Mind Lies (15 page)

Portia scoffs as she rounds the corner. “The only reason she cried was because it was onion-peeling day at the deli next door, therefore the dumpster was full of them. Who’d cry over a cat anyway?”

Cory lifts a brow and crosses his arms. Portia gives him a look that says, “don’t you dare, or I’ll spill all your secrets too
.
”

Cory remains silent.

“What’d I miss anyway,” Portia asks. “You been crying again, Babe? Are the gays getting on your ass again?”

Marcus snorts, “Pun intended,” while Cory says, “You walked right into that one, Pixie.”

  She scowls at them both. “Just say the word, Jerri. I’ll strangle this bitch with his bowtie and beat the other with his BeDazzler.”

One thing about this beautiful space I call my own, there’s never a dull moment.

“No strangling or beatings are needed,” I tell her, shaking my head.

She purses her lips. “Fair enough. We still on for Tequila Tuesday?”

“It’s Wine Wednesday, you twat. Can’t you keep your days straight?” Cory asks.

She shrugs. “I missed Tequila Tuesday. I’m cashing in my rain check. You in, Jer?”

I shake my head. Although I’ve been doing my best to participate in these outings, being pregnant is starting to suck my energy. “No, I’ve got a hot date with a baby book and a cup of decaffeinated herbal tea.”

Portia leans into the counter. “I can sit this one out, Babe, if you want some company.”

I wave her off. “No. You guys go ahead. Have a drink for me.”

Cory whispers, “She definitely needs one.”

Marcus adds loud enough for me to hear, “What she needs is a good pounding.” Cory slaps the back of his head as they walk to the door, Portia in tow yelling she loves me and she’ll see me in the morning.

Chapter Seventeen

“Silence at last, Miss Galore.”

Talking to the miserable cat somehow makes me feel better after everyone leaves. I love the banter between the group, the camaraderie. It’s humble and heartwarming, and I’m incredibly grateful to have them in my life. But that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate the silence when they go.

Gathering the bag of shredded paperwork from behind the counter after I’ve locked the front door, I make my way to the back, turning the lights off as I go. There’s a comfortable lunch room between the front and the delivery bay, and I swing by to grab the trash there as well. Exiting the building, I cross the large alley and toss the bags in their appropriate bins before heading back. I double check the shop door, making sure the self-locking mechanism is engaged before rounding the back of the shop to my apartment door.

The man standing on my steps takes me by surprise, but out of fear—or sheer stupidity—I shout, “Hey!” and the man shoots off the steps like a bullet and takes off around the corner. Reaching into my back pocket, I pull out my phone and edge closer to the building. The light over the delivery bay door is on, but the bulb above my front stoop is out.

“Shit!” I exclaim, clutching a hand to my chest. No part of town is completely safe, but it’s not quite dark yet, and the man is long gone. I pull up my contacts as I walk, debating whether or not I should call 9-1-1, Cooper, or one of the Detectives.

The door to my apartment is still shut, and turning the knob proves it’s still locked. There’s paint missing on the door where the lock meets the door jam. “Son of a bitch,” I curse. I punch in the code to unlock the door and fly through as soon as it’s open, locking it behind me.

I quickly scan my surroundings before flipping on every light at the base of the stairs and heading back into the shop. With all the lights on, and Pussy Galore to keep me company, I feel a little safer.

Plopping down onto a couch, I take a few deep breaths before dialing Detective Bryan.

“O’Shaunessey,” He answers. I calm my hoarse breathing before replying, “That’s a mouthful, so I’m just going to call you Detective Bryan, or Bryan, from here on out.”

He’s silent for a few moments. Then he answers, “Ms. Sloane?”

I nod, but when I realize he can’t see me through the phone, I say, “You seriously recognized my voice?”

He replies, “No, I have call display.”

Smacking my hand on my forehead, I say, “Right. And it’s Jerri. Please, just . . . call me Jerri.”

He clears his throat. “What can I do for you, Jerri?”

“I think someone was trying to break into my apartment,” I tell him.

“What? When?” he asks intensely, nearly shouting.

“About one minute before I called you.”

“Where are you now? Are you safe? Is the intruder gone?”

I roll my eyes and reply, “I’m in my shop with all the lights on. I’m pretty sure I’m safe, and I watched the intruder run away when I spooked him.”

“Why didn’t you call 9-1-1?” he asks.

I sigh. “Because I focused on getting somewhere safe first. It seemed stupid to call 9-1-1 after he had already left.  It could be random, but what if it’s connected to whoever cut the brake lines on my truck? If that’s the case, wouldn’t someone end up calling you anyway?”

“I’m not sure whether to call you clever or crazy, Sloane. Keep your phone on you; I’ll be there as soon as I can.” I’m about to hang up when he adds, “And don’t touch anything around the door!”

Setting my phone beside me, I lean forward with my elbows on my knees and my head in my hands. I debate calling Cooper and Portia since they’re just across the street, but then I remember Tequila Tuesday and Wine Wednesday and decide I won’t bother. Someone holding my hand isn’t going to calm the storm inside me. It has been months since the accident, and I’m sure it was just a randomly attempted break-in.

Knocking sounds from the back of the shop. Pussy Galore hisses in that direction but doesn’t bother getting down from her tower. Walking slowly with my phone in hand, I head toward the door and stand on the tips of my toes to look through the peep hole.

The lighting outside the door is bright; therefore, it’s easy to make out the unforgettable man on the other side.

Detective Cavanaugh.

Unlocking the door, I swing it open. “That was fast.”

He nods and replies, “Was in the area.” The deep timbre of his voice doesn’t fail to give me goosebumps. “Why didn’t you ask who was on the other side of the door before opening it?” he asks.

I remain silent and point toward the peephole on the door. When he looks in that direction, I take the opportunity to study him.

Same black jacket he was wearing the last time I saw him. A tight grey Henley underneath paired with dark jeans and motorcycle boots. He looks familiar. Then I think of the dirty books Portia has introduced me to; I’m pretty sure this man is on the cover of half of them.

Not waiting for any other reply from me, he turns and heads toward my apartment door. I follow him, feeling safer in his presence, and watch as he pulls a flashlight out of his pocket.

“This light out, last night?” He asks, nodding toward the large marine-style lamp above my apartment door. When I shake my head, he reaches up inside the lamp and gives the bulb a few turns. It comes back on again.

“Broken glass makes noise,” he mumbles.

“Pardon?” I ask.

Squatting down in front of the locks to look at the scrapes on the door, he says, “If they broke the glass, stepping on it would make noise. Turn it, no light—no noise.”

Leaving the stoop, he walks back toward the shop door. “Needs to be finger-printed. Let’s make sure they didn’t enter the apartment.”

A man of few words.

I unlock the rear shop door again and lead him into the building. Turning to head upstairs, he puts a hand on my arm, causing more goosebumps and halting my steps. “Stay behind me.”

Frowning at his request, I do as he says and follow him upstairs. Cavanaugh flips on the lights as he goes, darting around furniture with far too much grace for a man his size. I wait near the island in the kitchen, watching as he flits in and out of the closet, looks under the bed, and pauses to stare at the erotic photo above.

I still love that picture. The man’s hand possessively placed on the bare hip of a woman. The curve of her naked back is smooth and flawless in contrast to his lightly scarred working hand.

Shaking his head mildly, he quickly checks the bathroom before coming back to the kitchen. “I’ll check the terrace,” he mumbles as he walks past me, opening the patio doors to the small rooftop terrace at the back of my apartment. It’s not huge; it’s only about a fifteen-by-fifteen-foot space holding a small outdoor sectional, a small grill, and a narrow table with chairs.

“All clear,” he tells me, closing and locking the patio doors.

“Jesus!” I jump, startled when something touches my leg. Looking down, I see the cat—who has never come upstairs—sitting pretty, as they call it, shooting her evil eyes at Detective Callaghan, who has rushed to my side.

Holding my chest to calm my racing heart, I mumble, “It’s just Pussy.”

I nearly get lost in the Detective’s bright blue eyes when he bends down to my level. Closing my eyes against the rush of attraction, I take a moment to collect myself as he asks, “Come again?”

“Come, Lass. Again!” Locklin shouts in his deep Irish brogue as he pounds me into the headboard.

I gasp, opening my eyes, cursing these pregnancy hormones, which are making me hornier than a cat in heat. “Nothing,” I mumble. “The cat.” I laugh lightly, pointing to the floor. She hisses again when Cavanaugh looks at her. He simply scowls back before nodding.

“No intruders,” He tells me.

I nod back and repeat, “No intruders.”

We stand in an awkward silence. He’s staring everywhere but my eyes, and I’m wondering if I’m supposed to offer him a drink or something. He breaks the silence when he says, “You shouldn’t be alone.”

I cross my arms, nearly offended, and reply, “Plenty of single women live alone and manage just fine, Mr. Cavanaugh.”

He does a shitty job of holding back a scowl and says, “Until the man is caught, you shouldn’t be staying alone. Maybe you can stay with friends?”

I shake my head and move to the stove. Grabbing the kettle, I take it to the sink and begin filling it with water. “I’m not going to impose on my friends’ lives. Wouldn’t it be counterproductive to put more people’s lives in danger if someone is in fact trying to get to me?” Placing the kettle on the stove, I add, “And it’s been almost four months since the accident. Tonight may not even be related to that. Don’t you think if someone wanted to hurt me, they would have done it sooner?”

Crossing his arms against his broad chest, he says, “Or they could be waiting for the appropriate time to strike.”

I laugh condescendingly and shake my head. “That’s insane. What do I have?” I ask, waving my arms around the apartment. “I may have a hefty savings account, but surely it’s not worth killing someone over.”

His face goes from frustrated to pissed off, and in two seconds he’s in my face, piercing blues aimed right at me. “Perhaps you saw something you don’t remember seeing. Maybe you pissed someone off and have no memory of it. The possibilities are endless, Ms. Sloane. Is there something you’re not telling me?”

I swallow and shake my head. “Nothing.”

He studies my face as I push my hair behind my ear and shakes his head as though he’s not sure whether he believes me or not. “I’ll be outside,” he mumbles, close enough to my face that I can smell the mint on his breath. Breathing deeper, I inhale the scent of fresh laundry and man. It’s not the woodsy scent of the man in my dreams, but it’s an aphrodisiac none the less.

Cursing my quivering body and hardened nipples, I shake off the attraction and ask, “Outside?” Not my most clever moment, and I swear he almost smirks before his scowl moves back into place.

“Outside. Parked near the alley. Make sure the doors are locked behind me. Someone will be here soon to print the door.” He turns toward the stairs and adds, “Won’t need you down there for that.”

I watch his retreating form, stunned, until I hear the slam of the door downstairs.

“What an odd man,” I mumble to myself, the kettle starting to whistle on the stove. After making my decaffeinated tea, I take a seat on the sofa and stare out the window at the SUV parked on the street.

Cavanaugh was true to his word: when I go to bed hours later and wake up in the middle of the night, he’s still parked there.

* * *

“What’s up with your partner?” I ask Detective O’Shaunessey the next morning. He came into the shop to tell me there were no prints to be found on the door other than my own. Obviously the intruder was wearing gloves.

Can’t say I’m surprised. Anyone who has watched CSI or any other crime show in the last ten years wouldn’t be stupid enough to not wear gloves.

He scowls before responding, “What do you mean?”

I shrug. “He’s odd, barely speaks, and has a seriously shitty attitude.”

Bryan coughs, trying to fight a smile, and replies, “He’s not much of a people person. Never has been.”

I nod, as if that answers the question. I suppose it doesn’t matter. If he’s good at his job, who cares what kind of attitude he has? I blame the fascination on my libido, which is currently off the charts, and continue rearranging the new dinnerware that just arrived on the shelves.

“Well, thanks for your time, Sloane. I’ll be in touch,” he says as he heads out the door. I don’t bother responding because I don’t have too much hope that he’ll find anything. If Cooper, who has been able to hack just about anything, hasn’t found any answers yet, I don’t have a lot of hope for the Detectives. Cooper was able to find every woman in the world who goes by the name Jerrilyn, and we still don’t have any solid idea of who I am.

It’s frustrating.

Some days it pisses me off more than others. Days like today, when I’m tired from a lack of sleep and my hormones are running high. I obviously haven’t been laid since I got knocked-up. Top that with all the other drama happening in my life, and my lack of patience is wearing thin.