SHELBY (Second Chance Novels Book 4) (12 page)

"This morning has been boring," she pouts.
 

"Sorry," I offer, staying focused on my chore.

"Can't I
please
have my computer? Just for an hour or so? I'll behave myself..." she asks in a pouty tone.

"Knock it off," I finally snap at her. "You're like a little kid. You already know the answer and I won't answer it again. Do I need to give you a damn time out?"

Her face falls and she glares. "What, are you going to send me to the attic again?"

"Would it help?" I snark.

"This is ridiculous," she mutters as she walks away.
 

I hear her slam her bedroom door. She can slam the door all she wants as long as she comes out with clothes on. Well, she's got the 'ridiculous' part right, and I wonder why I thought anger and fire would be a better set of emotions for her.
 

After an hour of going through paperwork, making phone calls, checking in with headquarters, and other mundane chores that go along with leading a witness-protection detail, Shelby comes out again in a pair of leggings and a tight tank top, obviously without a bra. Her outfit is an improvement over the robe, but not by much. The perfection of her body is still obvious. Damn, but that woman can rock a pair of leggings.
 

"Can we talk for a minute?" I ask, not masking my frustration with her.

"We don't need to," she sulks.
 

I furrow my brow but I don't push it. If there's one thing I've learned about Shelby, is that if you push her, she'll push back harder, especially if she can find a self-destructive way to do it. She's an absolute emotional mess, but that's not the only thing I see. No matter what kind of crazy is going through her mind, I remember the research into her history…the time before all the hurt, the time when she was a class-act. I relive our conversations at Joe's, those few times she let her guard down and allowed herself to have a simple evening. The word
exceptional
describes her easily in those moments.

She has spiraled down so far that even her moods spin faster than the earth, but I hang on to the idea of the Shelby underneath, the one I hope is still there, hanging on for dear life. In the mean time, I keep her safe. It's all I can do.
 

"Dade?" she asks, breaking my train of thought.

"Yeah?" I look up from my laptop.

"Do you want a refill on your coffee?"
 

I can accept that olive branch. "Thanks," I say as I hold out my mug for her. She brings the pot over and pours me a refill. She pours herself a cup and sits down with me.

"I need something to tinker with. I'm ok with puzzles…or I could just shop for something online…"
 

"Nice try," I smirk. We both chuckle this time. There's hope for her yet. Based on this morning, though, I know better than to think a shared laugh over a conciliatory joke will change much. I simply hope she's not topless when I walk in tomorrow. "Is there anything else?"

"Not for now," she says thoughtfully. "I guess it all depends on how long I'm here."

I nod. "Well, as long as I have you here, I need to go over the security protocols with you again. It's standard procedure. We'll do speed drills to get you to the safe room in the master suite and the hidden cubby behind the hallway closet."

Her expression eases into acceptance as she listens again to my spiel, but here she is, cooperating. We will definitely make progress today, and hopefully every day after. By the time we're done, maybe she'll be back to her old self.
 

She heads to her room. Minutes later I see her with a magazine and a blanket, making her way to the attic.
 

I wish I didn't have to call her down an hour later, but the prosecutor arrives right on time. Precision is always key. Surprisingly enough, Shelby pulls on a hoodie before joining us at the table.
 

"How's my star witness?"

My
witness
, I want to correct.
 

"Let's get to business. We need to discuss more specifics on the code you discovered," he says. "Would you recognize it if you saw it again?"

She nods. "Definitely."

He explains their efforts to tie this thief to other art heists. Not only is she to be a witness, she's to be a researcher?

"No," I say adamantly. "No computers, and no more relying on her. Her safety is tenuous at best. Further exploitation of my witness increases risk. Not happening."

 
He glares at me in annoyance. "Not your decision. We have a file showing strings we found. We'll keep the computer offline, and if you do your job correctly, she's safe either way."

I grit my teeth, knowing I can only take this up with my boss. As much as I'd like to wipe the smug expression off his rat-like face, I maintain my professionalism in silence.
 

Taking a random walk-through of the house is something I try to do several times a day more than I'm required to, no matter how unlikely a breach. All points of entry are secured, of course, but as I pass Shelby's room, something is off…but not surprising. I hear a choked sob from behind the door and my shoulders drop. I shake my head at myself and knock softly, hoping she'll talk with me like we used to.
 

"What," her shaky voice returns.

"Can I come in?"

"I don't care," her hollow voice responds.
 

I walk in to see Shelby in yoga pants and a scrunched-up cami, staring at a tattoo in the mirror. A crumpled note is gripped in her hand and tears streak down her face.
 

"When did you get that?" I nod toward her ink, asking softly even though I watched her walk into the shop that night. I'm trying not to react to the sight of her smooth skin and a truly beautiful display of ink. Shelby is
every
kind of beautiful. She turns further to the side to examine the tat from another angle.
 

"Right before you brought me here," she nearly whispers. Her eyes are blank as she takes in the picture.
 

"Three flowers? Why did you choose that?"

"I didn't," she says quietly as she closes her eyes and shakes her head. "Shye chose it for me. The tattoo artist. I didn't look at it until today."

I didn't expect that. My feet remain planted solidly in the doorway, but my heart is reaching out to Shelby. How low does a person have to be to allow someone else to choose their tattoo? The intricate, delicate flowers along her ribs are decorated with subtle vines with a watery, faded blue background, rising from a base of subtle brown. The detail is exquisite, beautiful, and truly belongs on Shelby's skin.
 

Shelby distracts me by pressing the note against her heart. Unable to stop myself, I walk to her and gently pry the paper from her hand. I look at the words, written in an artistic script.
 

Beauty,

Please, take your pain and heave it strongly away from yourself. You deserve peace and happiness, and everything good life offers. The lotus blossoms I branded in your skin represent just that. The blue blossom symbolizes your mind, pretty. I drew that bloom brightly for your intelligence, and partially-open for your need to learn. Purple, in full bloom, is your spiritual journey. I drew that flower in wide open, hoping you'll allow yourself to be open to possibilities. The white flower is purity. Lotus flowers grow from the muddy bottom of a river, opening clean after a murky journey. You are a worthy, genuine beauty, ready to open. Your hurt can keep you drowning, or serve to support you as you break free and bloom. Find your way out of the murk, pretty. You have so much more in you.
 

I love you,

Shye

I consider the note and try to make sense of Shelby's reaction to it. I've decided
overwhelmed
describes her best. There's little I can say, so I simply pull Shelby into a hug, and I hold her as she stands so lost. She balls up her fists and rests her forehead on my chest under my chin. Quietly she allows herself to truly accept my comfort.
 

She feels too damn good in my arms. I can feel the warmth of her skin, but I can't allow myself to run my fingertips along the smooth line of her shoulders or caress the gentle curve of her hip. I desperately want to trace circles at the small of her back. Her body electrifies me, but her sadness drowns me. All I can do is keep her steadily against me.

"She's right, you know," I finally whisper gently. "Shye…the artist…she's absolutely right. You are everything she sees in you, and you're worth finding your way out."

Shelby shakes her head in denial. She won't be convinced now, so I won't argue. I'll simply hold her for as long as she'll let me. Only a few moments pass before Shelby eases herself from my arms and walks closer to the mirror, watching her own fingers trace the ink.
 

"I wish I could erase it," she quivers.
 

"It's beautiful," I tell her. "It suits you."

She sighs and looks up at me, her eyes meeting mine in the reflection. She regards me for a minute before reaching for her clingy pink tee. She pulls it over her head and walks out of her room, leaving me standing.

Several hours of silence later, my shift is technically over, but I continue to futz with whatever I can find in order to stick around longer. Any possibility of a pleasant goodbye is hope enough for me to work some unpaid overtime. My extended time today is now bordering on pathetic, though, so I gather my things. I look around to say goodbye to Rankin but he must be on a sweep of the house. A door clicks shut near the back, and I'm on high alert. A sweep of the house never involves
closing
doors, and the one I heard wasn't Shelby's.
 

A quick move and my Glock is in a controlled, double grip. Stellar marksmanship offers confidence, but potential danger sits on me like electrified chainmail. With precise, efficient movements, I steal my way along two corridors until I'm face to face with the offending door. I hear a muffled sound from the other side.
Shit! Shelby!

I slam the door open with my foot, ready to kill anything that could possibly serve to harm my witness,
my Shelby
…who is giving a goddamn blow job to a man who can no longer call himself a U.S. Marshal. Both of them jump like a couple of horny teenagers getting caught.
 

"You," I seethe at Rankin as he fumbles to cover himself. "Go fucking cuff yourself to the heater while you ponder the end of your career. I hope that hummer was worth it."

That idiot knows better than to argue, and zips his pants as he walks across the room to tether himself to the house. He tosses me the key, his expression solemn. Every cell in my body is on fire. Not only do I have to deal with firing his ass, but I also have to relocate my witness because of it. We can't risk a bitter employee divulging this location. We were settled in solidly, and we have to start over.
Fuck!

Worse, however, is seeing Shelby treat herself this way. I've known all along what she does with the random men she seduces…the same free ride she's been offering me. I have no illusions about how she deals with the pain and stress in her life. I had hoped, however, that the isolation here could serve as a reset button. My naïve ass believed she could break the cycle and have a chance to emerge refreshed. But no, she fucking drags one of my men down with her. How the fuck could either of them do this? One emotional day and she falls. God
damn
it!

What I don't want to admit to myself is the sick jealousy. I've fantasized far too many times about breaking protocol and risking my job, simply to experience her. I can imagine the heat, the physical bliss of having her lips on me. Those images always gave me hope for a chance to court her properly, and earn the right to be with her, as old-fashioned as that may sound. I want to treat her like a lady, right before I demonstrate with my body the intensity she inspires within me. Instead of having a chance to see how she works that unique magic, I had to see her lips around someone else's cock. Not one part of that vision should have reached my eyes.
God damn it again.
 

I turn to Shelby. "You! You selfish idiot! Go to your room and pack, and don't say another fucking word to me until I give you permission."

I'm not sure if her expression displays shock, guilt, anger, or blatant pain, but she turns sharply and walks silently to her room while I run my hand through my hair. Fucking Shelby. I can hear drawers and hangers shuffle as she packs. I'm already on the phone with my supervisor explaining the situation. I have to hold the phone away from my ear as he rants about the fuck-up.