Takedown

by Julie Miller

“Neither one’s hurt? Upset?” The door closed.

  “A little shaken, but they’ll be fine.” He took her by the shoulders and pushed her back against the wall beside the door. “Michael?”

  He kissed her.

  An almost angry stamp on her lips at first. And then he cupped her face and angled her mouth and covered her mouth in a kiss that was as gentle as it was hungry, as thorough as it was needy. Winding her fingers into the collar of his shirt, Jillian parted her lips and kissed him back.

  She quickly realized it was pent-up desire and fear and confusion and want, not anger that made the kiss so powerful, so crazy. Because Jillian was feeling it, too.

  The tension between them had simmered for months, excused as latent attraction to a handsome, healthy man. She rose on tiptoe and wound her arms around Michael’s neck, her palms tingling at the contrast between his starchy uniform and his short, silky hair.

  The fears she felt—for her own safety, for his—had brought that tension to the surface, made it harder and harder to filter her feelings through polite decorum. He had a hang-up about their difference in ages; they both wanted to put his son before whatever it was they were feeling.

  Michael’s tongue slid between her lips and rubbed against hers, creating friction and heat and the desire to conduct her own exploration. She stroked smooth, firm lips, delighted at the rasp of beard stubble against her softer skin, tasted coffee on his tongue. Oh, yeah. They were way more than just friends.

  He pulled her away from the wall into the hardness of his chest. His hand slid down her back to squeeze her bottom and lift right into the swelling evidence of his desire for her. Jillian moaned as her body absorbed and reacted to sensation after sensation. Her small breasts felt tight and womanly, rubbing against him. Her lips felt swollen, feverish, sexy. Her heart pounded against her ribs and she felt hot, heavy, farther down.

  “Michael…” She peppered kisses along his neck, his jaw, his chin—anything he’d let her reach as he turned his attentions to the rapid pulse beating along the side of her neck.

  It was an emotional release, a catharsis for them both.

  “So pretty. So strong. So hot. So good. I need…” He breathed against her ear. His arms tightened around her, shook.

  “What do you need, Michael? Please tell me what you need.”

  He pulled the band from her hair, sifted his fingers through its length, buried his nose in a handful of it and breathed deeply. “God, I need…”

  At this moment, in this room, she’d give him whatever he wanted.

  Instead, Jillian’s toes touched the floor. Then she was standing flat-footed. And then she was leaning back against the wall for support, panting as Michael scrubbed his palm over his face and backed away.

  Breathing just as hard, he shot his fingers through his short, ruffed hair and held out his hand, as though warding away temptation itself. “This can’t happen. This shouldn’t happen.”

  “Why? If I want it, too?” She pushed away from the wall.

  He retreated a step. “I won’t take advantage of your vulnerable state just because I had a lousy day and I’m freaking out of control!”

  She’d never heard him raise his voice before, and though the force of it stung, she suspected it wasn’t directed at her. His shoulders lifted with a deep breath and heartbeat by heartbeat, she saw the invisible armor of his captain’s uniform slide back into place. “I’ll get it together. I promise.” He paced across the room and came back a different man than the passionate, open one who had nearly seduced her a moment ago. “Explain the situation to me. Tell me what we need to do.”

  Angered that he was taking the blame for what had happened, hurt that he thought she wasn’t old enough or sensible enough or experienced enough to know her own desires, Jillian retrieved the rubber band from beneath the nearest bed and tugged her hair back into a messy ponytail. “For one thing, don’t be so hard on yourself. It took the two of us to make that kiss happen.”

  “I’m talking about the messages, the attack on Mrs. Anthony. I’m talking about Troy and Mike and their welfare.”

  “I know what you’re talking about.” She was raw and achy and mad as hell that he refused to acknowledge the connection between them. “You’re talking about being a cop. You’re talking about being a father. But I don’t think you’re comfortable talking about being a man. Not one who feels things and wants things. Not one who might need something for himself. At least, not around me.”

  A pulse beat in the tight clench of his chiseled jaw, as he threw every bit of his considerable authority into the stiffness of his posture. But the steeliness wavered in his dark blue eyes and Jillian’s anger immediately dissipated.

  “I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair to say. I know we each have a lot on our plates right now, things that take priority over…a relationship.”

  He braced his hands at his hips, relaxing a fraction. “So you see why a…relationship…shouldn’t happen between us?”

  “No.” She pressed her hand to his chest to silence his argument. “But I see why it shouldn’t happen right now.”

  She turned and pulled open the door.

  “Jillian…”

  “Troy needs a place to stay,” she stated without looking back. “I’d take him home with me but I don’t know if the clinic would think that was appropriate. Besides…” She felt Michael’s heat, coming up behind her. She saw his hand on the door above hers. “I don’t know if it would be safe for him there.”

  “Troy has a place to stay. He’ll come home with Mike and me. The house is completely handicap-accessible. It would probably do them both some good to spend more time together.”

  Finally, Jillian turned to face him. “You’ll take Troy in?”

  “If he accepts the invitation.”

  “Thank you.” Couldn’t he see what a great team they made? How could Michael deny this bond between them? Maybe he just wanted to deny he’d discovered it with her. A recovering addict with a stalker in pursuit probably wouldn’t be any man’s first choice for a mate, no matter what attraction sizzled between them. And she was especially unsuitable for a man of Michael’s responsibilities and reputation. Acceptance had always been a big part of moving on with her life. “We’re still friends, right?”

  After a moment, Michael nodded. “Friends.”

  Despite the iron fist of reality crushing her heart, Jillian stretched up to press a kiss to his jaw. “Thank you.”

  Chapter Eight

  Anyone Jillian might want to see on the street in front of Troy’s apartment building was smart enough to be safely locked up inside their homes at this time of night. Chattering girls. Decent working folk. Shopkeepers trying to make an honest profit. There wasn’t a one of them in sight as Michael steered his extended-cab pickup into a parking place across the street.

  Instead, there were hookers and junkies and other souls that she’d just as soon would stay in the shadows where they lurked. Even the trio of homeless men hanging back in the alley, standing around the trash can fire they’d built, knew enough to stay off the streets of No-Man’s Land after dark.

  Michael shifted the truck into Park and left the engine idling as he scanned the sidewalks and parked cars around them. Jillian clutched the dashboard, her own trepidation growing as he leaned against the window and looked up at the apartments across the street. She knew he was seeing and evaluating every potential danger.

  “I see a lot of lights on the fifth floor,” Michael observed. “That means the neighbors are still up. Yours is the one on the end, right, Troy?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Michael had taken the time at the police station to change into his civvies when she’d driven him over from the hospital to pick up his truck. But he still wore his gun and badge in plain view on his belt. He was expecting trouble, and because Michael did, Jillian expected it, too.

  He braced his arm on the back of the seat and turned to the teenage boys seated behind them. “You ready? We’ll go up to y
our apartment, pack whatever you need and get on the road to our house ASAP. All right?”

  Even though this was the place Troy called home, she could see he wasn’t particularly comforted about being here. “If it’s all the same to you, Mr. Cutler, I’d rather not go in. I don’t know if the super’s got Grandma’s blood cleaned out of the elevator yet.” Jillian’s breath stuttered right along with his at the sickening image. “I don’t think I can go in there again if he hasn’t. Here are the keys.”

  Michael took the keys and closed them in his fist. “All right. I’ll go.” He looked across the front seat to Jillian. “I want you to slide over here behind the wheel. Be ready to drive off if anybody who shouldn’t approaches the truck.”

  “It’ll be quicker if I do it,” Jillian suggested. “I’ve been in the apartment before and know where things are. Then we can all get out of here sooner.”

  “I’m not letting you go in there by yourself. That was the whole point of me driving.”

  “You’re not coming with me and leaving these boys alone here.” Jillian reached for the door handle. “I’ll go.”

  “I’d rather call for backup.”

  “And wait even longer? These boys shouldn’t be here.”

  “You shouldn’t be here,” he insisted. He slipped his hand across the seat until it rested next to hers. “Jillian, is this about what happened at the hospital? Are we going to fight about everything now?”

  “What happened at the hospital?” Mike asked from the backseat.

  “Nothing.” They answered in unison, showing the boys that there was a new kind of tension simmering between the adults in the front seat.

  Jillian took a stab at offering an honest explanation. “We had a disagreement about…how to proceed with—”

  “Events that have happened today,” Michael finished, discreetly leaving out any mention of kisses and confessions and decisions that a relationship with Michael Cutler was out of the question.

  “I just asked.” Mike crossed his arms and sank back into his seat.

  “Son, I’m sorry. I’ve got a lot on my mind right now. I’ll try to explain it better later.”

  “Whatever.”

  With the air inside the truck thick enough to slice, someone needed to break the tension. Jillian volunteered. She moved her left hand to let her fingers slide over Michael’s. “I’m picking up clothes, a toothbrush and Troy’s meds. Once I’m inside the lobby, the doors will lock behind me and the security light will come on. Right, Troy?”

  “Yeah.”

  Michael spread his fingers to capture hers between them. “Mrs. Anthony was attacked in the lobby,” he pointed out.

  “Fine. If I see or hear anything suspicious, I’ll come right back out. When I get into the apartment, I’ll turn the light on so you’ll know I’m there. I’ll turn it off when I leave. I’ll lock every door as soon as I’m through it.” She was trying to come up with a reasonable plan. “Give me ten minutes—fifteen tops. If I’m not back, you lock these boys in and come get me.”

  He turned their hands, pressing the keys into her palm and curling her fingers around them. “I’ll give you ten.”

  Jillian felt three sets of eyes on her every step of the way across the street and into the building. When she was secured inside the glass double doors, the light came on and she turned and waved to show she was safe. Michael answered by pointing his finger and insisting she get a move on.

  Keeping her eyes and ears tuned to any sign of movement, she pushed the elevator button and waited as its gears churned into action. Hopefully, if others had been using the elevator, that meant Troy’s fears had been unfounded and the elevator had been cleaned of all signs of the attack.

  But waiting meant she had time on her hands—only seconds, perhaps, but time enough to think. Time enough to feel every detail around her and take notice of the subtle warnings she should be paying attention to. The super’s light kept the lobby brightly lit, but made it difficult to see down the first-floor hallway. And from this angle, the light reflected off the glass doors, creating a visual barrier between her and the reassuring sight of the black pickup parked across the street.

  Jillian tucked her ponytail inside her jacket and zipped it up to the collar of her polo. No sense giving a perp something easy to grab on to. Just where had LaKeytah’s attacker been hiding? In that corner? In that one? She arranged the fleece-lined hood around her neck, easing the prickle of awareness that raised the delicate hairs along her nape. The elevator dinged on a floor above her, meaning it had stopped for someone else to get in. Did she want to wait to see who might walk out, or worse, who might decide to share a ride back up with her?

  Pulling her cell phone from her pocket, Jillian scrolled through her numbers until she found Michael’s. She centered it on the screen and rested her thumb on Send in case she needed to speed-dial him for help. One by one, she slipped Troy’s keys between the fingers of her right hand, giving herself at least some kind of weapon to defend herself with if necessary.

  The longer she waited, the more her thoughts took hold.

  She couldn’t smell the ammonia odor from the apartment with all the cats, but she could detect the hint of something else in the air. A hint of musk, like men’s cologne. The scent seemed familiar but Jillian couldn’t place it. And delicate as it was, as though the man wearing the cologne had walked through the lobby some time ago, or was standing at a great distance, the air around her suddenly grew cloying.

  As if the scent was closing in on her.

  As if the man who belonged to that scent was closing in.

  Who was she kidding? She was done waiting here.

  Five flights of stairs was an easy climb for a woman who ran wind sprints or jogged nearly every day of her life. The concrete and steel stairs had a light on each landing and were blessedly devoid of company and perfumey smells. The physical exertion also worked some magic at toning down her paranoia. Just keep moving. Don’t think. Jillian was barely breathing hard by the time she reached the fifth floor and opened the service door. She quickly got inside the Anthonys’ apartment and locked the door behind her.

  Light on. Grab gym bag from Troy’s closet. Pack clothes, pack underwear. Pack iPod and ear buds—no teen should be without his music. Move to bathroom for toothbrush, into kitchen for pill bottles in cabinet. Snatch family photo off refrigerator and stuff into bag. Zip it shut. Check time. Smile. She’d make ten minutes with time to spare. Light off. Lock door.

  Jillian didn’t even bother with the elevator. Slinging the bag over her shoulder, she headed straight for the stairs. But the descent didn’t go quickly or smoothly.

  She had her foot on the first step off the fourth-floor landing when she smelled it and stopped. She sniffed the air. Not that sick cologne scent. Something acrid. Chemical.

  Something burning.

  Clutching the railing, she moved down several steps, bringing herself closer to identifying the sour stench. She stopped again. Not a fire, but something long forgotten and all too familiar.

  Someone in the stairwell was smoking crack.

  “Oh, jeez,” she whispered as a shiver rippled down her spine. It wasn’t temptation she was feeling, but shame. She squeezed her eyes shut against a flashback of familiarity. Crack might not have been her drug of choice, but this had once been her world. Hiding out in empty stairwells and abandoned rooms, escaping reality, losing herself. Why had she ever let herself become a part of this?

  How could she ever really leave it behind and be the strong, worthy, loving—loved—woman she fought every day to be when this was still so very real for her?

  “Stop it.” Jillian tried to shake the thoughts out of her head. Those were just the kind of debilitating mind games Dr. Randolph had worked so hard with her on to overcome. Under his guidance, she’d learned how to turn her experience into knowledge that could help others. She’d learned to use her talents as therapy, and turn her weaknesses into strength. She could overcome grief, she could overco
me drugs, she could overcome anything—just as long as she believed she could do it. She’d kicked her addiction. She’d gotten healthy. She was making a difference in the world now.

  She could damn well pack a bag and get back down these stairs.

  At the third-floor landing, she was close enough to hear the voices.

  “I never thought I’d see this day, Rivers.”

  Rivers? Blake?

  Jillian inched around the corner, her heart crying with concern for a friend who hadn’t been able to find his way out of the past the way she had.

  “Hey!” She jerked back at the sound of a thud and a grunt, hating that she recognized Blake’s slurred southern drawl. “I wasn’t dealin’, man. We were sharing. I wouldn’t step on your turf, Isaac. You know I wouldn’t do that.”

  Her own stomach muscles clenched at the next thud and breathless curse. She reached into her pocket for her phone. And Michael.

  “Then where’d you get the money?” Isaac Rush’s voice was crystal clear.

  “It’s mine. I earned it.”

  “Selling this? She’s my customer.”

  Thud.

  Blake gasped for breath. “Hell, man. I’ve got money. I buy from you. You know I’ve always been good—” Another punch. A fit of coughing.

  Jillian felt every blow with him.

  “You can’t sell what I give you without giving me a cut of the profit. You understand?” A moment of silence. Footsteps heading down the stairs. “I don’t think he does.”

  “That’s my cash!” Blake protested.

  And then the beat-down started in earnest.

  Jillian pressed Send and ran down the stairs. “Stop it. Stop it!”

  She stepped over the pipe and the passed-out woman on the stairs and rounded the corner in time to see Mr. Lynch throw Blake up against the wall of the second-floor landing. The black man’s coat swung around him like a cape as he pulled his gloved fist back to strike another blow. Blake put up his hands and staggered, begging for mercy. But with his puffy eye and bleeding lip, Jillian didn’t wait to see if he’d crumple to the floor or suffer another punch.