The Witness (24 page)

“They were important in that culture.”

“King and queen. He was the all-star athlete. Quarterback with magic hands. Center fielder with a bullet arm. She was head cheerleader, pretty as a strawberry parfait. He went to Arkansas State, mostly on an athletic scholarship, and she went along. From what I hear, they sparkled pretty good there, too. Up until junior year, when he messed up his knee on a play. All the talk of him going pro, that blew up. Ended up coming back home. They broke up, got back together, broke up, that sort of thing. Then they got married.”

He sipped more whiskey. Between that, the Motrin and the restfulness of the woman, he felt better.

“He coached high school football awhile, but it didn’t go well. He didn’t have the wiring for it, I guess. So he went to work in construction.
Missy, she tried some modeling, but that didn’t work out. She works at the Flower Pot. They never prepared, I’m thinking, for things not to keep on sparkling, so dealing with the dull took a toll. Ty, he started paying that toll with Rebel Yell.”

“He yells?”

“No, honey, it’s a whiskey not nearly as nice as what you poured me. My predecessor in this job let me know about the problem. The DUIs, the bar fights, and the D-and-Ds—that’s—”

“Domestic disputes. He becomes violent and abusive when he drinks.”

“That’s right. The last year or so, it’s been worse.”

“Why hasn’t he been arrested?”

“He has been, then he ends up with a warning or community service. Missy won’t press charges when he smacks her around, and denies it ever happened. She fell, she slipped, she walked into a door.”

“She enables him.”

“That she does. And the fact is people gave them a blind eye on the trouble. The kind of shine they had lasts a long time in a small town like this. But I spent some time away, so maybe I see it—them—differently. Since repeated attempts at getting them into therapy, rehab, counseling have failed, I went another way.”

“That resulted in your injury.”

“You could say. When my deputy called to report they were at it—which means Ty came home drunk, hit her, she ran out—I got Ty to come out on his stoop, in full view of the fourteen people outside to watch the show. He had music blasting to accompany his wrecking of every breakable in the house he could get his hands on. This was a plus, as nobody but Ty and my deputy could hear me incite this drunken
asshole
to violence by questioning the size and virility of his penis. If that hadn’t worked, I was prepared to suggest that his long-suffering and idiotic wife might find the size and virility of my penis more to her liking.”

On a long breath, he shook his head. “I’m glad it didn’t come to that.
He punched me in the face in front of witnesses, and is now contemplating serving time for a felony or two.”

“That was very good strategy. Men are sensitive about their genitalia.”

He choked a little on the whiskey, then rubbed his hand over his face on a laugh. “God knows we are.” Then he sobered, took a small sip. “God knows we are that.”

“Your method wasn’t conventional, but the result was good. But you feel sorry and a little sad. Why?”

“He was a friend once. Not best, not close to best, but a friend of mine. I liked them, and I guess I liked seeing that sparkle, too. I’m sorry to see them brought low like this. I’m sorry to be a part of bringing them low.”

“You’re wrong. It’ll be up to them to address and seek help for their problems, but as long as they were both unable to do that, they’d never resolve those problems. What you did gives him only two choices. Jail or help. It’s more likely that, when sober and faced with those choices and consequences, he’ll choose help. As she appears to be codependent, so will she. I would think your actions fall well within the function and spirit of your job description. As well as within the parameters of friendship.”

He set the whiskey he hadn’t finished aside. “I was telling myself I should just go home with my mood and my aches and annoyances. I’m awfully glad I didn’t.”

He reached out, took her hands. “Let me take you to bed, Abigail.”

She kept her eyes on his. “All right.”

A
LL RIGHT
.

He wondered that he should find it so sweet, so disarming, she kept it just that simple.

All right.

He rose, drew her to her feet. “Maybe you could show me the way.”

“You mean to the bedroom.”

“Yeah. I know my way around what we’ll be doing there.”

The smile flickered in her eyes, around her mouth. “I’d be disappointed if that wasn’t true.”

He kept her hand as they walked back to the living room, up the stairs. “Considering what we’ll be doing, and I hope you don’t question my size and virility for the question, but how does Bert handle the process?”

“He’s very well trained, so theoretically he won’t interfere.”

Brooks glanced back at the dog. “Theoretically’s a tricky word. And by interfere, do you mean he won’t rip my throat out?”

“He shouldn’t.”

At the door to the bedroom, Brooks turned her around, narrowed his eyes as he studied her. “I’m trying to figure out if you’re being funny.”

“Humor can smooth over awkwardness, if there is any. I can’t tell. But if Bert thought you hurt me, or tried to, his first response would be to protect me—to stop you. He’s seen you touch me, and I’ve instructed him you’re a friend, and to stand down. He sees I’ve brought you up here without duress, that I touch you.”

She laid a hand on Brooks’s chest, then glanced at the dog, gave him an order.

“What language was that?” Brooks asked when the dog walked over to a generous dog bed, circled three times and laid down with a windy sigh.

“Farsi.”

“Seriously? You and Bert speak Farsi?”

“Not very well, but I’m working on it. I told him to rest. I don’t want to put him out of the room. He wouldn’t understand.”

“Okay. Is that a stuffed bear in his bed?”

“Dogs are pack animals.”

“Uh-huh, and a stuffed teddy bear is Bert’s pack?”

“It comforts him. I’d like to turn down the bed.”

“I’ll give you a hand.”

“No. I have my—”

“Own way. Fine.” He wandered over, studied the computer station set up very like the one on the first floor.

“It makes you wonder.” She folded the simple duvet onto the padded bench at the foot of the bed. “I’m in the business. I believe strongly in security, and feel a separate obligation to use and test products and systems.”

“I think that’s true. But that’s not all.” He turned around, watched with appreciation when she took a condom from the nightstand drawer and set it on the table by the bed. “And we don’t need to talk about it now. Is it okay if I put my weapon on the desk here?”

“Yes. Should I undress?”

“No. I have
my
own way.”

After he took off his gun, set it down, he crossed to her, trailed a hand down her hair, her cheek, her shoulder. “I like finding out for myself what’s under there.”

He kissed her, testing, teasing, his fingers still skimming, over her face, down her side, up her back. Light and easy as he could feel her holding back, holding in.

“You have good hands.”

“I haven’t put them to much use where you’re concerned yet.”

“But you will. I’d like to see,” she said as she began to unbutton his shirt. “You don’t wear a uniform like your deputies.”

“I got out of the habit. Didn’t much feel like picking it up again.”

“I like that you don’t. You wear your authority in a different way.” She parted his shirt, spread her hands over his chest. “You’re in very good shape.”

“Thanks.”

And lifted her eyes to his. “So am I.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“I’m very strong for my build, and have exceptional endurance.”

“You’re the sexiest thing, in the strangest ways.” He peeled her shirt up and away.

“I—”

“Ssh.” He laid his lips on hers as he boosted her onto the bed.

The dog didn’t make a sound, but Brooks could feel the guarded stare boring into his back as he lowered himself to Abigail.

Her skin was soft, warm and smooth, the muscles of her arms, her shoulders taut. And though her mouth met and answered his avidly, those eyes stayed as watchful as her dog’s.

“Close your eyes,” he murmured, nibbling his way to her throat and back.

“I like to see,” she repeated.

“Close your eyes for a minute, and just feel.”

He waited until she did, then closed his own. Then let himself sink, just a little deeper.

She felt. Nerve endings, pressure points, textures, all the more erotic with her eyes closed. A kind of trade-off for control.

She was safe, she reminded herself. She was capable. And she needed.

“Don’t think.” He skimmed his teeth over her jaw. “Just feel.”

She wasn’t sure she knew how not to think. But she kept her silence since he seemed to prefer it, tried to let her mind relax.

Different, everything was different here, with him. She wanted to analyze why, but it was so pleasant to only experience.

Just this once, she told herself.

She softened under him, just a little. Just enough. He glided his lips along the subtle swell of her breast over the simple line of her bra, slid his tongue under the cotton, heard her breath catch. So he lingered there, stirring her while his hands roamed.

She’d opened one of the windows partway so the night breeze fluttered through, carrying the scent of the woods, the steady music of the creek.

Moonshine shimmered in hazy beams.

He flipped open the button of her pants, eased them down a few inches and felt the ridge of a tiny scar high on the blade of her hip.

He took his time, wanted time, to discover her, the angles and curves and dips, the simple clean scent of her skin, the way the muscles of her belly quivered when his lips brushed there.

Her response was just as simple, the give, the touch, the fluid rise of her legs and hips as he continued to undress her.

And then.

She erupted under him, jackknifing up, a whip of those long, firm legs, a twist of that compact body, and she was over him. Her mouth clamped down on his, ripped his dreamy languor to shreds and scorched the shreds to ashes. Her breath came on a tear as she scraped her teeth
over his shoulder, slithered down, lithe and lethal as a snake, to nip at his chest while her hands tugged at his belt.

He levered up to drag her mouth back to his, to feed on the heat that radiated from her. Urgent now, urgent and hungry.

She arched back, limber as a bowstring, and pressed his face to her breast.

“I need.” He heard her moan it as she straddled him and rocked until he dug his fingers into her hips to keep from imploding. “I need.”

She was a madness of drive and movement. Caught in the storm of her, he let himself be blown, be battered, as they ravaged each other.

Too much, but not enough, she thought frantically as all those needs clawed and bit. She had to take, had to have, before this terrible pleasure broke her to pieces. His body, so strong, so tough, incited so many wants, his mouth and hands so many sensations. He could take her to that moment of relief and release.

Desperate, she grabbed the condom, ripped it open.

“Let me,” she whispered, stunned that her hands weren’t quite steady as she covered him.

She rose over him. In the soft bedroom light he could see the intensity of her eyes, the glow of her skin. Then she took him in. For one breathless moment, everything stopped. Sight, sound, movement. Those fierce eyes stayed locked on his as their bodies joined.

He thought, Eye of the storm, then she swept him away.

She rode him as if her life hung in the balance, with urgent, focused speed. He raced with her, beat for crazed beat, with his heart drumming those frenzied strokes.

When she broke on a half-sob, half-cry, those fascinating eyes closed, that dazzling body bowed, as her arms lifted to wrap around her head in a picture of utter, wanton pleasure.

Those eyes sprang open again when he yanked her down, rolled her under him. Her mouth yielded, soft and swollen when he captured it, when he swallowed her quick, surprised cry as he thrust into her.

Now he rode, driving her up again, pleasing himself ruthlessly as she quaked, as she clung. He felt the orgasm rip through her, felt her nails bite into his back. And let his own release rend him to tatters.

It took him a moment—or two—to realize he’d collapsed on her, his breath whooping out like a marathon runner’s after a dive across the finish line.

He rolled off, sprawled out on his back, hoping if he ended up having a heart attack she had it in her to do the CPR.

He managed one raw and reverent “Wow.”

Glancing over, he saw Bert had remained in his bed but stood and stared.

“I don’t know if your dog’s curious or just plain jealous, but you might want to let him know you’re okay.”

She gave Bert the command for rest. While he settled down, he kept his eyes on the bed.

“Are you okay?” Brooks asked when she said nothing more.

“Yes. It’s been several months since I had sex. I realized I rushed you.”

“From my point of view, I think we timed it just right. Jesus, you’ve got some body there, Abigail. About as perfect as they come.”

“I like yours very much. It’s very well proportioned, with excellent muscle tone.”

That just tickled the hell right out of him, so he shifted over to give her a kiss. His grin faded as he looked in those eyes. A man who’d grown up with a mother and two sisters knew when female tears were just below the surface.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. The sex was excellent. Thank you.”

“Jesus Christ, Abigail.”

“I’m thirsty,” she said quickly. “Do you want some water?”

He laid a hand on her arm as she began to roll out of bed. “Abigail.”

“I need a moment, and some water.”

She walked out without putting a stitch on. That surprised him, as
he’d pegged her as the shy type in that area. Then again, the woman was a puzzle through and through.

“You know the secrets,” he said to Bert. “Too bad you can’t talk.”