Pierced: Pierced Trilogy Boxed Set (12 page)

Shit! What is it about this woman that has sent me into a tailspin? I can’t figure it out, I don’t even know her! All I know about her apart from the facts of her assault is what she told me tonight. And that ain’t much. But part of me would gladly do just about anything to learn all about her. Fuck! I hate feeling this way.

I kick off my shoes and socks, strip off my jeans and climb into bed. Reaching over to turn off the bedside lamp, I catch a glimpse of an old faded photo of me and my mom, taken about 20 years ago. The picture sits in a brown wooden frame across the room on top of my chest of drawers. I was around ten years old at the time, and Mom and I had gotten all dressed up and went down to a photographer’s studio and sat for those pictures. She even made me wear a tie, which I hated. It was hot that day and the shirt and tie made my neck sweat and itch. That was the day that Frank Coletti, my classmate who lived just five doors down, got a brand new bicycle for his eleventh birthday. It was a real beauty and I was so jealous. All of us neighborhood kids were. But that’s not why I remember the day so well.

My old man was supposed to be in that family photo with Mom and me, only he never showed up. Mom was so excited, she had been talking about it for weeks. He knew it was important to her, but he didn’t give a shit. He couldn’t be bothered. So she and I got dressed up, went down and took the pictures and then went to the local diner and had cheeseburgers for dinner. Just the two of us. And it was nice. Then when we got home, the old man was in a drunken stupor and accused Mom of being out whoring around. He beat the shit out of her. I tried to stop him and he knocked my ass to the floor. I broke a ceramic vase on my way down and cut my hand. The blood was everywhere. I ended up with seven stitches.

It was one of the cops that took me to the emergency room that night. Come to think of it … it was Lee Parson. Because there was no Domestic Violence law back then, they couldn’t arrest the son of a bitch, and as usual, Mom wasn’t about to press charges or file any sort of complaint against him. She even refused to go to the emergency room herself, and even though the cops knew she probably needed it, there wasn’t much they could do. The old man agreed to leave the house for a few hours to cool off. But by the time Parson dropped me back home, he and Mom were sitting all lovey dovey on the couch and he was kissing her bruises and muttering how much he loved her. I ignored them both and went straight to bed.

I sigh heavily and click off the light. Placing my arm under my head, I stare up at the ceiling in the darkness and run the statistics through my head. Every nine seconds in the United States, a woman is assaulted or beaten. Around the world, at least one in every three women has been beaten in her lifetime and most often, the abuser is a husband or a boyfriend. Each day, at least three women are killed by their husbands or boyfriends. And my personal favorite: Men who witnessed their parent’s domestic violence as children, are twice as likely to abuse their own wives or girlfriends than men of non-violent parents.* Yeah. One-night stands is all that’s in the cards for me. I am not willing to risk anything else. And I’m certainly not willing to put Samantha Colby in any more danger.

*****

I don’t know how long I’ve been sleeping, but I am awakened with a start by the ringing phone. During my ten years on the force, I have come to realize that a ringing phone in the middle of the night is rarely a good thing. I turn over and lean up on one elbow and rub my eyes, then I reach for my annoying cellphone.

“Hello.”

“Josh?”

The tone of the voice is frantic and full of fear. And even though I haven’t known her long, I would recognize the sound of her voice anywhere. “Samantha? What’s wrong?” I glance at the digital alarm clock beside the lamp. It’s 2:23 in the morning.

“Josh, I’m so scared! I’m sorry to call you but, I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Samantha, calm down and tell me what’s wrong.” Before she can even start, I am out of the bed and pulling my jeans back on. I don’t know what’s happened, but I know without a doubt that I’m headed back to her place just as soon as I can get there.

“I got a phone call,” she whimpers, “and I know it probably sounds silly but, it was so terrifying.”

She’s crying softly now and my heart constricts. Why does that sound make me want to take her into my arms and protect her from the world?

“Samantha, listen to me,” I try to reassure her as I pull a t-shirt over my head and grab my gun. “I am leaving right now. I’m on my way, okay? Just sit tight, I’ll be there as soon as I can!”

“Josh.”

“Sam,” I say forcefully, “I will be there in ten minutes. I promise.”

“Okay,” she whispers tearfully.

“Ten minutes.”

“Okay,” she repeats. She hangs up and I am out the door. I race through the house and out to the garage, grabbing the jacket I discarded on the kitchen table earlier. In under fifteen seconds I have uncovered the Charger, fired her up, and backed out onto the street. I push the automatic garage door opener as I throw her into drive and shoot off into the night. I can feel the butt of my Sig Sauer biting into my lower back as I speed through the streets. There is very little traffic at this time of night, like I knew there would be. I never would have promised Samantha I could be there in ten minutes otherwise. Of course, I’m not exactly doing the speed limit either.

I pull into the private parking lot of the Mountain View apartment building and screech into a spot near the door. Rushing from the car, I sprint into the building flashing my badge at the night security guard and the doorman, who both look at me with alarm.

“Is there a problem officer?” the security guard asks me.

“No.” My response is gruff and clipped as I hurry to the elevator and press the button a few hundred times. “At least, I don’t think so. I’ll let you know.” He nods uncertainly as I step in and the doors close and I am whisked up to the top floor of the building. The penthouse level of Mountain View is divided into two separate apartments. So, when the doors open again, I sprint out of the elevator and straight to her door. I’m conscious that it’s nearly 3:00 in the morning so, I don’t want to raise my voice but, I ring the bell and can’t help calling out softly, “Samantha, it’s me. Open up!”

The door opens almost immediately and I can see that her beautiful face is streaked with tears. She’s wearing a silver knee-length satin nightgown and she’s pulling a matching robe up over her shoulders. I have to make myself concentrate as I walk in and close the door behind me.

“Samantha.”

“Oh, Josh.” She practically jumps into my arms and she is shaking like a leaf. I try desperately to remember that she’s the subject of a case I’m working as my arms readily close around her.

“Samantha,” I repeat quietly, trying to bring my mind into focus. “Come on,” I say leading her over to the white leather couch. “Let’s have a seat.” We get situated on the couch and she’s still crying softly, unable to speak. “Samantha, take a deep breath, okay.” I reach out with both hands to gently wipe her tears away with my thumbs, and as I do, I notice a light smattering of freckles on her nose and her cheeks.
Damn. She really is lovely.
I take a deep breath myself and move back slightly on the couch. Maybe a little distance will help. “Tell me what happened, Sam.”

“I was asleep,” she begins with a shudder. “The phone rang and it was so late, I thought maybe something was wrong. I expected it to be my brother or my mom. But when I answered, there was just laughter.”

“Laughter?”

She nods her head, and I can see her bright green eyes well up with tears again. “Weird … eerie laughter. It sounded almost cruel. Mechanical somehow.” Her tears spill over onto her cheeks and I can’t help myself. I scoot forward and reach out to wipe them again.

“Did the caller say anything?” I ask, trying to at least sound professional.

“Yes,” she sobs. “He said, ‘we’ll be together soon.’”

Fuck. That does not sound good. “We’ll be together soon,” I repeat the words slowly. “Those were his exact words?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” At the chilling words, my training suddenly kicks in and I’m in ‘cop mode.’ I take the small notepad and pen I usually carry out of the inside pocket of my jacket and begin to scribble. “Did he say anything else?”

“No,” she mumbles, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. I fish my handkerchief out of my pants pocket and hand it to her. She gives me a small, sad smile. “I still have the other handkerchief you gave me in the hospital. I’ll wash it for you.”

“Keep it. You can start a collection of them,” I say with a quiet smile as she blows her nose. “Can you tell me anything else about the phone call?”

She thinks for a second and then whispers, “Yes. There was music.”

“Music?”

“Yes. Like … creepy, mechanical music,” she says tearfully. “Like from a music box or something.”

I jot that down on my notepad and look up at her. She looks so forlorn. I want to fold her into my arms and hold her close. But I know I can’t do that. “What time did this call come in, exactly?” I ask, focusing on my job.

“2:19 am,” she says.

“How do you know that so precisely?” I ask.

“I looked at the time on my cellphone before I answered it,” she says matter-of-factly.

“Okay,” I sigh. “Good.” I scribble this last bit of information on my notepad and look up at her again. “Did you say anything to him?”

“I just kept asking ‘who is this?’”

“And no response from him?” I ask.

“No. Just the evil laughter and music.”

“Okay,” I say with another sigh. We’re both quiet for a few moments and I can hear the sound of a ticking clock somewhere in the room. I glance around and spot a small, ornate, silver clock on the marble mantle above the gas fireplace. It’s reading 3:03 am. I look back at Samantha and she looks so tired I think she might fall over. “Hey,” I say softly placing my hand on her shoulder, “let’s get you to bed. You look exhausted.”

“No,” she protests, her eyes suddenly big and round as saucers. “I don’t think I can sleep.”

I smirk at her. “Samantha, you look like you could sleep through a hurricane right about now,” I tease her. “Come on. Let me put you to bed.”

“No, please,” she begs. “I won’t be able to sleep once you’re gone.”

“Then I won’t leave,” I hear myself say. Her enchanting green eyes lock onto mine and they’re questioning me silently. “I promise. I’ll sit with you until you fall asleep. And then I’ll sleep here … on your couch.”

“You would do that?” she whispers.

“Yes,” I nod, holding her gaze. And I know that I’m making another big mistake, but I can’t stop myself. “I will do that.”

“Thank you, Josh.” Her words are a breathless, tearful whisper.

“You are most welcome, Samantha,” I reply. I stand then and hold out my hand to her. She places her hand in mine and stands up, still a little shaky, and I have to fight the urge to take her into my arms. Letting go of her hand, I take a step back, allowing her to lead the way to her bedroom. As we walk through her apartment towards her room, I notice a staircase at the end of the hallway and wonder where it leads. I had no idea this place had two stories and I wonder idly if our guys checked out the upstairs when they did their walk through after Samantha was assaulted. I’m sure they did. It just bugs me that I wasn’t aware of the second level. I’ll ask her about it in the morning.

When we reach her room, I glance around with slightly raised eyebrows. It’s easily twice the size of my bedroom at home. But it looks the way I expected it to. It looks like her. The walls are a soft blush color. All of them except one. The wall behind the black wrought iron headboard of her bed is a deep dark pink, like almost burgundy. The light in the room is soft and both the bed and the glass doors that lead to the balcony are covered in rich, billowy fabrics in shades of soft pink and rose. There are five framed sketches hanging on one wall like they’re in a gallery or something, lighted to perfection. They catch my eye because they’re all sketches of nudes – three female and two male – and when I look closer, they’re all signed ‘Samantha Colby.’ They’re really good. On the wall behind her bed is the Modigliani painting she told me about. A figure of a woman, lying seductively on what looks like a bed. It’s a very sensual image, almost erotic, and it surprises me. Just like Samantha Colby herself. In fact, the whole room is so perfectly her – a sensual mix of sweetness, innocence and eroticism.

And with that thought slithering enticingly though my head, Samantha removes her robe and climbs into her bed.
Focus on why you’re here, Pierce!
I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding and move to the large, flower printed, overstuffed chair next to the bed and take a seat.

“Are you going to sit there and watch me?” she asks softly, a smile hinting at the corners of her delicious mouth.

“I thought that was the deal,” I say with a tired grin.

“I won’t be able to go to sleep if you watch me!” She smiles at me.

“Close your eyes, Samantha.” It’s a quiet command and she keeps smiling, but she does as she’s told. She’s so tired.

“You don’t have to sleep on the couch, you know.” Her words are uttered sleepily and they take me by surprise. “The guest room is down the hall.”

The guest room. Of course.
What did you think she meant, Pierce?
I smirk to myself and shake my head. It’s going to be a long night.

* domesticvoilencestatistics.org

Chapter Seven

Samantha

I wake with a start and I know that I’ve been dreaming about the attack or about the phone call but, thankfully, I can’t remember any details of my nightmare. Of course, I know that remembering more would probably help the police out with my case. But the more I remember, the more afraid I become. I sigh and run a hand through my hair and glance over at the time, rolling my eyes at my alarm clock. I hate it when I wake up before the alarm goes off. I should still be sleeping right now. Oh, well. It’s just five extra minutes. I fall back onto my pillow and wonder again what I was dreaming about that woke me up. Probably had something to do with that creepy phone call last night. And then it hits me –
Josh!