Hallowed Ground (Julie Collins Series #2)

by Lori G. Armstrong

  At the sheriff’s department he’d let his lawyer do the talking.

  If I was having a hard time blocking it out, what was Martinez going through?

  When the shower shut off, I knew I’d find out soon enough.

  One door opened, another closed.

  Humid, pine-scented air wafted in. Muffled noises drifted from the bedroom.

  And I waited.

  Surreal stillness amplified sounds. The bottom of the bedroom door scraped against the carpet as it swung open. The fabric of his clothing brushed the tweed couch when he walked past me. Then the suctioning pop of the mini-fridge door, followed by the snick and hiss of a carbonated can.

  Finally I found the guts to look at him.

  Martinez stood in the center of the room, staring sightlessly at the exit sign above the door, a Coke can clutched to his naked chest. Baggy silver boxing shorts exposed his muscled stomach and skimmed his knees. His feet were bare.

  My stomach roiled. I’d never seen him like this, half-dressed, half-lost, totally vulnerable.

  “Tony?”

  He turned toward me, his face shuttered.

  “Do you want to talk?”

  He shook his head.

  “You want to get drunk?”

  “No.”

  “Then what can I do?”

  He drained the Coke and crushed the aluminum between his hands as easily as a gum wrapper. “Can you make it go away?” He whipped the spent can at the garbage pail. “Jesus, Julie. Can you tell me why he did it? Make me forget he’s fucking dead?”

  I winced at the hard slap of his words.

  God, I hated this. I didn’t know why I’d come or why I’d stayed. Why I thought I could help him. Being here just reinforced the sad truth that I was the last person qualified to hand out advice on how to deal with gut-wrenching, soul-stealing loss.

  No wonder Kevin hadn’t confided in me.

  I unfolded from the couch and tiptoed to the pile of wet clothes, my single thought to escape. I grabbed my cold jeans only to have Martinez snatch them from my hands and fling them back to the floor.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded.

  “I’m leaving.”

  “Like hell you are.”

  “For Christsake, Martinez, I suck at this. How am I supposed to help you when I can’t even help myself?”

  I whirled away to hide my humiliation; my mouth had no such shame and ran unchecked.

  “Ben has been dead for three years, my mother for almost twenty, and I’m still seriously fucked up. I can’t sit here and coo sympathy and lie that it’ll be all right. It won’t be all right. Nothing will ever be the same.”

  My voice cracked, then broke completely. “Your life will have a big, black, gaping hole in it that nothing or no one on this earth will ever fill. But you already know that, don’t you?”

  Being strong and tough was an illusion. Far more appealing to crawl in that hole and howl like a wounded animal.

  His hands curled over my shoulders. “Julie—”

  “Don’t.” I tried to shrug him off. Jesus, I was a pathetic, self-centered excuse for a human being. I was supposed to be consoling him, not making it worse, not making it about me.

  He spun me back around.

  I didn’t have a chance to see sorrow or pity or anything else because his mouth was on mine.

  And I didn’t do a single damn thing to resist.

  As Martinez kissed me, so sweetly, so completely, so perfectly, my tears fell.

  I fell.

  I’d expected tongue-thrusting, teeth-grinding passion from him, not tenderness. Not bewilderment. Not this intimate glimpse into his frailty.

  The deeper we took the kiss, the more he let me see his raw, battered state. I recognized it. Understood it. Gave into it.

  My blood, sluggish from the cold rain, heated and raced through my system, vanquishing my tears but not my doubts.

  His mouth broke away in slow increments; he slid his warm, soft lips to my cheek. “Stay.” Hands knotted in my wet hair. Ragged exhalations teased the skin below my ear, sending goose bumps cascading down my body. “Please. Just stay, okay?”

  I knew it was wrong. I should’ve pushed him away. Taken the opportunity to put him back at arms’ length where he belonged. Even as my conscience blasted warnings, I whispered, “Okay.”

  The sweet kisses disappeared.

  His hands, always so gentle and tentative with me, were idle no more. Rough fingertips and palms slipped down my face, my throat, then inside the robe and caressed my bare flesh from the curve of my belly to the curve of my ass.

  I wound my arms around his neck, threading my fingers through his damp hair. I couldn’t get close enough to him. I wanted to share the same breath, the same mind, the same skin.

  His forehead burrowed into the tender spot where my collarbone connected to my neck and he went still.

  “Tony?” I murmured.

  “Make it go away.” His hoarse whisper cut across my skin, cut through it. “Can you make it go away? Make me stop thinking about it?”

  His anguish ripped the air from my lungs.

  I pressed my body against his, cradled his face in my hands, grazed my lips across his cheeks, the corners of his eyes, his temples, the lines on his forehead, the rigid set of his jaw.

  When our lips met again, and his mouth freely opened to mine, I poured myself into him. Offered him the understanding of his grief that I couldn’t verbalize.

  With this, I could make him forget, make us both forget.

  What little control he had shattered.

  He unknotted the belt and pushed the robe from my shoulders until it pooled at my feet. Grabbed the back of my bare thighs and lifted me against the wall.

  My senses were awash in his heat, his scent, his urgency. My legs circled his hips. I arched closer, letting my head fall back as he trailed hot, wet kisses down my throat, buried his face between my breasts.

  “Yes or no, blondie. Tell me now.”

  This was wrong, wrong, wrong. We both knew it.

  And yet, I still answered, “Yes.”

  Our eyes met and there was no going back.

  I hooked my fingers inside the elastic waistband of his boxing shorts and yanked until there were no barriers between us.

  He drove inside me and nothing else mattered.

  Later, in the complete darkness of the bedroom, we didn’t communicate beyond the sounds of lovers.

  We didn’t have to. We didn’t want to.

  Martinez rested his head on my belly, one hand clasped in mine on the mattress; the other idly stroked my leg from knee to the inside of my thigh.

  My fingers sifted through his hair, smoothing the soft strands from his brow, the tensed line of his neck, the heavy set of his shoulders.

  His silent tears dampened my stomach. As he pretended not to cry, I pretended not to notice.

  CHAPTER 29

  I WOKE ALONE, SPRAWLED FACE FIRST ON THE MATTRESS. Naked.

  Without a hangover.

  There went the excuse for my behavior last night.

  Did I need an excuse?

  No.

  So I’d slept with him. Big deal. Pointless to shut the barn door after the cow had gotten out. Besides, Martinez and I had been headed this direction since our first meeting in Dusty’s months ago. Circumstances had just accelerated the process.

  When I remembered those circumstances, my insides grew tight, my head pounded, and nausea spread like I had been knocking back tequila.

  Harvey was dead.

  God. I could not believe he’d done it. How he’d done it. And now that my brain was a bit clearer, it pissed me off. What a selfish goddamn thing to do. In front of his best friend. Harvey knew it’d scar those left behind far more than the millisecond of pain he endured right after the gun discharged.

  No matter how invincible Martinez acted, he wouldn’t be able to shove it aside.

  Had he disappeared because he regretted opening himself up to me? Or fo
r another reason entirely? Was he the type of guy that now that the chase was over, he’d set his sights on bedding someone else? Was I just another notch on his handlebars?

  The idea I’d been taken for a ride didn’t sit well. I sighed and rolled, taking the twisted cotton sheet with me. I’d just scooted back to the headboard when the door opened.

  Martinez walked in.

  My heart kicked hard.

  Even though he was fully dressed in his usual biker finery, I didn’t bother to cover my nakedness like some Victorian maiden. We’d gone far beyond normal embarrassment last night.

  We’d gone way past a professional relationship.

  He shut the door, braced his wide shoulders against it and crossed one booted ankle in front of the other. He stared at me unabashedly, not with sexual intent, but as if he was trying to read my mind.

  No trace remained of the despondent man from last night. Yet, the haunted sorrow was there, lurking beneath the surface.

  I wanted to soothe that ache even when I knew he wouldn’t welcome it now, or want to talk about it. I never had either. Scary, that we were more alike than I’d imagined.

  Did he see that similarity when he looked at me?

  Neither of us seemed particularly anxious to break the awkward silence.

  “Your clothes are still wet,” he said finally.

  Soggy clothes were better than driving home bare-assed in my Sentra, in a lame impression of Lady Godiva.

  “Are they in the other room?”

  “No. I moved them to the tub.” He angled his head toward the closet. “I’ve got some extra workout sweats. They’d be big, but you’re welcome to wear them.”

  I said, “Thanks.”

  Martinez sighed. He didn’t fidget, just kept his gaze steadily trained on me.

  “Regrets, blondie?”

  Why lie? “I don’t know,” I admitted. “You?”

  “I don’t regret a damn thing.”

  I swallowed. Didn’t help my dry mouth but kept it shut.

  My silence surprised him.

  Then he surprised me by saying, “You want to talk about it?”

  “Why?” My eyes narrowed. “You gonna profess your undying love for me now, Martinez?”

  “Ah. There she is. I wondered which Julie I’d encounter this morning.”

  “What do you mean ‘which Julie’?”

  “I expected you’d pick a fight, giving you a reason to storm out, which I gotta admit, I’d prefer to the polite control I’m seeing you use now.”

  I jerked the sheet closer. “Nice, that I’m so predictable.”

  “Wrong.” He pushed away from the door but was strangely cautious, stopping at the foot of the bed. “Just when I think I’ve got you pegged, you shock the shit out of me.”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  His dark eyes latched onto mine and wouldn’t allow me to look away. “You’ve got to know you were more than a warm body to me last night.”

  I really didn’t know what to say to that.

  A door slammed in the outer room and I jumped. Apparently we were no longer alone. Good time to change the subject.

  “Doesn’t sound like your warning kept people out of your office.”

  “It did for a while.” Martinez sauntered to the closet and slid the track doors. He reached on the top shelf and pulled down two pieces of neatly folded black fleece clothing. Dropped them on the pillows beside me.

  I grabbed the sweatshirt. “What happens now? With the Hombres, I mean.”

  Again, he didn’t pretend he wasn’t watching me get dressed. “We’ll hold a memorial service when everyone from the other chapters gets here. Then we’ll have a meeting to figure out who’s applying for Harvey’s job.”

  “Don’t you just pick a successor?” I said, yanking the sweatshirt over my head.

  “No. We consider the candidate’s loyalty, and let’s say their qualifications, then we vote.”

  “What do you have to do to be considered a candidate?”

  He lifted a brow. “Why? You interested in a different position?”

  I blushed. Crap. So much for acting casual. I snagged the sweatpants and threw back the sheet, angry at my bout of modesty.

  “I don’t do this, Martinez.”

  Guilty thoughts slapped me. Seemed like a year ago I’d been with Kell when it’d been less than a week. Martinez and I had borne more nasty shit together in the last few days than most people experienced in a lifetime.

  “I don’t care about anything you did before last night,” he said.

  That told me nothing. I slid to the edge of the bed. Shoved my feet in the leg holes and shimmied them over my hips to my waist.

  “Will you come to Harvey’s memorial service with me?” he asked, out of the blue.

  My fingers fumbled with the drawstring. Martinez rarely asked me for anything. It figured he’d want the one thing I couldn’t give him.

  I met his gaze head on. “I don’t do funerals either.”

  One tiny twitch of his left eye was the only sign I’d given the wrong answer.

  “You went to Shelley’s funeral.” When I didn’t respond, he prompted, “What about your partner’s girlfriend? You plan on going to that one, don’t you?”

  “No.” I smoothed my hand over my scalp. Fuck it. My hair was as messed up as this situation, and just as pointless to try and straighten out right now. “What do you want from me, Martinez?”

  “Don’t insult me by pretending you don’t know.”

  How was that an answer? And why wasn’t he invading my space and messing with my hair like he usually did?

  He tossed an unopened pack of Marlboro Lights and a book of matches on the bed. “Figured you might want these. I’ll clear the guys out of here and give you some privacy.”

  Then he exited the room and left me staring after him in total confusion.

  Martinez didn’t attempt to dissect the night we’d spent together.

  Despite the awful events that had led us there, every time my mind wandered that direction, my stomach got swoopy. We might not see eye to eye on everything, but we were definitely compatible in bed. Very compatible.

  Not helping you focus on the real the situation, Julie.

  If Martinez could let it idle for a while, then so could I.

  He’d told me he’d tentatively planned a joint memorial service for Rondelle and Harvey, hinging on when I found Chloe, or if the mysterious people hiding her came forward once they found out Rondelle was dead.

  Noble, that Martinez didn’t want to bury the child’s mother without giving her a chance to say goodbye. But didn’t he understand standing over the coffin wouldn’t give her closure anyway?

  I couldn’t fathom the abandonment issues that little girl was facing. Had her father sent her away without explanation? Chances were good Donovan could come out of the coma with severe brain damage. Chloe could essentially be an orphan.

  With Harvey gone, what would happen to her? Would a member of Donovan’s family step up and take on the responsibility of raising her? Or was she doomed to follow the same path as Rondelle; shuffled from foster home to foster home on the reservation without any family support?

  That possibility turned my stomach and made me more determined than ever to find her. Even if I had to go against Martinez’s instructions and go to the cops.

  On the way home I attempted to piece together what I’d learned yesterday with what I already knew.

  Bud Linderman had sent Rondelle to work for the Carluccis under the threat of harming her daughter. I knew this, Martinez knew this, so how come Harvey hadn’t? Had Martinez decided it was best to keep that information from Harvey?

  Obviously it’d backfired. Big time.

  So, someone had called Harvey, and shared the information about Bud Linderman’s threats.

  Why now that Rondelle was dead?

  Revenge?

  Who?

  A little bird told me, buzzed in my head like an annoying bee.
<
br />   What the hell could that mean? It had to mean something, right?

  Not necessarily. It’d probably been gibberish from a man crazed with grief.

  But the phrase kept pecking away at me. A little bird, a little bird …

  I was desperate for something to make sense in this case. A sign. Anything. I looked up through the windshield at the cloudless sky. It stretched far and wide; in that dazzling robin’s egg blue that often follows a violent summer storm.

  And then it hit me so hard I slammed on the brakes.

  A little bird wasn’t some nonsensical phrase babbled by a madman.

  A little bird was a person.

  Robin.

  Rondelle’s friend from Trader Pete’s.

  I stepped on the gas and headed for Deadwood.

  Since Rondelle had told me Robin was her boss, I hoped like hell Robin worked the day shift.

  With summer tourist season in full swing I had a decent chance to sneak in under the Carluccis radar. Yet, if I did find Robin, I had no guarantee she’d talk to me.

  When I found a free parking spot right behind The Golden Boot, I knew it was my lucky day.

  Inside Trader Pete’s I planted myself by the wall in the quarter slots section behind an artificial ficus tree. Pained me to shove twenty bucks in, but it was the smallest bill I had.

  Down to my last three bucks, the constant ding ding ding of the machines was driving me nuts. A stoop-shouldered cocktail waitress with steel gray hair finally spied me.

  She didn’t attempt a smile. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Nah. I’m good.”

  Her lips pursed. With the school marm hairdo, I wondered if she carried a metal ruler to whap my knuckles. Nope. No pencil behind her ear, either.

  As she turned away, I said, “Can you tell me if Robin is around today?”

  “Didn’t you see her? She’s working the cage.”

  “No. I hadn’t been over there yet.”

  “You a friend of hers?”

  No. “Yeah.”

  “If you want, give me your name and I’ll tell her you’re here.”

  “That’s okay, I wouldn’t want you to go to any trouble. I’ll wander up there in a bit.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  I cashed out and relocated to another machine that offered me a clear view of the money cage. Robin wasn’t hard to distinguish; the other person working with her was a dead ringer for Buddha.