Dark Blue (South Island PD Book 1) (39 page)

Mariah nodded, flashing a satisfied smile.

“It’s not that I think you can’t handle it, Jackson.” Belle caught his gaze. “I know you can, but you shouldn’t have to. You’ve already come to my rescue once within the past few hours.”

“Whatever you want is okay with me, Princess.”

She sucked in a breath, doing her best to suppress another wave of nausea. She really did feel as if she had a hangover. “What I want is to know where that idiot Zackary is.”

The thought of him made her entire body prickle with vicious heat. She was just as mad at him as she was at herself for being so blind. She’d seen him as awkward but harmless, just a tactless kid with a meaningless crush.

She’d been wrong, and she’d stumbled into a situation that easily could’ve ended devastatingly, like one of those ID Channel specials Mariah loved so much.

She had fuzzy memories of Zackary telling her she’d been stuck-up, and the thought of him seething for months over her rebuffs was sickening. How had she been so oblivious?

He must’ve swiped her keys right out from under her nose and made copies. She’d never suspected him, even though it’d all started in the office.

She’d been so stupid.

The only reason she’d escaped unharmed was Jackson. He’d been smart where she’d been careless, strong where she’d been weak. He was every bit the hero cop the paper had called him, and he was hers.

She was so damn lucky.

“Feeling any better this morning, Princess?” Jackson stood at Belle’s stove, flipping pancakes.

She shuffled into the kitchen in her pajama shorts and cami. It’d been three days since she’d been drugged with Rohypnal, and this morning was the first she’d made it to the kitchen without having to detour to the bathroom to throw up first.

Her body hadn’t appreciated the drug Zackary had dumped so generously into her champagne, to say the least.

“Big difference compared to yesterday.” It was amazing how long the shitty flu-like aftereffects had lasted. This morning, she only felt as if she had a mild cold. “What about you – you sure you should be cooking?”

He shot her a look that clearly said:
please
.

“Sit down,” he said. “I’ve got a plate ready, and I need to talk to you.”

That sounded ominous.
I need to talk to you
wasn’t how anyone prefaced good news.

“What is it?” She glanced at the clock, which read ten-thirty. She’d slept late – Jackson would have to leave for his physical therapy appointment at noon.

“I got a call from Lieutenant Aldred this morning. Sanders has been fired.”

She exhaled, feeling as if she’d been holding her breath for the past month and a half.

“They’re moving forward with the charges for the night I arrested him, too. I’ll have to appear in court, but in a few months, we’ll know how it’ll all play out.”

She nodded. “Good.”

“Yeah.” He flipped a couple golden-brown pancakes onto a plate, then shut off the burner and set aside the spatula. When he brought two plates over to the table, he sat down with her. Syrup and butter were already set out.

“You’re still worried about Kate and the baby,” she said.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

She wracked her mind for some sort of reassurance. “You saved Marissa Brewer’s life, and very possibly mine too. You’ve already done more for others than most people ever will. I know you can’t help worrying about the Sanders, but regardless of how this ends, you’re still a hero.”

He grimaced. “C’mon, Belle. You’re embarrassing me.”

“There’s no one else here.”

“Yeah, but still – don’t call me that.”

She smiled. “But you call me Princess. I don’t see why I can’t refer to you as my hero. Fair’s fair.”

He frowned dramatically, tipping his head back. “What do I have to do to keep you from calling me that in public?”

“Hmm…” She pretended to think hard as wicked thoughts leapt into her mind. “I have a few ideas.”

“Name ’em.”

She leaned across the table and spoke in a low voice, describing exactly what she’d been dreaming about before she’d woken up that morning.

Light flashed in his eyes as the scent of syrup drifted up, intensely sweet.

“You’ve got a deal.”

It was good to see him smile, because between his recovery and the court drama that was about to unfold, the next few months would be tough ones.

* * * * *

“It’s usually not this busy when I come in,” Jackson said, sinking into a seat at the Tempest Café breakfast bar.

It was nearly nine in the morning – the early risers had come and gone, surrendering the place to a thicker breakfast crowd. The seats they’d taken at the bar were the only two left.

“At least you have the willpower to get up early enough to go out for breakfast before work,” Belle said, taking the stool beside him. “I don’t. Usually, I wolf down a granola bar. A Greek yogurt, if I’m feeling especially virtuous. I’ve only been here once before and that was to pick up food on my way to Mariah’s.”

“It’s nice not to have to get up before dawn just to get some bacon,” he admitted.

Laminated menus rested on the thick antique wood bar, printed with the standard Southern breakfast fare Tempest excelled at. Jackson glanced down at his menu, wondering what Belle would like, and then looked up to see a familiar face.

“Officer Calder.” Ashley stood on the other side of the bar, directly across from him. “I haven’t seen you in an eternity. I thought you must’ve found a new breakfast spot.”

She smiled, but when her gaze flickered toward Belle her expression lost a little of its brightness.

“Never,” Jackson said. “Had a little injury on the job – taking some time off.”

“Little?” Ashley arched a brow. “Is that what you call taking bullets?”

So she knew.

“I saw the newspaper article,” she said. “I’ve been waiting for you to show up here ever since.”

“For a while afterward, I wasn’t in the mood to fight the breakfast crowd.”

“No offense, but I didn’t think you were the type to let something like traumatic gunshot wounds come between you and bacon.”

He smiled. “I haven’t had a Tempest-quality breakfast in a while, but I had some great company while I was out of commission. Let me introduce you to Belle.”

He turned to Belle, who sat twisted in her seat, staring toward the entrance. Her lightly glossed lips were cracked, lending her a look of surprise.

“Jackson.” She laid a hand on his arm.

Her touch was warm and soft, but something about the sound of her voice made him suddenly cold. He followed her gaze and saw the last person he wanted to have breakfast with coming through the door.

Sanders. His gaze locked with Jackson’s, and he knew he wasn’t there for grits and bacon.

His first instinct was to shield Belle, in case he tried anything. Standing, he moved in front of her.

If looks could kill, he’d never have gotten up from his stool – he’d have been dead the moment Sanders pushed open the door. The man looked at Jackson as if he’d never seen anything more disgusting or infuriating.

He must’ve seen Jackson’s car parked in the public lot by Tempest – he’d driven it today for the first time since the shooting. It’d felt like a step forward, but now it seemed like a mistake.

That feeling spiraled into a black hole of regret when Sanders reached down to his side, where his dark t-shirt hung over cargo pants.

“You fucking bastard,” he said, still moving forward as he drew his sidearm.

Time seemed to freeze, the expressions of shock on the other diners’ faces crystallizing before they could turn to fear. Jackson noticed, but only barely – he was stricken with tunnel vision that concentrated his gaze on Sanders.

Reaching for the weapon he carried concealed at his side, he simultaneously gave Belle a push, trying to get her as far away from him as possible.

He heard her sharp intake of breath, a gasp of surprise as she slipped off her stool. But he couldn’t spare her a glance; he was too busy drawing his gun.

Sanders had drawn first. Jackson moved fast, alarm bells shrieking inside his head. He tasted so much metal he almost thought he’d eaten a bullet. Adrenaline tore through every vein in his body. If Sanders fired even a single shot in the cramped café, he’d probably hit someone.

Likewise, if Jackson aimed badly, he might hurt someone besides Sanders. He was a skilled marksman, and he couldn’t afford to prove otherwise now.

Before he could squeeze off a round, something dark flew through the air and hit Sanders, staining his clothing and running down his face.

“Fuck!” he yelled, reflexively raising his arms to protect his head.

Coffee. Someone had thrown hot coffee at him. The mug tumbled across the floorboards at his feet, and when he dropped his gun, it landed beside it.

Jackson laid his gun down on the counter and lunged forward, diving across the floor. Sanders did the same, and they bashed heads.

The pain was nothing compared to the thrill of relief that hit Jackson when his hand closed around Sanders’ gun.

He had it, and he slid it backwards, hard, sending it across the floorboards and far out of reach beneath the breakfast bar. Then he grabbed Sanders.

Sanders jerked away and reared back, raising a fist. It collided with Jackson’s jaw before he could react, and his head snapped to the side.

It hurt but didn’t put him down. He’d taken a lot of punches in his lifetime, and it wasn’t the worst. More than anything, it made him furious.

Looking at Sanders, he saw Kate’s bruised jaw. He saw Marissa Brewer, covered in blood, and he saw his junkie mother who’d killed herself with the drugs she’d used to distance herself from her shitty reality. He saw his pathetic younger self, and he saw his father, a kindred spirit of this man’s.

He hated them both, and he threw himself at Sanders with vengeful intent. Sanders struggled, but Jackson drove his fist hard into his solar plexus. While Sanders doubled over in reflex, he dragged him the rest of the way down to the floor and put his good knee in his back, pinning him with all his weight.

Then he looked up at the frozen crowd. Belle was standing with one leg and arm forward – she must’ve been the one to throw the coffee. Now, she held his gun with both hands, the muzzle pointed at an empty section of floor.

Relief rushed through him. His Glock in her hands meant no one else would be able to grab it and do anything stupid out of panic. Normally, he wouldn’t have put it down in the first place, but there was no safety and it’d seemed too likely that it might go off during a physical struggle, especially with his bad leg.

Near Belle, Ashley was standing at the counter, eyes wide and jaw slack.

Jackson thrust a finger in Ashley’s direction. “Call 911. Now!”

She twirled as if a spell had been broken and scrambled down to the far end of the counter, by the register.

For the first time, Jackson strained to hear the sound of sirens, experiencing the agony of waiting for the police to arrive.

Usually, he was the one speeding through traffic, sirens wailing. That was so much easier to bear than just waiting. Holding Sanders down, he felt suspended in time – he wanted to
do
something, but without handcuffs, all he could do was restrain Sanders until someone got there with a pair.

He waited for what felt like an eternity, but was probably only a minute. Sirens shattered the stunned silence in the café, and four officers hurried through the door, weapons drawn.

Someone let out a delayed scream.

Jackson breathed a sigh of relief.

The uniformed officers cuffed Sanders’ hands behind his back and took over the arrest. When that was done, Jackson could finally meet Belle’s gaze.

With a supreme effort, he forced himself to his feet. His bad leg throbbed in protest of what he’d just put it through, tremors racing through the muscle as he stood, staring at Belle.

Unlike the other diners, her eyes weren’t glazed with shock. They were bright with emotion, and he felt their pull like a riptide.

He went to her. It was going to be one hell of a long day, but first he needed to know…

“Did you throw that coffee?”

She nodded, her expression darkening. “I thought of that time Zackary burnt his hands at work. I guess he did me a favor in the long run.”