CHERISH (18 page)

“A little. We got a text and a picture of Jordan. He looked okay. Got a line on his sister in Canada too, and some info from Promise’s mother. She’s been a real treat.”

Promise shakes her head and gazes back out to the balcony, eyes vacant, twisting her hands in her lap.

“I’m leaving here to go have a little chat with Jeremy.”

Bruce lets out a disdainful snort. “Wear protection. That guy’s so dirty, I wouldn’t go within ten feet of him without a body sized condom on me.”

Bruce cracks himself up, takes a long swig of his coffee and walks toward me to lay a supportive slap on my shoulder.

“I’ll be okay.” I can’t help but smile at the guy. “Take care of her. See if you can get her to eat.”

Promise shoots me a look. I don’t give a shit. Taking care of her is priority one, and getting some food in her is mandatory.

“I’m a pro at reservations and take out. I’ll whip up something delicious with my phone and my credit card.”

I reach back to grab my wallet and take out two hundred-dollar bills. I fold them twice and tap them into the front pocket of Bruce’s pants. Probably the biggest thrill he’s had in months.

He starts to protest but I catch his eye and take a deep breath that inflates my chest about three inches. He gives me a little nod.

“Take. Care. Of. Her.” I look him straight in the eye so he understands I am not just talking about ordering pizza.

“You promised you would call me in an hour,” Promise chimes in with a hint of brattiness as I turn to see her cross her arms over her belly. The thought of what is inside her right now douses my caveman possessive streak with gasoline. I want to grab her, get us on a plane and disappear where she and our baby will be safe forever.

But I can't do that.

“You be nice to him,” Bruce shoots at Promise, throwing a loose arm over my shoulders. “If you ever leave him, I’m going to start some re-programming and see if I can get him to play for the winning team for a change.” Bruce let’s his arm fall to his side and winks.

“I love you, man, but that’s not damn likely,” I say, my eyes still fixed on my girl who shakes her foot and scrunches her face.

“Oh, well. Can’t fault me for tryin’. My dry spell’s turned into a full on drought. So forgive me, all I have left are my fantasies. I won’t confirm or deny that you star in any of them.” His mischievous grin lightens the mood as much as possible and I shake my head in exasperation.

I step toward Promise, crouch down in front of her, grab her arms with my hands and open them up. I take her warm, trembling fingers in my palms.

“
Yes.
I will call you in an hour.” Her gaze softens and I know how tired she is. It’s not just sleep she needs, it’s peace.

I try to reassure her with a soft squeeze from my fingers. I hate that I have to do it, to keep reassuring her. I bring both her hands to my mouth, my eyes locked on hers and kiss the ring on her left hand. Marking my territory.

She pulls her hands from mine, quickly moving them and fists my t-shirt below my collar.

“Fix this. All of it. So we can start our life. Get Jordan back.” She glances at her belly. “All of it. You’re my hero and I’m depending on you.” She's my queen, and this is her command.

The sorrow in her voice cracks my heart into a hundred sharp pieces. I lean forward, set my lips on her forehead and hold them there. Not kissing, just holding, trying to take away all the worry and pain. I know I can’t, but I am damn well going to try.

“If it’s the last thing I do.”

Her breath exhales on little puffs as I settle a long, slow kiss on her lips. I let out a little moan and from behind me Bruce lets out a dramatic sigh like he's just caught mommy and daddy kissing.

“Do . . .” Bruce interrupts, “you guys want me to leave? Because it sure seems like y’all are stokin’ up something that is not exactly my kind of threesome.”

I smile and stand, grateful for his ability to infuse humor into almost any situation. Promise lets go of my shirt, leaving two wrinkled spots on my chest which I do my best to smooth out with the palms of my hands.

“No. We’re good. Feed her. Make her smile. And keep her here. Or, I’ll be stokin’ up something else which most definitely won’t be your cup-o-tea.” I eye him from under my brow and step toward the door. He counters playfully with hands up away from me in the universal sign of surrender.

“You don’t scare me.” His voice shakes in mock fear as he tip-toes in retreat, then doubles over in a snort. Bruce smacks his knee before straightening back up and putting on his best dead pan face. “Scratch that. You actually do scare me.”

As I leave them together, Promise's words come back to me.

Fix this. Get Jordan back.

Beckett

This shit hole is shut up tight. Every blind is closed, every curtain drawn.

But he’s in there. I can fucking smell him.
Feel
him.

Jeremy.

It’s a predatory sixth sense. Maybe I was born with it, or maybe I've developed it in my years of service, but I’ve got it nonetheless. His pathetic ass is hiding in there. Like a pussy.

In a way I'm looking forward to seeing him. I need to know what he knows, and I know he won't give it up willingly. And that means applying pressure. Something at which I excel.

It’s nearing six-thirty, but it’s July and the sun breaks through the clouds like it could still be mid-afternoon. I don’t give a shit. It’s broad daylight and I’m entering this house. Just what he won't expect. The element of surprise is part of the plan.

I know guys like Jeremy. They’re cowards. He’s a bully of the worst order. The kind that manipulates someone he views as weak, vulnerable. He uses his position of authority to cater to his own base needs. It’s a special brand of evil.

He may not have touched Promise, but he sure as shit imagined it. Even when she was too young to consent. And that is a character flaw that knows no quarter. I picked through all the information I could get my fingers on. The photos. The journals he wrote. All about
her
. My baby girl. From what I gather, his obsession wasn’t with
kids
. It was with Promise.

I'm watching from my observation spot inside the Suburban and I’ve got my game plan figured out. The shithead could call the cops, but the moment he sees who’s come calling, my guess is he’ll do whatever he can to placate me. In his position, more interaction with the law may not be in his best interests.

I step down onto the street. It’s a quiet neighborhood. He lives toward the end of a cul-de-sac so I don’t hear vehicles or kids playing, not even a dog barking. This is blue-collar town. Most of the houses are buttoned up tight. A few TV screens flicker behind closed blinds, nothing that worriesme.

My mind quiets and I let everything else fall away. This is a moment for calm focus. I’ve got questions. He better fucking have answers.

I stride up the driveway, easy as a politician on the campaign trail. My eyes register the two windows, just dim light streaming through the closed window coverings. There's a flower pot on the front porch, filled with weeds. The garden beds around the house are overgrown with bushes. Left to run wild. A few dandelions push through the faded mulch of the untended beds. The lawn is overgrown, with patches of yellow and brown grass like empty, stagnant ponds, all the way from the house to the street. Nobody's looking after this property. My guess is, Jeremy's got other things on his mind right now.

I stomp to the front door because I’m not hiding. I'm not playing this cool. I’m coming right through his fucking front door like I did when I came to claim Promise just a few months ago.

My hand grasps the metal handle and pulls the aluminum screen door open. I give the knob on the wooden front door a twist because hey, you never know. He’s as stupid as a box of used condoms so maybe he leaves it unlocked.

But nope.

I freeze, listening.

Low traffic noise drifts from the interstate a mile away. It’s that quiet here. My heart beats, slow and steady. I channel my training. Keeping the mission directive in mind. Tamping down the emotional part of me that still wants to introduce Jeremy's nose to his own asshole.

The deadbolt’s locked. The only thing between me and Jeremy is the paper thin, faded oak door. I remember it didn’t take all that much force to bust it down the last time, but who knows what kind of repair has been done since.

It’s a hurdle. That’s all. I take one more look over my shoulder, scanning the street, taking note of the neighbor’s windows. Looking for prying eyes between the blinds or a curtain pulled back. It’s dead silent, except for my own breathing and the chirping of a few birds. Jeremy’s light blue Corolla is parked at the curb in front of the house.

It’s possible he’s not here, that my spidey sense is off, but I fucking doubt it. My skin crawls, my mouth waters, and there is a low anxious energy that flows through me. It tells me he’s inside, curled in a ball. Probably laying in his own waste.

I’ve tried putting the pieces together. Jeremy must have been barely twenty during the interlude between Louis and Holly. What the hell was he doing getting his ass involved with that shit? He should have been out at the bar, or the strip club, since those establishments are clearly on his list of recreational activities.

I never cared much for that side of life. I spent a time or two inside a gentleman’s club but it didn’t do shit for me. Seems there was always something inside me that was waiting. I’ve jerked off far more than I’ve fucked in my life. That’s for sure. No other female ever did much for me. Until Promise. Now I’m tagged and bagged, and my cock is branded with her mark.

When I think of Promise dancing at that club, I feel like a dog with razor back, drooling and snarling. I hate that any man ever stroked off with her in mind. She’s mine. Even a glance in her direction from a dick swinging XY puts me on edge.

I take a long, slow breath, then let go of the door knob, one hand holding open the screen door.

I’m pressed back about three feet. I need to put my heel just to the right of the deadbolt to blast it through the wood with one sharp smack of my boot.

Focus.

Muscle memory. When we used to go house to house in Kunduz I kicked down a lot of doors. More than I can remember. It was always my foot the guys called on when a door didn’t open after a single knock. We didn’t wait around for guns to be aimed at our heads. One knock. Then we went in. Seems I had the knack for convincing a door to let us in.

In one fluid motion, my body takes over. I cock my torso back and focused force shoots like weighted arrows down from my chest. It travels through my core and into the muscles of my right thigh.

I jerk back a few inches, shut down my breath, and like a tight bow string releasing my foot comes up and strikes with a boom.

The wood around the deadbolt splinters and the door frame explodes, leaving the door ajar a few inches. The metal bolt busts out the back of the door at a forty-five-degree angle, still holding onto the door frame by a few millimeters.

I wince, growl and slam one more time with a grunt. The door cracks open, bouncing against the wall behind and sending shards of wood flying through the air.

In three seconds I’m boots on the ground, swinging the door behind me, closing it as far as it will go into the shattered door frame.

“You have company,” I announce my arrival into the silence as my eyes adjust and take in the disaster of the living room.

A putrid smell hits my nose and I almost double over. White take-out containers dot every flat surface. Filthy blankets and pillows lay in heaps on the ragged and tattered sofa, rips fixed with duct tape. Empty beer bottles litter the room and fill half the coffee table, along with worn notebooks and file folders.

There is a dim shimmer of daylight flickering through a gap in the curtains from the kitchen to my left. A hallway leads down to what I assume are the bedrooms. He’s clearly been holed up in here for a while.

For a split second, I feel sorry for the fuck. I mean, what kind of life is this?

I shift to my left, listening. When I’m on point like this, I can hear ants marching. Just as my ears pick up the crunch of paper and the swish of fabric, someone takes a quick step. I lunge forward.

In a fraction of a second, I make out the outline of a shoulder, an arm and the metal grip of a desperate firearm held in a shaking hand.

“Get out!” Jeremy advances, screaming up from the back hall.

I’m on him in a single step. He waves a semi-automatic, but my grip crushes his, crunching the bones in his hand. He drops the gun with a squeal and crumples to his knees.

“Seriously?” I look down at the human waste at my feet.

My lips tighten against my teeth. I twist and squeeze his hand because I know how much that fucking hurts. I’m about one more pound of pressure away from hearing the pop of his finger joints dislocating.

“Owww.
God
, stop.” Jeremy’s voice shakes. I can tell that he's close to tears. His free hand comes up to grab my wrist, but I knock it away before I lean down to secure the 9mm Beretta that rests next to my left foot.