by Cherry Adair
She glanced at Cruz when there was silence. “Hey,” she yelled. “What do you want?”
“I’m— It’s me. Ch-Charlie, Miss Mia.”
Mia exchanged a look with Cruz, who stuck her gun in the back of his jeans and motioned that he was going outside and around the house. “I can’t open this door, honey. Cruz will come and get you and bring you in the back, okay?”
“Okay.” His voice sounded small and scared. Mia’s stomach instantly went into a knot. “Are you hurt, sweetheart?”
“A little bit—” His voice shook as he started to cry, great tearing sobs that broke Mia’s heart. “Can you go help my mama? Plea—” He broke off with a high-pitched scream.
Mia almost ripped the plywood off with her bare hands, and it was only the deep sound of Cruz’s voice murmuring to the child on the other side of the door that made her sag with relief.
“I’ve got him. Stay put until we assess the situation.”
Mia nodded, her heart pounding with the spike of pure adrenaline racing through her body.
“Mia?”
“I’ll be in the kitchen.” She raced down the hall. Daisy needed help. Medical for sure. Mia yanked open a cupboard and took down the small first aid kit from the shelf. How bad? More than a Band-Aid bad? Hospital bad? The police?
God. Her blood chilled.
Had Marcel killed her?
Cruz came into the kitchen with Charlie wrapped around him like a little monkey. Skinny arms clutched around Cruz’s neck, and twig-like legs wrapped around his waist. Other than tiny Superman underpants and one filthy sock, the child was naked and crying hysterically.
Cruz rubbed a large, soothing hand up and down Charlie’s narrow, bruised back. When he looked at her she saw the same horror she felt reflected in Cruz’s eyes. The most unguarded emotion she’d seen from him since they’d met.
“Grab your shoes, purse, and whatever cash you have, and haul ass.” The calm in his voice was in direct contrast to the fury in his eyes. His hand didn’t stop soothing the child while he talked. “We’ll be in the truck.”
Mia flew up the stairs, gathered shoes—hers and his—the bundles of cash she kept in a small safe under the carpet in the closet, and, just in case, the full box of ammunition for the Beretta.
She hoped to God they wouldn’t have to shoot anyone tonight.
• • •
Nothing incensed Cruz more than someone abusing a child or a woman. There was absolutely no excuse for anyone to hurt someone smaller and defenseless. Hurting someone big and mean was another matter entirely. Icy anger made him revel in exacting payback from Latour for his wife and son—and for himself. He took the assault personally. His damn fault. He should’ve listened to Mia and this would never have happened. Either Latour would’ve met with an accident, or Daisy and Charlie would have been out of his reach.
Marcel Latour was in for an unpleasant surprise.
After passing Charlie to Mia, Cruz backed the truck from under the carport and swung into the street. “Do you know how to get home?” he asked a now sniffling Charlie, who sat on Mia’s lap even though there was plenty of space, and a backseat, in the large vehicle.
Mia wrapped him in a large black-and-white scarf, then snuggled him up under her chin, rubbing his back as Cruz had done.
The child, head on Mia’s chest, nodded, then swiped his hand under his nose. Mia handed him a wad of tissues. “Tell Cruz how we get to your house, honey.”
Thank God Charlie knew his way home.
It was three miles from Mia’s place. The kid had walked three fucking miles. In the dark. Wearing only Superman skivvies and a sock. He was six years old, for fucksake! He should’ve been tucked up in bed, with a night-light on, dreaming about superheroes.
“Turn here by the green house. Turn up there by that big tree.” The little boy sat up straighter and pointed. “That’s my house! That’s my house!”
Charlie jerked his head around to shoot Cruz an accusing look as they cruised by the small house. A light shone from a side window; the rest of the house was dark. And there was no truck parked on the street outside. “Stop! I told you! That’s my house right there!”
“I know,” he told the kid calmly. “But we’re not going to park outside the door, okay?” Cruz cut the lights, then circled the block again. “Where does your dad park his truck?” Latour had a beat-up Chevy filled with an untidy collection of gardening tools.
The boy pointed to his house. “There.”
“On the street, outside your house?”
Charlie nodded.
No truck was excellent news. Unless Latour had taken Daisy somewhere. To the hospital, perhaps? Unlikely. There’d be questions and police involved.
He parked beside an empty lot five houses down, then popped the door and stepped outside. The air was hot and muggy, and smelled like garbage. The good news was that all the streetlights were out. Shot out, taken out, or no power. End result, a patchwork of pools of illumination directly beneath the streetlights. Everywhere else was murky. There was enough ambient light to see fine, but at least Mia’s truck wasn’t spotlighted, and the shadows of the big overgrown bushes in the empty lot hid it from view of the Latour house.
“Stay put,” he instructed. “Lock the doors, slide over to this side. I left something in the door pocket. Don’t ask questions. Use it if necessary.”
He quietly closed the door, then waited for Mia, with Charlie attached, to slide over under the steering wheel. He motioned for her to lock the door, then pointed down. Her eyes widened when she felt the gun in the side pocket, and her head jerked up. “No!” She shook her head over Charlie’s. “You need it more than I do!”
Cruz shook his head and walked away at a fast clip. If anything happened, she’d have Charlie and herself to protect. He hated to leave them in the big, shiny, fancy new truck without him. The neighborhood was crap. Run-down or abandoned houses, weed-infested yards. No kids’ toys anywhere. A couple of old fishing boats up on blocks. A radio blared obscenity-laden hip-hop as he passed a dark house. Even from the street, the distinctive smell of pot was strong. A couple of dogs started barking several streets over. A motorcycle revved somewhere, then peeled away, scattering gravel.
He’d spent some gnarly nights in places just like this when he was a kid. Not slept, just rested, eyes open, always alert. Waiting to be robbed, or killed, or forced into some illegal activity at gunpoint. It was a shit way to live. Charlie deserved better.
As he passed the small house next door to the Latours’ place, Cruz recognized the sweet smell of ether and a strong ammonia or cat pee stink, indicating a meth lab. No surprise.
He glanced up and down the street for any movement. A cat darted across the street. That was it. Him and an alley cat. Brothers.
The decision whether to knock or just walk in was made easier when he saw that the front door was half off its hinges and hanging askew. Foot and fist. A lot of rage there. It told the story of a man locked out of his own house.
Cruz clenched his fist, hoping the bastard was there to meet him. He slipped between the door and the shattered jamb, heart racing now. A man that mad at a door would do a lot worse to his wife.
He was ready for Latour, but it was his wife Cruz was searching for.
“Daisy? It’s Cruz Barcelona. From Mia’s house,” he called softly, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness inside. The room was small, ten by ten. A sagging sofa turned on its side. A shattered wood pallet. A broken lamp. There’d been a fight here. One-sided, but a fight nevertheless.
“Daisy?” Cruz walked farther into the room. He could see almost the entire kitchen off to the right. He strode in. The tiny room was lit by the open refrigerator door, the contents dashed to the floor. He took an all-encompassing look around. No Daisy, but the obvious signs of a man enraged. Every door and cabinet flung open, the contents scattered in broken bits and pieces over the linoleum floor.
An open door off the living room stood ajar. Cruz pushed it ope
n all the way. A shadeless lamp lay on its side on a TV table beside the bed. The light he’d seen from outside. “Daisy?”
“Thank you, Jesus.” The voice, thready and weak, came from the other side of the massive bed, which took up most of the floor space. Cruz was beside Daisy in seconds.
Crouching beside her in the confined space, he tried to assess her injuries. Blood covered the entire left side of her face, and more seeped out of what was obviously a broken nose. One eye was already swollen shut, the other turning colors. Her mouth was swollen on one side, and her hands were covered in blood. Cruz hoped she’d killed the asshole. He’d pay her legal fees.
The rage he felt was off the charts. “How badly are you hurt?” he asked gently. The light was shit, but he saw enough. Blood. Copious amounts on her face and clothing. Bruising. Contusions. A black eye.
Terror. Resignation. Hope.
Her hand, curled on her hip as she lay on her side, twitched, as if she wanted to pull him closer. “Charlie?”
“Mia and I have him. He’s safe.” She let out a whimper that pierced his anger. Fuck fuck fuck. She reminded him so much of his mother that for a moment the two women were superimposed over each other in his mind’s eye.
Cruz sucked in a heavy breath. He had to focus on what the hell was going on now, today. He was no longer a child. This was not his mother. And he had to get her the fuck out of this house before Latour returned. He yanked a thin comforter off the bed, and paused as he calculated the best method to get her wrapped and up off the floor.
“I’m going to put my arms under you very gently and pick you up. I’ll try not to hurt you any worse, but we have to get you out of here.”
He’d hurt her more, and he was fucking sorry for it, but she needed medical treatment, and he had to get her away from here.
“Don’t let Charlie see me. . . .”
He took that as permission and carefully wrapped her in the thin quilt to lessen the possibility of his hands accidently hurting her when he picked her up.
She cried out as he lifted her in his arms. She was as light as a child. She smelled of blood, vomit, urine, and bone-shattering despair.
“I’m s-sorry,” she choked out, tears diluting the blood on the side of her face as she tried to keep her head upright.
“You have nothing to be sorry about,” he told her, keeping his tone light and calm. “Lay your head on my shoulder, Daisy. I won’t drop you, I promise.”
“I’ll g-get bl-blood on your sh-shirt.”
“I’ve always hated this shirt. There.” Her head dropped to his chest. More because she couldn’t remain sitting upright than because she was willing to be a burden. “We’ll be in the car in a minute, and you can see that Charlie is all right.”
I’m going to find you, you fucker, then show you exactly how being beat to shit feels like. “I’m sorry this hurts,” he told her as he carried her out of the house, his steps fast and as even as he could make them as he strode down the cracked, weedy sidewalk.
He saw Mia’s pale face inside the cab of the truck, and by the time he reached it, she’d unlocked the back door and jumped out to meet him.
Her eyes sought his. Cruz indicated that it was bad.
“Charlie fell asleep,” she whispered. “Lay her on the backseat. I’ll stay back here with her.”
Daisy was barely conscious as Cruz and Mia laid her down, the comforter over her. Mia climbed into the backseat, lifting Daisy’s head to her lap, whispering “God damn that fucking son of a bitch” under her breath. Then urgently, “Go, go, go!”
Cruz got in, buckled up, and took off. Beside him, a little boy in Superman skivvies, wrapped in a designer scarf, slept the sleep of the finally rescued.
Chapter Twelve
Mia loved the feel of Cruz’s heavy arm draped over her shoulders as they drove home from the hospital in New Orleans, her head resting on his shoulder, her arm across his waist. She especially loved the way he absently rubbed her upper arm now and then as he drove. She loved the way he smelled, too. No cologne, and his shower soap smell long gone. He just smelled male and sexy, and whatever it was, it was a siren song to Mia’s hormones.
She felt like a teenager. Not that she’d ever been in a truck with a bad boy as a teenager. Then it had been arranged dates and limos. She liked this much, much better.
She was exhausted but not sleepy, and almost in a hypnotic state from the vehicle headlights coming toward them. Even at three in the morning, the road was busy.
It had been a risk driving that far with an injured woman. But Cruz hadn’t wanted to risk Latour’s being able to find his wife and son at any of the local hospitals or shelters, and Mia had agreed. Leaving them anywhere close to Latour wasn’t an option. They’d taken them to Ochsner Medical Center in New Orleans.
Daisy required surgery to repair the life-threatening internal hemorrhaging, plus her cheekbone, arm, collarbone, and ribs were broken, her shoulder was dislocated, and she had multiple contusions¸ cuts, bruises, and scrapes all over her body. Marcel had beaten her almost to death.
Mia barely knew her, but seeing Daisy in that hospital bed with tubes and wires attached to her made her sick to her stomach, and so angry she didn’t know how to handle the rage inside. Through it all, Cruz had been cool, calm, and collected. He seemed both stoic and resolute.
Mia had stood by anxiously as Charlie was checked out. Her eyes welled with tears when he cried, and it took everything in her not to sob with him. Lost, terrified, she was the only thing in his little life he could hold on to, and his little hand had amazing strength as he clung to her through every test and examination.
The diagnosis was that Daisy was malnourished, traumatized, and bruised, but otherwise in decent health. Charlie had fallen asleep in Mia’s arms as they sat out in the waiting room waiting to hear about his mother.
Cruz had been taken aside by the police, followed by two women from Social Services and a woman from a local women’s shelter. He’d signed paperwork and given them his and Mia’s information. Then he’d sat with Charlie as she had her turn. Every step of the way, she was tempted to give them her true identity, but Cruz had warned her not to. Her fake ID was excellent. There was no need to give them more than that.
As soon as Daisy was released, she and Cruz would find a safe place for her and Charlie. They had no idea if she had friends or relatives who would give her and her son safe harbor. But even if she did, Latour would find them there.
She’d gotten fake identification; certainly she could do the same for Daisy and Charlie. “They’re going to be okay, right?” The first words she’d said since they’d returned to her truck.
“Yeah,” Cruz responded to her question, his chiseled mouth in a grim line, a muscle in his jaw ticking as he clenched his teeth. Mia’s anger was hot. Cruz’s anger was Arctic cold. “They’re going to be fine. They have the best medical care. You heard what the doctor said: with proper care, and away from danger, she’ll recuperate just fine.”
“Physically, not emotional. I’m sure that’ll take time. I want better than fine for them, Cruz. We should’ve brought Charlie home with us— No. You were right. That would be the first place Latour would look for him. He’s safer in foster care until we can go and get him. But what if they don’t—”
Cruz dropped a kiss on the top of her head, and the intimate touch instantly calmed her frayed nerves. “Stop worrying. They know what they’re doing, and it won’t be for long. I told him one of us would call him every day.”
“He’d be less scared if Oso was with him, don’t you think? I wonder if that’s allowed. I can drive him over tomorrow.”
“Call and ask in the morning.” Mia felt his warm breath on her forehead as he said softly, “I thought you didn’t like kids.”
Puzzled, she looked up at his chin. “What a weird thing to say. Why on earth would you think that?”
His shoulder shrugged beneath her head. “Hmm. Must’ve been something you said.”
“I
doubt it. I like children. Not that I’ve been around many, but those I have been around I enjoy. I like the way their mind are so open to learn new things. Their little brains are like colorful butterflies flitting from topic to topic. I find children fascinating. At least the few I’ve interacted with.”
“Wow, I had you pegged wrong, didn’t I? If you like kids so much, why don’t you have a bunch of them?”
Mia laughed. “I said I like them, but not in multiples. I wasn’t thinking of producing a litter.”
“So you plan on having children, Miss CEO of Blush Cosmetics? When would you have time?”
“Not right now, especially with the LBO happening,” she admitted. “But yes, eventually. Men run multibillion-dollar corporations and have families—why can’t I?”
“No reason. So love, marriage, and two point five children for you sometime this decade?”
She smiled. “I’ve never really given it much thought. My life is pretty packed to the brim as it is. But eventually I’d like to share my life with someone special, I suppose.” She snuggled closer, enjoying the warmth and strength of him beside her. “What about you?”
“The only thing I know about love is that it’s usually a business arrangement. I’d never bring children into a business arrangement. They’d become possessions and bargaining chips. Love and business shouldn’t be considered the same thing.”
“And yet it almost always is. A woman marries a man for financial security, and a man gets married to continue his line and have a pretty ornament on his arm. Not so bad. My parents were married for more than twenty years before my mother died. They were fairly compatible.”
“Compatible? What about passion?”
“Well, clearly they had sex. At least once anyway,” Mia said dryly, eyes closed. She inhaled deeply, loving the smell of him. Whether he was fresh from the shower or at the end of a long, sweaty day, his masculine pheromones shouted to her pheromones, Come and get me. “What about you?”
“What about me? Sex once in twenty years isn’t my style, but one doesn’t have to be in love to have mind-blowing sex. We both know that.”