Stand By Your Man (8 page)

And that was an invitation he accepted, cupping them as she glided up and down.

Sex, yes. Great sex. But so much more. As she gazed down at Jamal's intent face, his dark eyes watching her with what looked like wonder, she knew that this was so much more.

 

 

Early Saturday evening, chopping a cucumber in her kitchen, Karen paused to enjoy the sight of Jamal. His fine body was nicely displayed by cargo shorts and a tee with the sleeves ripped out; his muscles flexed as he sliced a purple onion.

End-of-the day sunshine slanted through the window and CXNG played Tammy Wynette's “Stand by Your Man.” From the oven came the tantalizing scent of Greek chicken casserole.

Jamal tossed the slivers of onion into the salad bowl. “Something wrong with the cucumber?”

She shook her head and returned to her task. “Just admiring the view.”

“Can't complain about the view from here either.” He winked.

She wasn't wearing anything special, just a blue tank top over tan shorts, and that made the compliment even more special. Real life wasn't all about cute sundresses and sexy lingerie; it was mostly T-shirts and jeans and practicality. She liked that it didn't take fancy trappings for the two of them to feel the attraction.

“Any sore muscles after this afternoon's ride?” She'd taken him farther this time, and they'd loped and galloped more.

“Not that I'll admit to. But if we're going to keep doing this, I need my own cowboy boots.”

“The ones I borrowed from Dave are his old ones. He said no rush getting them back.”

“Isn't that nice of him?” There was a snide tone in his voice that she hadn't heard before. Could he be jealous?

“I told you Dave's just a friend, right?”

“That's what you said.”

If he was jealous, would she be amused, flattered, or pissed off? She'd never been in that position before. Deciding to leave it alone, she took the feta cheese from the fridge and crumbled it into chunks.

The Greek salad was finished just as the oven timer went off.

Karen took the ceramic casserole dish from the oven. She turned the heat way down and slipped in the loaf of Italian bread they'd bought from the bakery. “What would you like to drink? Oh, did you see the doctor about the alcohol problem? Is it an allergy?”

“Uh . . .” He opened the fridge and seemed absorbed in studying the contents. “You want a beer? Or some of that white wine?”

“White wine. Thanks.” She studied his back. Wasn't he going to answer her question? Likely he was the type of guy who avoided doctors unless he was pretty much dying.

He pulled out the wine bottle, along with a can of Coke, then opened the wine and poured her a glass.

She took the bread from the oven and she and Jamal sat down at the table. “You didn't tell me if you saw the doctor.”

“Oh, right. It's not an allergy, just, uh, an intolerance thing. It's best if I avoid alcohol.”

“Too bad, but I'm glad it's nothing serious.”

“Yeah.” He didn't look so happy himself.

“Would you rather I didn't drink when—”

“No.” He shook his head. “Have whatever you want. It's no big deal.”

He'd tell her if it was. She trusted him.

“Try the chicken and tell me what you think.” She was a little nervous since it was the first time she'd cooked a real meal for him. When they'd shopped for groceries, she'd given him his choice of steak on the barbecue—as they'd done last weekend—or her Greek chicken dish. His choice of the casserole had surprised her. Catching her expression, he'd teased that she shouldn't stereotype him.

It was true that in the beginning she'd seen him as a dark and dangerous, rather mysterious, undercover cop. But she was long past that now. He was Jamal. A man who was undoubtedly strong but who could also be tender. A man with a teasing sense of humor. A man who drank Coke rather than beer.

“Tastes great,” he said after his first bite. “When I saw you put this together, I wondered how it'd come out. The cinnamon works.”

“Thanks.” She forked up a mouthful for herself. The casserole had chicken, onions, feta cheese, tomatoes, and black olives, and the main seasonings were oregano and cinnamon. It tasted good the first night and it made excellent leftovers. Not that, given the enthusiasm with which Jamal devoured it, there were likely to be leftovers this time.

If they did get together and start a family, they'd need a bigger casserole dish.

Off and on today, they had played an “I see” game. As in, “In my dream of the future, I see . . .” By making it a game, they could say things without pressure. They could each float their ideas and see how well they matched up.

Now she said, “I see a house with a big kitchen. A wooden table with plenty of room to lay out a hearty dinner for four. And after dinner, the kids wouldn't go to their rooms to do homework. They'd work at the table, with their computers and books spread out.”

A smile had grown on his face as she spoke. “Man, that sounds nice. That how you did it at your house?”

“Yes. Though I admit, when I hit my teens I craved the privacy of my bedroom.”

“To gossip with your girlfriends about boys?”

“A bit. But I was a pretty serious kid. I was more involved in activities like organizing an antibullying club and lobbying the school board to provide more assistants for special-needs kids. I didn't hang out with the kids who just wanted to have fun.”

“High standards even back then.”

“I expected more of myself than of anyone else,” she defended herself.

“Not saying there's anything wrong with high standards.” He offered her the salad bowl and held it while she scooped out seconds; then he dished the rest onto his own plate.

Gazing at Jamal across the table, Karen felt a deep certainty that this was right. The two of them had a lot of things to work out and they needed time to explore and develop their relationship, but her heart told her they were perfect for each other.

Jamal would have liked to spend Sunday morning lazing in bed—okay, making love—with Karen. But as acting commander, she wanted to go into the detachment for a few hours and he respected that. He used the time to cruise the countryside on his bike, eying it as a possible future home.

Different. So different from Chicago, Toronto, Winnipeg, Vancouver, and all the places where he'd done undercover work. So open, so clean, so fresh. Here, he felt like a cleaner, better version of himself.

Yeah, he could see it.

Maybe here the craving for alcohol wouldn't be so strong.

He rode back to Karen's to meet her for a late lunch; she was taking the afternoon off. Later in the day he'd ride back to Vancouver and catch some sleep before showing up at work Monday morning.

Working easily together in her kitchen, debating the merits of French's mustard (him) versus Dijon (her), they put together ham and Swiss cheese sandwiches. They took lunch out to the front porch and sat side by side on webbed folding chairs. Tennison tried to beg for scraps, but Karen banished her to the backyard.

Jamal stretched, thinking how rare it was to feel so relaxed. “This is nice.”

“My place is pathetic compared to Brooke's.”

The view was of a scrub grass yard, a wire fence, a street, and a virtually identical house across the way. He shrugged.

She went on. “I see in my future a proper house with proper porch furniture and a proper yard. How about you?”

Their “I see” game was fun. A low-pressure way of sharing visions. This time he gave a mock groan. “I see a lot of lawn mowing in my future.”

She leaned over to bump her shoulder against his. “Got anything better to do with your spare time?”

He bumped back. “Sex.”

“Get a place that's private enough, there could be sex in the garden,” she bargained.

They were both chuckling when a battered Honda Civic parked across the street. A middle-aged woman and man climbed out of the front as an adolescent boy and girl erupted from the back and tore into the house. All wore nice clothes.

“Church, then Sunday lunch with her parents,” Karen murmured. As the other woman gazed in their direction, Karen waved and called, “Hi, Janet, Harry. Lovely day, isn't it?”

“Hi, Karen,” the woman called. “Yes, just beautiful. You and your boyfriend make the most of it. You work too hard, girl.” She and her husband headed toward the house.

Yeah, Caribou Crossing had labeled Jamal as Karen MacLean's boyfriend. After all his years as a loner, it felt weird but also made him damned proud.

Inside her open front door, the landline rang.

She groaned as she rose. “Please tell me that's not a work emergency.”

A moment later, she came out with the phone in her hand. “It's Jake, for you.”

Jake? Yeah, his buddy had known Jamal would be here with Karen this weekend, but why would he call on a Sunday? And why not on Jamal's cell?

Jamal took the phone. “Hey, Jake.”

“Hey. Guess what?” There was a weird, exhilarated note in Jake's voice, like he had great news he was bursting to tell.

Were he and Brooke back together? Wary about asking, Jamal instead said, “No idea.”

“I'm in Caribou Crossing.”

Jamal grinned. There was only one reason Jake would be here
and
sound happy. “Visiting a certain blonde?”

Karen's eyebrows shot up, her face lighting with curiosity and excitement.

“Yeah, visiting.” A pause, and then, “And getting engaged!”

“Engaged?!” The word burst out of Jamal, so loud it would've woken any neighbors having a Sunday nap.

“Engaged?” Karen cried. “They're engaged?”

“Shh, let me listen.”

Jake said, “I rode up yesterday and told her I'd been an asshole—”

“Like she didn't already know.” Jamal put his arm around Karen, who squatted down by his chair so she could listen too.

“Yeah, yeah. Anyhow, she forgave me because she's”—Jake paused and Jamal heard Brooke's teasing voice in the background saying “a bighearted, generous, wonderful woman.” Jake said, apparently to Brooke, “Which was exactly what I was going to say.” And then, speaking into the phone again, “You heard all of that?”

“We got it,” Jamal said.

Karen whooped, the sound ringing in Jamal's ear. “I'm so happy for you guys.”

“Yeah, man,” Jamal said. “Me too.”

Karen grabbed the phone and spoke into it. “Jake, I want to talk to Brooke.”

“Hang on a sec,” Jamal heard him say. “There's something I want to ask you, Karen.” The rest was lost as she straightened, the phone to her ear.

Jamal sat back, smiling. Jake and Brooke. That felt right. As right as him and the pretty woman who listened intently to whatever his buddy was saying. She started nodding, clearly impatient for Jake to finish.

Then she said, “Yes! I think that's a great idea. We work really well together. You're just what the detachment needs.”

Hah. So Jake was going to apply for Miller's job.

If Jamal got that staff sergeant job in Williams Lake, they'd all live in the same neck of the woods. Hell, they could have Sunday night barbecues and go line dancing together.

He and Jake had come one hell of a long way from that dive bar in Winnipeg. And damn it felt good.

 

 

On Wednesday evening, heavy thumping on Jamal's apartment door in Vancouver cut through the noise of the basketball game on TV. Muttering a curse, he was ready to ream out whichever drunk had stumbled his way to the wrong apartment.

Through the peephole, he saw Jake.

He swung upon the door. “How'd you get into the building?” The question was rhetorical; all Jake would've had to do was flash his badge. The real question was, why hadn't he buzzed from the ground floor? Or called first?

Jake got right up in his face. The man who'd been wearing a goofy grin since he came back from getting engaged now looked as pissed off as Jamal had ever seen him. What the hell was going on?

Harshly, Jake said, “You haven't told Karen you're an alcoholic.”

Oh. Jamal's mouth formed the word but no sound came out. Then he blustered, “What makes you say that?”

“Brooke figured it out. Brooke knows about you.”

He'd guessed that, but still . . . “Fuck. You said you wouldn't tell anyone.”

“I didn't. She guessed.”

Fear suddenly lanced through Jamal. “What did she say to Karen?”

“She didn't tell her you're an alcoholic. But she mentioned to Karen that she saw you with a beer—”

“What?” Then he recalled the night he'd ordered a beer but dumped it out. “I didn't drink it.”

Jake gave him a long, slitty-eyed look, then said grudgingly, “I figured. Karen told Brooke that you said alcohol hadn't been agreeing with you and you might be allergic.”

“Well it's not like she was going to tell Brooke I'm an alcoholic,” he hedged.

His buddy knew him too well to fall for that. “You didn't tell Karen.”

Jamal flicked the remote, shutting down the basketball game. “Okay, fine, I didn't tell her I'm an alcoholic. Why should I?” he defended himself. “I said alcohol didn't agree with me and it was best if I avoided it. That's true, damn it. My drinking's in the past. It's not gonna happen again. She doesn't need to know I had a problem.”

“
Have
a problem. Alcoholism doesn't go away. Don't tell me you don't still crave a drink.”

“But I don't give in.” Did Jake think he was still that guy who let booze control him? “Look at Brooke. You don't think she's going to drink again, right?”

“No, but it's been five years and she's stronger and smarter than you.”

“Ouch.” That hurt. Because it was true, which Jamal hated. Always, until his battle with alcohol, he'd prided himself on being the toughest. He gazed steadily at his longtime buddy. “Look, I know what my drinking resulted in.” Though dragging the words out hurt like a son of a bitch, he forced them from his mouth. “I screwed up on the job. I got you shot. I won't drink again.” He swallowed against the barbed wire in his throat. “Karen's a good cop with high standards. If she knew what I did, she'd write me off.”

Jake's accusing glare had softened as Jamal spoke. “I hear you. But what are you gonna tell her when you go to meetings? Make up some excuse? I may not know much about relationships, but I'm pretty sure that lies get in the way.”

Jamal swallowed again.

Jake's eyes widened in disbelief. “You're not planning to go to meetings?”

“Small town. Eyes everywhere.”

“And alcoholics keep each other's secret.”

“As long as they're sober. Someone slips off the wagon, they can get loose lips. Don't need that happening if I get that staff sergeant job in Williams Lake.”

Jake shook his head. “I don't buy that. When you were undercover, I got why you wanted to keep it a secret. But if you're a staff sergeant and you're sober, the RCMP will support you. It won't cost you the promotion.”

“It'll cost me credibility. Respect. Don't need people knowing I couldn't keep my shit together.” Under his breath, he muttered, “Don't want to lose Karen's respect.”

Jake glared at him. “You're rapidly losing mine.”

That cut deep, and it was damned unfair. “Look, I don't need to go to meetings. I've only been to a couple in the past few months.” He hated standing up in those meetings as a self-confessed failure. “All that God, higher power, spirituality stuff rubs me wrong.”

“I'm not so big on that myself,” Jake admitted. “But you can get past that and focus on the message behind it. What does your sponsor say?”

Jamal shrugged. His sponsor was into touchy-feely stuff like confessing your weaknesses and putting your faith in some higher power. It sucked. Jamal had always handled shit on his own. “We didn't get along.”

“Then you need a new sponsor,” he said uncompromisingly.

“I don't. I'm handling it.” And hoping that one day it would get easier.

“Like hell you are,” Jake said heatedly. “There's a woman you care about, and you're disrespecting her. What kind of future d'you think you can build on a giant lie?”

Rather than point out that he hadn't actually lied, Jamal went to the heart of the matter. “More of a future than if I tell her how badly I fucked up.”

The expression in Jake's gray eyes was troubled. “I don't think you're giving Karen enough credit. And if you tell her and she doesn't understand, then she's not the right woman for you.”

He stared at Jamal for a long moment. When Jamal didn't say anything, he strode to the door and exited the room. He didn't slam the door, but closed it with a solid thunk.

“Shit.” Jamal scrubbed both hands across his face. “Shit, shit, shit.”

Jake was the one person in the world who'd always had Jamal's back, who'd stood by him.

Jamal went over to the window and stared out. The sun had set and it was starting to rain. The streetlights illuminated Jake walking down the street, hands thrust in the pockets of his jeans. He appeared oblivious to the drops that hit his bare head and T-shirted shoulders.

A realization hit Jamal.

This was the man who hadn't told the RCMP that the bullet he'd taken was due to Jamal's drunken screwup. Instead, Jake had given him a serious talking to and urged him into A.A. He'd helped him get sober. That was how he'd had Jamal's back two years ago.

Was tonight's confrontation Jake's way of standing by him now?