A Safe Place

by Margaret Watson

  Frankie clung to the steering wheel of her car as she drove east toward her apartment. She didn’t want to go home. Not now, when she was raw from her fight with Nathan. She didn’t want to face the unmade bed that would still hold the scent of her and Cal.

  She didn’t want to think about what Nathan had said, that Cal was going to hurt her.

  To know that he already had.

  She knew his focus was football.

  Not FreeZone. Or her.

  Her apartment would be easier to face later tonight. Delaying going there would give her time to calm down. Time to put last night with Cal into perspective. To file it in the box labeled “Good times that aren’t going to happen again.”

  She’d put everything out there. Cal hadn’t. Frankie wasn’t going to play those games.

  It had been a stupid thing to do, anyway. She was supposed to be supervising him. She could just imagine the smirks if anyone found out they’d slept together.

  She didn’t want to think about this now. She’d do what she always did when she needed to keep busy—she’d think about her kids. Maybe she’d go to the hospital, visit Yolanda and see if Ramon would turn up.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  THAT EVENING after leaving FreeZone, Frankie couldn’t wait to get home. By the time she turned into the alley, she was desperate for the refuge of her apartment. But as she emerged into the small parking area, she found a sleek black car in her spot.

  Parking spots on the street were rare and coveted. It would take forever to find one.

  She braked hard and stopped the car. Then dropped her head to the steering wheel. It had been that kind of day.

  The afternoon had gotten off to a bad start when Julio stopped shooting baskets long enough to announce that his “street agent” was getting him a shoe deal. Cal had told him he was an idiot, and the discussion had disintegrated into a shouting match.

  Everything had gone downhill from there. Sean had arrived with Harley, Lissy, Kerrie and Maria, and reported that Vipers had followed them to FreeZone. Don was called, reports were taken, and the girls had sucked up most of Frankie’s remaining energy as she’d struggled to settle them down.

  Emma had stopped by to tell her that Ramon had called her, but hadn’t shown up to meet her as he’d agreed. Frankie gave the social worker Yolanda’s address, hoping Ramon was all right.

  On top of everything else, she’d tried to act as if nothing had changed with Cal. Tried to forget he’d seen her naked. Pretended she hadn’t jumped his bones the night before.

  He’d done the same. She had smiled so hard that her cheeks still ached. She was never smiling again.

  She backed out of the alley and scanned the street for a parking spot. She found one a block and a half away. Thinking dark thoughts about the car in her space, she trudged back toward her apartment.

  When she was almost there, she noticed a man leaning against the building, watching her approach. Doug Bascombe.

  Bascombe knew where she lived. She stumbled to a halt as fear sliced through her.

  When she realized she was trembling, she drew herself straight. She wasn’t a powerless child any longer.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked as she strode toward him. She knew by the slight narrowing of the bastard’s eyes that she’d managed to keep her voice steady. That she sounded pissed off and not afraid.

  “You think I’m in this slum for my health? I came to talk to you, Devereux.”

  Slum? “Not interested.” Dickhead. She took a step toward the door, but he blocked her way.

  “You should be,” he murmured. His voice was soft. Mild. But his eyes were ice-cold, his mouth thin with anger. “I saw the picture in the paper.”

  He was too close. He still used the aftershave he’d worn years ago, and the smell made her stomach roil. She swallowed to fight down the nausea.

  “Good for you,” she managed to say. She knew what he was referring to, but wasn’t going to make it easy for him. She reached into her bag for her keys. “The picture of the new mayor at the teen shelter was great. I’m sure you applaud his priorities.”

  Bascombe looked confused for a moment, then his expression hardened. Frankie slipped the keys between her fingers and made a fist around them.

  She fought the urge to back up as he leaned in. “I’m talking about the picture of you and Stewart. You looked very cozy. No wonder you insisted he stay at your little teen center.”

  “It was his choice, Doug. Too bad he refused your offer, but I guess he didn’t want to work with you.”

  Bascombe bared his teeth, bringing memories that had lurked beneath the surface for years. Helplessness. Being trapped. Frankie pushed them back where they belonged. “I called his coach, to point out how having Stewart work for me would benefit both DCFS and the Cougars. Stewart called me back and told me to go to hell. Are you doing the football player, Devereux?” he asked. “Whispering secrets in his ear? Telling him your dirty lies? Is that why he doesn’t want to help me?” Bascombe edged closer. “That would make me very unhappy.”

  Frankie tightened her grip on the keys until they cut into her palm. “Are you threatening me, Doug?” Of course he was—he would love to hurt her. He knew shutting down FreeZone would be devastating to her.

  “I don’t have to threaten you. I’ve talked to some of my social workers about your place. They say it’s underfunded and overextended. That besides your gang problems, you have a rat infestation. Plumbing issues. There have been complaints.”

  “Really?” Her face and neck heated. “Funny, but I haven’t heard any of that. Send me a copy of the complaints.”

  She tried to go around him, but he grabbed her wrist. “You were always willful and disobedient. No respect for your elders. No one could control you.” His gaze drifted all the way down her body and back up. “No wonder you ended up in juvie for armed robbery.”

  Frankie’s skin crawled and she ripped her wrist free of his grasp. It didn’t matter if she couldn’t find anyone else Bascombe had molested. She had to speak up. He shouldn’t be in charge of an agency that dealt with children. “I ended up in juvie because I was homeless and hungry. Now get out of my way, Doug. I’ve had enough of your bullshit.”

  “What bullshit would that be, Frankie?” Cal’s voice. On her left.

  She hadn’t heard him drive up. But his truck was in the middle of the street, door open. Cal didn’t look as if he was hurrying. But he reached her in a couple of long steps.

  She wanted to lean into him. To let his strength give her courage. But she didn’t move. “Cal.”

  He touched her back in a casual caress, just enough to send a message to Bascombe. And the other man received it. He scowled as he looked from one of them to the other. “What are you doing here, Stewart?”

  “I was just about to ask you the same thing,” Cal said. He moved toward the other man, and Bascombe shuffled back.

  “Yes, Doug. How did you know where I live?” Frankie asked.

  “Information is easy to find if you know what you’re doing. And I do.” He looked from her to Cal. “Remember that.”

  He stepped around them and disappeared into the alley. Moments later, she heard an engine roar to life, then a black car nosed into view. Bascombe was the bastard who’d parked in her spot. Of course.

  He slowly turned onto the street, keeping his gaze on Frankie. The threat was abundantly clear.

  If she spoke up, if she told the truth about him, he’d close FreeZone. Try to damage Mama’s Place.

  Guilt, fear and shame tangled inside her as she watched him drive away.

  “What did he want?” Cal asked as the sound of Bascombe’s car faded.

  “He’s angry that you told him to go to hell again. Maybe you should have warned me
.”

  “You didn’t seem interested in personal conversations at FreeZone earlier.” Cal touched her arm, but she didn’t look at him. “What does he really want, Frankie?”

  She kept her head down. She wasn’t about to spill her guts to Cal. Not after last night. He didn’t need to know about that raw, tender spot she carried from her experience with Bascombe years ago. About the guilt that haunted her now. “Obviously, he wants you to come to work for him.”

  Cal spun her around to face him. “Stop lying to me. What’s going on with him?”

  She was too shaken to think of a simple, plausible answer. “I have to shower.” A hint of Bascombe’s aftershave lingered in the air, and she needed to scrub all trace of him from her skin. “Why did you come here, Cal?”

  “I want to talk to you.”

  “About what?”

  “What the hell do you think?” He leaned against the door, invading her space just as Bascombe had.

  “There’s so much to choose from. Your fight with Julio? The fact that Ramon didn’t show up to meet Emma? The Vipers hassling Sean and the girls?” Frankie shoved Cal aside. “And get out of my face. If Bascombe couldn’t intimidate me, you certainly can’t.”

  She yanked her keys out of her bag to unlock the outer door. Her fist was still closed around her keys, their tips protruding from between her fingers. She tried to loosen her grip, but her fingers were frozen in place.

  Cal stepped behind her and took her fist in both his hands. He massaged her arm and the spasming muscles above her wrist. He pried open one finger, then another and another, until her keys fell to the sidewalk. Instead of picking them up, he stretched her fingers, squeezed them, until all the muscles relaxed.

  She looked at her hand, so tiny in his. Her fingers were pale and thin. He could crush them without thinking about it. But his touch was gentle. Careful.

  She pulled away and stooped to retrieve her keys.

  Cal followed her up the stairs. Neither of them said anything. He stayed two steps below the landing while she unlocked her door, and he didn’t enter her apartment until she stepped inside and left the door open.

  He closed it behind him. “Go take your shower,” he said quietly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Yeah, he was. Maybe Cal wasn’t planning on disappearing from her life tonight, but he was leaving. She knew it, and he did, too.

  She should have remembered that.

  But if she could have a do-over, would she do anything different?

  No. She would change nothing about last night. Except the ending.

  So she nodded. “There’s beer in the fridge. My keys are on the table by the door if you want to move your truck while I’m in the shower.”

  AFTER FINDING a parking spot a few blocks away, Cal returned to her apartment, heard the shower running and grabbed a beer. He took a gulp of Blue Moon as he stood in Frankie’s living room. They hadn’t made it this far last night. And even if they had, he’d been too wrapped up in her to have remembered any of it.

  A few paintings decorated the walls, one of Lake Michigan. The water was gray and whitecaps rolled onto a deserted beach. Ominous clouds hung low in the sky.

  It was a little amateurish. Had one of her kids painted it?

  He’d put money on it.

  There was a still life of flowers, equally amateurish, and a painting of a boy playing basketball. To Cal’s surprise, the kid leaping high to stuff the ball in the hoop was easily identified as Julio.

  The bookcases in the corner had lived a long, hard life. Volumes loaded the shelves, the thin wood bowing under their weight. Romance novels, mysteries, thrillers. Biographies and nonfiction. Arranged haphazardly, but Cal would bet Frankie knew where every book was.

  The couch was covered by a pilled and faded blue blanket, but it was surprisingly comfortable when he sat down. A small television set with rabbit ears was perched on top of a table, flanked by two easy chairs under red-and-green blankets. Everything in the room was shabby. And also welcoming, with multicolored throw pillows on the couch and a brightly colored rug on the floor.

  Frankie’s living room reminded him of the house where he’d grown up—with everything old, secondhand, a little battered. She spent all her money on FreeZone.

  His father claimed all his money had gone to furthering Cal’s football career. Cal had been happy playing in his town’s youth league, but his dad had insisted he join the expensive travel team.

  Who had wanted football more—father or son?

  The shower stopped, and the sound of Frankie moving around wiped all thoughts of his dad from Cal’s mind. She was standing naked on the other side of that wall, dripping wet. Memories from the previous night swept over him.

  Several minutes later, carrying a beer, she walked into the living room in dark green capris and a black tank top. Her feet were bare, her toenails painted red. He didn’t think she was wearing a bra, but he didn’t let himself check.

  She threw herself into one of the chairs and drew her feet up. “What are you doing here, Cal?” She dangled the unopened bottle by its neck.

  She wasn’t going to dance around the subject. He hadn’t really expected her to.

  “We didn’t get a chance to talk this afternoon. I thought we should.”

  The bottle swung slowly back and forth. “Fine. Talk.”

  He nodded at the beer. “You want me to open that for you?”

  “I can open it myself.” She wrapped the bottom of her tank top around the cap and twisted. The neck of her tank dipped and the cap popped off. As she took a sip of beer, a hint of cleavage showed. She didn’t adjust it.

  Instead, she watched him calmly. Waited for him to speak.

  Cal needed a few more minutes to figure out what to say about last night. So he focused on the more recent issue. “What’s going on with Bascombe? Why did he come here?”

  Frankie studied her beer bottle as she picked at the label. “He wants you. And he’s pissed that you turned him down.” She took a sip of beer and her gaze slid away from his.

  Cal’s instincts had always been good, and they were screaming at him now. “There’s something personal between you.”

  “I don’t like him.”

  “Yeah, I got that. Why?”

  “Ancient history. Nothing to do with what’s happening right now.”

  Her foot jiggled. She tore up the tiny bits of label she’d scraped from the bottle.

  “You sure about that?” Cal asked. She still hadn’t looked at him.

  “Why wouldn’t I be? He’s a detestable little worm. A bureaucrat who rose to the top because he knows how to work people. I don’t like worms.”

  There was something else, something she refused to tell him. Cal was sure of it. But he didn’t know how to pry the information out of her. “Frankie, I don’t like the guy, either. But I think it’s more than that.”

  Now she looked at him. “You want to exchange confidences? Tell each other our deep, dark secrets? What are you, a girlie man?”

  “Fine. Don’t tell me. But I’m kicking his ass if he tries to push you around again.”

  Her expression softened, the tough-girl facade melting away. “Thank you, Cal. But you know you can’t do that. Sarah will throw you in jail if you get in trouble again. And trust me, Bascombe would be happy to see you behind bars. You told him no. He doesn’t like that.”

  Had Frankie told Bascombe no about something? Was that where the tension came from?

  Silence hummed between them. When Cal looked at her, curled up in that chair with her red toenails and tank top and pants that hugged her very nice ass, Bascombe faded away. All he could think about was the previous night. About how amazing it had been.

  He shifted in the chair. He’d been a
jerk last night. They both knew it. So why was she acting as if nothing had happened? As if he hadn’t walked out when she’d asked for help?

  Every other woman he knew would be yelling and throwing stuff. Why was Frankie sitting there calmly, drinking a beer?

  He’d rather she threw something at his head. He knew how to deal with that.

  “Um, how did it go at the restaurant last night?” he asked cautiously.

  She took a drink, then set the bottle on the table next to her. “It was a mess. But between the three of us and the plumber, we got it cleaned up. They’ll be able to open tonight.”

  “Good. That’s good.” The bottle knocked against his teeth as he took a swig to soothe his suddenly dry throat. “I should have gone with you,” he finally said.

  Frankie shrugged. “You had things to do. No problem.”

  He studied her, knowing she wasn’t being honest. Women talked in a code men couldn’t decipher. But he had to take a stab at it. “Frankie, you looked upset last night. Did I, um, hurt your feelings?”

  She started swinging the bottle again. “Why would you think that? We had sex. You left. I thought that was the deal. Good times. No strings.”

  “Now you’re making me feel cheap.”

  Her mouth curved up. “That’s the woman’s line, Stewart. I guess you are a girlie man.”

  This was the Frankie he’d met when he’d first started at FreeZone. A smart-ass. Protecting herself. Hiding beneath a tough shell.

  He wanted Francesca back. She was the real Frankie, the one who had let him know what every touch had done to her. The one who didn’t hide. The one whose eyes had told him what she felt.

  He didn’t know what the next step was. He’d never wanted to take it before.

  But he wanted Francesca. To get her back, he needed to figure it out.

  FRANKIE TOOK ANOTHER SIP of beer she was too distracted to taste, and watched Cal. Last night, she’d opened the door of her heart and he’d slammed it shut. She’d embraced vulnerability and only embarrassed herself. She’d made him uncomfortable. The trifecta of emotional mistakes. It would be a long time before she tried that again.