Fine Line (Crossing Lines Book 1)

by A. D. Justice

  “Do you want me to escort you back to your apartment? I need to talk to your neighbors and document the state of your place.” Spencer slides his pen into his shirt pocket, signaling we’re finished here and he’s ready to go.

  But I’m not ready to go back there at all. The thought of it nearly sends me into a full-fledged panic attack. Without realizing I’m doing it, I shake my head.

  “No, she’s not going back there for a while. She’s in no shape to be alone, and she doesn’t have a security system. Yet. Butch could walk back in there at any time, if he even left the building at all. Look at her injuries—there’s no telling how long he held her there against her will. He has stalked and harassed and abused her enough.” Nick partially steps between Spencer and me, shielding me with his body even if he doesn’t realize he’s doing it.

  “Nick, do you want to join me when I check out her apartment?” Spencer is hesitant to leave me here alone with Nick, especially after our last conversation about him.

  “Here—just take my keys and let yourself in. If he’s there, you can arrest him or shoot him.” I pick up my small bag off the floor and hand over my keys. “I don’t care if you have to go through all my things.”

  Spencer is obviously unsure about leaving me in Nick’s care but takes the keys anyway. “I’ll bring them back to you as soon as I’m finished with my reports. Call my cell if you need me before then. Will you be here? With Nick?”

  “She will.” Nick answers before I can and lays his hand on my shoulder, but I nod at Spencer and give him a small smile, silently telling him not to worry.

  “I’m safe here, Spencer. Nick is a DEA agent. He knows how to handle Butch if he’s stupid enough to come around here.” Nick gently squeezes my shoulder in response.

  I glance up at him, gratitude glimmering in my eyes and blurring my vision. He looks down at me, concern mixed with the inherent air of authority etched in his masculine features, then his face softens. A shadow passes over his eyes, like a rain cloud blotting out the sun on a bright day. Then he walks to the door to see Spencer out.

  So many questions are answered in that one telltale sign, a rare glimpse into the man who reveals so little of himself to others. Nick lives with as many regrets as I do. They may not be anywhere near the same types of disappointments, but they still create the life-altering sense of shame that is nearly impossible to live under. I know from personal experience how the weight of past mistakes suffocates and binds until almost all hope is lost. The doubts nag and remind of all the bad decisions made in the past, badgering the mind and troubling the soul. Too many wishes to count have been wasted on seeking a way to turn back time and undo the years of unnecessary guilt.

  A realization hits me from out of nowhere, sucker-punching me in the gut and stealing all my breath. That painfully deep pool of sorrow and self-loathing I just glimpsed in Nick’s eyes…is the exact same hollow gaze I see when I look in the mirror.

  “Savannah, you know Karen will be livid when I talk to her.” Spence turns in the doorway, craning his neck around Nick to see me. “You may want to warn Nick about her, too.”

  “When you tell her what happened, please tell her every minute detail so I don’t have to repeat any of it. Then tell her I love her…and remind her how much she loves me.”

  Spencer chuckles and shakes his head. “I’ll be back soon, Savannah. Stay inside. Rest. We’ll get him.”

  “Thank you, Spencer. And I love you too.”

  “Feeling’s mutual, Savannah.”

  Nick closes the door after watching Spencer walk away, I presume to see what kind of car he drives so Nick will recognize it on sight next time. Unable to hold my head up any longer, I stretch out on the couch and try to find a comfortable position, one that doesn’t put too much pressure on all my aches and pains and abrasions and contusions. When the door closes, I hear Nick lock the knob. Then the dead bolt. A second later, metal slides across metal, mixed the distinct sound of a chain clinking. Stupid, hot tears fill my closed eyes from the simplest gesture no one else even would’ve noticed.

  Nick secured all the locks on his door. For me. From the short time he’s been around me, he knows exactly what I need to feel safe and secure. Even though a logical part of my brain knows those locks can’t protect me—obviously, as evidenced by my current state—it’s an irrational need I can’t do without. But those locks ease the storm that rages inside me, the one that grows more out of control when all I can fixate on is their unlocked status.

  My self-doubt creeps in, and I don’t want him to think I’m emotionally unstable, despite the fact that I am, actually, emotionally distraught…overwrought…frazzled…jittery. I hold my breath in an attempt to squelch the flood of sensations inside before the dam breaks, and I start blubbering out of control.

  Then I feel the slightest touch on my face, so feathery and light, I question if I actually felt it. When I feel it a second time, I slowly open my eyes and find Nick sitting on the coffee table next to me, cleaning my wounds with a cotton swab. His focused expression shows his attention to detail, but the extra care he takes to avoid inflicting more pain while doctoring my injuries pushes me over the edge. Once the tears start, there’s no stopping them. Like water escaping over a full spillway, rivers flow uncontrollably from my eyes.

  Nick lifts his eyes to mine, startled at first—probably thinking he hurt me in some way—then realization settles into his features. He nods wordlessly in understanding. We move in tandem, each sensing what the other will do beforehand. His arms extend as I sit upright on the couch. He pulls me into his arms as I move into his lap. He cradles me like a baby, holding me close to his chest as he moves to the couch. I bury my head in the crook of his neck just before the sobs rack my body. He rocks me, whispering words of comfort as I rest my aching cheek against his chest, soaking his shirt with the torrent still pouring from my eyes.

  Time passes—minutes into hours—while he comforts me. And I soak up every second of it, selfishly taking every ounce of security and reassurance he gives me. When I’m finally calm enough—and dehydrated enough—to stop the waterworks, I remain motionless in his arms and use my unique vantage point to examine him much closer than usual.

  His chest is solid as a rock, yet remarkably easy to cuddle against.

  His arms are thick and muscular, but gentle and comforting.

  His voice is deep and masculine, full of intimidation for those who cross him. But lying here in his care, that same voice encouraged me to let it all out because I was safe with him. That voice soothed my frayed nerves and calmed my racing heart when the panic set in and the anxiety threatened to pull me under.

  He’s my undercover hero, even if he can’t see it because of the blinders he wears when he looks at himself. But that’s okay, because one day soon, he’ll see himself exactly how I see him, through my eyes. I’ll make sure of it. He tries to hide his soft heart and his protective nature behind a gruff exterior and threatening air. But now that I’ve seen the man inside, I wonder how I ever could’ve missed him.

  “Thank you.” I intentionally keep my voice soft, afraid I’ll break the trance we’re both in and he’ll jump up, ready to leave me behind. “I’m sorry I brought all this to your doorstep. Literally.”

  “You’re welcome. But you haven’t done anything to be sorry about. I hate that this happened to you, but I’m glad you came to me. At least I know you’re safe from him while you’re here with me. He said he’d let you go over his dead body? I’m not seeing a downside to that proposition.”

  I can’t help but notice how he kept his lips close to my head when he spoke. How low and sensual his voice sounded, like a velvety-soft caress over my skin. How his thumb lightly strokes my lower back, slowly back and forth, as if he’s my attentive lover.

  Maybe this is the most inappropriate time to entertain such flights of fancy. But Nick isn’t the one who hurt me. He isn’t the one who left me for dead. He isn’t the one who has threatened me day in and day out
over the last few years.

  Nick is the one who saved me…not only from Butch, but from myself. If I look hard enough, maybe I can see myself with him in the future.

  Chapter 6

  Nick

  The beautiful redhead in my arms reminds me of so many women who paraded in and out of the club headquarters in LA. The majority of those women wanted to be there—on some level anyway. They endured abuse and were passed around freely among the brothers, like a water canteen for a group of men stranded in the desert too long. They weren’t allowed to complain. They couldn’t say no to any demand. And they didn’t have a choice of which man had his turn next. Had they had any alternative other than living on the street in a cardboard box, I’m sure they would’ve jumped at it instead. But the relative safety of being inside a notorious outlaw biker gang hangout was better than what most of them already had faced on the outside.

  My imagination is incapable of seeing Savannah in a place like that, though. Her entire disposition is the complete opposite of every sheep or old lady I met in my two-plus years undercover. She’s the epitome of my dream woman, but she’s definitely here in the flesh. Her plump, round ass fits perfectly in my lap. Her waist is small enough for my arms to wrap around at least a couple of times. Her long, red hair is thick and smells of vanilla and violet, especially so close to my face that I can’t avoid it. Even with the now clotted injuries to her scalp, the scrapes, bruises, and puffy contusions on her face, she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Or held.

  But this can never be. The thought I’m having of holding her forever is really just wishful thinking, never to come to fruition. I have to admit, it’s a really great dream, though.

  She apologized for bringing her problems to me, as if I’d want her to go anywhere else at this point. Helping her is not a hardship for me. Doing what’s right is every bit as much a part of me as my fingerprints are. This is what identifies and makes me who I am, what distinguishes me from everyone else out there. In some small way, maybe I also wonder if helping her will absolve me of some of my other sins…the laws I broke while undercover…the women I didn’t protect because my cover came first. The ones I allowed to suffer so I wouldn’t be killed for being a DEA agent.

  “I don’t want to impose on your generosity, Nick. You’ve been too good to me as it is. When Spencer gets back from checking everything out, I can go back to my apartment.”

  She can’t see my smile from the way she’s cradled in my arms, so I don’t try to hide it at all. There’s no conviction in her voice. If she actually wanted to stay in her place alone, she would’ve insisted. She would’ve stated she was going back, not left it up to me to decide for her. She doesn’t want to impose, but she doesn’t get that she’s not an imposition to me. At all. Time to make a believer out of her.

  “You’re not going back to your apartment tonight. Or tomorrow. You can go back after you’ve healed and after we’ve had a top-of-the-line security system installed. For the record, I’m fairly blunt about what I think and what I want. If you ever impose, I’ll tell you straight up. If I tell you I want you to come to me if you need help, that’s exactly what I mean. And when I say you’re staying here with me, where I know for a fact that you’re safe, your pretty little ass isn’t going anywhere. Got it?”

  I can feel her smile against my chest at the same time her tense muscles relax again, her body melting against mine. “Got it, Nick. Thank you again. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  “While you’re here, I expect you to make yourself at home. If there’s something you want in the kitchen, it’s yours. If there’s something you want to watch on TV, you’re welcome to the remote. If you need anything from the store, just tell me. We’re thick as thieves, you and I.”

  “Then you have to give me some way to earn my keep around here.” She raises her head from my chest to look at me. I hope to hell she can’t read minds, because that offer is way too fucking tempting to turn down. “I’m a great cook. Let me feed you while I’m here.”

  Not exactly the same thing I thought she was offering, and I like my original thought better. Still, a home-cooked meal is not something I’ll easily turn down.

  “Deal, with a couple of exceptions. Don’t even think about doing anything tonight. Probably not tomorrow either. You’ve been through hell. And if you don’t feel up to cooking any other day you’re here, then don’t. No expectations. No tit for tat. You are a guest who’s making herself at home here. Feeling at home means if you don’t want to cook, we order takeout. Plain and simple.”

  “I can work with those stipulations.” She smiles—or tries to. The bruises on her cheeks and the busted lips make it difficult for her to accomplish a full smile.

  Seeing her injuries ignites the fury in me all over again. If I could get my hands on Butch, Savannah would never worry about him hurting her again. Fucker ghosted two weeks ago—not a sighting, not a word, nothing. Then all of a sudden, he’s lying in wait for her inside her apartment. For all he knew, she could’ve died from her injuries after he left her unconscious on the floor. After spending a couple of hours every day with her over the last two weeks, I’ve gotten to know her fairly well. What makes her tick. Things she likes and doesn’t like. Dreams and aspirations she has for her life.

  She’s not a casualty of a case I’m working while undercover.

  A knock at the door pulls me from my murderous thoughts. Visions of Butch strung up by his balls, screaming in pain in a shrill, high-pitched voice retreat to the back of my mind. I’m sure it’s Spencer at the door, coming back to deliver Savannah’s keys. At the moment, I’m considering leaving Detective Donovan outside the door just so I don’t have to move Savannah off my lap. We’re both very comfortable in our current positions, and I felt her breath catch before she released it in a disappointed sigh. She thinks she’s sly, this fiery little minx in my arms, but I can tell she wants more than friendship from me.

  I’m not sure I’m capable of giving more.

  I’m also not sure she’s truly ready to want more.

  Still, neither of us offers to move to answer the door. She’s also considering her options, and that makes me want to grin much more than it fucking should.

  “I should probably get that. I’m sure it’s your detective friend stopping back by. He was already worried about leaving you here with me. We shouldn’t cause him more concern by pretending we don’t hear him at the door.” My lips are against her hair as I speak, brushing along the shell of her ear. She leans closer into me. My arms tighten around her. My brain knows it should make me get up, but my fucking body is revolting against letting her go.

  A louder and longer bang on the door signals Spencer’s increasing frustration. “Savannah, are you in there?”

  “Why don’t you go take a hot shower? Use the one in my bedroom—it has a walk-in shower with a seat. Use the seat. I don’t want to go in there and find you passed out on the floor. There are clean towels on the heated rack. Yell if you need anything at all.”

  “God, yes, that sounds like heaven. I think I will take you up on that.” She looks up at me again. “I can’t thank you enough. For everything.”

  “No reason to thank me, darlin’. It’s my pleasure.”

  After I help her stand and make sure she’s steady on her feet, I go to the door and let Spencer in. Savannah is already in my bathroom, adjusting the hot water for the shower when he walks into my living room. I can always spot a career cop—their eyes scan everything in the room, unabashedly looking at every single item in their surroundings, taking in the scene and processing it on the spot, whether it’s considered rude by normal standards or not.

  “Savannah okay?” His eyes assess me now, and I already know what he thinks of me. It’s clear as fucking day.

  “She will be. She had somewhat of a breakdown after you left, but I think she got most of it out.”

  “I packed a few of her things I thought she may want. I’ve had to do similar for Karen before wh
en she got stuck working double shifts at the hospital because of the weather and stuff. Where is she anyway?” He hands me a small duffle bag with a few articles of clothes and toiletries then glances over my shoulder, toward the hallway.

  “She just now went to take a shower.”

  Spencer nods, maintaining eye contact, and puts his hands on his hips. “At the risk of sounding cliché, this is the part where I warn you about not hurting her. She’s a good person, and she doesn’t deserve to be treated the way she has been.”

  “No one deserves that.” My voice is flat, and my statement is blunt for a reason. While I wholeheartedly agree Savannah doesn’t deserve this, I adamantly believe no one else does either.

  “Of course not, but I’m not here for everyone else. I’m here for her. I don’t know what your intentions are, but I know you were undercover with the same gang Butch is in. Since I don’t believe in coincidences, I’m more than uncomfortable with your budding relationship with my wife’s best friend. So maybe you can explain how you just happened to get mixed up with a woman who was mixed up with a gang member from the very gang you just spent two years riding with.”

  “Detective Donovan, I’m a trained DEA Special Agent. Now, maybe you don’t understand the grueling nature of our training or what it takes to become a Special Agent, but I can assure you that not a fucking one of those low-life fuckers were friends of mine. I put my life on the line every fucking day just to take them down. I didn’t risk everything I’ve worked my entire career to build, spend two years of my life gathering intel and putting up with their bullshit, just to choke when they’re finally going to trial for their many, many crimes.”

  He has the decency to show his embarrassment over his idiotic blunder. “You’re right. I’m sorry, man. Savannah has just been through enough hell, and I’d never forgive myself if she went through even more because I didn’t ask the tough questions.”