Colorado 02 Sweet Dreams (78 page)

I opened my eyes. It was dark. I smelled hospital. I felt no pain.

I turned my head to the side and saw Tate.

He was awake, sitting in a chair pulled close to the side of my bed, his elbows to his knees, his eyes bloodshot, he looked wiped.

“Hey,” I whispered and I felt my lips form a small smile.

His eyes dropped to my mouth then they closed, so slowly it felt like it took ten minutes watching him do it.

Then his head dropped and he muttered to his knees, “Jesus fucking Christ. Jesus
fucking
Christ.”

“Honey,” I whispered and his head shot up and then he filled my vision because his mouth was on mine, gentle but firm and his big hands had spanned either side of my head, holding me still.

He broke the connection of our lips and he rested his forehead against mine.

“Baby,” he whispered.

“Jim-Billy?” I asked.

“Okay, knife did more damage on him than you, went through his stomach, but they patched him up.”

I closed my eyes this time then opened them to have the only thing I saw be his.

“Thank God,” I breathed then asked, “Jonas?”

“Outside sleepin’ on a couch with Krys and Stella and Sunny and Wendy and half of Carnal.”

“Half of Carnal?”

He nodded, his forehead rolling against mine. “Half of Carnal.”

“Must be a big waiting room,” I whispered, realizing this was taking it out of me, my eyelids were getting heavy and I fought it. It was the first time I didn’t want to sleep.

Tate saw it and his head came up a couple of inches but both of his hands slid down to my jaws.

“Go to sleep, honey,” he urged gently, both his thumbs lifting up, stroking my cheekbones, “I’ll be here when you get to the other side.”

“Don’t wanna,” I muttered, my lids lowering and, with effort, I pulled them open again.

“Go to sleep, Laurie.”

“Tate,” I whispered, my eyelids falling again and I couldn’t pull them open.

But before sleep swept me away, I felt his lips on mine form the words, “Sweet dreams, baby.”

* * * * *

Jim-Billy

Jim-Billy woke feeling something he hadn’t felt in seven years.

A soft, warm female pressed to his side, her hand under her cheek at his shoulder.

With effort, he looked down to see the top of Laurie’s blonde head, her shoulder covered in a hospital gown, the rest of her body covered in a thin hospital blanket.

He sensed movement, his head settled back on the pillow and his eyes turned to the bright, Colorado sunshine coming through the window where Tate stood, Tate’s eyes on the two people in the bed.

“She asleep?” Jim-Billy asked, his voice a soft rasp.

Tate nodded.

“Made me bring her in here, wanted to be with you,” Tate whispered, his voice barely audible.

Jim-Billy nodded.

“She okay?” Jim-Billy asked.

“Better than you,” Tate answered.

Jim-Billy nodded again.

He didn’t feel much pain but then again, he wasn’t moving and he had a soft, warm female body pressed to his side. She was Tate’s but she was still a soft, warm female
and
she was Laurie, alive and breathing. It was a gift and life was too short, you get a gift, especially one as precious as the one squeezed next to him in a damned hospital bed, you accept it.

Tate walked from the window to the bed, the entirety of this short trip his eyes never leaving Jim-Billy’s.

Once he made it to the bed, though, they flicked down to Laurie then back to Jim-Billy.

Then he said in a fierce whisper, “Owe you, Billy, owe you
huge.
”

Jim-Billy nodded again.

“I know.”

And he did know, not because Jim-Billy suffered whatever was behind the complete numbness of his gut, made that way from whatever was feeding into his bloodstream from the drip in his arm but because Jim-Billy suffered it to do his bit to keep what was squeezed in bed beside him alive and breathing.

Jim-Billy grinned his semi-toothless grin at Tate.

Then he said, “Merry Christmas.”

Tate stared at him for a second and he did this hard.

Then Tate’s face relaxed and Jim-Billy heard his low, amused chuckle.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Where Are They Now?

“In one of the most remarkable where are they nows, Tatum Jackson, All-American linebacker for Penn State and first round draft pick for the Philadelphia Eagles, is back in the news after a twenty-two year absence.”

The minute they said Tate’s name, I pushed a bit up Tate’s chest where we were lying on the couch.

Me and my whole family were watching the football commentators doing their bit during halftime of the Sunday (the day after Christmas) game.

Pop had called my folks the minute he had a chance after they found me. They decided not to wait for the next flight out, which was late the next morning because by that time, my Dad said, they could be halfway across Nebraska (and were). So they packed up their stuff and all the presents and took turns driving all night to get to Colorado.

“Turn that shit off,” Tate growled, as he would, since he was in a very bad mood even though it was the day after Christmas.

I’d been let out of the hospital on Christmas Eve.

I’d talked to the cops in the hospital. Dalton was in bad shape from a gunshot wound and the beating Tate had given him. He’d also confessed after Special Agent Tambo explained the extent of the evidence against him which was a lot, considering he’d abducted me, cut my hair, kept trophies, didn’t dispose of his mattress that was covered in DNA and used the same knife on us all, leaving that knife in Jim-Billy’s gut.

Not to mention, Sunny had given a partial ID.

He’d also confessed to murdering his Mom and pinning it on her boyfriend. He was, as Tate would call him, seriously whacked. Not appreciative of the fact that his Mom had found the love of her life and especially not appreciative of the fact that she didn’t mind hiding it.

She was, Tambo told Tate that Dalton told him, meant to be only his.

They’d released Dalton’s Mom’s boyfriend after he spent nearly twenty years in prison for a murder he didn’t commit against a woman he adored. The State gave him restitution but, I figured, losing the woman he loved and nearly half of his life to prison, no restitution would heal those wounds.

Tambo had also told Tate that I’d gotten loose, in a way, partially thanks to Tonia, Neeta and the other girls. They’d struggled, weakening the pipe of the radiator.

I hated this fact, hated knowing their torture helped to save my life, but I was thankful all the same.

And lastly Tambo told Tate that Dalton did all the girls there, at that old house, then took them home even if that meant Nevada or Utah. Dalton said they needed to go home, needed to be with their families, needed to be at rest someplace familiar. Dalton was contrite, driven to his behavior but he struggled against it. He killed in May, his mother’s birth month, and December, her boyfriend’s. That he would allow. Knowing he could give in those months kept the urge at bay the rest of the time. But, when I got to the bar and Dalton watched Tate and me falling in love, that triggered something, flipped the switch, and he lost control.

I hated this fact too but I didn’t dwell. Tate had taught me, with what I allowed Brad to do to me, with what he felt after his Dad died, with how he acted after Neeta’s murder, that life was too short to dwell, to twist special in your head and make it go bad. Tate and I falling in love was just that, a biker and his biker babe falling in love. It was something else for Dalton and that was on Dalton. After searching my whole life, I wasn’t going to finally find special and let some psychopath twist it and make it go bad.

No, I was going to hold it precious.

Forever.

As for my family, we’d had a pretty good Christmas, considering I was still banged up and in some pain. As I suspected, Mom had spoiled Jonas but she’d also spoiled Tate and me. Jonas definitely had a good Christmas, what with Mom, Carrie, Pop, Stella, Wood and me giving him his every heart’s desire (and some of them he didn’t even know he wanted). It had taken us hours to unwrap presents.

Tate had left me to spoil Jonas and he’d just spoiled me. He’d had a silver necklace custom-made, a fall of five, exquisite silver flowers in a pendant hanging from it, the links in the chain were unusual and beautiful. He’d also had a set of five silver bangles made, two had flower pendants dangling, three had been inset all around with peridot and rose quartz. He’d also had a wide silver band made, it fit my index finger, went from base to knuckle and it was also inset with peridot and rose quartz. He’d given them to me telling me, right in front of everyone, “From now on, babe, you only wear my silver.” This, I figured, was healthy indication that he intended to add to my new silver collection and since Tate had good taste, the jewelry so gorgeous, I didn’t mind that at all.

Even with Mom and Carrie’s great cooking, family and friends all around (because practically everyone in Carnal trooped through our house the last few days) and almost constant Christmas music being played (because I might give into Tate and Jonas not liking it much but Mom was a Christmas Music Freak and she knew I loved it too and I’d been abducted, beaten and stabbed so she was going to play my beloved Christmas music even if Tate was a badass) things hadn’t been good.

We’d had to unplug the phone so many people were calling and not just friends and family. My ex-friends from Horizon Summit had all phoned and Tate was not very diplomatic when he’d answered these calls, usually saying something like, “You one of those who hung Laurie out to dry when her fuckwad husband was cheating on her?” Pause for answer then, “Bullshit, go fuck yourself,” then disconnect (when Carrie heard this, she burst out laughing, every time).

We also had calls from journalists for print and television and even a production company that wanted to pitch a reality program, starring Tate.

Not joking. A reality program starring Tate.

“No, Dad!” Jonas shouted from the floor, taking my mind off my thoughts. Jonas was nearly bouncing in excitement and not taking his eyes from the TV screen.

“Nittany Lions fans still feel the pain remembering Jackson’s professional football career being cut short when he was hit with an illegal tackle in the endzone after forcing a fumble, recovering it and entering the endzone in a monumental touchdown in the last seconds that won the Eagles the game against their rivals the Giants,” the commentator continued.

“After leaving football,” the other commentator took up the story, “Jackson became a decorated police officer and is now one of the most sought after, and successful, fugitive apprehension agents in the country.” He grinned devilishly at the camera. “That’s
bounty hunters
to those of us not in the game.”

“But, little would he know,” the other commentator butted in, his voice had gone grave, “that two days before Christmas Eve, Jackson would be hunting a serial killer who’d murdered his ex-girlfriend, an employee and a string of other young, innocent females over a four year period and who had, that very night, abducted Jackson’s fiancée.”

The commentators switched. “Even with the murderer on the loose for four years, the Federal Bureau of Investigations failed to crack the case, but Jackson cornered the killer within an hour and handed him over to the local authorities, saving the life of a local, who’d been stabbed, and his fiancée, who had been stabbed and beaten but luckily otherwise unharmed.”

“Bullshit,” Tate muttered, “total bullshit.”

“Tate,” I whispered, “shush.”

“Let’s take a look at Tatum Jackson’s career,” the commentator invited with a warm smile and then we were treated to a montage with a pre-recorded voiceover and sappy music playing over a variety of live action and still pictures of Tate’s short football career with some still frames of Tate’s longer bounty hunter career. These were pictures I recognized from Loretta’s stalker site, pictures I knew would mean about seven thousand new Tate Stalker Sites were going to spring up. The football footage included the tackle that took out Tate’s knee, a late tackle and dirty, made by an offensive lineman who was unbelievably huge, and, worst of all, it looked like it freaking
hurt
and I could have done without seeing
that.

The montage done – with a photo in the top, left corner of the screen of Tate, looking tired, but definitely still smokin’ hot, striding purposefully toward the hospital, his eyes straight, his hand on Jonas’s shoulder, Jonas’s face blurred out – the camera closed in on one of the sports commentators as he looked soberly straight into the camera.

“They blurred out my face!” Jonas shouted, clearly aggrieved.

“Every Sunday,” the commentator’s voice was low and serious, “we report to you about the heroes of the gridiron. Many of those men do good deeds but not many of them save lives. Tatum Jackson, a promising recruit for the Eagles, had his football career cut tragically short. But the real tragedy would have been if Jackson had not gone on to protect the people of the town of Carnal, Colorado and the future victims of the vicious May-December murderer. Our hats off to you, Jackson. You are a
true
hero.”

“Fucking hell,” Tate muttered and I giggled which was bad since it hurt my side.

“I liked it,” Mack declared, lying on the floor with Jonas and Carrie, he rolled to his back and looked up at Tate and me, “pure drama, absolute class.”

Tate scowled at the screen and ignored Mack. “They didn’t mention Jim-Billy.”

“We all love Jim-Billy but, it must be said, Jim-Billy isn’t as hot as you, Tate,” Carrie noted, also turning but lifting up with her forearms in Mack’s chest. “And, as far as I know, he didn’t make the All-American team,” she hesitated before finishing, “twice.”

“I think we should do the reality show,” Jonas chimed in. “That would be
so cool!
”

“We?” I asked Jonas.

“Bub, get that outta your head. Not gonna happen,” Tate said over me.