Just Keep Sweet (The Compound Series) (11 page)

“You weren’t at the station. Why aren’t you returning my texts?”

“You said you didn’t feel comfortable being here,” I muttered, following her into the kitchen, doing my best to distract her from her rapid-fire line of questioning, but I’d just woken up and the haze of sleep still lingered.

“Never mind that. I’m here and you’re
going
to talk to me. I don’t know why you’re avoiding my texts, why you’re avoiding
me.
” She froze and her face lost its color. “Are you dropping the case?”

“Of course not.”

“Then why won’t you answer me?” She placed both hands on her hips, her eyes wide and angry. The color quickly returned to her cheeks. I hated the effect I was having on her. I would do about anything to help her, to protect her. And I’d failed at both. I ran my hands through my hair, wishing I had something valid to say. But I didn’t.

“Because I didn’t know how to tell you. I got nothing. Penowsky’s a dead end.”

“I figured as much. So why not just tell me?”

Throwing my hands in the air, I answered honestly. “Because I
failed
you.”

“Nonsense. You asked for two weeks, I gave them to you and now it’s time to move on. You’re not giving up, are you?”

“No, but I gotta be honest, Aspen. Maybe I’m not the man for the job.”

She froze again, pressing one hand on my counter, gripping it with white knuckles. “What does
that
mean?”

“It means . . .” I pressed my hand on the top of my coffeemaker. “It means I desperately need a cup of coffee before we continue this conversation.”

“Fine,” she scoffed, sighing. “Drink your coffee, but I’m not going away. You must know that.”

“Yes.” I let out a subtle laugh, one of understanding. I knew that Aspen would stay as long as it took to get us back on track. I was fully aware of how futile it would be to fight her. She wouldn’t accept my resignation. “I know.”

Five minutes later, steaming cup of joe in hand, we took a seat in the living room. When Aspen chose to sit next to me on the couch I was shocked, but I went with it. I offered her something to drink, but she politely declined as she always did.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” I said after gulping down half the cup. The hot coffee burned the sides of my mouth, my tongue. But I welcomed the distraction. Soon the caffeine would wake me up, help me form the right words for our conversation.

“I want you to be open with me. I thought we agreed to be honest with each other.”

“I know, but I freaked. There’s so much riding on this case, and I feel like we’re coming up empty handed over and over again. It’s . . . it’s infuriating.”

“It is.” She nodded. “But my daughter’s future . . . and the future of
so
many others depends on us.”

I polished off the rest of my coffee, feeling my brain rise from the dead. “Exactly. Believe me, Aspen, I want him to
fry
. I want to put him away for the rest of his fucking life, but Penowsky was locked up tight like a vault. I worked him for two weeks, bought him dozens of beers, and every time I thought he’d give me something, he got smart and didn’t. It’s like he knew what I was doing.”

“You think he knew you were a detective?”

“No, not exactly. He’s just really good at covering his tracks, drunk or not. I followed him, though, and he did go to the temple. You were absolutely right.”

“So, what do we do now?” she asked, her eyebrows tilted toward her nose. She lowered her voice to a faint whisper and placed her hand on my knee. “Don’t give up on me, Jonathan.”

She feels something too. It’s not all in your head.

Taken aback, I looked down at her hand, making contact with my bare leg. Less than a second later, she pulled away, placing both hands in her lap.

“I’m sorry, that . . .” She closed her eyes tight. “That was improper.”

“No,” I insisted, “it wasn’t.”

Her eyes remained closed, her cheeks the color of tart cherries. Her embarrassment was palpable, and I wanted her to feel safe, secure,
understood
.

“Aspen, look at me.”

She shook her head, turning her face away. “I can’t. I’m mortified.”

“Why? Because you touched me?”

She nodded, and one tear slipped from her closed eyes. She ignored it, but I watched that tear roll down her scarlet cheek. Without thinking it through, I wiped the tear away and she jumped slightly, opening her startled eyes. I took her hand in mine and leaned closer. I expected her to pull away, to hurtle herself from me, to wipe away my touch by smoothing the thick cotton of her dress. She didn’t. And so I leaned in a little closer, until I could see the rise and fall of her chest, until I could hear her breath quickening.

“You never have to be embarrassed with me. Don’t you know that by now?”

I waited for defensiveness, but it never showed. She swallowed hard, her voice still a whisper. “Jonathan, please—”

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” I murmured as I moved in slow motion, giving her an out, not wanting to pressure her in any way. She stayed put and her inaction spurred me forward.

She feels it too.

My lips were inches from hers and my hand was lightly grazing the searing hot skin of her cheek. She closed her eyes, her breathing ragged. Just before my lips skimmed hers she covered her mouth and jumped from the couch, putting several feet of distance between us.

You idiot. You pushed too hard.

I opened my mouth to apologize, but she beat me to it. “I’m sorry, I-I can’t. I’m married.”

I stood, crossing the room. “To a man who ignores you, who doesn’t believe in you. I believe in you, Aspen, and I’ll never
stop
believing in you, supporting you.”

“This is improper.” She paced the living room. “I shouldn’t be here.”

“But you are,” I said softly. “Why did you come to my apartment?”

“What?” Her voice raised an octave and she pressed her hand to her forehead. “I told you—you were avoiding me and I needed answers.”

“You could have waited for me at the station. Why didn’t you?”

She shrugged, her eyes pained. “I don’t know.”

I ran my hand down her arm, stopping briefly at her elbow, relieved she didn’t jerk it away from my touch. Slowly, my fingers touched hers and I took her hand in my own. “Yes, you do. Talk to me.”

She squeezed my hand before pulling hers away. “I love my husband, Jonathan. I know that must sound silly to you, that I could love a man I share with thirteen others. A man who will barely even look at me these past few months. But it wasn’t always like that. There was love there . . . he loved me. Maybe even too much. Things are awful between us, but I know that’s not how our story ends. I know we’ll come together again when the time is right. I know, I know . . .” She paused, realizing she’d rambled. Aspen never rambled.

“I know how silly you must think I am,” she said, shaking her head.

“Nothing about you is silly to me,” I said with confidence. “Not one thing. You’re the most incredible woman I’ve met. It doesn’t matter to me where you come from or who you’ve been with. None of it matters. I just want you.”

“I can’t—” she began, but I cut off her resistance.

“For weeks, I’ve felt something growing between us. That can’t be all in my head. You feel it, too, I
know
you do. I see it in the way you look at me, feel it in your words, how your tone of voice softens when you speak to me . . . it didn’t used to be like that, remember? When we first met, we were two total strangers who had nothing in common, but now . . . now I know I’m not alone in this. You’re all I think about, you’re all I
want
.”

“Jon—”

“Just be honest, Aspen. Tell me you don’t have feelings for me and I’ll never say another word. Tell me I’m a stupid fool who invented all of this.”

She shook her head, and her voice cracked when she spoke. “I can’t do that.”

I took her other hand in mine, attempting to pull her closer to me, but she broke eye contact, looking away.

“Then, what? Talk to me.”

“I-I do share
some
of your feelings, I do. You make me feel safe; you give me hope and confidence that I can save my Ruthie. And I’ll admit that I feel an attraction to you . . . being near you feels . . . good, sometimes wonderful. You make me laugh like nobody else ever has . . . and when you call me Little House, I-I feel special, different, unique. That’s not something you feel often in my community. And I savor that feeling, I do. But it’s not enough. Not enough for me to abandon Paul, my people, or my faith.”

“Your
faith
is responsible for the forced rape of dozens of young women. Your faith keeps those same women silent for the rest of their lives. Your faith—”

“No, that is
not
true. The prophet is responsible for that,
not
my faith. One evil man cannot shatter my beliefs, my faith, my
truth
. That’s in here.” She pressed her hand to her heart. “And he can’t break it . . . not ever.
No one
can.”

“Not even someone who can offer you so much more . . . so much more than a life of imprisonment?”

She pressed her hand to her mouth. “Is that what you think? That I’m a
prisoner
? That we’re all just . . . what? Property?”

Stone faced, I said nothing.

“Answer the question, please. Is that really what you think of me? What you think of my sister wives? Of all the women on the compound?”

I tilted my chin up. “Yes.”

Her mouth dropped open and she stared at me, a look of betrayal on her face. “I thought you and I were better than this. I thought you were my friend. I thought you respected me.”

“I
do
respect you,” I said, and then wished I had never uttered the next sentence that slipped from my mouth, wrapped in venom. “You just don’t respect yourself.”

She pressed her lips into a thin line and her nostrils flared in anger. “I need to go.”

“Please, Aspen, I didn’t mean—” She walked toward the door and I followed. Just as she opened the door, I reached out to grab her arm. Wanting her, no—needing her to stay.

“Oh yes, you did,” she sneered, shaking her elbow, attempting to set herself free from my grasp, but when I didn’t let go, she glared, daggers in her eyes. “Let go of me.”

She walked out the door and I stepped out into the hallway, not even concerned about my disheveled appearance. “Look, I’m sorry, all right? Please come back. Let’s talk about this.”

She paused at the staircase, looking me in the eye. “There’s nothing to discuss. If I have to save my daughter on my own, then so be it.”

“Aspen, c’mon, give me a chance.”

“I already did. Goodbye,
Detective Cooke
.”

Her words stung like nothing I’d ever felt in my forty-two years. Even Elizabeth asking for divorce didn’t rip me to shreds the way Aspen reducing me to “Detective” did. Slowly, I backed into my apartment, slamming the door behind me. As I played our fight over and over in my head, my anger, my despair, my helplessness built within my body, coursing through my veins like adrenaline. And before I knew it, I let out the noise of an animal as my fist slammed through the drywall. My hand throbbed, but I didn’t care. Anything in my path was thrown, punched, kicked until my apartment looked like a war zone. It didn’t matter . . . nothing mattered.

I flung myself on my bed, where I remained for the rest of the day. I despised myself for what I’d said, and what I’d done to Aspen. When she needed me most, I deserted her, ignored her. And then, when I had the chance to make things right, to refocus and set the course to bust the prophet and his cronies, I selfishly put her on the spot. I tried to force her to choose between her faith and family and an uncertain future with me. What kind of an entitled asshole was I?

The kind who has to make things right again.

Chapter 10

Ruthie’s favorite part of being at the prophet’s home was the smell. Oh wow, the smell. About four of her future sister wives were baking yummy cakes, pies, cookies, and even brownies (her favorite!) since she’d arrived more than an hour ago. The house smelled incredible, and when Ruthie asked them if they were planning for an event, they seemed confused.

“We do this every day,” Merilee said. “Clarence loves his sweets.”

Every day? Ruthie marveled at that. The only time her house ever smelled that good was on special occasions, like Jordan’s wedding. And she didn’t even get to enjoy that day of sweets and treats because she was so heartbroken that her stomach wouldn’t let her enjoy it.

But now, well, now she was glad that silly Jordan didn’t become her husband. Heavenly Father had much bigger plans for her, yes indeed. Ruthie was set to marry the most important man on Earth—the prophet. And she couldn’t wait.

One month. Four days. Fifteen hours.

Or is it fourteen? I lost count.

She’d never been so great at math. Mama quizzed her constantly over measurements in the kitchen and laundry, making sure she was ready to serve her future husband, but since the announcement she stopped. Altogether. Ruthie knew her mother wasn’t happy for her, but she wouldn’t explain why. She rolled her eyes a lot and mumbled under her breath and all that did was annoy Ruthie.