"Don't," I growled when his hand raised to the closest bag. My arm rose too, my gun in it. "Won't be any better for you if you kill her."
"You don't understand!" he shrieked, raking his hands through his nasty hair.
"I understand that you fucked over two good women and they both dumped your ass and you lost your ever-loving mind."
"They both loved me," he yelled, swinging an arm out and sending a rolling tray of various small medical equipment flying to the ground with a loud clatter in the mostly empty space.
"Right. And try to tell me you loved both of them too," I said, having to hold back an eye roll.
"It was always Riya. Always. Since the day she walked into interview."
"Yeah, well, then you should have manned up and divorced your wife instead of betraying the two of them."
He was pacing across the wall with the cabinets full of God-knew what, looking very much like a caged animal. "I couldn't. My goddamn father in law would never allow it."
It clicked then.
He should have still been in medical school debt.
His wife came from a wealthy family.
His debt had been paid off as what? Some kind of goddamn modern day dowery?
Rich people were fucking weird like that.
But not quite.
"Why would he pay off your debt?"
Michael stopped his pacing, laughing in an utterly humorless way. "To treat him off the books."
"For?"
"MS."
Well then.
The puzzle was complete, wasn't it?
Her father ran a big company. Men like that would be voted out by the board if they knew their big guy was slowly succumbing to a debilitating and incurable disease. So he wanted to be treated on the down low because companies like that looked at shit like medical records. He was planning on holding on for as long as possible.
"Why'd you take Shannon if it was always Riya?"
"He took her from me!"
"Right before you planned to rape her and get her pregnant without her consent?"
"It wouldn't be rape," he scoffed. "And she would have been happy making a family with me."
"Riya didn't want to have children," I reminded him.
"Every woman wants to have children."
Jesus.
There was crazy and there was delusional.
"See, your plan backfired though. Riya is now in my place and she has my baby in her belly. So good job, you fucking lunatic."
And right then, whatever fight was left in him, whatever drive there was to complete his crazy mission even with a fill-in woman, left him. His shoulder slumped, his head hung, and he slowly lowered down onto his knees.
I slid the safety back on my gun and put it away, moving across the room toward him.
Then he did the only thing he could have done to even remotely redeem himself in my eyes.
He looked up at me with sad eyes.
"Is she okay? Is she... happy?"
Just like that, all the anger left my system like a wave moved through me and washed me clean of it.
Because he really did love her.
And that absolutely did crack him.
That shit wasn't satisfying to see; it was haunting.
It didn't make what he did any better, any less fucked up, but it humanized a demonic thing to do.
If there was one thing I learned from all my years in the military, it was people, good, upstanding, gentle people, were all capable of ugly, evil things. None of us could claim to be any different. Under the right circumstance and pressure, we could all do deplorable things to other people. It was a small but indisputable part of human nature.
And the biggest trigger was always love.
Love for an ex who moved on, taking the form of a murder/suicide.
Love for a sister who was brutalized by a husband, leading to you standing over the man with his severed cock in your hand, his blood saturating you like a horror movie, blue and red lights illuminating the room.
Love for a brother who was killed by an invading force, five years later having you leading a small counter army killing other mens' brothers.
Love cured when situations were ideal.
But just as often, love sparked a flame that burned bright and left bodies in its wake, charred and unrecognizable.
"She's freaked. But she's okay. And I'm going to make sure she's happy," I affirmed.
"Good. That's good."
"They're on their way," Tig said and I nodded. Out of the corner of my eye I could see him moving over toward Shannon, pressing his fingers into her throat.
"She's fine," Michael said, looking over. "I've been monitoring her."
"You'll forgive us for not taking the word of a man who smells like he hasn't showered in a week," I said, looking over at Tig who nodded that her pulse was alright.
It was all of two minutes later when a parade of booted feet could be heard in the halls amongst the sound of men shouting "NBPD!"
Tig and I put our hands up. "Gun, left boot. Permit is in my wallet, back pocket," I supplied.
"No need," a familiar voice called, making the officer who was leaning down toward my boot freeze and stand. "Think you can put your hands down Sawyer, Tig."
"Collings," I said, turning to face him, giving him as genuine a smile I could muster given the situation. "Thought you were retiring," I said to the man who had been keeping things in line in Navesink Bank for a good long while, who understood the strange balance of power all the various criminal organizations kept.
"Tomorrow," he said with a snort.
"What a way to go out, huh?" I asked, watching as one of the officers read Michael his rights and cuffed him.
"What's going on with..." Collings said, waving a head toward Shannon.
"Pentobarbital."
"And you know that because..."
"Because he did the same thing to another woman who is a client of mine. Brock has a witness and is likely on his way to the station with him now. We'll explain it all."
"And everything was done above board," he mused, knowing damn well there was some law bending.
"Well, the front door was open..."
"And this place is for sale," Collings agreed with a nod, knowing smile in place. "In fact, wasn't that the real estate agent I saw outside?"
I chuckled at that. "Must have been," I agreed.
"I'm going to need to talk to your client."
"I know," I agreed, dreading that reality. "She did file a report, but I think she got filed under 'aluminum hats and loons'."
"Well, we'll have to dig that up."
The EMS came in as they were leading Michael out, going to the hanging bags and squinting. "Pentobarbital?" one asked and they looked at each other.
"She's been under about a week," I supplied. "Her name is Shannon Robinson. She's that guy they just hauled out's wife."
With that, Tig and I moved outside, exchanging a few words with Collings and agreeing to meet him down at the station once I picked up Riya.
I agreed and Tig drove us back to my place.
But I had to run a quick errand first.
TWENTY-ONE
Riya- 18 days
Barrett wasn't great company.
Well, no, that wasn't fair.
He was good company when I was in a good mood and therefore enjoyed his sarcasm, distance, and probing conversation.
But when I was worrying myself sick about Sawyer and Brock and Tig out chasing down my ex who had kept me in a goddamn coma for a year and had also recently taken his wife and was, by all accounts, out of his ever-loving mind, yeah, he sucked.
Because anytime I voiced a concern, his idea of comfort was to say in a sort-of distracted way that Sawyer and the guys knew what they were doing.
And, okay, sure. Of course they did. They put themselves in dangerous situations for a living. But that didn't mean I shouldn't worry.
Eventually, I worried myself to sleep on the living room couch, Sli
m asleep against the couch, legs up in the air.
I woke up to something slamming down on the coffee table.
I blinked, disoriented, for a long minute at the dark bottle, willing my sleepy eyes to read the label. Then another one slammed down beside it.
My head angled up and there was Sawyer.
He looked tired. His eyes were heavy and slightly blue underneath from lack of sleep. But he was okay. He didn't look like he had a scratch on him.
"Prenatal vitamins and extra folic acid." At my confused look, he moved between me and the coffee table, squatting down, and pushing my hair behind my ear. "Apparently birth defects happen within the first three or four weeks of pregnancy. So the extra folic acid will help guard against brain and spinal cord issues."
"Were you reading a pregnancy book or finding and getting Michael locked up?"
"A bit of both," he said with a tired smile. "Found Michael. He's at the station now. So is Sully. But I decided to stop at the pharmacy before I came home. I picked up these too, after skimming them," he added, reaching for another bag on the floor behind the coffee table. He produced three pregnancy and childbirth books and put them down beside the vitamins.
I looked over, feeling a strange surge of emotion at the display. It said something. It said he wasn't just agreeing to the situation because I was pregnant and he was a good guy and he had no choice. It said he was invested in it, in the baby, and therefore, in us and our future.
"What?" I asked, a little uncomfortable with how emotional I was over some vitamins and books, trying to lighten the mood. "No baby name books? I have a feeling we are going to be butting heads for nine months over that."
"That's what they created baby name websites for. Are you one of those chicks who always had names picked out?"
"Since I always wanted to adopt and most kids already have names they're pretty attached to, no."
"Good point."
"Barrett is a good name," Barrett said from his position sitting at the kitchen counter with his laptop, where he had been for the better part of six hours, not taking any breaks because Sawyer had an insulated carafe so he could just sit it on the counter beside his cup and keep refilling.
"So if we have a girl, you want us to call her little Barrett? Pretty little Barrett?" Sawyer teased.
"Got a point," Barrett said, unphased.
"So what do you say you throw some of these back with some of the smoothie I brought you and throw some clothes on?"
I wrinkled my nose at the idea of the vitamins, knowing how they tended to sit like lead in my belly and with the morning sickness, that didn't seem like a great plan.
"You throw them up, you can just take more," he offered with a smile.
"Yeah, that's not helping," I laughed, sitting up. "I need to get dressed because they want to talk to me, right?"
He looked almost apologetic at that, though it wasn't his fault at all. "Yeah, babe. But I know the detective and he will let me sit in with you if you want."
"Of course I want," I said, the words just blurting out of me, making his smile spread and his eyes go warm.
"Then I'm there."
"Ugh," Barrett groaned, snapping his laptop shut. "I need to be just about anywhere else," he said, shaking his head at us. "And if you dare say any shit about someday I am going to get myself a good woman, I am going to put a virus on your computer and siphon all your money to fund some fucking guinea pig rescue or some shit. Those pigs will be living large on your dime. I get enough of that shit from Marg."
With that, he was out the door and Sawyer's eyes were watching me, big smile on my face. "What?" he asked.
"When's Barrett's birthday?"
"December fifth," he said automatically.
"Does the pet store on Madison still sell guinea pigs?" I asked and Sawyer's laugh followed me down the hall. "I'll be out in five."
Before I woke up in Famiglia's parking lot, I had never seen the inside of a police station. I was kind of too out of it to notice it the first time, but the second time around, it was almost comically like the stations on TV. Right inside the front door was the desk, a woman standing behind it, everything about her pointing to the fact that she was made of steel and had no time for anyone's bullshit. To the right were offices. To the left and back were a bunch of desks manned by various detectives.
Sawyer's hand was at my lower back and he jerked his chin toward a middle-aged man with a rounded belly who stood and motioned to one of the open doors to the end of the room.
"Interrogation rooms," Sawyer said, leading me with him.
"It sounds like you've been in one before."
"Oh, only two or three dozen times," he said with a wicked smirk as I went into yet another room that was straight out of Law and Order. There was a table with three chairs, a two-way mirror, and a camera in the corner.
That was it.
"Ms. Sweeney," the detective said as I sat down. "My name is Detective Collings."
"Hey, Detective," I said, giving him a small smile.
"So, I have your report here. And I apologize that no one took your claims seriously until now."
"In the detective's defense, my story probably did sound crazy."
"You got Sawyer here to believe it."
"Well, it was true."
"It was indeed. Now I need to ask you about your relationship with Michael Robinson..."
Then he did. Either to his credit or thanks to some warning by Sawyer, he kept things short and sweet, taking down vital details about the timeline of our relationship, carefully asking about my medical results after Sully dropped me off, and going over the report I gave a few weeks ago.
When all was said and done, I was informed that I might be contacted, to which Sawyer said he could do so through him, and we met up with Tig and Brock in the waiting area and moved outside as a group.
I thanked the two of them, getting a huge bear hug from Tig and a kiss on the temple from Brock before they shuffled off to find their beds, looking like they both needed them.
Sawyer and I made our way back to the car and drove back home in silence, leaving me to start to worry. Maybe now that everything had blown over and the dust had settled, he was having worries or reservations.
"You know," he said as he put the car in park and turned to look at me, "everyone has a tell."
"A tell?"
"When they're nervous. Brock gets stiff and quiet. Tig talks a lot. Barrett gets antsy. You, apparently, push back your cuticles."
I looked down at my hands, not having really even noticed I was doing it, but I was. "You know, that's a freaky skill set you have there."
"Comes in handy when my woman clams up and won't tell me what she's stressing about."
My woman.
"You've been quiet."
"Right, 'cause I'm a regular chatterbox every other day."
"Unusually so," I said, forcing my eyes up to his.
"Babe, I'm fucking beat is all. Been a long day and a half. And to be perfectly honest, coming home to someone who has been worried about me, that shit is new. So if you need something from me, babe, demand it. What do you need?"
Put that bluntly, I honestly didn't even know what to say to that.
"I, ah..."
"You want a recap of the night? All the details?"
I felt my stomach twist and shook my head. "Sometime, yeah. But not right now."
He nodded, looking out the window for a second. "How about you join me for a shower that I can't guarantee won't involve some heavy petting, then get into bed with me where that petting will turn into more, then take a nap with me?"
And I realized that was exactly what I needed.
I needed affection, something I had always considered the surest sign that someone was still interested in you. The day you stopped touching was the day your relationship started dying.
"Sounds perfect," I agreed and we climbed out of the car and back into the apartment where Slim made a show of slowly climbing off the couch he
knew he wasn't supposed to be on.
Sawyer's hand grabbed mine, entwining our fingers, and pulling me down into the bathroom where he only dropped it after he reached in the shower to turn the water on. He was facing me as he slowly lifted his shirt and discarded it.
And, what could I say? It felt like ages since I saw him naked. It had only been days, since the first time I threw up, both of us figuring I might be catching and touching was probably not a good idea. That and the fact that I never felt less sexy than right before or directly after puking for ten minutes every couple of hours.
So, yeah, I was looking. My eyes were greedy, moving over the firm outlines of his abdominal muscles, following the trail of hair into the waistband of his pants where he had his hands working the button and zip. He discarded his pants and it was obvious his mind was likewise afflicted because his cock was pressing against the material of his boxer briefs.
"You gonna be shy? 'Cause your ass is coming in that shower with me and I don't think it will be all that comfortable to do that with all your fucking clothes on."
I felt my lips tip up automatically, not knowing why, but always finding comfort in his snark. Maybe because it was him. I remember hearing once that when you meet a potential partner at first, that you aren't meeting them, you are meeting their representative. The vast majority of people show you their pretty for the first few weeks or even months, terrified of showing any flaws. That wasn't how Sawyer operated. Like Marg said, he knew how short life could be so he didn't waste any time on bullshit. He was always one-hundred percent himself.
And after having dated men who either didn't know who they were or were pretending to be someone they weren't, it was comforting, reassuring to know you just know someone.
I lifted my chin and reached for the hem of my shirt, pulling it upward and discarding it to the side. I slipped out of my pants and socks, leaving me in mismatched underthings- a hot pink bra and hunter green panties, never really being the type to spend much time on things like matching bras and panties.
Sawyer's eyes dropped and moved slowly over me from the bottom up, each inch of skin seeming to warm under the inspection as I reached behind my back to unclasp my bra, then shimmied out of my panties.
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