Bayou Born, page 8
“I have to go.” I stood in a rush and my chair wobbled. “I need to see Jane again.”
“I’ll escort you.” Cole shot out his arm, his fingers tangling in the curlicue detail of the seatback, righting the chair before it clattered to the floor. “I’ll handle introductions and let the crew know you have clearance to visit as often as you wish.”
An escort inside would spare me the cloak and dagger routine. A girl could only bum so many sets of scrubs. Besides, look how well that worked out last time. I might as well have faced the vultures considering how Valerie had rung the dinner bell for them before I escaped the hospital.
“I don’t see any strings attached.” I waved my fingers through the air, miming a search for spider webs. “I can feel them, but I don’t see them. Yet.”
“I’m a patient hunter.” The corner of his lips twitched. “The best-laid traps are the ones you don’t realize were there until they close behind you.”
A sultry breeze ruffled my shirt, but I dismissed the new patron in favor of keeping my eyes on Cole.
“Ms. Boudreau,” a man called. “Are you Luce Boudreau?” I turned at the sound of my name, like an idiot, and that was all the confirmation the reed-thin man required. “What do you know about Jane Doe? Is it true she was discovered in the same swamp where Edward Boudreau found you fifteen years ago?”
“Go.” Sherry pushed me toward the door. “We’ll handle him.”
What happened next blurred around the edges. Rixton stood to run interference. He hesitated a second to tell Sherry to stay put. I was striding toward the door, Cole on my heels, when the newcomer fisted the sleeve of my top. It was wide-neck and elastic, and his yank pulled it off one shoulder.
The neckline snapped taut and caught under my bra cup, exposing my entire left shoulder and most of my arm down to the elbow.
The shock of the violation, the stunned incomprehension that a strange man had laid his hands on me, locked my muscles until all I could do was stand there and gape. Did that just happen? Is this real? It was such a nightmare scenario for me, being exposed in public. Amnesia swept through my muscle memory, the trauma wiping away all those years of self-defense classes. One move had stripped me of my armor at the worst possible time and left me a victim. Again.
A feral growl ripped me out of my head, and I jerked up my top. The asshat had torn the fabric, so I tucked the ragged material under my bra strap. I spun at the sound of shattering glass and found Cole holding the man a foot off the ground, one of his large hands wrapped around the guy’s windpipe. The other hand had yanked the camera from his grasp, and his huge booted foot had stomped it flat. The breaking glass was courtesy of a framed picture Cole had bashed the man’s head through. Blood speckled the mat surrounding a dollar bill from Hannigan’s opening, the first one they’d earned.
For a good ol’ Southern boy, the guttural words pouring out of Cole’s mouth, pressed flush against the reporter’s ear, were not in any way comprehensible. Another language definitely. German maybe?
I crossed to him when it became obvious no one else was brave enough to get between the furious titan and the target of his wrath. Rixton had shielded Sherry, and he wasn’t budging until the situation was contained and his wife and child were safe. “Cole?”
“He touched you,” he snarled. “Exposed you.”
“Can you put him down?” I rested my hand between the slabs of muscle between his shoulders. “The cops will be here in a minute.” I had no doubt Mr. Hannigan had mashed his panic button. “Let them take care of this guy.”
Choking sounds interspersed with sobs had me lifting my gaze to the reporter. Cole caught the man looking in my direction, and the vibration in his chest deepened until the man whimpered and crushed his eyes shut. A second later, the tang of ammonia filled the air. The guy had pissed himself, and that was the only reason Cole turned him loose and took a step back. Lip curled, he glowered at the guy.
“There are parts of the swamp that have never been seen by human eyes,” he told the man. “Touch her again, and I’ll give you a guided tour.”
The guy curled in a ball, hands covering his face, and rocked until sirens blared in the distance.
Aware I was taking my life into my hands, I tugged on Cole’s shirt until he angled his body toward me. I was a country girl, and I knew all about not getting between a predator and his prey. But I needed Cole to greenlight me with his crew, and that couldn’t happen if he was in lockup. “That was an extreme reaction, don’t you think?”
“No.” Muscles fluttered in his jaw. “I don’t.” He hooked his index finger and tapped under my chin until I looked all the way up at him. “What if there hadn’t been witnesses? What if he hadn’t stopped there? What if he hadn’t come alone? Do you think his friends would have helped you? Or stopped filming? No matter how long you screamed?”
“I would have snapped out of it, okay? He surprised me. The attention has gotten rough before, but no one has ever . . . ” I fingered the torn edges of my shirt. “I wasn’t ready for him to put his hands on me. I will be next time.”
“We need to leave.” He lowered his hand. “The cops are almost here.”
“I am a cop, remember?” I thumped my chest with my closed fist. “Plus, you kind of Hulk-smashed this place. There are repercussions for that sort of thing.”
“You expect me to hang around and answer questions.” He made it sound like I’d asked him to donate a kidney then offered to cut it out with a butter knife and no anesthesia. “I have a spotless record precisely because I avoid both those things.”
“How about this?” I walked him backward with a palm flattened against his rock-hard chest then applied slight pressure on his shoulder until he sat in the nearest chair. “I’ll stay here and hold your hand so the big, bad cops don’t scare you.”
Cole extended his arm, palm up, and waited for me to make good on my promise.
“I didn’t mean that literally.” But I put my hand in his and let the fold of his fingers swallow me up to the wrist. Lifting a concrete block one-handed might have been easier than bearing the full weight of his hand, his arm, when he relaxed into my grip. Biceps trembling, elbow joint aching, I didn’t complain. How could I when he hadn’t so much as peeked at my bare skin? He must be curious about the markings. He was in this up to his neck. Yet he had tossed aside a prime opportunity to evaluate me, to compare my banding to Jane’s, and I respected him for that. “I don’t get you, Cole, so give me some pointers. Should I thank you for defending my honor? Or would that only encourage your caveman tendencies in the future?”
Quicker than a rattler striking down a field mouse, he swung his head toward the reporter. “He put his hands on you.” His lips peeled from his teeth, and a low sound pumped through his chest that made my fingers itch to flatten my palm against his back once more. “He’s lucky I let him off with a warning.”
Well, that answered my question. Wrap his hips with animal pelts, pass the man a club, and Cole would be a Neolithic dream come true. Good thing I wasn’t sleeping much these days.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Feral cats showed more kindness to stray dogs than Cole showed my fellow officers, his words full of hiss and spit, but he had sheathed his claws for me. For now. Oddly proud of myself, I felt as though I had tamed a tiger to eat from my palm. Cole gave a concise statement to Officer Landry, one of Dad’s fishing buddies, and if the older cop objected to Cole rubbing his thumb over my knuckles like worry stones, he didn’t let on.
Oh yeah. He was so tattling on me once he got out of here.
The reporter, Moses Franke, shivered like a Chihuahua while giving his account and chose not to press charges. Had I been in his shoes, with Cole sitting three feet away, I wouldn’t have had the balls to cry foul either. I wasn’t as forgiving. Accidental public urination wasn’t enough of an apology for me. Charges, they were getting pressed.
“Mr. Hannigan is not one of your admirers.” Free at last, Cole eased open the froyo shop’s front door and scanned the sidewalk while using his body as a shield against whatever had caused his forehead to pucker. “Four eye-witness accounts, and he still attempted to shift the blame onto you.”
“He’s never liked me much.” Yet another reason why I rarely came here and never alone. “I had a gum-chewing problem as a teen, a nervous habit. He blamed me for what he called the ‘slobber graffiti’ under his tabletops.” The funny thing about Mr. Hannigan was he seemed like an okay guy on the surface, but he never forgot I had crawled out of the swamp, and he never let me forget around him either. “This is the latest in a long string of attempts at banning me from his establishment for life.”
Having a cop for a dad, even as a grown woman, served as one heck of a deterrent against discriminatory shenanigans. Mr. Hannigan wanted the law on his side before he made a move, and this latest incident might actually give that to him.
“You should have told me.” Cole glanced down at me. “I wouldn’t have paid him.”
Cole had arranged for a wire transfer to cover the exorbitant “estimated” cost of repairs, tacking on extra to cover Mr. Hannigan’s mental anguish caused by the destruction of a beloved keepsake—the framed dollar bill.
“You and your bank account made quite the impression on him.” I attempted to peer around Cole. He shifted to make that impossible. Since I didn’t have any rock climbing gear handy, I couldn’t very well scale him to discover what held his attention. “He’d probably be thrilled if you became a regular.”
“That won’t ever happen,” he murmured.
I chose to view his declaration as one of annoyance and not of solidarity. I was no less suspicious of him, no less annoyed with him, but I’ll admit I was flattered. The guy had defended my honor. Who did that? No one these days. Certainly not for me. Never for me.
“Can we get out of here?” The stares on my back were starting to make my skin prickle.
“Channel 8 News is out there.” He angled his face in my direction. “Their van boxed-in your Bronco. The reporter is practically oiled up and sliding across your hood.” A steady rumble moved through his chest, and this time I did place my hand on his back to feel the vibrations, to prove I wasn’t crazy. “We’ll take my SUV to the hospital. I can give your keys to one of the crew, and they can drive your Bronco home. That work for you?”
“Let me notify Rixton.” Rixton, who had informed Landry he would be taking his wife home, and if he wanted their statements, he could come get them. “He’ll worry if he spots the Bronco, but I’m not here.”
“You’re smart to tell him where you’re going and with who.” Amusement tugged at his lips. “I wouldn’t trust me either if I were you.”
“Sure you won’t reconsider telling me who hired you to protect Jane?” I folded my arms and waited. “That would go a long way toward earning my trust.”
“Trust will come in time.” He made it sound like a foregone conclusion. “Do you have everything you need?”
“Yeah.” I checked my top, tucked in the fabric where it had come loose, all the while hating there would be photos of me emerging from Hannigan’s in a ripped shirt after the altercation. That wouldn’t be good for Dad’s blood pressure. “Let’s get this over with.”
“Here.” He gripped the bottom of his polo and tugged it over his head. He wore a plain, black undershirt, but the motion untucked the thin fabric from his pants and exposed a glimpse of ridged scarring over hard muscle. “Put this on.”
“Thanks.” Walking out in Cole’s shirt was adding more fuel to the fire, but I would rather burn than expose my secrets to the masses. I shrugged into the polo and grinned at him. The hem hit right above my knees, and the short sleeves hung past my elbows. I held my chin up when he went to button the black discs he had left undone at his throat with surprisingly nimble fingers. “You’re kind of a beast. You know that, right?”
The sight of me sporting White Horse gear—his gear—had elicited a pleased rumble from him. Typical guy response. I think they came hardwired that way. Now his slow perusal came to a screeching halt as my words registered, and he mashed his lips together. “I know.”
Considering how Valerie had all but called me a cryptid, and how that made me feel like a dirt sandwich, I cringed at the name-calling. Of all the accusations I’d made, this one alone seemed to truly bother him.
“Hey, I meant you’re a big guy.” I gripped his wrists and squeezed to get his attention. “Not literally.”
The tension in his shoulders eased. “Is that a problem?”
“Are you offering to sit on the couch watching football and drinking beer until all this—” I dragged a finger down his defined abs, inviting the warm shiver that followed “—turns to pudge if it is?”
“My body is a weapon,” he admitted, watching me with rapt attention. “I can’t afford to let it go to . . . pudge.”
“Is security work that dangerous?” His expensive taste in toys proved his firm had done well for itself. Landing contracts with people like the Claremonts had to be lucrative. “Or is your appearance a deterrent?”
“Both.” A flicker of motion caught his eye, and a black SUV with a bright White Horse logo pulled up to the curb. “That’s our ride.”
“That’s your SUV.” The odds of two such beasts prowling our streets was slim. “Who’s behind the wheel?”
“Santiago was due for a grocery run, so I got him to drop me off first.” Reaching for my elbow on reflex, he drew back at the last second. “Where am I allowed to touch?”
“My hands.” I didn’t waste breath asking how he knew I was touch-averse. He saw everything with those meltwater eyes. “I avoid contact on my arms and shoulders.”
He took my hand like it was his right and led me into the maelstrom. Channel 8’s cameraman rushed us, and the reporter trailed him shouting my name. Lights flashed. More pictures for me to gather and scrapbook later. More photos for me to scan while I waited for the tug of recognition in my gut that said Hey, that’s me. Had I been alone, I would have ducked my head and ran, but Cole waded in, and I bobbed behind him. Surprise, surprise, no one jostled me. Word traveled fast. They wouldn’t touch me today, a small gift, but their memories were short, relentless hunger driving them, and I would be fair game again tomorrow.
We reached the SUV, and Cole yanked open the door. He placed his hand on my hip and guided me inside before scooting across the bench seat and slamming a barrier between us, the bright lights and raised voices.
“Nice shirt.” Santiago met my gaze in the rearview mirror. “Does that make you an honorary member of the crew?”
“Drive.” Cole punched Santiago’s headrest. “Take us to Madison Memorial.”
Santiago grunted once in his boss’s direction, then glided into traffic.
I let my head fall back against the seat and blew out a sigh. “Thanks for getting me out of there.”
“You’re welcome,” the men said in tandem, and Cole scowled as Santiago tacked on, “Life’s never dull around you, is it?”
“I like dull.” I fastened my seatbelt. “Life just didn’t get the memo.” I felt Cole’s eyes on me and turned my head toward him. “Who’s covering the hospital?”
“Portia Cannon,” Santiago answered for him. “She’s got legs for miles and ain’t picky whose hips she wraps them around. Ain’t that right, boss?”
A heavy silence descended over the backseat. Oh. Oh.
“Thanks for oversharing.” Guess he’d noticed the handholding and decided to put a stop to that. I could have told him not to bother, that I wasn’t interested in climbing Mt. Heaton, but I saved my breath. “You could have given me relevant information—height, weight, hair color—but you do you.”
A mental picture of how Cole’s bedroom might look, outfitted with ropes, harnesses and carabiners popped into my head. The absurdity of it all forced out a snort that had Santiago squinting at me. Pleased to have gotten under his skin, I ignored the surly driver, picked up my phone and started damage control.
I texted Dad and Uncle Harold, skipped Maggie since I still had her phone, then read Rixton’s reply.
He led with an update on Sherry, who was napping, then let the other shoe drop. We were off the Claremont case. The girl’s parents had thrown their weight around and gotten the case reassigned to the FBI office out of nearby Jackson. I didn’t blame them. Their access to superior resources gave them an edge we lacked, and the longer she remained missing, the slimmer the hope of bringing her home alive.
Dad responded with four words—also expected—We need to talk.
Uncle Harold replied with a row of emojis I translated as “smiling while a four-leaf clover and a dog eats cake in a church.” Or maybe he meant he was a lucky dog because he was in church eating cake? A potluck maybe? His grandkids were trying to make him hip to their lingo, but so far all their efforts had accomplished was making me feel old and in need of a translator.
“Here we are.” Santiago pulled under the portico. “You want me to park or circle?”
“Circle,” Cole decided. “Keep an eye out. Make sure we weren’t followed.”
The doorlocks popped, and I exited the vehicle. Cole got out and paced around the vehicle, peeling off the White Horse logos where he found them, then tossed them in the trunk along with several other interchangeable magnetic signs stuck together in clumps. Below those, metal gleamed. License plates.
I fingered a square marked with Tombigbee Electric Power Association logo. “Do I want to know?”
“No.” He closed the hatch then pounded his fist twice against the glass. “It’s best if you don’t.”
Briiiiiiing.
