13
I grab a couple of bags of the coffee to take into the office and lock the apartment door on my way out. Paul is holding the elevator open for me.
He glances at the coffee, then up at me. "Do you hate the people you work with?"
"No, why?"
"Just wondering why you would want to subject them to that crap you want to pass off as coffee."
I toss the bags into my attaché. "It's not that bad."
"It tastes like it smells."
I cross my arms over my chest and watch the floor numbers light up as we descend. "And just how many jock straps have you drank coffee out of, Paul?"
"Ha fucking ha…look at you with your funny jokes." He playfully elbows me in the side.
We enter my new office, and I introduce Paul to Reyes. They shake hands, but it's awkward between them. I'll have to get Paul's take on it later.
I walk to the kitchenette, take the coffee from my bag, and start a pot. Coffee is my lifeline. It's rare for me not to have a pot on at all times.
"Sergeant, would you like a cup of coffee?" I ask.
Paul shakes his head. "Don't do it, man. It's some type of secretion from Satan's ass."
"Hush, Paul."
"Uh, no thanks. I don't touch the stuff," Reyes says.
I nod, turn back to the coffee maker, and pour myself a cup. "Well, that explains some of what's wrong with you," I mutter under my breath.
“What was that?” Reyes asks.
Shit…
I plaster on a fake smile. “Nothing, just thinking out loud about the case.”
The three of us are able to get the conference room in order, sorting everything so it's easier to locate what we need, when we need it. We're sitting around the conference table, Paul and I reliving our college days, laughing so hard we have tears.
Paul cocks up an eyebrow and stares into the office, pointing to a large bouquet of long-stemmed red roses sitting at the top of the stairs. "Where the hell did those come from?"
“And why have they been left at the top of the stairs instead of being brought all the way in?” Reyes jumps out of his seat, picks up the flowers, and sets the glass vase on the table.
The flowers are bright red, the blooms massive, and their sweet fragrance fills the air. I fish out the small white envelope stuck in between the stems. The card reads:
You will always be mine…
I drop it onto the table as if it's burned me. Those words…the same John said to me before I fled from the hospital. My heart explodes in my chest. They can't be from him.
I dart over to the window hoping to catch sight of the person who left them. A black BMW idles in front of the building then speeds away, but I manage to get a glimpse of the vanity license plates. JAS.
John Allen Sysco.
My knees buckle, and I grasp the window ledge to steady myself. I know that care so well. I made fun of him for having vanity plates, asking him if he had to settle for his initials because “World’s Best Defense Attorney” wouldn’t fit.
A sensation I haven't felt in a while, but used to be my constant companion, rolls through me. Complete, utter, bone-chilling, flesh-prickling dread.
Paul's reading the card when I come back into the room. "From Alex?" He hands the note to Reyes.
I force a smile and attempt to keep my voice light. "Most likely."
"Why would he have one of his henchmen sneak in and leave them at the top of the stairs?" Reyes asks.
I don’t answer him, just shrug. A huge weight sits in the center of my chest, making it difficult to breathe. My knees are suddenly weak, and I barely make it back into my seat before collapsing.
The flowers are from Alex. I have to believe that. I'm letting my paranoia get the best of me—that was not John's car—John is in the hospital. Alex sent me the flowers
Reyes casts a sideways glance at the roses, his eyes narrowing, his smile gone. Does he sense my apprehension? Or is it something else completely?
I pick up the flowers and place them on the receptionist desk. Out of sight, out of mind—for all of us. While the gesture is romantic, and a cliché for men everywhere who want to say, "I'm sorry," it's not something Alex would do.
Christ, the implications of them being from John are almost too much to comprehend. He's escaped, is back in town—presumably the first place they would look for him—and stalking me all over again. It all seems impossible.
My breathing is fast, too fast, so I close my eyes and count slowly to ten before I hyperventilate.
It's not him. It can't be. I push the possibility to the dark recesses of my mind, refocus on what I need to do, and make that my priority. John will not consume my life, not when Alex’s life is in chaos.
I need to put Alex first. I owe him that. It’s what he has done for me since damn near the moment we met.
By mid-afternoon, all I have left to do is get my office put together. There's really nothing more Reyes can do today, so I tell him he can go ahead and leave for the day.
"Are you sure you don't want me to start going through the files from the original investigation?" he asks, a tight-lipped smile on his face, restlessly flipping his keyring around his finger.
"No, it can wait. We'll get a jump on it first thing in the morning. Go relax, have some fun."
There's a frown on his face, but he nods, and heads to the stairs.
"Thanks for all your help, Sergeant," I call after him, not sure what his moods mean. I swear, Lisa and I together don’t have the radical mood pendulum Reyes has. Once again, a myth about women and erratic mood swings is busted.
He gives a wave over his head and disappears down the stairs.
"So, what's his story?" Paul asks.
"You've met Reyes before. He was one of the officers on John's case." I open a box, take the assorted office supplies out, and place them in my desk drawers.
"No, I mean what's going on with him and you? And before you say 'nothing' and look at me like you have no idea what I'm talking about, I can tell you he thinks—or wants—something to be going on with the two of you." Paul drops into one of the chairs across from me and props his feet on the corner of my desk.
"What makes you think that?"
"He just gives off a very weird vibe. Very protective, but in a jealous sort of way."
I snort. "That's not much different from Alex."
"It’s one-hundred percent different. With Alex, you can tell he truly has your best interests in mind—not because he wants to have a relationship with you, but because he wants you safe. With this guy—I don't know—it feels more like he wants to be the only man in your life. Period." His eyebrows knit together and he frowns. “How do you manage to attract men who are desperate to control you?”
“Must be some sort of internal beacon I have.” Joking, but the question still zings me. I’ve often thought long and hard about what I put out there which sends a signal to men to pull out all the stops to control me. “Alex says it’s because I come across as strong and independent and it is a challenge for most men. Pretty sure he doesn’t include himself in that categorization, oddly enough.”
“Doubtful. Then, he never saw you as a woman he needed to conquer and control. You’re his ally—you share some similar demons—and that just flipped a switch on his protection gene.” He picks up a glass paper weight off my desk and tosses it back and forth between his hands. "Christ, I'm starting to sound like Ryan, getting all head-shrinky."
"Head-shrinky?"
"Technical term."
I sigh and lean back in my chair. "I don't know, you may be right. There's something there. He acted strange when I met with Matt the other day. Overly excited to see me, maybe?" I shrug. "If there is anything, I'm sure it’s nothing more than an infatuation which will pass once he gets to know the neurotic side of me."
"True," Paul says. "That'll have him running for the hills, screaming like a banshee."
I glance around my office. Good enough for today. Now, all I can think
of is getting out of here and sharing a bottle of wine with my best friend.
We gather our things, turn off lights and head for the door. The flowers are still on the desk as we pass by, and I have an overwhelming desire to toss them in the trash. My gut is screaming at me to check with the hospital and make sure John is there.
I shake the thought from my head. It's ridiculous—the flowers are not from John.
But an evil whisper taunts me.
You will always be mine.
14
"Hey, slacker," I call as I come through the front door of the apartment the following day. Paul was still asleep when I left for the office this morning. We stayed up way too late last night talking about everything from family, friends, babies, and finally ended with our shared relationship woes. It drained me to the point of exhaustion, but I still slept like shit.
"I brought lunch." I slide the bag containing two hoagies onto the kitchen counter.
The hurt of what Alex kept from me is battling with the painful heartache of being separated from him. My life since meeting Alex has been such a roller coaster, but the best parts are always when we are together. Fighting or not, if we are around each other, a sense of calm surrounds me like a warm breeze on a summer day.
Paul emerges from his bedroom, raking his fingers through his hair. Sweat is streaming down his face and dripping onto his t-shirt. He glances at me, then averts his eyes.
"Jesus, what the hell have you been doing?" I pull the hoagies out of the bag.
"Uh, yeah, so…" Out of the corner of my eye, I see someone come out of Paul's bedroom. "Ryan's here."
Ryan has the same disheveled look as Paul.
"So, let me guess, you've made up and everything is perfect between you?" I blurt out.
My chest is heaving, and heat flushes through my body. How could Paul just forgive Ryan after how he helped Alex cover up John's survival? A burning sensation spreads through my chest. Why do they get to be so happy when I'm dying a little bit every day I am away from Alex?
A fine line exists between loving Alex so much I can't bear to be away from him and resenting him so much I can't forgive him. I'm on a tightrope between the two. At any given moment, I could fall to one side or the other. And I fear where I will end up. Losing Alex or losing a piece of myself forgiving him. Again.
"K, come on," Paul says. "Ryan and I talked, he explained his reasons for going along with Alex, and we worked it out. It's what people in loving, committed relationships do."
"Nice, Paul." His words slice through my heart. I have every right to be upset at Alex, to not want to hear his excuses, to be resentful of his need to control me. Ryan's involvement hurts just as much. How can he think so little of me as to lie about something so important?
Ryan takes a step toward me, his eyes soft, the corners drooping. "Kylie, I know you're still upset with me and you have every reason to be—but if you will just hear me out. If, after that, you're still angry, I will leave it alone, and let you reach out to me when you're ready. No judgment and no resentment from either of us." He moves his finger back and forth between himself and Paul.
I nod my head, follow Ryan into the living room, and sink into the couch. My heart is a lead balloon in my chest, weighing me down, and I just want to be unburdened by this suffering.
Ryan sits on the edge of the coffee table in front of me. "When you came out of the coma, the doctor's warned us not to upset you, that head injuries are not fully understood because so much of the brain remains enigmatic. We were concerned you may become frightened—afraid John was still able to get to you and harm you—and that would cause you to lapse back into a coma. You were so fragile, and your memories of the incident with John were clouded. Alex and I were talking to you, do you remember?"
"Yes, vaguely." Everything before, and for days after I regained consciousness, were a muddled mass of memories. Disjointed, incomprehensible, and I'm never really sure how they all fit together.
"You asked Alex about John, and there was so much fear in your eyes, so much tension in your body at just the mention of his name. I've never seen you that way, not even when we found you after John had beaten you so badly. Alex told you John was gone and would never be able to hurt you again. Your eyes brightened, and it was as if all the tension in your body instantly flowed out of you."
The memory is clear in my mind—whether it's because it was the first moment of joy I recall after waking from the coma, or because I have replayed it in my mind so many times during the past few days. "I remember hugging Alex and repeating over and over that John was dead."
Ryan nods. "Alex and I just looked at each other, stunned. I didn't know what to do, but I didn't want to be the one who took away the comfort John's death provided you. When you fell asleep, Alex and I left the room and talked about it. He was adamant we not correct your assumption right away given the doctor's warnings. I agreed with him. Since then, I've told him he needs to come clean about what really happened to John, and where he is now."
Ryan runs his fingers through his hair, takes a deep breath, and glances at Paul who nods and tips the corners of his mouth up just enough to encourage Ryan to continue. "Alex told me when the two of you visited us last week that he had let it go on so long, he didn't know how you would react to the news, but it would probably cause you to lose trust in him. I told him I wanted to be there when he told you—help you understand. But he refused, saying he didn't want me to be involved, that you didn't ever need to know I was a part of the deception. He was going to take it all on himself."
"That's not surprising." My voice is soft. I gaze out the window. Alex's need to protect extends to the people I love, especially the two men with me who are all the family I've had for so many years now.
"He's a good man, Kylie," Ryan says, taking ahold of my hands and squeezing them.
"He lied to me." That's the part twisting like a knife in my heart.
"Did he?" Ryan asks. I dart my eyes to his, disbelieving he could actually ask me that. "Think about it, Kylie. Did Alex ever actually say John was dead?"
My mind races back over the past couple of months. Not at any time did Alex state John had died, and when I said it, he wouldn't respond. Sometimes he would look away or change the subject. Often, he would gather me in his arms and hold me. I thought it was because we both shared in the contentment of not having to look over our shoulders, of the constant worry John was planning his next attack, and finally being able to be together without the threat John posed.
"No, but that's really immaterial, Ryan. It was a lie by omission. He may not have explicitly stated John was dead, but he knew the truth, and intentionally misled me. He never corrected me or told me what really happened to John."
"You're right, but if you believe nothing else, please believe we had your best interests at heart. We just couldn't risk it while you were in the hospital. It went on too long, and for my part, I am so very sorry. But you should know—Alex was going to tell you that afternoon. We had a long talk about it that morning, and he was determined not to let another day pass without you knowing the truth."
* * *
* * *
I take a large gulp of coffee from my travel mug and set it into the cup holder in my Porsche and head back to the office. Lunch had been longer—and a hell of a lot more emotional—than I had anticipated, and I'm returning later than I had wanted. Forgiving Ryan was hard, but I understand better why he went along with the deception. He and Paul have always been there for me, trying to take care of me when I needed it most, so I shouldn't be surprised Ryan did what he has always done since he met me in college.
So why is it so hard for me to forgive Alex? During the period John stalked me, it was always Alex who was there for me. He stopped John from beating me, and probably more, so many times. From the moment I first told him about John and our relationship, Alex swore he would never let anyone—especially John—lay a finger on me ever again. And yet, here I am, holding him to a higher standard
than Ryan for doing what he has always done. This is not new behavior for him.
I stop at a red light, take another swig of coffee, and take a deep cleansing breath. I need to figure out my feelings for Alex, but it's not going to happen today. Focusing on this appeal has to be the primary goal if we're going to have any chance of keeping James Wells in prison where he belongs. I only get one shot at this. If James is acquitted, double jeopardy attaches, and he can't be tried for this crime ever again.
No matter what happens between Alex and me, I cannot fail him. The memory of Alex slumped on the floor, reliving his mother's death, sobbing in my arms—it nearly broke me to see him like that, and I will use every legal maneuver I can to make sure he never sees his father walking the streets as a free man.
A horn honks behind me, letting me know the light is green. I look in the rearview mirror and wave at the driver of the black car. Halfway through the intersection, I glance into the rearview mirror again. The car is practically hitched to my back bumper.
"You think you can get a little farther up my ass, buddy?" I mutter, shaking my head. I wave at him to back off, but he stays in close.
What the hell is this guy's problem? Is he really that upset he had to wait a few extra seconds on a green light? I press firmly on the accelerator and get ahead of him and can see the BMW hood emblem contrasting against the dark sports car. The driver accelerates, catches up to me, and resumes his tailgating.
My breathing hitches. It's not John's car. It's not John's car. I tap on the brakes. The car swerves into the left lane, pulls ahead of me, and nearly takes out my front end as he slides back in the lane ahead of me.
"Jesus Christ!" I slam on my brakes and hit the horn, but the car speeds away. My eyes are glued to the license plates.
JAS.
I blink. It can't be. When I look again, to verify what I'd seen, the car turns the corner and is out of sight.
Revenge Page 9