Rush (4 page)

Looking around, he noticed a baby bed in the corner with one of those dangly things hanging over it. He edged around the bed and peered in. Empty. He didn’t know what he expected. She wouldn’t leave an infant alone all day. At least he hoped she wouldn’t. But what did he really know about her?

He hoped the second phone call he’d made while getting his bag from his car would answer some of his questions about Ms. Miyuki Price-Jones. And wasn’t she a puzzle to solve.

For a moment back there he’d been tempted. They’d been alone in the dark and he’d
felt
her. Her interest. Her arousal. It was almost a tangible thing. He could sense it, taste it,
smell
it. He wanted to drag her down then. Touch her in the ways she silently cried out to be touched. Her need was as confusing as it was inciting. He caught fire when she was near.

But there was a side of her that was untouchable. Where she hid things. He’d had enough of secrets and lies. Of lying by omission. Those, he’d learned, were the worst lies of all. Vanessa had taught him that on a summer’s day as late as this one. Finding out she was pregnant was a shock. But he’d stepped up, asked her to marry him. She’d accepted. He wouldn’t have said he loved Vanessa, but he would have taken care of her and their child. A child he’d wanted very badly.

And then Cal, good ole Cal, his pal from childhood had done him the great favor of informing him that Vanessa had been fucking her personal trainer on the side. Vanessa had cried. It was her greatest weapon against him. He’d almost given in then and married her anyway. Almost. Except for the teeny tiny fact that the baby wasn’t his.

That was a little over a year ago, and Lucas was just now repaying that great favor by protecting a woman who harbored more secrets than the Pentagon.

Lucas shrugged out of his jacket. He wanted a shower, but knew he wouldn’t get one until after the police left. He sat on the edge of the bed. It dipped ominously, and he pulled out the envelope of photos Mi had given him at the TV station. He filed through until he found the one he wanted, the one of Mi and the older woman. Who was she? He might have thought them mother and daughter, but there was no real resemblance. Mi was dark haired and dark eyed. The woman was blond with light eyes. She was taller than Mi by at least a head, but there was something about her that reminded him of Mi. Maybe a relative?

Looking closely at the photo, he could just make out a small figure under a blue blanket in the baby stroller. He glanced at the baby bed, then scanned the room. There was a small grouping of framed photos on one of the nightstands. He told himself he shouldn’t pry, but that ship had sailed with his phone call to an old Navy buddy, now a private investigator.

The first picture was of a younger Mi and a blond-haired boy wearing a baseball uniform. They had their arms around each other, smiling. The background was a ball field with other players and people milling about. Lucas put it back and reached for the larger photo tucked behind the others. A newborn baby, red-faced and alert, stared back at him. The dark-haired infant was wrapped in a blue blanket. He flipped the frame over and pried the picture loose. The words—Ethan Derek, seven pounds, eight ounces, twenty and one half inches—were written on the back in a loose, loopy scrawl. No date.

He put the picture back in its frame and placed it with the others. A smaller photo caught his eye. Mi was holding a baby surrounded by the blond haired boy, now a man, and the older blond woman. Mi’s smile wasn’t the same as the other photo. This one was tense, forced. Her body language was off. She looked defiant, almost angry and tired. Very, very tired, like a new mother would. A sick feeling settled in his gut. He put the picture back, not wanting to look at the others, and hung his head in his hands.

*****

Mi scooped out the last of the fried potatoes from the skillet and put them with the others to drain on the paper towel covered baking sheet. The burgers were just about done so she added the skillet and baking pan to the oven to keep warm. Lucas had been in the bedroom a long time. Every minute that passed seemed an eternity. She kept an eye on the hallway, afraid he’d sneak up on her like he had in Crosby’s office. The man moved on cat-feet, an odd talent for someone so large.

The doorbell rang, making Mi jump and clap a hand to her heart. She moved to answer it, but Lucas came out of the bedroom and stopped her.

“I get the door,” he growled, pulling his gun from the back of his waistband.

Mi stepped back. Not because of the gun—she lived in Texas after all—but because of the way Lucas had glared at her before turning his attention to whoever was at the door. What had made him so angry?

He checked the peephole, then put his gun back in his waistband, covering it with his black t-shirt. A very form fitting t-shirt that wrapped around muscles, accentuating every carved angle and plane.

Lucas opened the door to a couple of policemen. They took statements and photos, but there wasn’t a whole lot they could do. The incident with the rock might not be connected to the threats and photos Mi had been getting, but they promised to add it to the case file.

Afterward Mi and Lucas had dinner in silence at the small table in the kitchen. He ate everything she put in front of him without looking at her. When they finished he did the dishes, then sat outside on the porch. All in all he would have made the perfect roommate if it weren’t for his sullen silence.

With nothing to do, Mi decided to take a shower. She didn’t own a TV because she couldn’t afford cable, so what was the point? She’d read all the books she’d checked out from the library. She thought about calling Jason or her mom, but she didn’t really want to talk to either of them. Ethan’s birthday was next month. Her mom would want to talk about that, make plans to celebrate. She’d want money for a cake and presents, expecting Mi to have a gift for him too. Mi didn’t have the energy for it, any of it.

The water was a hot and welcome escape, pounding down her back. She braced a hand on the wall and held back the tears that threatened to fall. For the stalker that was scaring the hell out her, for Ethan, for her mother, for wanting the man forced to guard her, and for the mess that was her life. She whacked her palm against the tile, wishing she could indulge in a good, long cry. But it would only leave her eyes puffy and wouldn’t solve one damn thing.

She switched the water off and just stood there a moment, dripping. The thoughts crept in on her in moments like this. Wispy things, like cobwebs in the breeze. Snippets of another life, the life she could have had if only…

If only what?

If only she could chuck her life, leave everything behind, and live without the responsibilities that had been forced upon her? Wishing and dreaming wouldn’t change a damn thing. She yanked a towel off the rack and dried herself without a care, hating her weakness. She was weak for thinking those thoughts and weak for not following though with them.

She swiped a hand across the mirror, revealing a patch where she could see herself. Her eyes were overly bright from unshed tears.

Pulling on a robe, she wondered what it was like to have choices. She’d have to ask Jason. Old resentments against him rose up. He’d left her to deal with their mother, then complained about how she handled things. Screw him. She didn’t care what he thought. She was doing what was right. For all of them.

She ran a comb through her hair and rubbed lotion on her face and body, going through the motions of an ordinary life. When she came out of the bathroom, Lucas was nowhere to be found. Probably still out on the porch. She thought she’d heard him talking on the phone earlier and wondered if he had a girlfriend or a wife. He didn’t wear a ring, but that didn’t mean anything. She’d come across her share of ringless husbands and wayward boyfriends.

She cracked open another beer and sat down at the table with the stack of mail Crosby had given her. Her fans. It still gave her a thrill to know that people not only watched her show, but took the time to write her. In this day of email and social networking, a hand written letter was a rare treat. She spread them out and selected one at random.

Recognizing the return address, she put a hand to her mouth, covering a smile. Mrs. Yancy wrote at least once a month. A middle-aged single mother of three, Mrs. Yancy had started watching
Pleasure at Home
after her husband had left her for his secretary. To spite him, she’d bought her first vibrator. She’d gone through a sexual reawakening and wrote a letter thanking Mi for making her feel comfortable enough to give it a try. It was letters like these that made the job Mi loved even more worthwhile.

She was chuckling over Mrs. Yancy’s story of her five-year-old son finding her vibrator by accident when Lucas walked in. He stopped and stared hard at her.

“Sit down,” Mi told him. “You have to hear this.”

“You weren’t supposed to go through the mail without me.” His voice was low, but the admonition was clear.

Startled, she looked up. His mouth was set in severe lines, his body still and hard as stone, muscles tight with suppressed energy. She’d gone against him and had the feeling this would be her only warning to never do it again. Despite his anger and size she knew she had nothing to fear from him. He’d never hurt her. She wasn’t sure why she knew that about him, she just did. And maybe because of that assurance she would try her best not cross him a second time.

“I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.” She hoped he understood that her promise went beyond the small transgression of opening the mail without him.

He sat without comment, crowding the small table with his size.

To lighten his mood, she read Mrs. Yancy’s letter to him, smiling over the woman’s horror at finding her son lying on the bed with the vibrator on his back and his delight at having found such a wonderful back massager.

“Can’t you just picture it?” Mi dabbed the corners of her eyes. “Poor Mrs. Yancy. Oh, that was a good one. Let’s see if we can’t find another.”

She shuffled through the letters, recognizing a couple of the names. She chose the lighter ones first, hoping to get Lucas to break out his rusty smile again. She almost got him with the letter from Mr. and Mrs. Bailey—the elderly couple who had purchased a vibrating cock ring, but had put in on backwards and then couldn’t get it off. They were out of lube so they’d used cooking spray to loosen it. In the end they’d had a good time once they’d gotten it on right.

“Do you get a lot of these kinds of letters?” Lucas asked, a hint of a smile playing around his mouth.

“A few a week. Crosby says there’s something about me that makes people feel comfortable to try something new. To indulge their fantasies.” She shrugged a shoulder, feeling awkward that she might be bragging.

“You like what you do.” He seemed surprised by that.

“I do. A lot. I like to think I’m helping people.” She picked up a letter. “People like Mrs. Yancy. Her husband took something from her when he cheated on her. Her ability to feel beautiful and sexual. And she’s taken it back. I feel honored to have been a part of that.”

He sat back in his chair and studied her. His expression didn’t show it, but in his eyes she saw a myriad of emotions at war. “And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“Do you ever indulge your fantasies?”

She wanted to answer that she didn’t have the luxury of indulging herself in anything, let alone fantasy. But looking across the short span of the table at him, all of a sudden she had all kinds of fantasies. Beginning and ending with him. However, having them and acting on them were two entirely different things separated by the gulf of worries she had to keep from him, from everyone.

“No.”

He shifted his attention to the letters. Her answer seemed to have decided something for him, making him mad all over again. She could tell by the rigidity of his shoulders. He ignored her and leafed through the letters, examining each one carefully. He suddenly stopped and pulled one out. “The Fort Worth Federal Correctional Institution?”

“I don’t usually get very many of those. Lucy’s the one who attracts the habitually incarcerated. My letters are usually pretty tame compared to hers. Prison letters, well, they can range from sad to lewd enough to make a prostitute blush.”

“Let’s see what Doyle Gann has to say to you.”

Mi sat back and sipped her beer. For a man with such large hands Lucas took great care in opening the letter without tearing it. The few prison letters Mi had gotten were more sad than disturbing. There was more than one kind of prison. Mi knew what it was like to feel trapped, caged.

Lucas scanned the letter and then turned to Mi with a flat expression. All of the anger was gone. In its place was cool control. His voice reflected it. “Mi, get me a plastic bag. Now.”

Mi set her beer down with a dull thunk and scraped her chair back from the table. She did as Lucas asked, dread heavy in her chest. He carefully placed the letter and envelope in the bag and sealed it.

Mi couldn’t stand it. The not knowing. “What did it say?”

“How many letters have you gotten from Doyle Gann?”

“Four or five.”

“And you didn’t report them to the police?”

Mi shook her head.

“This letter is very specific about the things he wants to do to you, Mi.
Very
specific.” He held up the bag with the letter in it. “Have they all been like this?”