my apartment, my arms were full of bags and I was distracted, so I didn’t notice if anything was out of the ordinary. But looking back, I realize now a couple of my dead bolts were too easy to turn. I remember opening the door and kicking it closed behind me, knowing I still had to secure all the locks before I put up my groceries. Before I even had time to set the bags down in the kitchen, Butch hit me from behind and sent me flying across the table. So he was already inside before I arrived home.”
From there, I continue describing the attack in chronological order to the best of my spotty memory, retracing my steps, backing up, and adding to the details as flashes return to me. The punches to my face and head, the kicks to my abdomen and back, the objects hurtling through the air at me from so many directions. The indiscriminate screaming and yelling mixed with items crashing and breaking all around me. Chunks of time are missing from w
hen I went in and out of consciousness, only to awaken to Butch’s manic tirade again.
“I don’t know how long the entire attack lasted—but it wasn’t over with quickly. When I woke the final time, he was gone, and I didn’t wait around to see if he was coming back.”
“Did he give you any indication of what set him off?” I know Spencer has to ask that; it’s part of his job. But there is no finding reason in an extremely unreasonable man.
“He kept saying he wasn’t going to let me out of a sweet deal so easily. That it’d be over his dead body. But I have no idea what he meant. We haven’t been romantically involved in years. I’ve made it perfectly clear multiple times I want nothing more to do with him. I even moved and didn’t tell him where I was going. He was crazed, but I have no idea why.”
After more questions and Nick sharing the details of the altercations he’s had with Butch, I’m once again urged to go get a piece of paper that says he can’t come within 500 yards of me. Because criminals always follow the law, and abusers are always remorseful enough to simply stop abusing others.
That piece of paper won’t help me, no matter what laws are behind it.
If they can’t get to Butch to arrest him for the assault I’ve endured, how will they find him to arrest him for breaking a restraining order?
Spencer promises a warrant will be issued for his arrest. If they find him, they’ll take him in and hold him—until he makes bail. And I’ll hold my breath and wait for that to happen. He’s like a cockroach—scurrying into the dark places to hide from any light. Only coming out when something he wants is there, unsuspecting and unprotected.
Nick takes several pictures of my injuries with both an instant camera and with his phone. He understands as well as I do that this situation is far from over. But what can they do until Butch is found and put behind bars?
Fine Line (Crossing Lines Book 1) Page 6