Pierced: Pierced Trilogy Boxed Set (40 page)

She shakes her head and takes a deep breath. “I’m just … scared,” she says softly, and it’s barely a whisper. “And I’m tired of being scared. I don’t like feeling this way. So unsure of … everything.”

She looks so sad and her words make me feel like a heel but, somehow I don’t think I’m getting the full story. I know that she means what she’s saying but, I get the feeling I’m missing something. As if she’s speaking in code and her words mean something else. Like she’s trying not to say what’s really on her mind. What is she really talking about? Does she mean that she’s unsure … of me? I reach out and softly caress her face.

“What are you unsure of, Sam?” I ask her quietly. But she doesn’t answer. She just shrugs her shoulders and she won’t look me in the eye. And I watch, feeling helpless, as a lone tear escapes and trails slowly down her cheek. I lean in and softly kiss that tear away. “Please tell me what’s wrong, baby,” I whisper.

“Oh, Josh,” she sighs. But she says nothing more and I feel so frustrated. We sit in silence for a long time as I try to will her to tell me what’s bothering her but to no avail. Finally, I kiss her forehead and get up, with a sigh, walking to the bathroom. I look back at her from the doorway and she returns my glance but still says nothing. I turn and head to the shower, wondering like mad what could be on her mind.

When I come out of the shower, Sam is not in the bedroom and I can smell the coffee. I dress quickly in the black jeans and black t-shirt that I packed in my gym bag yesterday. I put on the belt holster I usually wear when I’m not working and stuff my Sig into it at my back. I know some cops who don’t carry a gun when they’re off duty, but my Sig Sauer is my constant companion. I would feel completely naked without it. I grab the black and white checkered flannel shirt from my bag and put it on over my t-shirt, concealing the gun, and roll up the sleeves.

Heading out to the kitchen, I find Samantha at the stove, plating up what looks like a cheese omelet, and I wrap my arms around her from behind and kiss her temple. “I was going to take you to breakfast, baby.”

“Well, now you don’t have to,” she says with a small smile, and I take the plates from her and carry them over to the breakfast bar. We sit and eat silently, and I want to get back to our earlier conversation but, I decide to just let it go. She’ll tell me what’s bothering her when she’s ready. I hope.

I glance at my watch and take a sip of my coffee. “You should get moving so we can go,” I tell her.

“Where are we going anyway?” she asks, smiling at me.

“It’s a surprise,” I say, smiling back at her.

“Well what should I wear?” she asks, giggling. And my smile gets bigger hearing her laugh. It’s better than the tears from before.

“Just wear something casual and comfortable, baby,” I say, looking down at my own attire. She looks me over and then blushes. “What?”

“Nothing,” she says. “You just look hot.”

“Is that so, Miss Colby?” I ask her with a raised eyebrow. She nods, still blushing and I laugh at her. “Go get dressed, Sunshine.”

She stands up and kisses me swiftly, then she dashes off to the bedroom and I’m happy that her mood seems to have improved some. I finish eating and then clear our dishes, putting them into the dishwasher. Then, as I continue to wait for her to dress, I take a seat in the living room on the plush white leather couch. I’m about to turn on the TV when my eyes spot her sketchbook sitting on the marble coffee table and I pick it up, wondering if she would mind that I’m looking through it. I open it up and see some really cool sketches of landscapes. A couple of them I even recognize – the view of the Olympic mountains outside her balcony doors, and one of the park across the street from her apartment building.

I keep flipping through the book and I’m suddenly startled to see my face staring back at me from the page. It’s a perfect likeness, as though I were looking in a mirror, and I’m shocked as I stare at the drawing. I don’t know why I’m a little stunned but, I am. I turn to the next page and see me again, this time I’m smiling. When did she draw these images of my face? I’ve never posed for these sketches. I turn to the next page and see more of me – my eyes and my mouth and my profile. She’s even drawn my hands. Just a close up sketch of my hands! I don’t know what to think. Maybe she’s constantly thinking about me the way I’m constantly thinking about her?
Or is that just your wishful thinking, Pierce?

Suddenly my heart is racing, pounding in my chest, and I’m not sure why. What does this mean? I swallow hard and close the sketchbook, setting it back on the table. What she said this morning … or rather, what she didn’t say … it was like she was implying that she was unsure of me. But what did she mean exactly? That she’s unsure of my ability to catch this asshole who’s stalking her? Or that she’s unsure of our relationship or my ability to be in one? Or maybe she meant that she’s unsure of how she feels about me.
Maybe she’s not sure how you feel about her, Pierce.
Fuck. Is that it? Is that what’s upsetting her? No. That can’t be it. I’ve been clear about my feelings, haven’t I? I’ve told her that there’s something about her, something I can’t stay away from. I’ve told her that I need her. Haven’t I? Haven’t I shown her how I feel about her?

My confusing thoughts are interrupted when Samantha comes bouncing into the living room, looking ready for anything. She’s dressed in a tight pair of faded blue jeans and a form-fitting white t-shirt and she looks sexy as hell, her long brown hair flowing over her shoulders, and she’s carrying a light green cardigan sweater and her purse in her hands. “Well, let’s go,” she says with a bright smile, and I can’t help smiling back at her as I stand.

I take her by the hand and we head out then, and I lead her out of the building and over to my Charger that’s sitting in a parking space near the entrance with her cover draped protectively over her.

“I want you to meet someone very special,” I tell her, as I release her hand and begin to uncover my car.

“Oh, my God,” she softly exclaims. “Is this her? You said we were going for a drive but I didn’t know you meant in
her!
”

“This is her,” I repeat, smiling broadly. “My 1968 Dodge Charger R/T. The other woman in my life,” I say as I fold up the cover.

“Is that what I am, Josh?” Sam asks softly, looking up at me bashfully. “The woman in your life?”

Her voice sounds small and uncertain and I’m immediately reminded of her words this morning and the fact that she’s feeling unsure of … something. Me, possibly. I tilt my head to one side as I look down at her. “Yes,” say definitively as I hold her gaze. She smiles slowly and then looks away nervously, and I wonder if I’ve put her mind at ease at all.

She looks at the Charger then and her smile gets bigger. “She’s very shiny,” she says looking her over.

“She damn well better be,” I tell her with a chuckle. “Come on, we’ve got a long drive ahead of us.” I open the door for her and wait for her to slide in.

“Where are we going?” she asks, excitedly.

“I told you, it’s a surprise,” I smile as I close her door and walk around to the driver’s side and get in, placing the cover in the back seat. I start her up and the engine roars to life, purring like a kitten, a nice low rumble that makes most guys drool. We pull slowly out of the parking lot and onto the street, and I glance in my rear view mirror and see Martin pull out behind us. He’ll be our shadow today, tailing Sam just like he’s been doing all week.

We drive in silence for a short time and as I get onto I-5 and head north, Samantha turns in her seat and looks at me. She says nothing and I glance over and see her smiling at me. “What is it, Sam?” I ask her with a smile.

“Tell me where we’re going,” she says softly and I shake my head, chuckling at her.

“I bet you’re a pain at Christmastime aren’t you?” I ask her. “Don’t you like surprises?”

“Only when I’m in on the surprise,” she says, and I laugh at her.

I shake my head again. “Do you really want to know?” I ask with a sigh and she nods furiously, her eyes big and round. “Okay,” I say. “We’re going to a car show in Bellingham.”

“A car show?” she repeats, and her voice is full of curiosity.

“A car show,” I say with a smile, glancing over at her. And she’s looking at me with a goofy grin on her face and I shrug. “I just thought it might be nice to get out and do something,” I tell her. “Maybe get our minds off of your case for a few hours, take advantage of the nice weather.”

“I’m excited,” she exclaims in that endearing five-year-old way that she has. “I’ve never been to a car show before!”

I can’t help but laugh at her enthusiasm. She is so adorable and I reach over and take her hand and bring it to my lips, kissing her knuckles. I hold her hand as we drive on in silence, lightly rubbing my thumb across her knuckles.

“So tell me about the Charger,” Samantha says softly. “You said that you’ve been restoring her for years? How long exactly?”

“Hmm,” I murmur as I think about her question, “I started putting serious money into her once I got hired on at the police department. But I had been tinkering with her for years before that.”

“Where did you get her?” Sam asks innocently, and the question immediately makes me uncomfortable. I feel my left hand tighten around the steering wheel and I fight viciously not to squeeze Sam’s hand that I’m still holding with my right.
She’s not asking about the old man, Pierce. She’s just asking about the car.
I clear my throat and hesitate for a beat, taking a deep breath.

“Well, she was just sort of always there,” I tell her with a frown.

“I don’t understand,” she says.

“It’s a long story,” I mumble, releasing her hand as I change lanes. And I see Martin changing lanes behind me in the rear view mirror.

“We’re going to Bellingham,” Sam says lightly. “We’ve got time.”

I glance over and she’s smiling sweetly at me, and I know that she’s trying to get me to open up.
Maybe that’s why she’s feeling so unsure, Pierce. Because you won’t open up.
Shit. That’s it, isn’t it? That’s why she’s feeling unsure of me? Because I won’t talk to her about my past or my old man. I take another deep breath and let it out slowly. I can do this. Just tell her about the car.

“When I was a kid,” I start out slowly, glancing over at her again, “I used to play with Hot Wheels all the time. You know what those are?” I ask her. “The little toy cars and trucks?”

“Yes,” she smiles. “Lucas had Hot Wheels when he was little.”

“Well, I was obsessed with them,” I tell her. “I must have had a hundred of them. Anyway, my favorite one was a blue ’68 Dodge Charger. I loved that little car, I can remember taking it everywhere with me.” I actually smile to myself as I think back on my memories of that little car. “One day, I was at my old man’s garage when this customer came driving up in that same car, only it was black. I couldn’t believe it, it was like my toy car only … bigger! I heard him tell the old man that he had bought it brand new but, he had blown the motor in it by racing her. I didn’t know what any of that meant at the time,” I shrug. “I just knew that my toy car had come to life and I was fascinated.”

Sam giggles. “I bet you were an adorable little boy,” she says and I smirk at her.

“Do you want to hear this story or not?”

“Oh,” she says softly and runs her fingers across her mouth, as if she’s zipping her lips, and I smile at her.

“Anyway … for some reason, the man never came back to pick up the car. For months it just sat in the garage until one day, I watched as my old man and one of the men who worked for him, pushed it out to the yard behind the garage. They parked it under the shelter back there and that’s where she sat for the next several years. As I got older, I always wondered about it. I asked the old man about it and he said the guy who owned it never could pay for the repairs, and then when he died, his widow just gave my old man the title to it.”

I look over at Samantha again and she is looking at me expectantly, as if she’s hanging on my every word, so I continue. “The car sat behind my old man’s garage for most of my childhood. Then when he died, and mom was taking care of things and preparing to sell the garage, I asked her about the car and I begged her to let me keep it. She was adamant at first that I couldn’t have it because I was only fourteen. But I begged and begged, like my life depended on it or something. And I had no clue at the time exactly what I was going to do with it. I just knew that I wanted that car. I mean, it was like it had been sitting there all that time, just waiting for me!”

I take a deep breath and sigh as I think back on it. “So, Mom finally agreed to let me keep it, and we had it towed to our house and it sat in our garage for another couple of years. I washed her and cleaned her up and I opened up the hood and started doing the things I could … you know, the things that didn’t take a whole lot of money. And I got on the Internet and started to really research the car. Once I did that, and I realized exactly what it was that I had … all numbers matching … I knew that I was sitting on something special. And I made up my mind right then that I was going to take this seriously. I knew that if I took my time and did it right, not only would she be a show piece someday, but she would also be worth a pretty penny. So, when I got my first job, when I was sixteen, I started doing a little here and there. Not much. But then, once I got hired at the PD and I started making a decent living, I began putting a little more money into her, a little at a time. And here we are,” I shrug.

“What does ‘all numbers matching’ mean?” Samantha asks, looking puzzled.

“Numbers matching means that the car has all the original parts that it came with straight from the factory,” I explain to her. “None of her parts have been replaced. The engine, heads, transmission, rear end … it’s all the same parts she rolled off the showroom floor with. And it’s very rare to find a classic car with all numbers matching these days. There’s a lot of stretching and patch-working going on, with guys trying to recreate as closely as they can. Might look nice once they’re finished,” I shrug, “but it’s still not original.”