by Rebel Adams
Damn. He was going to have deal with his brain. Never fun.
First up was Geddings. The asshole. The wife beater. The man who had made him not only run but fire off his gun. He was still working through the paperwork for that one. There was more paperwork for the damage to the house, and then the insurance papers for both incidents. Not fun. He was still working on writing up the full report for the chase earlier in the day, which had to be in before forty-eight since incident. He would be able to get it in the morning—but that didn’t mean it was easy. Every time he started in on the whole thing, his whole body charged with anger for what the cockdonkey had done to his wife.
All of this lead to his thinking about Whitney. He just kept seeing her frail body in her hospital bed, beaten and bruised. Her will broken. Her attempt to escape her father foiled by running to a man who was probably worse than anything her father had ever done.
And the next stop on the derailed train of thought, Gillespie. That man made every law-enforcement alarm he had go off like a klaxon on the bridge of the USS Enterprise. Something with him was off, so a dangerous feeling… he trusted his instincts when it came to things like this, and they were telling him that he needed to look deeper into that once this was all—
The phone jangled loudly on the stand next to him. He had it set too loud; he slept the sleep of the dead when he was actually able to get to sleep. Jackson grabbed the phone and slammed it against the side of his head. “OUCH! Hello?”
“Jack.”
He started. “Gretchen?”
“Baby wouldn’t sleep,” she said. “I caught wind of something on the scanner. Chief is pulling the cars on your case’s house.”
Jackson sat up straight. “What?”
“Don’t understand the reasoning,” Gretchen said in a hushed voice. She had probably just gotten the baby to settle. “I only caught part of the whole thing.”
“Caught part of it?”
“This was totally orchestrated at three a.m. so that you wouldn’t catch wind of it.”
“Jesus,” he snapped.
“Exactly,” she said. “Jackson, I don’t know who Geddings is, but that they can get Chief Vilaz to call the cars off a house where a victim just went home today means that they are way up, way too powerful to go against.”
“Go against?”
“Geddings is being released. Now.”
“How.” There was no question there; it was a demand.
“I’m checking, you son of a bitch. I have a week left and your shit just pulls me back in,” she answered. “I just wanted to let you know what was going on.”
“They’re going to make her drop the charges,” Jackson mumbled.
“You can be about one-hundred percent sure on that one.”
He stared at the curtains straight ahead. He needed to find out why the chief pulled the cars. And he needed to make sure that Whitney was safe. “Thank you, Gretchen.”
“Go, man. Make sure she’s safe. I’ll try to do some more research when I don’t feel like I’m going to die.”
“Gretchen,” he said softly in to the phone. “Thank you.”
“Shut up,” she answered and hung up.
God, he couldn’t wait until she was back on duty with him.
Jackson was up and out of bed, pulling on his pants and shirt as fast as he could move. He was down the stairs and in the car in a New York minute. The car was back out of the garage and down the block shortly after.
Whitney had just gotten out of the hospital that day. Just two days after being beaten bloody. Her physical wounds were healing, but her mental ones needed more time. He had begged the doctor to let her stay another day; she needed time and he needed to make sure he knew what was happening with Geddings.
“Are you sure you can’t hold her any longer?”
“No,” the doctor answered. “She’s not going to benefit from staying and HR says that her time and money are up.” Jackson was ready to take his head off. “Before you go homicidal, I have been arguing against this for the past twelve hours, Detective. I know she shouldn’t go. You know it. But this is a business decision and I just can’t rock the boat anymore.”
“She needs—”
“Detective,” the doctor interrupted, “I am on your side. I know what she needs. But I cannot fight for it anymore without serious repercussions. We have to live with the decision, no matter how much we hate it. I trust that you will see her home. Her first therapy appointment is next week, and she’ll probably need a reminder and a ride there. That is probably not in your job description, but you might consider those as well.”
Jackson got it. There wasn’t anything he could find to hold her. The doctor was warning him. And he heeded the warning: watch out for her. Between what the doctor and her sister had told him, Jackson had pieced together that Whitney was ready to take the last step. He just had to keep her away from Geddings.
Earlier that day, while he was waiting for Whitney to be released, Winnie had called and explained that she was stuck at work. Jackson had already planned to drive Whitney home, so the request to pick her up was just the perfect go-ahead for him.
Watching her walk out of the hospital with the slowest, most painful gait he had seen in a woman her age had shot through his gut. She looked so much better than when he had first seen her, but this was hard to watch. She made her way over to him.
“Hey, Detective,” she’d said, with a sweet little smile. Remember, she’s a case, not a friend. You’re here to help her sister out, not flirt.
Flirt?
“Hello, Whitney. It’s almost like you were expecting me.”
“Winnie called,” she’d answered. “So I was.”
“Damn,” he smiled. “Can’t get past you.”
“Take me back to my house, please,” she requested.
He opened the door to the car and helped her in. He had to resist the urge to first, buckle her in himself and second, look right down that low-cut shirt to those perfect mounds under her shirt. He closed the door and took a deep breath. When he climbed in the driver’s seat, she had buckled in and pulled her shirt into a different position.
“Whitney, I have to warn you. The Florida room is a disaster. Your husband was there and wrecked the place, and… I had to discharge my weapon.”
She looked over at him. “You fired at my husband?”
“I did.”
She was quiet for a moment. “Did you hit him?”
“No.”
She was silent. “Is it wrong that I’m disappointed you missed him?”
“No.”
The car ride was quiet, but he had to fill her in on the situation. “Your husband is at the station, and they are holding him. I’ve had the chief put cars on your house and I’m going to ask them to do patrols around the house. I would like you to call me tomorrow morning and let me know that everything is okay.”
“Detective, you don’t have to worry about me,” she smiled. “I have an overprotective sister, and she’ll be by to check on me.”
“My request stands,” he said. “Your case is active and I need to make sure you stay safe.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Call me.” There was no room for questions at that statement.
She saluted him with her one good arm. “Yes, sir,” she mocked him.
And now here he was, driving like mad across town to get back to her house. He was going to grill the chief in the morning, but for now, he wanted to make sure Geddings didn’t get in that building.
How did Geddings make bail? Who fronted him the money? And how did they have enough pull to make the chief pull the cars and let him out at three a.m.?
He killed the lights as he pulled up in front of Whitney’s now unpatrolled house. It was, thankfully, dark. Jackson parked the car so he had a good view of the house, while not being obvious. He leaned down in the seat, lowered the window, and watched the darkness around the house.
Nothing. There was nothing going on. It was qu
iet, normal night noises. There were no people, no lights, and the occasional dog. He pulled out his smartphone and started googling Geddings. He should have done this ages ago. If he had any public records, he would come up. Then he might have an idea of what he was up against.
There were dozens of Sean Geddings in the US, and narrowing it down to his zip code helped big-time. Just four in a fifty-mile radius. And very quickly he found the piece-of-shit that was Whitney’s husband. He had a Facebook profile and a Tumblr account, and Jackson was willing to bet that the idiot was full public.
To no one’s shock, he was. Terrible English and all. He was trying to play himself off as someone else, though, and that was apparent early on. It was also apparent that he was trying to come off as a player too—quite the ladies’ man. And failing at that too.
Sean G: Yo ma bros. sup. Got the ladie on the side tonight. Dum wife don’t know.
Ugh.
Nothing this guy was going to post or say or do was going to shock him at this point. He was the lowest form of pond scum. Jackson kept scrolling through to see what else was on his wall, pausing to take screen shots when he came across something damning.
Some of this was really damning. There were admissions of all sorts of petty crimes, theft, assaults, and few not-so-petty ones.
Finally, though, he came across the ace in the hole. The reason Sean Geddings could get Chief Vilaz out of bed at three am to sign his release. Uncle Robert Milligan, a Federal District Judge just over the state line. The bastard had to be using his pull to get his crooked nephew out of all the trouble he was continually getting into.
That was why people were warning him off.
He didn’t care. This guy beat his wife. He wondered if His Honor knew what a piece-of-shit his nephew was. Jackson considered sending the guy his record, anonymously. Maybe the state prosecutor too. That would work as well. Get the judge and Geddings in trouble for it, if the judge didn’t know what was going on.
The sound of glass breaking triggered several dozen dogs in the immediate area. Jackson killed the light on the smartphone and shoved it into his pocket, popping the door open. He ran from the car towards the only logical source of the sound: Whitney’s house.
Was Geddings enough of an idiot to break into his own house?
Jackson had his hand on his gun as he snuck around the property, looking for an entry point. The broken windows in the Florida room were boarded up. There were no other windows broken at all on the first floor of the house. The doors were locked. There was no way Geddings had gotten in.
Jackson circled the house again, looking for a broken window and again, nearly all the way around, he found nothing.
Just as he was about to go back to the car, his foot landed on something that crunched under his foot. He looked down and found the ground littered with glass.
Second floor!
He looked up, and saw the second floor window broken, and with all the glass on the ground, it meant that it was busted from the inside.
Geddings is inside?
Jackson tore around the back of the house and yanked on the door. It was locked. He didn’t have time to be fucking around. He stepped back and kicked in the door. It sprang open and he managed to halt it all the way open. The house was fully dark, but he heard a crash from above.
He tried to remember where the stairs were from his last unfortunate visit, and he found them quickly. Jackson took the stairs three at a time, vaulting himself up on to the landing and around the railing to where he heard the crash. The room beyond was dark, but he could make out forms from the light outside the broken window.
“You are a stupid, stupid bitch,” came a low, growled accusation. “You got me taken in to the station. No one does that. No one.”
“Oh, God, please, Sean. I didn’t mean to. They didn’t give me a choice. I won’t do anything; I swear. I’ll make them drop the charges.” Whitney’s voice was small, weak and utterly compliant.
“Damn right,” Sean snapped. “Damn right. And I’m gonna have a piece of that ass—”
Jackson pulled his gun. “Hands off her, Geddings.”
Sean spun around. “You busted into my house?”
“Who the fuck let you out of jail?” Jackson asked.
“No! What the hell are you doing in my house? This is my house. This is my wife.”
“Step away from her,” Jackson snapped. “Get the fuck away from her.”
“What does it matter to you?”
“You’re planning to rape her, aren’t you,” Jackson said.
“She’s my wife,” Sean growled.
“You are a criminal abuser and if you lay a finger on her, so help me God, I will put a bullet in your sack.”
“You can’t do that. You won’t shoot me. You’re not on duty; you will lose your badge...”
Jackson took a step into the room, his aim never shifting from Sean’s balls. “A cop is never not on duty, you asshole. Get your slimy ass out of this house. Now. There’s a restraining order against you. One hundred yards. So unless you want me to haul your ass back to the station and lock you back up, I suggest you take my generous offer and get yourself out of here.”
“I just got let out. How can there be a restraining order?” Sean was genuinely surprised.
“I had it placed when she was in the hospital. It’s good for three months. Get gone before I get you gone, on a cold slab.”
Sean put his hands up. “Fine. I’m out of here.” He pointed at Whitney. “That bitch is dead.”
“Are you seriously going to make a threat like that in front of me?”
“Fuck you, officer,” he snapped. Before Jackson could say anything, Sean was down the stairs and out the back door. Jack took a deep breath and shoved the gun into his shoulder holster. He turned back to Whitney.
She was shaking and trembling from what he was sure was an insane reaction to the threat. Whitney managed to look up at him, and he realized that she wasn’t wearing much. Not much at all. A tiny wisp of panties and a little nightshirt that didn’t cover everything.
It was like her body punched him in the gut. She had more curves than her hospital clothes had led him to believe. She had pert breasts with straining nipples that were clear in the weak light streaming through the window. Her legs were long and lean; her panties weren’t much more than a suggestion, and his brain was making plenty of those right now.
Get a grip, he barked at himself. “Come on, Whitney.” He offered his hand. “On the bed?”
She took his hand; it was shockingly cold in his own. She was frightened to death. “He wants me to drop all charges. He really thinks he owns me.” Jackson pulled her to her feet. “I think he owns me.”
“You belong to no one,” Jackson said, spying a robe at the foot of the bed. “Not if you don’t want to.” He wrapped the flimsy cloth around her shoulders. “I don’t know why the cars outside were pulled. I will find out tomorrow when I talk to the chief.”
He looked around, intentionally not looking at her. He couldn’t have her, no matter how hard his dick got when he looked at her. “I can’t leave you here. Not alone. Not after this.”
“But detective … Jackson, I want to sleep in my own bed,” she answered. “It’s all I’ve wanted for the past six days. Please, don’t make me go to a hotel. If you think it’s necessary, I will consider it tomorrow, but not tonight. Please, not tonight. Even if all I can get is four hours of sleep…”
“I’ll make you a deal,” Jackson offered, his brain in overdrive to try and stem the flow to another body part. “You can sleep here, but I’m going to be down in the kitchen. I’ll let you sleep as late as eight, but then I’m waking you up and taking you to a hotel.”
“I really can’t do that, Detective.” Her voice was small.
“Why not?” If this was something the asshole did...
“I don’t have the money.” She shook her head sadly. “I don’t have a credit card. Sean…”
Jackson ran a hundred scena
rios through his head, and decided on a course of action that could end his job on the force. But Whitney was up against far worse—something that could end her life. “I’ll pay for the hotel.”
“Detective, that’s not—”
“Look, Whitney,” he reasoned, “I wasn’t supposed to be on watch out there tonight. I’m not supposed to be here. I’m not supposed to bust in the backdoor and come flying up the stairs to find you being attacked by your shit of a husband. I’m not supposed to be standing here thinking about how sexy you look—” fuck “—so buying you a hotel room? It’s just another line on the long list of sins I’ve committed.”
He was grateful she didn’t seem to notice his confession. She was playing with the sash on her robe, and looked up at him. “Thank you, Detective. I get it. And I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. I will feel better if I’m somewhere he doesn’t have a key to.”
“We’ll pack you up for a week, in the morning,” Jackson nodded. “Do you mind that the window is broken? It’s kind of breezy.”
“It’ll be nice to feel the fresh air.” He could see her half smile in the dark. “The hospital is so stuffy.”
“That it is,” he agreed. He grabbed the cellphone he saw on the nightstand. “Yours?” She nodded. “You should learn to use it when you’re being attacked.” He slid the face open and quickly programmed in his phone number. “I’m going to be right downstairs in the kitchen, but you call if you need anything or hear anything weird. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” she said, with a bit of a tease in her voice.
“I hope you have coffee,” he mumbled.
“Plenty, right above the coffee maker,” she offered.
He nodded and walked out of the room, pulling the door closed behind him.
“Detective?” she called before the door was completely shut. He turned and poked his head back in. She blinked at him, a strange mixture of indecision and mischievousness written on her face. “You think I’m sexy?”
If you lie, she will never trust you again.
If you don’t, you’ll probably end up losing your job.
He looked at the small creature in the bed, still bruised, still battered, and more frightened than ever before and, yet, there it was. That spark that he’d seen in the hospital. Jackson took a deep breath. “Yes, Whitney. I do. Good night.”