The Distraction (8 page)

M
ike had Thursday nights off, something I'd forgotten until I walked into the lobby juggling two armfuls of groceries and squeezed by his half-asleep backup, a middle-aged Irishman who mostly worked the graveyard shift. I missed Mike immediately—in Alec's absence I'd always felt safer with him standing by the front door. I'd wanted to ask him to join us for dinner sometime. If he was single he would have been a great date for Amy.

Not that
that
was going to happen anytime soon.

I focused my thoughts away from my best friend and onto Alec. I hoped things were going well with his father. Part of me wondered if I should have volunteered to stop by and help. Thomas and I had formed kind of a friendship while Alec had been away—mostly centered around how much we missed him. But I didn't want to intrude if Alec and he were working things out.

When the elevator doors opened, I stepped out into the hallway, searching for my keys in my purse. There were only four apartments on this floor, and as I passed the first two, I saw a woman standing in front of Alec's door.

Her suit was the first thing to catch my eye—it was cream colored, with a knee-length skirt and matching pumps. Not many people could pull off a suit like that, but she had a kick-ass body—the kind that came with good genes not a gym membership. Her dirty blond hair that was swept back in a twist and her makeup was impeccable. She was probably a few years older than me, and looked a hell of a lot more professional than I did in my workout top and dirty skirt ensemble.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

Her head snapped in my direction as if I'd startled her, and the color rose in her cheeks.

“No, thanks,” she said. “Sorry. Wrong floor.”

With that, she adjusted her purse strap over her shoulder, and hurried past me toward the elevator.

I stared after her, perplexed, and watched her jab the lobby button repeatedly, as if that would somehow get her out of here faster. As the doors closed, our eyes met, and I was gripped by a hot, prickling jealousy. Strange, unwelcome images rose in my mind of her body and Alec's, tangling in the dark. Her slim legs wrapped around his hips. Her nails dragging down his chest. Her blond hair splayed across his pillow.

It seemed entirely likely that this wasn't the wrong floor at all. She'd come here purposefully, and had changed her mind when she'd seen me.

She'd come here to see Alec.

I unlocked the apartment door, shaking off the wave of insecurity. I was just being paranoid. He'd told me before he'd never brought another girl to his home and I believed him. In all my time staying here, no strange women had randomly shown up looking for him.

I locked the dead bolt behind me, set down the grocery bags in the kitchen, and kicked off my shoes, remembering afterward that I wasn't here alone anymore and should probably line them up neatly against the wall. Tossing my purse on the dining room table, I made for the bedroom to change into more comfortable clothes but was stopped by a knock at the front door.

Had the woman changed her mind and come back?

I returned to the entryway and cracked the door, just enough that the chain on the second lock I'd installed caught.

A man wearing a black leather jacket and dark slacks stood in the hallway. He had a perfectly trimmed goatee and short raven-colored hair, clipped so close to the skull that you could see the white scalp peeking through. His eyes were hidden from view by designer sunglasses, and I bit off a sigh of annoyance because only assholes and blind people wore shades indoors. This guy clearly was not blind.

“Can I help you?” I asked for the second time that night.

“I'm looking for Alec Flynn.”

“And you are?”

He reached into his back pocket and withdrew his wallet. Inside was an ID badge with his picture that stated he worked for the state in corrections.

“Reznik,” he pronounced clearly. “Jack Reznik. Parole officer.”

I'd thought that Alec had an appointment to see his parole officer earlier today. It surprised me that he had come to the house, but of course that wasn't unreasonable. When I'd worked in social services, parole and probation officers had dropped in unannounced all the time on my clients' parents to see if they were ditching work or using drugs.

I unhooked the chain and opened the door a little farther, checking the baseball bat out of habit. It was still against the wall, handle side up.

“He's not in right now,” I said. “If you leave your number, I'll have him call you.”

He removed his sunglasses, and the puckered scar that ran over his right eyelid gave me a little start. On second thought, the shades were a good call.

“You're his girlfriend?” he asked. He squinted a little as his eyes trailed down my body. I shivered and crossed my arms over my chest.

“I am.”

He took out a notepad. “Name?”

“Is that necessary?”

He smiled.

“Mind if I take a look around?” It wasn't a question. “Need to see his living space.”

He stepped through the threshold, bumping into me as he walked by.

“I do mind, actually,” I said, my pulse rising.

He stuck his head into the kitchen, then walked to the dining room. When he replaced the notepad in his back pocket I caught a glimpse of the gun in the back of his waistband. This didn't sit right; he should have had a holster, like a police officer.

Unless he had a concealed carry permit. But why would he need that if he worked for the department of corrections? He wouldn't be undercover.

“Nice place,” he commented.

“He's not here, I told you.” Subtly, I reached for my keys on the dining room table, and held the Mace tight in my fist.

Reznik turned toward me, brows lifted. “You're uncomfortable.”

“You're goddamn right, I'm uncomfortable.”

He smiled, a smooth twist of his mouth that made me take a step back.

“That was not my intent,” he said.

He retreated to the door.

“You'll tell him I stopped by?”

“Do you have a card?”

Reznik gave me the once-over one more time, then reached into his pocket and removed his wallet. I took the card he handed over without looking at it. I wasn't willing to take my eyes off of him for a second.

With that he stalked toward the elevators, leaving me staring at his back. He was definitely the creepiest parole officer I'd ever met, but that didn't mean he wasn't legit. For the last three months I'd admittedly been more suspicious than before. Trusting, which had always come hard for me, was proving even more difficult, something that I hoped would settle down in time.

Only then did I look down at the business card. It wasn't a parole officer's card; there was no state seal or professional emblem. It gave the information for a sushi restaurant called Raw that was north of the 275. I knew the place—I'd passed it on my way to Alec's father's apartment, but had never stopped there because it looked so shady.

It could have been a mistake, but I doubted it. Something about him was off, given Alec's past history, I wasn't sure my suspicions were entirely out of the question.

Back in the dining room, my cell phone buzzed. Still rattled and now decently annoyed, I went to find it, searching through my purse until I found the glowing screen. The caller ID said
THIS IS YOUR FATHER—PICK UP
, something he'd proudly programmed in himself a few visits ago.

“Hi Dad,” I said, catching him on the last buzz.

“Answer faster,” he said. “I was just getting ready to catch the next flight to Tampa.”

He was only kind of kidding. Always protective, he'd become a flat-out worrywart since the whole kidnapping thing. I supposed that was his right, seeing as I was his only daughter.

“Geez,” I said. “Give me at least seven seconds to answer next time.”

“Don't push it,” he said. “I'll give you what I give you.”

I smirked, dropped the card in the basket I'd brought for mail, and went to change into my comfy clothes.

“What's up?” I asked, trying to even my voice so as not to concern him any more than he already was.

“I don't know, you tell me.” Those words, in that tone, were enough to send me back to age sixteen, when Amy and I were two hours late for curfew, reeking of booze and the orange tic tacs we'd binged on to try to cover it up.

“Should I sit down?” I asked. “This sounds serious.”

“I got a call this afternoon,” he said. “From Alec Flynn.”

My chest clenched at the way he chewed on Alec's name. “Oh yeah?”

“Oh yeah,” he said, and I could practically see him giving me that withering detective look.

“What did he say?”

“What you should have,” he said with a huff. “That he's back in town, and he's . . .” He trailed off.

“And he's what, Dad?” My heart leapt, and before I could catch myself, I had a glimpse of white dresses and rings. My knees buckled and I sat down hard on the bed. The image vacated a moment later, and in its place was uncertainty. When I was little I'd dreamed about getting married, but then I'd grown up, and dated people, and realized how totally dysfunctional I was when it came to relationships. Marriage wasn't exactly in the cards for people like me.

“He's going to take care of you,” my dad said a little too articulately. “He apologized for what happened and said I shouldn't worry because he's not going to let you get hurt again.”

My whole body warmed. That was more like it. Why would Alec have called my dad for any other reason? Me and my crazy imagination.

“That's . . . nice,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “And yet something tells me it didn't go over too well.”

“Anna,” he sighed. “Your mom and me only ever wanted you happy.”

It hurt to hear him say that like she was still alive. Like she hadn't been ripped from him—from both of us—when the cancer had taken her.

“Alec makes me happy,” I said.

“Alec Flynn almost got you killed.”

I groaned. “Did Amy call you, too? Because I just got the same speech from her about an hour ago.”

“She didn't, but you should listen to her. I always liked Amy. She's a smart one.”

“Because she agrees with you.”

“Well, you know what they say about great minds.”

I slumped. “I'm tired of defending him to the people who should be happy for me.”

“There's a reason you're defending him,” he said sternly. “It's because he did something wrong. It's because he just got out of prison. It's because his friend busted your face up . . .”

“Not his friend,” I said. “Bobby was
not
his friend.” The anger was just under the surface, ready to rip through. “We've gone over this a hundred times since it happened. Every time you've come down to visit.”

“And I'm still waiting for it to sink in.”

“You know, I realize you and Mom did everything perfectly, but it's not that way for everyone.”

“Anna . . .”

“I have to go,” I said, hating that I was now fighting with two of the most important people in my life. I hung up the phone and shoved it across the table. It slid to the end, and then hit the floor with a clunk.

I wasn't being stupid. Being with Alec was the most important thing I'd ever done. This was my life, and my choice, and if my dad and Amy really loved me, they'd support me.

I just had to keep telling myself that until I believed it.

I
dreamed of water. A slow drip in the darkness that turned to a trickle, and then, like a pipe under pressure, a more persistent spray. My eyes adjusted slowly to the gray-green haze, then to the car's dashboard in front of me. The passenger-side window cracked, and my panic broke loose. I fought, but to no avail; I was bound to the seat, unable to break free. The car was underwater, and sinking fast. The light was fading again. I looked left, but the woman in the driver seat—the woman with red hair—stared at me with dead eyes.

I jolted awake, the scream caught in my throat. Sitting up, I gasped for air, shoving off the bindings on my arms and legs that still lingered in my imagination. My hearing was sharp, my eyes already focused. I was lying on the couch in the living room—the leather stuck to my damp skin as I moved.

I wasn't alone.

Someone was moving through the hallway toward the living room, deliberately taking soft steps to keep quiet. I gripped the wooden spoon I'd fallen asleep holding. Not the ideal weapon for defense, but I was too far away from the door to grab the bat.

It's Alec,
I told myself.

But Alec would have turned on the lights. This was his home.

Fingers tightening around the wooden handle, I rose as quietly as I could, keeping to the shadows. My heart was pounding, memories of Bobby too close to the surface.

He was closer than I'd anticipated, and when my arm rose automatically to strike, he took a quick step back.

“Whoa,” said Alec. “I surrender.”

I dropped my arm as he maneuvered the large cardboard box he'd been holding to one arm and flipped on the living room light. My eyes blinked as they adjusted to the sudden brightness. He was still wearing the same jeans and white T-shirt I'd seen him in earlier, but he looked exhausted.

“What is that? A spoon?” he asked.

“Why are you sneaking around?” I snapped.

Stupid question. He lived here. He could army crawl from room to room if he wanted.

He tilted his head slightly. “I didn't want to wake you.”

My breath came out in a hard huff. He carried the box into the living room and set it on the dining room table. I glanced at the clock on the wall behind him. It was after ten. Whatever he'd been doing, it had taken a long time.

“Sorry. Weird dream.” I tried to walk past him to return the spoon to the kitchen, too jittery to hold still, especially when he was looking at me like I still might hit him. He reached for my forearm, squeezing tighter when I paused.

“Anna, you're shaking.” His voice had lowered, and his shoulders tensed, like he was prepared to kill whoever had scared me. The power inside of him was as moving as it was frightening.

I took a steadying breath, giving in to the heat that traveled up my arm from his touch. He eased me closer, until his arms were around me, and I shuddered as the last bit of the nightmare was chased away. I rested my cheek against his chest and listened to his heart, strong and steady as it pulled me back to calm.

“What was your dream about?” he asked.

I tensed, struggling to find the words.

“Something I need to get over.” My fears were irrelevant. Bobby was in jail for a long time, and I was no longer in danger. Now I just needed my subconscious to figure that out.

His arms tightened so quickly I gasped. He seemed as surprised at this as I was, and released his hold.

It occurred to me that we were both avoiding the herd of elephants in the room. Bobby. Maxim Stein. My abduction. The trial. How did you start to talk about things so big, so necessary, when so much time had already passed?

I took a step back, putting more space between us.

“It was just a dream,” I said, before he could ask any more. It was late, and we were together after three months apart. We should have been enjoying the time we had, not focusing on what had nearly killed us.

But even telling myself that felt like a lie. We'd have to talk about things at some point, I just didn't want to do it right now.

He nodded reluctantly. “All right.”

I thought of what Amy had said about the honeymoon phase—the glowy feeling. Was reality already tarnishing it? Because I felt the strain now between us, just as I'd felt it when we'd been with Trevor at the restaurant earlier. The attraction between Alec and I was undeniable, but there had to be more to make a relationship work. Even I knew that. But I didn't know how to fill the gaps.

And if I couldn't fill in the gaps, he was going to slip right through them.

“You cooked?” He looked at my shirt, and then over my shoulder into the kitchen, where two pots and a glass dish were covered on the stove. After the call with my dad, I'd been on a tear. Homemade red sauce, meatballs, sautéed spinach, and garlic bread.

Alec's expression was caught somewhere between desperation and awe. I thought he might fall to his knees and worship me.

“It certainly looks that way.”

His brows drew together.

“Why?”

I tucked my hair behind my ears. “I like to eat when I'm hungry. I assumed we were similar in that way.”

He stared at me. “You made me dinner.”

I didn't know why this seemed to baffle him so much.

“You're not listening,” I said. “I made
me
dinner. You can join me if you want.”

I hadn't done the noodles yet, and as I went to turn on the stovetop to boil water, I noticed that my shirt was streaked with tomato paste and splattered with oil. I wasn't exactly a sexy cooker. Take away the kitchen and I easily could have been arrested as a murder suspect.

“I was with my dad,” he said. “It took longer than I thought. I'm sorry. I should have called. This . . .” He motioned to the kitchen. “I didn't expect this.”

I snorted. “I think I'd have to slap you if you did.”

He shook his head, smiling in a sweet, embarrassed kind of way. Obviously he wasn't used to someone taking care of him—not that I was particularly used to taking care of someone either. Still, I would have been lying if I said I didn't like how thrown off he was by the gesture.

I wondered what kind of state Alec's father had been in. They certainly had a lot to talk about, and none of it would go very well if Thomas wasn't sober.

Alec peeked into a foil-covered glass pan of meatballs. Inhaling slowly, he closed his eyes in bliss.

“How did you do all this?”

“Magic.” I couldn't help but smirk. “Surprise. I'm a witch.”

“That explains a lot.”

I went to smack him with a dishrag, but he swept me up in his arms and gave me a dizzying kiss. The kind that erased nightmares, and made everything okay again.

“Hi,” he said.

I rubbed the tip of my nose against his. “Hi. How's your dad?”

He leaned back, and I was sorry to be the cause of the lines that formed between his brows.

“Fine. Hungover. He asked about you. A lot.”

“He misses me,” I said, trying to lighten the mood. “I don't blame him.”

He opened one cabinet. Then another. I pointed to the opposite side, above the dishwasher, where I'd moved the plates. It felt strange knowing more about his home than he did. He didn't seem to be annoyed, but I wondered if that bothered him.

“He kept asking if I'd scared you off yet.”

Alec was facing the other way, but his voice had hardened a little. I wrapped my arms around his waist, noting the way he still flexed for just a fraction of a moment before he could relax, as if the gesture was a surprise.

“Looks like I'm still here.”

He didn't respond.

We finished preparing dinner together. There was something comforting in the way we moved around each other. He didn't ask me what he could do, he just did. I didn't tell him what would help, I just handed him a spoon and he began to serve. He touched me often—his hand on my lower back as he passed by, his shoulder brushing against mine as we stood beside each other. He tucked my hair behind my ear when it got in my eyes and rolled up my sleeve when I reached across him. In those moments it was so easy being around him, I couldn't believe we hadn't known each other our whole lives.

We moved to the table, and he set the cardboard box he'd brought in earlier on the floor. On the outside,
Alec Flynn—Storage
was scratched in permanent marker.

I nibbled the garlic bread, worrying about both of our fathers and the impact they had on our lives.

“I know you called my dad today,” I said. “You didn't have to do that.”

He paused mid-bite.

“Actually I did,” he said, avoiding my gaze.

“What did he say to you?”

A sad smile pulled at his mouth. “Nothing I didn't already know.”

I twisted my spaghetti around my fork. Untwisted it. I could only imagine what words my father had chosen.
You're not good enough. Be a man and walk away.

“I'm sorry.”

Alec leaned back in his seat and sighed. “Does it bother you that your family doesn't like me?”

He was including Amy in with my father, a fact that both showed how much he knew me, and depressed me at the same time.

“They just don't understand,” I said. “They will.”

“And if they don't?” His gaze locked on mine, and I could feel the hurt inside of him. It made me want to take on the world in his defense, something no one ever did and that he never asked for. Things were supposed to be easier now that we were together, not harder, but here I was, torn in half by my love for him and the people who had known me longest.

“It doesn't matter,” I said.

“It should.”

The garlic bread was in ten pieces on my plate. He was right, of course, but that didn't fix anything.

“Hey,” he said, reaching for my hand. “Tell me about these kids you volunteer with.”

Some of the pressure in the room diffused with the change in topic.

“Just one kid,” I said, and as he traced my knuckles with his thumb I told him about Jacob, and how hard it would be to face him again if I couldn't get him the placement with his sister.

“You're not letting him down,” said Alec after I'd finished. “You listened to him. That's probably more than anyone else has done.”

“But listening doesn't change anything,” I said.

He shook his head. “It changes everything.” He looked over my shoulder, his thoughts drifting. “I fucked up for years before someone saw some potential in me. Just knowing he did was enough to straighten me out.”

I squeezed his hand, touched, but saddened, too, because that person who had believed in Alec—Maxim Stein—hadn't really seen potential. He'd seen the opportunity for a scapegoat.

“Even if you walk away now, you changed that kid's life,” Alec said.

I flushed with pride

“I'm not walking away.” I made up my mind right then that I wouldn't. I was going to do everything I could to make sure Jacob had a fair shot in this world. It was what my father had done for me, what Max had only pretended to do for Alec.

Alec smiled. “I got a job, by the way.”

“What?” I dropped his hand. “Why didn't you lead with that?”

I hopped onto his lap, and the chair rocked back. He caught it before we tumbled to the floor, his grin widening. Closer, I traced my fingers along the contours of his face, feeling the roughness on his jaw contrast with his smooth lips.

“What is it?” I asked. “How did you get something so quickly?”

“Don't get too excited,” he warned. “I know a guy who set me up unloading freight at one of the shipping yards. It's nothing big, but it's work.”

It wasn't nothing. Alec had a record that now included a stint in prison and an association with white-collar crime. Since he was a teenager, his work had consisted of things he couldn't mention on a resume. Getting a job—any job—was a big deal.

“Well I'm excited,” I said. “We should celebrate.”

I wiggled my hips suggestively on his lap, and his fingers tightened around my waist. Instantly, I could feel him start to grow hard against my thigh. I bit my lip, and ran my fingers through his hair.

He kissed me slowly, fingers rising up my back beneath my shirt. I arched into him, ever responsive to even the smallest touch. He slowed before things got too heated, and held my face in his hands. There were questions in his eyes. I didn't know what they were, but I wasn't sure I wanted to answer them all the same.

I focused over his shoulder.

“What's in the box?” I asked, reading the words again:
Alec Flynn—Storage
.

This distracted him. He followed my gaze, then turned back to me.

“Handcuffs.” His lips, feather-soft, trailed down the side of my neck.

“Is that right?” A shimmer of excitement raced through me. With the exception of the vibrator, something I'd only ever used solo, I'd never played with any sexy toys before.

“They're real handcuffs,” he said, chuckling. “They don't have fur lining or anything. But if you were interested, I might be able to get some . . .”

I scooted off his lap and moved around his chair, lifting the box onto the table. At his nod of consent, I pulled back the flaps. He was right, there were handcuffs on top of worn steel-toed boots, a few file folders, a black utility belt, and a pair of work gloves.

“Is this for your new job?” I asked.

“Some of it. Some of it I used working for Max,” he said, a note of regret in his voice.

I pulled out the handcuffs. They were cold, heavy, and didn't look particularly comfortable, but beneath them was a coil of nylon rope. I held it up by one finger, erotic images of being tied to the bedposts flashing through my mind.

He cocked a brow, leaning his hip against the counter.

“Want to play, baby?” he asked in a low voice that felt like a velvet finger stroking over my sex.