by Lucy Score
She gave him a sad smile. “That’s pretty much how I feel. The legal system isn’t designed to protect victims. It’s there to punish criminals.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Speaking of bullshit, you don’t have to watch this movie with me.”
Aldo scoffed. “You can’t dangle Mr. Darcy in front of me and then take him away like that. I’m staying.”
Gloria laughed and left him to change. Aldo stared at his trembling hands. One day, he would get them on Glenn Diller. And when he did, the man would never so much as think of Gloria again.
“Sorry my TV doesn’t compare to your gargantuan one,” she teased, padding out of the bedroom barefoot. She had on a pair of cotton shorts and an original Benevolence High School sweatshirt.
“I’ll get my binoculars,” Aldo joked, trying not to memorize the way she moved around him to her side of the couch. She sank down, tucking her feet under her. He rested his arm on the back of the couch in welcome, and Gloria accepted the invitation, curling into his side.
Wielding the remote, she looked up at him. “Are you ready for this?”
43
Gloria opened one bleary eye and saw the home screen for Pride and Prejudice still on her TV. Great. She’d fallen asleep on the couch again.
At least it was a full hour before she had to get up to get ready for work. Dawn was breaking outside her windows overlooking Main Street.
She’d felt. She’d purged. She’d slept. Therapy in action. And, had it not been for Aldo, she probably would have stumbled home and sobbed herself to sleep.
A soft snore behind her startled her.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
Aldo Moretta was curled behind her like a bear. His shirt was off. His wallet, keys, and cell phone were neatly lined up on her ottoman. His prosthetic leg was tucked in the corner at the end of the couch.
She felt the broad barrel of his chest rise against her back.
A riot of emotions erupted inside her.
He’d stayed. He’d stayed, listened to her word vomit, watched the sappiest of sappy movies with her, and held her when she needed a friend. A boyfriend.
Her heart limped slowly in her chest. Aldo Moretta was a real man.
She peeled her other eye open, lamenting through sticky mascara the fact that she hadn’t washed her face before passing out on him. She should get up. Wash her face. Maybe start breakfast? What was the proper breakfast-related thank you for being a good friend? Waffles. Although given the physique that she was sprawled against, he’d probably prefer something egg-whitey and chock full of vegetables.
She’d make both. And strong coffee.
Another soft snore behind her. Damn it. Snoring wasn’t cute. Yet the soft whistle from between Aldo’s delectable lips was having the same effect on her as a litter of puppies. She shifted slowly as not to wake him and studied him.
His lashes were thick, inky. Delicious stubble graced his jaw. His shoulders were barn-door broad, his chest wide and strong. He’d lost the gaunt shadows he’d returned home with, she noted.
She let her gaze slide over his pecs, noting the tattoos that covered his chest and part of his ribs. A tribal warrior, she thought. Enjoying a peek at his abs. Real people didn’t have six packs. But Aldo Moretta was no mere mortal. The waistband of his shorts rode low, revealing the Calvin Klein branding on his underwear.
Gloria felt a quickening inside her. She tried to shove it aside. To ignore it. But Aldo chose that moment to rock against her in his sleep, and she felt every inch of what she knew, first-hand, up-close, with visual confirmation, was a spectacular penis.
Oh. My. God.
She couldn’t help herself. It was simple biology that had her cuddling her hips closer to him. He gave a little sigh and flexed against her again.
Was she this starved for physical contact that she was considering taking advantage of Aldo’s morning wood that likely had nothing to do with her?
Slow. Slow. Slow. She chanted it to herself. They were taking things slowly. But the word did nothing to alleviate the dull throb between her thighs. She wanted him. Like puddle of lust wanted him.
She tried to peek farther under the blanket to the leg he’d hidden from her and then stopped herself.
They’d talked about her scars last night. But he hadn’t opened up about his own to her. Until he did, his injury was his business.
She relaxed against him.
Yep. Up close, the truth was even more apparent. She’d never seen a more attractive man in her life. Including the Hemsworth brothers.
Aldo Moretta was something special. And he was her boyfriend. Her boyfriend that she was this close to dry-humping in his sleep.
She closed her eyes and gave herself another moment to enjoy being wrapped up in strong arms that she thought could never harm her. Warmth, security, peace. She’d use this to steel herself against the day. Work would surely involve a rehashing of the Mrs. Diller confrontation. But for now, everything in the world was perfect. She was safe. Happy.
Gloria gave herself another ten minutes before slowly wriggling free of Aldo’s grasp. His hold tightened on her and then relaxed as another little snore escaped his beautiful lips.
Gloria tiptoed into the bathroom to wash her face and comb her hair into a semblance of cuteness. She tied it back in a high top knot, leaving the rest loose, and snuck back out to the living room. She sat on the coffee table and watched him sleep, an arm thrown over his head. His big body sprawled across her couch. One foot poking free from the blanket.
“I can feel you staring,” he murmured, eyes still closed.
“Good morning, sunshine.”
He cracked an eye, rolled to his side.
“G’morning.” His reply was muffled by the pillow he snuggled up to.
“Thank you for staying,” Gloria said, rubbing her palms down her thighs.
“Mmm.”
Morning Aldo was freaking adorable. And if Gloria didn’t stop swooning over him, she would end up hungry and late for work.
“Breakfast?” she asked him.
He yawned mightily. “Yes, please.”
She jumped to her feet. Happy to have a task that would take her away from staring at his sexiness. “I’ll make eggs. And bacon. And toast. Coffee, too,” she called over her shoulder.
She was in the midst of brewing coffee and layering bacon into her pan when Aldo came into the kitchen. He was fully dressed—to her great disappointment—and his prosthesis was attached.
“Does your couch emit carbon monoxide fumes?” he asked.
She laughed. “Why?”
“Because I haven’t slept like that since before I left for Afghanistan.”
“Definitely carbon monoxide,” she told him.
“What can I help with?” he asked, eyeing her breakfast assembly line of toaster, plates, and utensils.
“You’re a guest,” she insisted.
“I’m the boyfriend,” he shot back. “Boyfriends help cook breakfast after Pride and Prejudice sleepovers.”
“Then you can be the Toast Master General,” Gloria said, pointing at the bread. “So what did you think of Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth?”
“They wasted too much time being in their own way,” he said, loading the toaster and then opening the refrigerator to hunt for butter.
“Maybe they needed that time to make sure they were right for each other,” Gloria suggested.
Aldo grunted. “And maybe they were just chickenshit.”
“Sometimes there’s something to be said for being a chickenshit.” She turned the burner off under the eggs she’d scrambled. “Thank you again for being here last night.”
He shot her a smoldery look over the toaster. “Anything for you, Glo. Thanks for talking to me last night.”
“Silence keeps it too powerful,” she recited. “Or at least, that’s what my therapist says. Keeping it a secret that no one else knows gives it this unholy strength. But talking about it? It’s ugly and hard, but it tak
es the power away.”
“How do you feel today?” he asked, watching her carefully.
She thought about it as she shoveled eggs onto plates and divided the bacon between the two. “I feel okay. I know everyone’s going to be gossiping about Mrs. Diller. But I made my choice, and I stood my ground. And I didn’t cry in front of anyone last night.”
“You’re allowed to cry or do whatever the hell you want, Gloria. No one’s here to make you do anything,” Aldo reminded her, his voice rough enough around the edges that she felt it on her skin.
“I know.” And then, “thank you.”
“Do you mind if I read the letter?”
Ah, the letter. She’d temporarily put the fact that Glenn was still pulling strings from a place where he physically couldn’t touch her out of her mind.
Yes. She minded. Hadn’t she given him enough of her garbage, her baggage, last night? Did he need this piece, too?
“Please?” Aldo added. Her resolve crumbled like burnt toast.
She shrugged a shoulder. “Sure. Not that it’ll do any good. Nothing actionable.”
He didn’t say anything but ambled out of the kitchen in the direction of the dining table. He’d have this part of her too now. But how else could she know if she could trust him?
44
“Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in.” Jamilah stretched in her ergonomic chair and crossed her arms over her chest.
Aldo leaned against the doorway. This was his first time stepping foot—ha—in the office since his return. Jamilah had called, texted, emailed, messaged, and even dropped by a few times before effectively giving up on her pissed-off, depressed partner. He couldn’t blame her.
“Taking a trip down memory lane?” she asked. “Because I know you’re not here to work. The last time I saw you and asked when you were coming back, you said when you fucking felt like it. Then I said ‘Oh, no. When I fucking feel like looking at your dumb face.’” She twirled in her chair, tapping a pen to her chin. “Do I feel like looking at your dumb face today?”
Aldo pulled his right hand from behind his back. Gloria, pretty in pink this morning, had whipped up a cheery apology bouquet for him. He had a lot of apologizing to do.
“Hmm,” Jamilah said, eyeing the flowers.
He revealed the tray of coffee and the bakery bag he’d hidden in his other hand.
“If there’s a raspberry tart in there, you can consider yourself mostly forgiven,” she sniffed.
Aldo crossed to her, uncomfortably conscious of his slight limp. The race yesterday, while feeling like a tremendous personal accomplishment, had also served as a reminder that he wasn’t who he once was. Yet.
He dropped the tray and bag on her table and handed her the flowers.
“I was an asshole,” he began. He felt as if he’d been starting most of his sentences that way lately. At least he never had to apologize to his mother. She was a bigger asshole than he was, and they accepted each other’s assholery.
“Yes. You were,” Jamilah said, without a hint of forgiveness. “And if you think you’re going to use that shiny new limb you’re hiding under a nice pair of Dockers as an excuse to be a dick around here, you are sadly mistaken.”
“Excuse me, Jam?” A kid with shaggy bangs that hung in his eyes requiring repeated head tosses to clear his vision piped up from the desk inside the door.
“Yeah, Monty?”
“I’ve got Dave from Kleiborn Associates on line two. He’s shouting and maybe crying a little.”
“We’ve got a receptionist now?” Aldo asked.
“I can’t do my work, your work, and answer the phones,” Jamilah said, shooting him a pointed look.
Aldo shoved his hands in his pockets. He wasn’t great at begging. “I’m here now, and I promise not to be a dick. Or at least, not much of one.”
She rolled her dark eyes. “Fine. You can start by familiarizing yourself with the Jonestown Bridge Project in the OneDrive. They want to add a second lane of traffic and a pedestrian walkway. It’s in downtown Jonestown and will be a huge pain in our ass.”
Jamilah swiveled in her chair and picked up her phone. “Dave,” she said in a sing-song voice. “How can I make your day better?”
Dismissed and properly shamed, Aldo took his coffee, his messenger bag, and his pride back to his desk. It, unlike every other flat surface in the office, was clean. Jam and their little band of associates had been busy picking up his slack. Granted, he wasn’t scheduled to return until his deployment ended in November. However, he should have come back to work as soon as he was able.
Aldo sat down, relieved to be taking the weight off his leg, and booted up his computer. They’d be fine, he and Jamilah. They had a solid relationship that couldn’t be derailed by either of them being a dick to the other for a few weeks.
There was a coating of dust on his monitors. He wiped them clean and took a breath. It was always hard coming back. To shift gears from life and death and monotony of a war zone to pushing papers and dealing with the whims of an aggressively creative architect or wading into the murkiness of township ordinances. Always hard. Always surreal.
But this was the first time he’d sat down at his desk in his office with only one leg. The scars were on the outside this time.
His thoughts drifted to Gloria. To the confrontation last night. Her scars were on the outside now, too, in the form of public embarrassment.
His hackles rose again, recalling Glenn’s mother spewing her abuse in Gloria’s face. He closed a fist around the arm of his chair. That family had their chance to tear her down for ten years. Enough was enough.
Mind made up, Aldo clicked on the icon for the network and got back to work.
Aldo glanced up from his monitor when a whistling uniformed deputy strolled into the office.
“Ya ready for lunch?” Ty called, his thumbs tucked into his belt.
“Bring me back a pastrami,” Jamilah called from her desk.
Aldo shot her the pistol fingers on the way out. Together, he and Ty tromped down the stairs, and Aldo was suddenly grateful his injury hadn’t been worse. He could still manage stairs, still access his office, his home.
He had a lot to be grateful for these days.
“So, what’s with the lunch date?” Ty asked, slipping his sunglasses on as they stepped outside into the summer heat. The man might talk slow and be affable as hell, but there was still a cop brain under the nice.
“Mrs. Diller,” Aldo said.
“Had a feelin’.”
“Do I need to worry about her?” Aldo asked as they turned down the block, heading toward the sub shop.
“I can tell you that I may have perused our records this morning. I wasn’t in law enforcement when Glenn Diller, Sr. was alive and beating the hell out of her. According to records, she never put up much of a fuss then, and there were a lot of calls from neighbors.”
“Didn’t seem to have any qualms about standing up for herself last night,” Aldo observed.
They stepped into the air-conditioned deli and got in line. Five minutes later, sandwiches in hand, they crossed the street to the edge of the park. Settling on a bench in the shade, they unwrapped their lunches and ate in silence for a minute.
“Sure you’re not just upset that she yelled at your girlfriend?” Ty asked.
“She is my girlfriend, since you’re fishing for info,” Aldo told him. “And I’m not going to say I wasn’t upset about it.”
“From what I can tell, it was out of character for her to publicly confront Gloria,” Ty said, taking a big bite of pepperoni and cheese.
“She doesn’t look like she could physically do any damage,” Aldo mused.
“But you’re still worried,” Ty finished for him.
“I think he’s stirring her up,” Aldo told him. “I think, in addition to sending vaguely threatening letters to Gloria, Glenn’s writing home to his mother telling her that it’s all Gloria’s fault. He’s her son. There’s gotta be some kin
d of motherly bond.”
If Ty was surprised that Gloria had confided in him about the letters, he didn’t let it show. “But as long as he stays behind bars, she’s safe,” he pointed out.
“What if Mrs. Diller scrapes up his bail?”
Ty shook his head. “She’s leveraged to the point of foreclosure. She’s got nothing. Yeah, I checked on that, too,” he said before Aldo could ask. “That’s why he’s in the state prison. Couldn’t come up with the bail, and county jail was full. There’s a good chance he won’t get out of there for twelve, fifteen years.”
It wasn’t enough, and they both knew it.
“He doesn’t have some rich uncle who’s going to sweep in with the money, does he?”
“If there was a rich uncle, he shoulda showed up a long time ago.”
Aldo thought about the Diller family for the rest of the afternoon. He knocked off a little early when Jamilah informed him that overdoing it wouldn’t be tolerated. He’d wanted to argue. But she was right, and he wasn’t quite as dumb as he had been in the past.
He took the opportunity to cruise through the south side of town. Benevolence was mostly cozy, single-family homes, tidy little duplexes, and a picturesque downtown. But there was a handful of blocks where the houses were a little shabbier, the landscaping a little more overgrown, and the shadows a little darker at night.
Relying on memory, Aldo cruised down Mrs. Diller’s block. Once cozy, identical houses built on postage stamp lawns, these remains showcased peeling paint and sagging porches. Mrs. Diller’s house hadn’t fared any better than her neighbors’. The once white clapboard siding was a rotting gray. The glass was cracked on two of the front windows. An ancient window unit air conditioner chugged away, dripping steadily on sodden porch planks.
The puke-green, rusty Buick sat in the gravel driveway on nearly flat tires. Weeds sprouted everywhere. It was the home of a woman who had depended on her men for everything before being abandoned.
The front door creaked open, and Mrs. Diller in a house apron stepped out onto the porch. Aldo sat and watched as she reached into her apron pocket and produced a pack of cigarettes. Her thin shoulders were rounded as if from years of tensing for a blow. She’d scraped her hair back in a tight bun, leaving her lined face bare. The skin on her neck sagged.