Changing Teams (22 page)

“Sam, am I to understand that this is the young lady you first needed to repair things with?” Captain MacKellar asked.

“The one and only,” Sam replied. “I told Britt everything about Aunt Sophia. She was the first person I felt I could be myself around since all of that happened.”

“Britt?”

I tore my gaze away from Sam and faced his mother. “Yes, ma’am?”

“Based on your position, am I to assume that you found Sam’s apology satisfactory?” she asked in her best military officer voice.

“Yes.” I laid my head on Sam’s shoulder, and laced my fingers with his. “I feel very, very lucky to have Sam in my life.”

Captain MacKellar smiled. “That makes me happy. Very happy.” She glanced at her watch, and continued, “I’m sorry, Sam, but I have a meeting I need to get to. Can we talk again later?”

“Sure thing, Momma,” he replied. “Name the time and I’ll be here.”

“Good. I’ll make sure your father can join us.” She gathered up some paperwork, and added, “We both have some leave time coming up. Why don’t you plan a visit to Sioux City? You can bring Britt. I know I would love to meet her face to face, and I’m sure your father would as well.”

“Bring this city girl out to the country?” Sam countered with that devilish smile. “She wouldn’t last a day.”

“I’d be fine,” I said. “I’d have you to protect me.”

Sam kissed my temple again. “That you would.”

“Then it’s settled,” Captain MacKellar said as she stood. “I’ll arrange for our time off here. How does early November sound? We can have an early Thanksgiving, just the four of us.”

“What do you think, angel?” Sam asked. “Wanna carve a turkey with me?”

I grinned, unable to think of anything I’d rather do. “Fight you for the wishbone.”

***

After Sam’s mom had signed off, Sam and I whiled away the morning watching talk shows, game shows, and other examples of bad daytime television. When Sam insisted on watching one of those sensational news channels for more than an hour, I expressed my displeasure at being forced to watch such garbage by engaging in my new favorite pastime: I fell asleep.

Ha. That’ll show him.

When I woke up, Sam was at his desk again, talking on his cell and making notes. “All right, then, Monday at one,” he said into the receiver. “See you then.”

He ended the call just as I snuck up behind him and slid my arms around his shoulders. “Miss me?” I asked.

“You were right there on the couch,” he replied, but leaned back for a kiss anyway. “What are your plans for Monday?”

“Um, I have no idea.” Since it was Friday, I’d been planning on putting off real life at least until the weekend was over. “I suppose I should call my agent at some point.”

“Oh, Marlys emailed me your contracts. You’ll be happy to know that Sands Romance still wants you as their cover queen.”

“They do?” I asked, then I realized that if Sam has spoken with Marlys, she, and therefore others, might know about what happened at the studio. “Why did Marlys email you?”

“I called her, let her know that Nash would be out of commission for a time.” He swiveled around in his chair and cupped my face with his hands. “And no, I didn’t tell her why.”

“Marlys didn’t interrogate you?” Whenever I refused a job she practically demanded a doctor’s note.

“She tried. I told her that Nash was not one to share his plans with me, and that I really had no idea of when he’d be working again. All true statements,” he added.

I draped my arms around Sam’s neck, and he settled his hands on my waist. “Getting good with this truth thing, aren’t you?” I teased.

“More than you realize.” He paused, his thumbs tracing little circles against my ribs. “Did you hear me make that appointment?”

“I did,” I replied. “Is it for a shoot?”

“No, I made myself a therapy appointment.”

“Therapy? For what?” My brain caught up with my mouth, and I added, “But you’re already fixing things. Do you really need to go to therapy too?”

“I think I do.” Sam sighed, and leaned back in his chair. “It’s not just about telling the truth. You don’t know what it’s like growing up gay, even just pretending to be gay. There are great people out there, and great support groups, but some people just hate for the sake of hating…”

Sam cleared his throat, then he rubbed his eyes. “If I suddenly become not-gay, what’s to stop all those anti-gay groups from saying that I’m cured? What’s to stop them from using me as an example of how being gay is wrong, something that can be fixed?”

“You really think that would happen?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he replied, “but I mean to do everything in my power to be the other sort of example.”

“Other sort?”

“Yeah, an example of how being gay is a good thing.” He straightened his back and took my hands in his. “I want the world to know that it was a heterosexual woman that hurt me, and how the gay community took me in. They loved me, accepted me, and never asked me for anything except to be myself. Well, I guess I didn’t really live up to that condition,” he smirked.

“You did the best you could,” I said. “You must have felt so scared and alone.”

Sam shook his head. “I wasn’t ever scared or alone, not even once, because the entire gay community had my back. Now that I’m outed as a straight guy, they need to know that I still have theirs.”

I raked my fingers through his dark hair, pushing his just barely too long bangs off his face. “You’re pretty fucking awesome, you know that?”

Sam brought my hand to his mouth and kissed my knuckles. “I’m just a man that loves a woman, is all,” he murmured.

“Really? Do you?” I asked. I know we had that forever talk and all, but I’d only heard Sam say that me he loved me through a closed door, or while he thought I was sleeping. Or worse, a text message. “Because I love you an awful lot.”

“I love you so much, angel,” Sam affirmed, keeping me in his arms as he stood and walked us toward the bedroom. “More than anything, I love you.”

Chapter

Twenty-Eight

Sam

After spending the best three days of my life holed up in my apartment with Britt, our days filled with nothing more strenuous than ordering takeout and making love, Monday rolled around. The beginning of the week ended our little fantasy life in more ways than one.

For one thing, we both needed to see to our employment situations. Since Nash was currently a fugitive from justice, I was officially out of a job. I did have my savings to fall back on, but I’d promised Melody that I’d cover the rent on Britt’s apartment, and I still had my own rent to pay. As strong as my financial situation was, I couldn’t afford rent on two Manhattan apartments for more than a few months.

As for Britt, her agent had emailed over twenty solid offers, and she needed to pick some of them quick. Britt had already told Marlys that she would accept the Sands Romance contracts, so those were a go as soon as the publisher found a new photographer. As for the rest of the offers, Britt wavered between excitement over her many prospects, and wanting to give up modeling altogether.

“You warned me modeling was dangerous,” she said when I asked her why she was throwing in the towel. “I mean, if you hadn’t come by…”

“Hush, angel,” I said. “I did, and I will never allow you to go to one of those shoots alone again. All those photographers will have to learn to deal with your annoying boyfriend tagging along behind you.”

“My annoying boyfriend, huh?” She smirked at me, then she took off her shirt. Well, it was really my shirt; we were getting our laundry together to drop off at the wash and fold, so she dutifully shucked off the shirt she’d slept in. Of course, that meant she was standing before me naked.

“I can’t believe you pay people to do your laundry,” Britt said as she rummaged through her clothes. I’d surrendered one of my dresser drawers and half of my closet to Britt, and she hadn’t wasted any time in filling them up. “Can’t you just hit up a Laundromat like a regular person?”

“The wash and fold is more convenient, and it works out to be about the same price,” I countered. “They charge by the pound.”

“Clean or dirty?”

“Pardon?”

“When they weigh your laundry, do they do it when you first drop it off, when it’s dirty, or after they wash it?”

“Does that really matter?”

“Of course it does. Dirty laundry, what with the dirt still attached, would weigh more.” Britt indicated the bags of laundry on the bed. “I’m afraid the wash and fold may be taking advantage of you, my poor, sweet Sam.”

“You really think my clothes are so filthy they could cause a weight discrepancy?”

Britt flashed me that grin of hers, then she got on the bed and crawled toward me. “Maybe I don’t want other women handling your delicates,” she said, rising up on her knees so her face was level with mine. Of course, since she was still naked, I had no idea what her expression was.

“Get some clothes on or we’re going to be late,” I said, ignoring what was happening in my pants. “Besides, what with your perpetual nudity, this’ll be my lightest load yet.”

Britt kissed my nose. “Whatever. You like me nude.”

“That has never been in question, angel.”

Britt glanced meaningfully below my waist, then she returned to the dresser and located some undergarments. “What time is the appointment again?”

“One.” I glanced at my watch; it was just after nine. That meant we had plenty of time to drop off the laundry, grab an early lunch, and fill out the million forms I was sure were waiting for us at the therapist’s office.

“How did you snag an appointment so quickly, anyway?” Britt asked. “Have you seen this doctor before?”

“Never met her in my life,” I replied. “However, she is Michael’s aunt, and he put in a good word for me. Good to have friends in high places, you know?”

“I sure do.”

***

“That wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought it would be,” I said as Britt and I stepped out into the brisk autumn air. I’d been expecting the therapist to rip out my most terrible memories and leave me a weepy mess. Instead, I felt…better. Lighter, even. Maybe there was something to this therapy business after all.

“Dr. Janvier was nice,” Britt said, sliding her arm through mine and cuddling close. “I bet she’s Michael’s favorite aunt.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.” That initial session had involved the three of us—me, Britt, and Dr. Janvier—talking about what truth meant to each of us, and whether or not truth can be viewed as something fluid. “What do you think about her idea that the truth can change over time?”

“It’s an interesting theory,” Britt replied. “I suppose the answer really depends on the truth in question.”

“I suppose it does.”

My phone rang, so I extricated myself from Britt and fished it out of my pocket. I didn’t recognize the number, other than the local area code. “Sam MacKellar.”

“Mr. MacKellar, Detective Salter here,” came the gruff voice. “Is Miss Sullivan with you?”

“She is,” I replied. “Would you like to speak with her?”

“Actually, I’d like both of you to come down to the station,” Detective Salter replied. “We may have the Williams’ brothers in custody, and we’d like you two to identify them.”

I almost pointed out what a foolish waste of time that would be; being that I’d been Nash’s assistant for over a year, and that we’d both met each of the brothers on several occasions, of course we could identify them. Then I recalled that I was speaking with a government official, and that whatever was laid down in the procedures manual would trump any bits of common sense I might bestow.

“We can be there in less than an hour,” I said.

Detective Salter grunted and hung up, then I pocketed my phone and turned toward Britt. “What is it?” she asked.

“Seems that you and I are needed at the police station.”

***

Britt was silent during the cab ride to the station, and I quickly gave up my attempts at small talk. Once we were inside the station, and Detective Fillion came out to collect us, we were ushered into one of those rooms with a two-way mirror, though the viewing area on the other side was dark and empty.

“I thought we were supposed to be identifying people,” Britt said, eyeing the empty room. “Where are the people?”

“They will be brought in shortly,” Fillion added. She watched Britt’s face for a moment, then she added, “I’m sorry we asked you down here for this. It was Salter’s idea.”

Britt nodded. “So, what do we do here?”

Fillion indicated that we should sit, so we did. “Listen, Britt, the Williams brothers are claiming that you three had something going on. That you weren’t assaulted, and that what was recorded in the studio was just a regular night for you.”

“What?” Britt rasped. “There is a video of them drugging me, and me passing out!”

“They don’t know we have the videos,” Fillion said. “We’re trying to get them to admit to as much as possible before we reveal that.” Fillion paused. “There’s also the fact that you admitted to being a nude model for Ben Williams. That’s not helping things.”

Britt was so mad her face was bright red. I squeezed her hand, and asked, “What about the other girls? The sisters, and the other girls that were found dead?”

Fillion’s eyes hardened. “Those cases, and the rest, are helping convict these bastards. Look, I want these guys gone too, and we have a strong case against them. I was just giving you a head’s up.”

“Much appreciated,” I said. “Now, can we please do what we were called here to do?”

Fillion pursed her lips and nodded; apparently she’d been looking for some sort of appreciation. Little did she know, Britt and I just wanted to get the hell out of that place. Fillion exited the room and returned a minute or so later with Salter in tow. Before either of them spoke, a line of suspects filed into the room beyond the glass.

When the suspects were lined up against the wall, Salter asked, “Miss Sullivan, can you identify Nash Williams?”

“Number four,” she replied without hesitation.

“I assume you can identify your former employer,” Salter drawled in my direction.

“You assume correctly,” I said.

Salter barked a few orders into an intercom, and the suspects filed out and a new set filed in.

“Mr. MacKellar, can you identify the individual that struck you at Nash Williams’s studio last Monday?” Salter demanded.

“Actually, I can’t,” I replied. “Whoever hit me did it from behind. I didn’t even know I was injured until after the EMTs arrived to see to Britt. She had been drugged and was unresponsive, as I’m sure you know, and I was far more interested in her well-being than about whoever might be lurking around behind me.” I glanced at Salter, and added, “I believe you have a video recording in your possession that corroborates my statement, and that the recording appears to show Ben Williams as my assailant.”

Salter grunted. “Miss Sullivan, did you once model for one of these individuals at a museum?”

“Number two,” Britt replied, indicating Ben.

“Do you recall seeing him last Monday?” Salter pressed.

“No, I don’t,” she replied. “I don’t remember anything after I drank that first cup of coffee. All I know of what happened afterward is what I saw on the video.”

Salter grunted again, which was evidently his all-purpose response. “Is it still your intent to press charges?”

“It is my intent to do whatever I can to make sure no one else ends up like Jillene,” Britt shot back. “Have you at least learned her last name?”

“Leonas,” Fillion replied. “Jillene Margaret Leonas.”

Salter glared at Fillion, but didn’t reprimand her. I wondered what the penalty was for divulging a murder victim’s name. “You can both go,” Salter said, careful not to look Britt in the eye again. “We’ll be in touch.”

I nodded toward the detectives, then I placed my hand against Britt’s lower back and guided her out of that room, and out of the station. We stepped out into the early afternoon light for the second time that day, our mood much fouler than before.

“I hate them,” Britt growled.

“Do you dislike all of the NYPD, or just Salter?” I asked. “Fillion seems all right.”

“They’re all in it together.” A breeze whipped up and Britt turned her face into the wind, letting it blow her long hair off her face. “I’m sorry, I don’t want to be a downer. When do we have to pick up the laundry?”

“We can get it tomorrow,” I said as I hailed a cab. “Let’s get the car.”

“Where are we going?”

“Not sure yet,” I replied. “You up for an adventure, baby?”

Like the angel she was, Britt grinned. “Always.”