The Switch (6 page)

“You mean to tell me you’re carrying around an unregistered firearm?”

She nods. “No serial number, either. But if you insist on taking me to the hospital, and if for some reason a cop wants to investigate what happened, you’re going to have to explain your prints on the gun
and
the gun powder on your hand.”

“We don’t run those tests unless someone has been shot,” I say.

“Or unless someone mentions the existence of the gun, in which case the cops will run the tests. I’m not the honorable one here, Officer. If I go down, you’re going down with me.”

I tense up and look out over the Mississippi
River. I’ve really stepped in it this time. Of course it would be
me
who is sitting around eating a fucking po’ boy when this little disaster runs in looking for a patsy.

“What the hell are you into?” I yell.

She winces, startled by my voice.

“I’ll tell you everything if you just don’t take me to a damn hospital. I think the bleeding has stopped, so no hospital, okay?” She pulls herself up, crying out in pain, and looks out the window.

“I have to get you cleaned up, and that wound is going to need stitches. I can take care of it, but I can’t do it in the truck.” I give up, completely defeated. Her logic renders my hospital demands useless.

“My dad has a cabin by Lee Lake, just East of Picayune. Nobody’s there
, and it’s got just about everything we’ll need,” she says.

I sigh, resolving to remember
both my Boy Scout training and the miserable training I received from the Academy, and care for this woman myself. I need this right now like I need a hole in my goddamn head, but I have little choice. We’ve made a deal—she’ll tell me what the fuck is going on beyond the basics, and I’ll make sure she doesn’t see the inside of a hospital. But so help me God, this is a bad fucking idea.

I continue on I-10 East anyway. I drive on, checking Shelby’s breathing and her leg every minute or so. Every other time
, I check her pulse, which remains weak but steady. She’s keeping a fairly steady rhythm going—not too fast, not too shallow. The sweat concerns me a bit, but the best I can do is put on the air conditioner. Well, until she tells me she’s freezing cold and I’m only making it worse. So I turn it off and kick myself for forgetting the basics of emergency response. The sarge would not be pleased right now.

A little over an hour out of New Orleans and we’re leaving Picayune. It’s not far now, she says. But her eyes keep drooping, and despite the fact that her breathing remains steady, I’m still nervous for her. I’ve reached over and felt around the temporary bandage at her thigh
, and the bleeding seems to have stopped—which is something at least. That and the fact that it’s only bled through the outer layer of my wrapped-up shirt just a little bit. We’re exiting the highway when Shelby looks over at me with a sleepy smile.

“You okay?” I ask.

She smacks her lips together, the tiredness overtaking her, and her eyes travel from mine down to my chest and abdomen. I’m in good shape and I know it, but I can’t believe she would be checking me out in her condition. I’m not built with a twelve-pack of abs or anything, but I try to keep my physique looking good for the ladies. She licks her bottom lip and then looks back up to my eyes. I try to keep my eyes on the road, but I’ve never been all that great at multitasking, especially when I know a pretty woman is checking me out like I haven’t been sitting here without my shirt for over an hour now.

“You look good, Officer Guilliot.”

I fight the heat that flames on my cheeks.

“Oh my God,” she practically whispers in a drawl, “
you’re blushing. You are actually blushing.” Her voice sounds like a predatory purr, which is in stark contrast to how sickly she looks.

I reach over and feel her head. She’s sporting a fever all right.

“You’re a beautiful woman, Miss Connor. Any man with a lick of decency would turn red getting a compliment like that.” She stirs in the seat, crying out once again at the searing pain in her thigh. “Quit moving—you’re only hurting yourself.”

Shelby directs me down a narrow paved road for a few miles until we turn off on a dirt road for another half mile. At the end of the dirt road, settled amongst a plethora of trees
, is a small brown cabin. I can’t imagine it’d be called anything but rustic—except worn, perhaps. Its front porch runs the length of the house, and two rocking chairs adorn the left side of the green door. I pull to a stop just off the side of the front stairs and cut off the engine. Shelby makes a move to open the door and drag herself out of the cab, but before she can, I rush around the front and block her path.

“You got a key to this place?” I ask.

She stalls and considers this a moment. “Go around the left side. There’s a pile of firewood and a side door. Next to the door is a window that should be cracked. Pull the screen out. It’s real easy. You can reach in and unlock the door from there.”

I say nothing and stalk off in an effort to get us inside the cabin. I really shouldn’t be breaking and entering into this place, but it’s not like I have much choice.

Before I go, I point a finger at her and tell her to keep her ass in the cab. She lets out a sigh, and I know the only reason she’s not fighting me is because if she tries to get out of the cab, she’s likely to fall on her face and cause further injury to her wound.

Around t
he side of the cabin is the door, and sure enough, it’s easy to pull out the screen from the cracked window. The space allowed between the window and the frame is minimal, large enough for a petite arm at best, and I wonder how many times Shelby has gotten into the cabin this way. I only allow a moment’s consideration as to whether or not we’re welcome here and why it is that my companion is so good at getting around locks. I shove the window open a few inches and reach inside, easily unlocking the door. I remove my arm from the window and turn the handle before walking into the cabin.

CHAPTER 6

Chase

Did I hurt you?

IT’S DUSTY BUT
tidy, a family place, that’s obvious. It’s one large room and a bathroom off to the side. A tiny kitchen area is to my left, the bathroom over in the other corner, and a sleeping area up ahead and to the right, fairly close to the front door. On my right, across from the sleeping area is the living area—complete with a sofa, coffee table, and a fireplace. On the mantle of the fireplace is a collection of photographs that I make sure to note to take a look at later. The cabin isn’t much, but it has the basics, which is just what we need right now. I cross the small space and unlock the front door.

I see Shelby is slumped back in her seat in the cab of the truck. Her eyes are closed. For a brief second I think she’s just fallen asleep
, but then I realize that if she’s dozed off, she’s likely passed out, which is a very bad sign.

Rushing to the truck, I find myself terrified that something has happened to her. I fear the wound is worse than I thought and that I’m going to regret not taking her to the hospital. Inside the cab
, her breathing is labored and shallow. I scoop her up into my arms and kick the cab door shut. Her eyes fly open, and she appears disoriented before her body slumps.
Fuck
. My emergency response training seems dismal right about now. I think I know what I’m doing, but I’m not certain enough to avoid the rising panic. If I were a better cop, we wouldn’t be in this situation.

I bring Shelby into the cabin and place her as gently as I can atop the bed. Slowly, she comes to. I sit on the edge of the bed, hip to hip.
Her eyes flutter and she’s panting.

She points to the bathroom. “First aid kit under the sink,” she says.

I walk to the bathroom and dig out the first aid kit. It’s larger than I expect, a least a foot wide and nearly as deep. It looks more like a small metal treasure chest than a first aid kit, actually. I carry the gargantuan kit to the bed and set it on the small table close to Shelby’s head. She lifts her eyes to meet mine, and a bit of clarity washes over her face.

“Do you know any first aid, because I don’t know any first aid—and I just realized that maybe I should have let you take me to the hospital after all. I really don’t want to die of an infection—or your stupidity—and well, I don’t know
 . . . you don’t look like you’re prepared for this. You’re just a baby. I just . . .” She trails off, finally taking a breath.

The panicked look on her face makes me laugh. I throw my head back and let out a real guttural chuckle.

“And why in the hell are you laughin’ at me?” she asks, spunking up a bit.

I calm myself, aware I’m shaking the entire bed. I straighten my back and fix her a strong look.

“Miss Connor, I am an officer of the law, trained by the New Orleans Police Department,” I say, readying to dig into my first aid training. It’s not so extensive, but I figure I can work it out in a way that’ll make Shelby think it is. Last thing I need to tell her is that I nearly dozed off in my suture training course.

“Brignac,” she says
, confusing me.

I hold my breath and stare down at her.
“Huh?”

“Brignac. My last name is Brignac.”

I shake my head, keep my face straight, and avoid letting my anger show. I don’t know this woman, and I have no reason to feel hurt or annoyed that she’s lied to me. Not that I should be surprised. I remind myself of why I’m in this cabin in the woods and why she took a knife to the thigh. This woman is trouble. I vow here and now that the moment she and her friend are safe and Victor is behind bars I’m done with troubled women and women with troubles. And I’m definitely done with Shelby. I have learned my damn lesson and quick.

“Okay, Ms. Brignac. I need to look at your wound.”

I hope she understands what I’m saying. I’d rather not verbalize that I need her to take her pants off. I don’t care how many times I might have to say it in the future, I just don’t think it’ll ever sound like I’m not telling a woman I want to fuck her. She nods her head but makes no move. I look down at my shirt wrapped around her thigh and see the blood seeping through. I dig a pair of scissors out of the first aid kit.

“I have to cut your jeans off.”

“I’m not comfortable with that,” she says, dragging herself up.

“You comfortable bleeding out on the bed?”

Her lips pucker and she looks at her leg. Finally, she nods her head in agreement.

I set the scissors down and pull
off her dark brown boots and then, finally, her socks. I pick the scissors back up and cut up the fabric covering her unharmed leg until I hit her hip. I abandon that side in favor of her wounded leg, starting from the ankle and slowly cutting up the inside of her leg. My knuckles drag slowly across the smooth skin of her inner leg. She sucks in a breath.

“Did I hurt you?” I ask.

She shakes her head no, and I continue on. I stop at the shirt wrapped around her still jean-clad thigh. I take her hand in mine, and her breath catches. I study her curiously as I place her hand atop the knotted T-shirt.

“I’m gonna unknot this. Keep pressure on it, okay? I don’t want you gushing blood all over the place.”

Her hand pushes down on the shirt, and she throws her head back into the pillow. I eye her dark brown leather jacket and her top. She’s sweated through the top, and the jacket must be soaked on the inside, as well. It was close to a hundred outside, and she was running around in this get-up that’s much better suited for fall or winter than for summer.

Slowly and carefully
, my hands work at the knot on the shirt. “Lift up your ass,” I say.

She does as she’s told, which I can only imagine is one of the
few times in this woman’s life that she’s followed instruction without issue. I cut through the rest of the jeans, freeing her healthy leg, and then cut a square around her knife wound.

“Did you have to destroy my jeans?”

I stare at her, baffled.

“I just mean, like, I loved those jeans.”

“Are you serious right now?” I ask.

“They were expensive jeans,” she says in all seriousness.

I shake my head and turn my attention back to her wound. If she’s arguing about stupid shit like clothing, I’m guessing she’s feeling better.

I don’t know what I’m dealing with
, and I want to be able to work unobstructed—and the last thing I want is for the wound to open and for her to lose any more blood. I begin to slide away Shelby’s cut-up jeans, but her other hand shoots down and holds on to the cut-up fabric. Her cheeks are tinged with pink.

“Um, it’s laundry day,” she says.

I look down at her covered panties and smirk. “It can’t be that bad.”

“It’s just that had I known a man would be seeing me in my underwear
, I’d have worn something more attractive.”

I gently coax the jeans from her grip and eye her panties. They’re an off-white pair of Hanes that have seen better days—the waistband is stringy
, and the fabric has definitely thinned out since their purchase. I fight back the bubbling laughter that threatens to escape, but it’s no use. My chest shakes, and before I know it, I’m cracking up. Shelby looks on in absolute horror, her eyes as wide as saucers.

“I have a knife wound and you’re laughing about my underwear!” she shrieks.

I settle down and narrow my eyes at her, yanking away the last of the discarded fabric. Shelby rubs her thighs together, drawing my attention back to her panties. The look on her face is pure mortification. I guess there’s at least one thing Miss Shelby Connor—scratch that—Brignac doesn’t know about men. A beautiful woman in her underwear is always sexy. It doesn’t matter what that underwear looks like, because all I can think about is the fact that a piece of very thin, worn fabric is the only thing keeping her from being bared before me. And I’m a sick fuck for even thinking of it—she’s trouble in a hundred-pound bag and she’s injured. I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t decide to become a doctor, because I think my imagination is breaking some Hippocratic oaths right about now.

I move Shelby’s hand out of the way, provide pressure to her wound, and then slowly peel back the scrap of jeans and the
T-shirt. Her wound has stopped bleeding—and thank God for it, too, because I don’t really know what I’d do if it hadn’t. Some of the blood surrounding the wound has dried and binds the cloth to her skin. I give it a tiny tug, but she cries out in pain, so I leave it be.

Looking into the first aid kit
, the first thing I see is a medium-size bottle of hydrogen peroxide. Sure, there are stores a few miles down the road, but should something happen, I don’t want to use all the peroxide in one cleaning. I’ll need it for later. Shelby looks pale. Her eyes are clamped shut, and she is taking deep breaths.

“I’m going to boil some water to sterilize it and clean out the wound. Do you need something to drink?”

“Water,” she says.

I eye the bloody material atop her wound and then take a look at her face. Two things are going to happen when I start to clean this bad boy. She’s going to pass out would be my first guess, but I also
wouldn’t put it past her to start screaming. Loudly. In my ears.

“I have to stitch up your wound. It’s going to hurt. You might want to go for something stronger.”

“Bourbon,” she says, deciding instantly.

I look to my left at the bathroom
and then to my right at a nearly bare wooden wall, adorned only with a cheap, old painting. Behind me to my left is the kitchenette, but I doubt there’s any bourbon in there. It’s just too small.

“Bookcase.”

I raise my eyebrows and look around the cabin. Sure enough, in the corner of the living area is a tall bookcase—half-filled with books and half-filled with booze. I stand and walk over, spotting the bourbon on the top shelf. I bring her the bottle and tell her to hang on. I rush to the kitchenette and swiftly locate the few glasses that are here and bring one back to her. I pick up the bottle of bourbon and pour two fingers into the glass, then hand it to Shelby. She eyes it cautiously, sniffs the liquor, and then takes a tentative sip. Her face scrunches up in displeasure, and she pulls away from the glass. I hold back a chuckle.

“You can’t sip it. Bourbon is meant to be tossed back.”

“It tastes nasty,” she says.

I nod my head and look at this girl
—I mean I really look at her. When I first met her, staring down the barrel of a gun in that restaurant, I thought she was a helpless victim. Her big gray eyes were filled with half-shed tears, and her tanned skin looked pale under the weight of the situation. All I wanted to do was to help her. Then she picked that lock like a pro, and the lingering doubt began to creep in.

Is she a victim?

Is she playing me?

How much trouble am I going to be in when Sarge finds out?

Having a woman pull a gun on me could have gone a much different route than it actually did. I could swear that was the first time she pointed a gun at somebody, and most definitely the first time she pointed one at a cop. The ease with which I overpowered her emotionally tells me more about her than she likely realizes. Whatever she’s gotten herself and her friend into with Victor, she’s not a hardened criminal. Whatever she’s doing, she’s doing out of love.

I clear my throat and shake my head of those thoughts. Regardless of why she’s doing what she’s doing, she still pulled a gun on a cop
, and she still made off with a stolen fucking diamond. I have to keep my head right and not let those moments of vulnerability suck me in.

This is a job
, I remind myself. It might not be a typical day at the office, but it’s a job nonetheless. And I can’t afford to let myself get sucked into Shelby’s story.

I stand from the bed and walk over to the kitchenette. Out of the corner of my eye
, I see Shelby sucking back the rest of the bourbon in her glass. Her face pinches up, and after she swallows it, she shakes her head and arms like she’s trying to get rid of the taste. When she’s not trying to blow my head off, she can be pretty cute. But that’s a dangerous thought.

In the kitchenette there’s a small pot in one of the two cupboards. I pull it out and set it in the small sink and fill it up. Once it’s full enough
, I set the pot on the two-burner stove and turn it on full blast, which isn’t a whole lot. I find an old rag on the back of the counter. It isn’t much, but it’s going to have to do for now.

I chance a look back at Shelby and see her filling up her glass with more bourbon. Her hands shake as she pours. I turn away and look out the small window over the sink. There’s a line of trees
marking the edge of the woods, just about fifty yards from the back of the cabin. I look to the left and see a small lake. On the other side, set back at least a few hundred yards, is a palatial home with a gaudy, Mediterranean style that looks completely out of place amongst the thick woods surrounding the property.

“Chase?”
Her voice sounds small, apologetic even.

“Yeah?” I say without turning around.