SHELBY (Second Chance Novels Book 4) (11 page)

She glares at me, her eyes making every attempt to cut directly through me. "Look forward? How?" she snarks out. "You've got me stuck."
 

"You are so goddamn stubborn! Jesus! I'm here to help anyway," I shake my head. "But your sadness and the morose self-pity have to stop. You're better than that."

She glares at me and scoots herself to a support beam and leans herself against it. When she feels she's made her point with her angry stare, her eyes flicker up to the exposed two-by-fours of the ceiling.

"What-the-hell-ever," she says through her clenched jaw. In spite of her words, she seems to consider my perspective for once. As much as I want to stay in the attic with her, I don't think that's the right way to handle her current state.

"I'll give you some time," I say plainly as I get up and walk toward the staircase.

Her eyes still locked on the underside of the roof, she nods. Walking away from her is killing me, especially since we finally experienced what could be a significant breakthrough. I only want to build on that foundation, but I know she's got a lot of shit in her head. Earning her trust completely will take time. Since we're all stuck in limbo until the trial starts, we have plenty.
 

Shelby remains solitary in the attic for over two hours before she comes down, calmer and seemingly more at ease.
 

"Today is Friday, right? So just six more days then before my testimony," she says, steeling herself for the timeline.
 

"Actually, no."

"What?" she asks, a hint of panic sneaking through.

"I'm sorry. Jensen called while you were in the shower. The preliminaries got moved back. It's starting four days late, which means we won't be ready for your testimony for a few more days after that at least."

"But…"
 

Her emotion is displayed on her face like a neon sign, and I've seen this look before. The dread of leaving the house is in total conflict with the dread of having to stay cooped up longer. She had her internal clock set, and I blew that timeframe to pieces. Now she needs to adjust
again
. Her expression shifts from surprised to angry. "Why didn't you tell me!"

"I found out an hour ago," I say calmly.

"All this talk about keeping me safe when I leave…and now you're telling me I can't? What the hell, Dade?"

I sit, ready to take it on the chin like I do so often with frustrated witnesses.
Keep it professional.
They vent, I absorb. This is a common and important part of my job. As U.S. Marshal Roarke, I can't apologize to her for the unfairness she's stuck in. I can't tell her it's ok to cry.
 

I should fucking reassign myself for wanting to, but there's no goddamn way I can do that. Shelby is
my
witness, mine to protect. My distraction is merely an increased focus on my subject. As distractions go, mine is a benefit to the job. I simply need to suppress my personal feelings until the trial is over, then hope to God Shelby will want to keep me around. I don't want to be only a reminder of the negative side of her life right now.
 

I tell myself again to keep this professional.

"Shelby, I know you feel trapped, but this will be over soon."

"What if I refuse to testify?"

Like every witness I've ever had, she wants to play her single power-card. Sadly, I have to take that away from her, too, and recite the official answer. "Then I detain you as a material witness in solitary confinement at the nearest federal penitentiary until such a time as you are willing to cooperate. You'll lose your immunity deal for the felony hacking, and we'll be forced to keep you there."

"Asshole."

She walks away from me, her fear and sadness transformed to anger. I've seen the same shift a hundred times before, but this one cuts. Following her to her room is out of the question, so I keep my station at the kitchen table and return to my laptop.
 

I hear a shoe hit the inside wall of her bedroom and I cringe.

Nearly another quiet hour passes before I hear her bedroom door open. I ready myself for whatever skimpy version of Shelby's wardrobe she'll be sporting in front of us, but instead I'm treated to the sexiest sight yet: Shelby in a pair of fuzzy pajama pants along with her hoodie. Her hair is tied in a messy knot and her skin is freshly clean. This naturally beautiful, uncontrived version of Shelby is extraordinary. I imagine myself taking the lace-clad Shelby at night, but this is what I want to wake up to.
 

A soft, guilty smile from Shelby snaps me from my reverie, and again I'm forced to keep my professionalism intact. "Shelby," I greet simply.

"Hey, Dade. Sorry about earlier," she says with a sincerity which surprises me. She ungracefully drops herself down at the kitchen table with me and reaches for my coffee. She takes a deep sip and looks at me, her apology still ringing in my ears.

"You're sorry about earlier?" I smirk.

"Well…yes and no," she says pensively. "Look, I've been stressed for a long time now. There's a lot I'm not sure how to handle."

I'm in shock to see her so honest. Until now, the only honest side of her I'd experienced was a few conversations and through hours of research. The front she's been forcing has been painful to watch. Still, as much as I want to soak up the real Shelby, my instincts keep me from blindly accepting her sincerity. This may be the real Shelby I'm seeing, but she's most likely working an angle. My entire history with this woman keeps me wary.

"You do have a lot to handle," I concede, "but what aren't you sure about?"

"The trial," she says, angling her head now in a flirtatious look through her lashes. Damn it, that move alone proves she's after something. When I first started watching Shelby, long before her trips to Joe's, she never played coy. Mason must have really done a number on her. I hate that bastard for what he did to her, but at the same time I want to thank him for walking away. Shelby is free to consider anyone she wants, and she deserves a man who won't cheat on her, no matter what the excuse.

"Ok…" I say slowly. "Do you want the prosecutor to come back and go over details with you?"

"No," she shakes her head. "It's not about my testimony. But how do the logistics of this work? I'm sheltered here. I'm safe. How am I supposed to go and face them? How can you protect me once I leave the house?"

She maybe be working an angle here, but the fear behind her mild concern screams from within. Maybe she's not working an angle after all. The possibility remains she's being honest, but she's not sure how to be herself anymore. The flirtatious tilt of her head may simply be habit at this point. Shelby, either way, is genuinely afraid. What I wouldn't give to wrap her in my arms and comfort her. I'd rather take her hundreds of miles away and hide her from everyone who could hurt her than stay here and force her to testify.
 

What I want to offer her is peace, from all of it. She needs a place to rest the broken shards of her heart while I protect her. Even the small group of people around her now,
my own team
, has me on edge. Statistically, every connection is a six-degree separation from danger. Wishing for our solitude but understanding the reality, I try to address her concerns as professionally as I can.

"We have several layers of protection for you, Shel," I say.

"Did you just call me Shel again?" she smiles more softly now. Then she chuckles. "Did you have the stick removed
completely
from your ass?"

"Yes, every five years the marshal service requires the procedure," I say as though such a rule is obvious. Her tiny laugh replaces a small piece of fear from her voice, and again I want to get personal. Still, I find my staunch professionalism slipping around her. My other witnesses only see official façade, never the deep personal undercurrent of determination. Around this beautiful, frustrating woman, though, bits of myself continue to sneak through. First she saw my protective nature long before she was under my official watch, and now she's bringing my sense of humor to the surface. I'm in deep shit here.

"Every five years?" she responds. "I'm thinking they should check you more often than that."

"I'll inform my supervisor," I respond dryly. "Would you like me to answer your original question now that we have the subject of my ass aside?"

She sounds a small, beautiful chuckle again. "Yes. Your ass needs no more discussion."

"Ok then," I say, returning to my all-business self. "I can't tell you not to worry. You are in more danger the longer you're here, and I want you to be vigilant and trust your gut if something feels off. Still, you're as protected as you can be. You already know the eight of us and only one other person at headquarters knows where you are. There is no digital record of the service owning this location. Each person on this team is one hundred percent focused on your case. Not a single one of us has an addiction, a sick relative, a child to be kidnapped, no points of vulnerability to be exploited. These are all type-a, workaholic, overachievers recruited specifically by the service for witness protection. This is all they do, and they live for it. If any of them shows signs of losing focus, they are transferred to another department. Even your naked little attempts at distraction don't faze them. We don't fuck around."

Her face shows a solemnity I've only seen once before. I've tried previously to explain how serious we are, but I don't think she truly understood until this moment. I'll use her silence as an opportunity to prove to her how safe she is, as well as how important to the case she is. The rest will have to wait. She tucks her hands in the front pocket of her hoodie and pulls herself inward. I force away the sadness I feel on her behalf.
 

"Now," I continue, "in terms of leaving, we have layer upon layer of security for that, too. And let me tell you, you aren't the first witness afraid to leave their safe house. This is a war bunker and a safe haven, but
we
are your protection, not these walls. This is an average house, but we are not average people. We have your back no matter where you are."

A shaky bottom lip betrays her emotion and she pulls her hoodie even tighter around her. I clench my jaw and strain to keep my business-face on, especially with the added distraction of her vulnerability. I'm seeing so much of the true Shelby right now, and I want to push aside all this official business and spend time with
her
.
 

"It's true, Shel."
Damn it, call her Shelby.
"When we take you to the courthouse for your testimony, we will put you in the car here in the garage. We have a boring sedan so we don't draw attention. The windows are tinted enough to obstruct a clear view, but not so shaded that people will notice. We will take two cars from this house and drive along two different, unplanned routes to the courthouse as an added layer of protection. We won't decide on the point of entrance until we're ready to leave. If
we
don't know ahead of time where you'll be, no one else can either. Then once we have you in the courthouse, there are a few guarded rooms where you can wait. Again, we won't decide which until we get there."

"This is worse than I thought, isn't it."

"Yes," I confirm, glad she seems to finally understand. "These are very dangerous people, but I don't want you to panic. You are a brilliant woman, Shelby. You can see the danger, but you are smart enough to handle it well, and to trust me to take care of you."
Damn it, I should have said
us
. She should trust
us
.

I come back for my shift the next day around lunch time and bring with me the groceries she requested. I'm guessing she likes to cook Italian and Chinese based on her selections. I smile to myself, wondering how much progress she's made since yesterday. My arrogant side puffs up, too.

My face drops when I see her flipping loudly through a magazine in the living room, wearing nothing but her robe…which she is allowing to hang off her shoulder. Her right breast is practically hanging out. As alluring as the vision may be, the reality of the situation hits me. One breakthrough didn't change much. She may have gotten past the sadness, but she's still trying to get the attention of any man in the vicinity. Old, destructive habits.

My team is avoiding her like the professionals they are, but Shelby is flaunting herself nonetheless. I shake my head and say hello, refusing to acknowledge her little game.
 

"Hi, Dade," she flirts with a smile. God damn it. My arrogant side withers. I haven't helped her at all.
 

"Hey," I mutter as I walk to the kitchen and put away the damn noodles. I force myself to regain my professional demeanor and go about my business. My job as US Marshal is, I remind myself, why I'm here. I'm only two grocery items into my task when Shelby slinks into the room and sits at the kitchen table, crossing her legs seductively and leaning back into the chair. The robe is still off her shoulder and has fallen completely away from her legs. The perfection there is unparalleled, but I can't let myself ogle her the way I want to.