Hold On (The 'Burg Series Book 6) Page 20

His brown-eyed girl?

  Garrett Merrick’s brown-eyed girl?

  Me?

  Garrett Merrick, estranged from me because I’d been a foul-mouthed, overreacting crazy lady, was standing in my living room calling me his brown-eyed girl?

  I kept staring at him.

  Then I whispered, “You’re here.”

  The humor fled from him completely, his handsome face turned beautiful, and he replied, “Got your text, baby.”

  My insides convulsed.

  My text?

  Oh shit, had I somehow accidentally sent my text?

  Before I could play my life in rewind to figure out how that might have occurred, Merry bent and tossed my remote to the coffee table and walked my way. When he got to me, he pulled the vacuum out of my hand, swung it aside, and got in my space, chin dipped into his neck to look down at me.

  “Your apology was sweet.” He grinned a small grin. “Your brand of sweet, considerin’ you dropped the f-bomb twice givin’ it to me. And I appreciate it, Cherie.”

  Cherie.

  Not Cher.

  Not the dreaded Cheryl.

  He gave me back his Cherie.

  A weird but not unpleasant warmth I’d never felt started to creep over me.

  “I appreciate it, but you didn’t need to give it,” he went on, lifting his hand to cup my jaw and bending so his face was closer to mine. “I knew before I left that you were sorry.”

  I stared into his blue eyes that were looking into mine, communicating amazing things.

  Somehow, that text got sent and there he was, in my living room, accepting an apology I didn’t know I gave.

  Here was another boon that life had thrown at me.

  And before I could think better of it, I latched on ferociously.

  “I overreacted,” I blurted on a whisper.

  The pads of his fingers dug into my skin gently. “I get that.”

  I held his eyes and gave a careful shake of my head so I wouldn’t lose his hand on me. “No. Ethan and me…the way things have been…how our lives are…” My quiet voice dropped quieter. “I only ever get his mornings guaranteed.”

  “I get that, honey,” he repeated. “I stepped over a line. It might not have been right how you communicated that, but that doesn’t mean you weren’t right to be angry.”

  I gave another cautious shake of my head. “No, I was totally out of line being that ugly.”

  “Cher, you love your kid and that’s your time. Lots of shit is goin’ down, not the least of which I was pushin’ at a time when I should have been goin’ gently. You’re you. You reacted like you and like the mother you are. It happened. It’s done. You apologized and I’ve admitted I didn’t play that right. We’re movin’ on.”

  That was good. I wanted that. I wanted us to move on. I wanted the quiet understanding he was giving me. I didn’t want him to be angry. I wanted him back in my life.

  I also wanted to explore where his manner was saying we were going.

  But what I needed was to get him to understand completely.

  “It was ugly and it might have been right why I did it,” I told him. “But it was also wrong. Ethan talked to me about it and he liked havin’ you around.” I saw a flare in his eyes I liked, but I didn’t take time to let it register deep. I had to get this done, so I powered forward. “He liked you two doin’ somethin’ together to look out for me. He gets that I look out for him all the time and he’s a good kid. He wants me to have that sometimes too. And he liked doin’ that with you for me.”

  Merry didn’t say anything, but he did glide his thumb along my cheek to edge the bottom of my lip and then back.

  That meant he actually did say something, and what he said was unbelievably sweet.

  I fought pressing my lips together or leaning in and pressing everything to him.

  It was difficult, not only with his touch but the soft way he was looking at me. Another something from Merry I’d never gotten from another man in my life. And I was glad. I was ecstatic. Because staring into his eyes, getting that from him, if I knew that kind of thing existed and I went for days, weeks, years not having it aimed at me, I didn’t know if I could keep breathing.

  This feeling caused me again to blurt out more words.

  “I texted you the next day.”

  I lost the look as his brows drew together in confusion.

  “I didn’t send it,” I told him quickly. “I erased it. But I apologized. I explained. Then I erased it all.”

  The look came back, and in those mere seconds from losing it to getting it back again, I became a junkie, knowing down to my bones I’d do anything—any-fucking-thing—to get that look as often as I could aimed at me.

  So I kept fucking talking.

  “I texted you more. I told you I’m worried I’m not feedin’ my kid right. I told you I tried to get him to eat carrots. I told you that didn’t work.”

  Humor mingled with that look in his eyes and, fuck me, that was even better.

  “I told you other stuff too,” I shared. “I texted you all the time, without texting you.”

  “Glad you finally hit the right button, sweetheart.”

  I actually hadn’t.

  Or I didn’t think I had.

  I was about to explain that to him when a knock came at my door.

  I looked that way, and unfortunately, Merry dropped his hand as he twisted to look too.

  We were in a part of the living room where I couldn’t see what was in the diamond window, and although the front curtains were opened, our angle didn’t show my stoop.

  But I knew who it was. A package had been delivered yesterday for my neighbor on the other side, Bettina. I’d put a note in her storm door. Bettina worked a job where she had occasion to have some weekdays off.

  She was probably coming to collect.

  “That’s Bettina, my neighbor,” I told Merry, and he looked back at me. “A package was delivered for her.”

  I tipped my head to the door where a thin but long and wide box was resting against the wall.

  Merry looked, then returned his attention to me.

  Another knock came at the door.

  “I should give it to her.”

  “Yeah,” he replied.

  “Just be a sec,” I muttered, moving by him, eyes to the floor, my mind belatedly realizing that I hadn’t yet taken my shower that day.

  My hair was good. My hair was always good. I had an expert hand with hair and knew the precise quality (but inexpensive) products to use that would make my hair look good, even if I didn’t wash it for a week.

  However, I did not have any makeup on.

  And I had on a pair of supremely faded jeans that I’d owned since about a year after I’d had Ethan. They were so worn in and beat-up, they had splits at both knees, some up the front of one thigh, and one at the back just under the left cheek of my ass.

  Bare feet. A seen-better-days cardie over a white tank. No jewelry. No perfume.

  And Merry, looking awesome in one of his suits, was in my space, seeing me like this for the first time ever.

  Shit.

  I kept my eyes to the floor and only lifted them to aim my hand to the handle.

  I opened the door and looked out, expecting to see Bettina, so I was surprised when it wasn’t.

  It was a man of average height. He was decent looking. Dark hair salted with silver and just slightly receding. He also had a thick goatee that was more liberally salted with silver. He was wearing very nice, dark wash jeans, a button-up shirt that had been ironed, and an attractive, expensive-looking sports jacket.

  He also was not standing outside my storm door.

  He had the storm door open and was holding it that way.

  In other words, he had clear passage to get into my house with nothing protecting me from this stranger.

  Considering I had no clue who he was, and he could’ve easily knocked on the storm door and been heard, there was no reason he should’ve felt comfortable eliminating
that barrier. Furthermore, a storm door was also a security door, that was, making me secure from someone like him.

  Due to this, I felt annoyance mix with the confusion, which caused an edge to my voice when I asked, “Can I help you?”

  He nodded. “Ms. Sheckle.”

  My body snapped tight.

  “I’m Walter Jones,” he went on to declare. “I’d hoped to—”

  He didn’t get to telling me what he’d hoped, even though I knew what he’d fucking hoped, so he didn’t have to tell me shit.

  This was because I lost my mind.

  “Are you fucking shitting me?”

  My voice was loud.

  His face set. “Ms. Sheckle—”

  “No,” I bit out, shaking my head. “Unh-unh. Man, when a woman does not take your calls, you need to get the hint no matter what reason you’re makin’ that call, and especially when you’re makin’ the calls you made to me, that you should leave it alone.”

  “As I hope you heard in my voicemail message, I intend to compensate you for your time,” he told me swiftly. “I’m prepared to give you a thousand dollars to speak with me. If I could just come in—”

  “Listen, asshole,” I shot back. “For me to talk to some goddamned stranger who’s lookin’ to make money off the shit Dennis Lowe piled on me, a thousand dollars won’t cut it. You could throw four fuckin’ zeroes at the end of that and it still wouldn’t cut it. Jesus, showin’ up at my door…” My voice, already loud, was rising. “What’s the matter with you?”

  He opened his mouth to speak, but then his gaze darted over my shoulder, surprise hit his eyes and his body snapped alert.

  I was so pissed, I didn’t feel it.

  When Walter Jones did that, I felt it.

  And it was not good.

  What it was was me learning the intensely uncomfortable feeling of the vibe Garrett Merrick gave off when he was about to lose his motherfucking mind. When he was about to lose hold on his brand of messy that made the likes of Ryker look adjusted. When he was preparing to get covered in a pile of shit in an effort to dig someone he cares about out from under it.

  Slowly, even though I should have gone faster—his mood was so extreme, it made me move like I was surrounded in molasses—I turned to him.

  I felt the vibe, but the look on his face confirmed it.

  In fascinated, terrified awe, I saw that his handsome features now appeared carved from marble, and his eyes were glinting, wintry shards of blue ice that I could fucking swear lowered the temperature around us by thirty degrees.

  I stood immobile, terrified, not that he would harm me, but that he was about to do something that might bring harm to him, and yet I was so enthralled by the sheer menace he was exuding that was so far from the Merry I knew, it shook me and I couldn’t move.

  Merry was immobile too, for one beat…two…three…four…all of these feeling like eternity, nothing about him changing until finally I saw a minute shift in his expression and he stepped forward.

  I braced to block his way so he wouldn’t go apeshit on Walter Jones.

  “Step off Ms. Rivers’s stoop,” he ordered, that smooth voice that hid the rough underneath a memory, his voice was vibrating with the rage he was not hiding.

  “Sir—” Walter Jones started.

  Merry shifted a hand, pulling back the dark blue suit jacket he was wearing to expose the butt of his gun in its holster at the side of his chest as well as the shiny badge clipped to his belt.

  “Take…your hand…off Ms. Rivers’s door…and step…the fuck…off her goddamned stoop,” Merry growled.

  I heard the storm door whisper, but it didn’t bang into place because Merry moved quickly and caught it with his hand.

  I moved to go after him.

  He stopped and cast the blue ice of his eyes down to me.

  “You stay in here, baby.”

  His tone was not gentle. It wasn’t soft. It was a hard order he expected to be obeyed.

  And the addition of “baby” was not meant to soften that order.

  It was a communication to Walter Jones of who I was to Merry.

  Thinking my best move at that point was to do what I was told, I nodded.

  Merry pushed through the door. It whispered again as it closed and I caught it before it banged. Then I stood on the other side of it to watch Merry prowl the three strides that took him to Walter Jones, who was standing at the foot of my stoop.

  When he stopped, he pushed both sides of his suit jacket back to plant his hands on his hips, again exposing his badge and gun, but also expanding his frame so he bested Jones in height and in width.

  “So you been in contact with Ms. Rivers about Dennis Lowe,” he stated unhappily.

  “Can I ask your name, Detective?” Jones returned.

  “It’s lieutenant…Lieutenant Garrett Merrick of the BPD. Now, confirm. You been in contact with Ms. Rivers about Dennis Lowe?”

  “I’m an FBI profiler—” Jones started.

  “I don’t give a fuck what you are,” Merry cut him off. “What I want right now is to be sure I’m gettin’ straight what’s goin’ on here. You been in contact with Ms. Rivers about Dennis Lowe. Yeah?”

  “I’m writing a book—”

  “I don’t give a fuck about that either.” Merry’s tone was deteriorating. “I asked you, you been in contact with Ms. Rivers about Dennis Lowe?”

  “Obviously, I have,” Jones sniped in the face of Merry’s interrogation, his patience waning too.

  “And she made it clear that she didn’t wanna speak to you,” Merry stated.

  Oh shit.

  I hadn’t actually done that.

  “No, actually, she didn’t,” Jones spoke my thoughts. “Ms. Rivers didn’t take my calls.”

  “No, actually, Ms. Rivers refused to take your calls, so she did make it clear that she didn’t wanna speak to you.”

  That was a good twist.

  And damned true.

  “Lieutenant—”

  “Then you found her address and showed in her door without notice.”

  “Her insight into—”

  “Right,” Merry bit out. “We’ll start with this, and it shocks me I have to share this with you, seein’ as you’re in law enforcement—”

  Jones interrupted him through tight lips, “At the present time, I’m not with the FBI. I’m freelance.”

  Not missing a beat, Merry stated, “Then it shocks me I have to share this with you, seein’ as you’re a former law enforcement officer, but you do not, under any circumstances outside havin’ a warrant or probable cause, open the goddamned door to a dwelling. I don’t give a fuck it’s the storm door or the fuckin’ front door. You don’t do it and you know it. Unless you think doin’ it’ll intimidate the occupant of the dwelling into givin’ you what you came to get.”

  “It’s clear Ms. Rivers had some barriers to speaking to—”

  Merry’s head tipped sharply to the side. “So you admit it was clear Ms. Rivers didn’t want to speak to you?”

  Jones’s mouth set.

  Merry kept going.

  “I’ll continue. As a former officer of the law, you are very aware that Ms. Rivers made it clear to you that she doesn’t wish to communicate with you, so right now you’re committing the crime of harassment.”

  “As a former officer of the law, I know that calling Ms. Rivers on the phone and knocking on her door hardly comes close to criminal harassment,” Jones retorted.

  “As your intent was to discuss an episode in her life where she and her son were victimized by a serial killer, and you could infer from her refusal to take your calls that you were causing her alarm or even mental torment, this absolutely could be construed as criminal harassment. And I’ll note that in these parts, it absolutely would be construed that way. Not to mention a credible threat to her safety, even if that safety is a threat to her mental health. So it does come close to criminal harassment. Ignoring her clear communication that she did not wish contact from yo
u, then showing at her door and essentially helping yourself to her property by opening that door, that could conceivably add trespassing and even menacing.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Jones spat.

  “I disagree,” Merry returned. “But you want a second opinion, be happy to call Lieutenant Colton and see how he feels about this shit you’re pullin’.”

  Jones tried to check it but couldn’t quite hide the fact he’d reared back.

  That meant either Colt had already told him to go fuck himself (which was probably not the case, Colt would have warned me) or Colt’s reputation had preceded him, considering the number of people before Jones he’d told to go fuck themselves.

  Merry didn’t miss Jones’s reaction.

  “I see. You think you’re targeting the weak,” he whispered disturbingly.

  “As an officer of the law,” Jones fired back, “you are aware that the study of the criminal mind is essential to understanding it, so that future incidences can either be avoided or the perpetrator can be tracked and caught before he or she causes too much damage.”

  “So,” Merry took his hands off his hips and folded his arms on his chest, “you’re writin’ a criminology textbook?”

  “No,” Jones bit off. “I have a contract with a traditional publisher.”

  “Which means you’re cashin’ in on your FBI trainin’ to make money off of misery,” Merry deduced.

  At that, Jones thankfully decided he was done.

  I knew this when he stepped away from Merry and muttered, “I see that I’ll need to find alternative avenues to understanding Lowe’s psyche.”

  “How’s this? The man was jacked,” Merry told him.

  At these words, Jones’s face screwed up in a weird way that didn’t seem right to me.

  But Merry wasn’t done talking, and as he kept going, Jones’s face shifted back to annoyance before I could figure it out.

  “And that shit was textbook. There wasn’t anything new there, and you’ve got to have studied him so you know that’s the straight up truth. What you intend to do is not a service to the community, man. Be honest with yourself. And you fuck with people’s lives that they pieced together after that maniac ripped them apart, be honest with them that you’re doin’ this for cash in your pocket, book tours, and in hopes of seein’ your name on a film credit.”