CHERISH (5 page)

I can't move. She's right; I let Louis get Jordan. Helped him do it. “I'm sorry,” I whisper, but nobody hears me.

She lands a hard kick into Beckett's shin, still screaming obscenities as Carl moans from his prone position on the pavement. I see blood flowing from his nose which is now sporting a new angle.

Blue uniforms shoot by the side of my face, then it’s all arms and grunts and orders. Beckett immediately steps back, his hands high in resignation as two officers attempt to grab my mother’s arms.

“That’s my daughter!” Mom’s voice smacks with righteous indignation. “He can’t keep me from her!” She takes one last shot and manages to land a sickening smack across Beckett’s face. “Who are you? You burned up, ugly, piece of shit. What happened to your face? Huh? You Freddie Krueger’s brother?” Her maniacal laugh matches the grimace on her face as the officers pull her away and she redirects her insults towards them.

I knew Beckett wouldn’t hit her. He took whatever she dished out without batting an eye, keeping me safely behind him as my mother did her best to tear down his wall.

I gasp and jump, knocking into Beckett’s back as a hand comes down on my shoulder from behind. I spin around as Beckett does the same and there's Detective Northrup. He tips his head, gesturing for us to follow.

“This way,” he says.

Mom is twisting and cursing as the two officers pull her backward. “You can’t keep me from her! Promise! Come back!” Mom screams until her voice gives out.

Without a word, Beckett turns us around, his arm draping back over my shoulders and guiding us behind the Detective toward another set of glass entrance doors about fifty feet away at the other corner of the building.

“You okay?” Beckett leans down.

I’m not sure. The first wave of terror is gone and I feel silently detached. I no longer feel the cold from the mist, which has now turned to drizzle, and I don’t feel anything for that woman behind us. I feel flat. Like I’m disappearing.

“Yes. I’m okay,” I answer, because I don’t know what else to say. “I need you with me, Beck.”

“You've got me, babe. I'm not going anywhere.”

There are some things that I need to do myself. But I need his strength. I need him to carry me through this.

Promise

I want to know what she's said, but nobody is telling us anything.

We're inside the station. The detective has seated us in a small glass room, but he's not here. It wasn't very long ago that I sat in a room like this and my entire world crumbled around me as they questioned me about setting the fire that killed Beckett's father.

Beckett won’t sit.

He stands behind my chair like a centurion, his hands on my shoulders, gently rubbing his fingers along my neck. He leans down now and then to whisper words of encouragement in my ear or kiss the top of my head.

I’m tapping my feet and my arms hug my waist, holding myself together as best I can while the clock on the wall softly clicks off the seconds. Seconds that feel like hours.

Finally, Detective Northrup appears outside the glass door and hesitates before entering. His face is pale, his gait resigned. Beckett’s thumbs stop caressing my skin. I hold my breath.

It’s not a good sign when the detective sighs and is unwilling to meet my eyes.

“So?” I fire the one syllable question and don’t allow him to answer. “We need to go get Jordan, right? What did my mother say exactly? She could be lying about Louis you know. She’s—”

Detective Northrup raises his hand to stop me and nods to Beckett, whose hands move down from my shoulders to the tops of my arms. He presses the solid flat of his abs against the back of my head. Northrup clears his throat and his eyes follow Beckett’s hands, slipping from professional to a hint of pervert. His gaze lowers from my face and lands on my chest, where it remains for too long. I can feel my face lighting up in shades of pink. I'm not sure where to look.

“Hey!” Beckett barks, making Northrup visibly jump. His eyes snap up to Beckett's, then down to his own hands. “Keep your fucking mind on business. I’m not playing. Don’t look at her like that again. I don’t give a shit if we’re surrounded by your fellow uniforms. I’ll take your eyes right out of your skull.”

Northrup opens his mouth as if to speak, but instead takes an unsteady breath. He is suddenly very interested in the file on his desk. He puffs out streams of air between his lips as he picks up a pen and rolls it between his fingers.

“Sor–Sorry,” he stutters.

“It’s okay.” Beckett’s voice lightens as Northrup tries to recover. “I get it. She’s worth the look, it’s just you don’t get the privilege. All mine.”

“Anyway . . .” I interject trying to tame the cock fight that's threatening to break out. I need to know what she's said. Why has she suddenly come back to life? Why now?

Beckett re-starts the conversation. “Yeah,
anyway
, so why are we here? What do you know that you didn’t tell us at the loft?” Beckett doesn’t bother to hide his impatience.

“Well . . .” The detective finally meets my eyes again but hesitates. I nod at him with an open mouth, urging him to continue.

“Okay. Well, your mother alleges that Mr. Spicer forced himself on her. That meeting resulted in a pregnancy which she never revealed to Mr. Spicer. She indicates she never saw him again. Now, there are a lot of moving pieces right now. Your mother’s allegations.” He nods at me, then looks up at Beckett. “The falsified evidence Mr. Spicer provided to us in regards to the fire at the loft and, ah, Mr. Fitzgerald’s death. Jeremy Rendell’s records showing his less than professional interest in you over the years.” He emits a deep sigh and shakes his head before continuing. “So. Now, we’re investigating the fire again. Forensics is going over the evidence.”

I swallow the lump in my throat.

The claustrophobic office is too warm but I’m shivering.

“Are you saying Promise is a suspect again?” Beckett’s hands are like iron on my shoulders. The tone of his voice says,
don't test me
.

“Just don’t leave town.” The detective flashes me a humorless smile.

I can't believe what's happening. Just an hour ago, Beckett and I were packing for the honeymoon of a lifetime and planning our future. I’d chastised him because the all-night wedding night action caused me a bit of distress with each faltering step I took.

Now, I'm breaking into a sweat and beginning to hyperventilate. Each time I try to inhale, there is no relief. I'm not getting any oxygen. My chest burns as the air pants faster in and out.

I flail my hands around and in the air, gasping, suffocating. I turn to Beckett as the room starts to spin.

Beckett speaks, but his voice echoes in my head. “Babe.” He drops down to a crouch next to me, his massive hands on my cheeks, his eyes fighting to catch mine as I heave in and out until a haze covers his face. “It's okay, I’ve got you.” The words sound like an eerie tape being played on super slow.

Beckett leans his forehead gently against mine, holding my face, and I can smell his clean, spicy scent. My mind drifts as I start to lose consciousness. Suddenly the panic leaves me and I wonder what Jordan is doing right now.

I’m coming, Jordan. It will all be okay.

They must have turned out the lights. The last thing I hear is Beckett’s voice in slow motion.

“Stay with me, babe. We’re okay—”

I hear voices again, swimming back in. Echoing around inside my head. I feel like I’m floating.

“ . . . talking to you about the fucking fire.” That’s Beckett’s voice, growling at someone. Someone he’s irritated with. Yeah. Detective Northrup. I remember. “That is not fucking happening today. So if that’s on the dance card, we’re leaving and she’s gonna lawyer the fuck up. If you want to help us, like you said you would, then tell us what the
fuck is going on with her brother
. End of discussion.” Beckett’s voice is hard and loud.

My hero.

I shake my head and smell his fresh scent, feel the heat from his body. Suddenly I realize I’m not sitting at the table any more. He’s got me curled against him, sitting sideways on his lap, my head resting on the hard bulge of his shoulder.

For a moment, I'm reminded of when we make love, how the muscles in his shoulders tense and flex when he holds his body above mine, caging me with his arms. I let my eyelids drop and my mind drift into the memory, letting the comfort of his strength cover me even as my thoughts move, just for a moment, to how he feels inside of me.

I let out a small exhale through my nose and shift against him.

He immediately turns his face down toward me, his warm breath on my nose comforting me. His hand gently brushes the hair back from my forehead.

“Hey, you,” Beckett greets me. “You’re back.” He smiles and I don’t know how he seems to always find a smile for me in the darkest of moments. Somehow he knows that it brings me just the light I need.

His smile means everything is going to be okay.

It means that no matter what, he’s got my back. And he will go to the ends of the earth to make me happy.

But we both know that the smile is a mask. Behind that smile, in the deepest part of him, he hurts for me. He hurts almost more than I do. For every harm done to me, he feels it a hundredfold.

I ache to stop hurting him. To stop him from taking on all my burdens. But I'm sure the only way that will ever happen is if he is dead. Even then I'm not sure he would stop.

“You sure you don’t want me to call EMS?” The detective’s voice drifts through the clearing haze.

“No. I’ve got her.” Beckett shifts me on his lap, sitting me upright another few degrees. No part of me wants to move from the safety of his lap. For the first time since this scene unfolded, I feel safe.

“I’m fine,” I mutter. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Beckett says softly down toward me.

Then he shifts again in his seat, his head upright, staring down the detective. “We didn’t come in here expecting you to make some veiled threat about the fucking fire.” Beckett starts counting things off on his fingers. “Her mother, who she thought was dead, is now alive and well.” One. “Her brother, whom she loves more than anything in this world is on a plane to Cairo–” Two “–with his newly adoptive father.” Three. “A man we thought we knew and trusted.” Four. He waves his fingers at the detective. “She’s got enough crap on her plate today to last most people a lifetime. So right now the only thing I need to hear is the words, ‘I’m sorry for upsetting you’ come out of your mouth.”

I listen as Beckett exhales long and slow. The steel muscles in his thighs flex under me, unsettled, powerful. He makes me feel so small, so cherished.

But if anything happens to Jordan, I don’t know if I will want to live.

I glance at the detective who leans with arms crossed against the far wall; the clock ticks over his head and a stack of worn magazines sit on the small table next to him.

Northrup catches my eye and I can feel Beckett’s glare, laser focused across the room, making him squirm. It's a battle of wills. And like all battles, Beckett wins.

“I’m sorry, Promise. I didn’t mean to upset you. Forensics is going—” He stops short when Beckett tips his head to the side and makes a sucking sound through his teeth. It's a clear signal for the detective to stop talking. He falls silent.

“Good. Okay, let’s start over.” Beckett licks his lips before continuing. “I need to know any information you have on Louis and Jordan’s flight, any other information you have about where they are headed once they land. And anything else. Whether or not you think it’s pertinent.”

“Sure,” Northrup says, scrubbing a hand down his face. He shrugs. “It's not a secret. I’ll get you the file. But Mr. Spicer has not committed any crime by leaving the country. He’s the boy’s legal guardian. He is well within his rights to take him wherever he wishes.”

My muscles tighten along with Beckett’s arms around me. Squeezing.

I don't want to ask the question. I don't want to know the answer. But I have no choice. I have to know. “Are you saying if he doesn’t come back, there is nothing we can do?” I turn toward Northrup, inching out of Beck’s lap, slipping down into a spot on the vinyl covered bench next to him. “No recourse at all?”