Arrest (A Disarm Novel) (2 page)

“How long until we eat?” Henry asked, his arm around me.

I stretched my limbs, straightening my toes and fingers. “The turkey’s not even done thawing yet. And we haven’t cooked anything else.”

“But. I’m. So. Hungry,” he said, grabbing his stomach for effect.

I laughed at his theatrics and pinched at his side, unable to find an ounce of fat anywhere. “Poor baby, starving on Thanksgiving.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” he said. “Remember that Thanksgiving when we went skiing and Jason forgot to make restaurant reservations?”

I nodded, feeling a sudden rush of emotion at the mention of my brother and that time long ago before death and heartache had touched our lives. Jason, Henry, and I had all gone to Vail, Colorado, to spend the holiday weekend skiing. Without dinner reservations, we had ended up going to the grocery store and buying bread and sliced turkey, eating the sandwiches in our hotel room instead.

“How could I forget? Jason poured jarred gravy on his sandwich thinking it would taste good. It was nasty but he ended up eating that sandwich anyway,” I said, laughing as the memory of my brother filled me with warmth.

“I tried it. It wasn’t so bad,” Henry said. “Though it would have been better if we’d had a microwave to warm it up in.”

“No way. It was gross.”

“That was a fun vacation,” he said, his voice taking on a wistful tone.

“Yeah it was.” I sighed. “I miss him.”

Henry cleared his throat and turned his attention back to the television, only grunting out a soft, “Yeah.” But despite his nonchalant attitude, I knew he still missed his best friend. He and my older brother, Jason, had grown up together; they had gone through ROTC, college, and even the Air Force together. Jason was a part of Henry as much as he was a part of me, and even now, nearly six years after Jason’s death, his memory was like a phantom limb, a daily reminder of the person we’d loved and lost.

Sharing the death of a brother—whether he was by blood or by bond—bound Henry and me together, made certain that we were always linked by that common loss.

Determined not to keep dwelling on the past, I slid out of bed and pulled on some yoga pants and a T-shirt, and twisted my hair up into a bun. “Come on, let’s get cooking.”

He was pulling on a pair of gray Air Force sweat pants when the phone rang. He read the name on the caller ID before answering. “Hello?”

I raised my eyebrows at him, trying to decipher by Henry’s tone if the caller was my mom, or maybe Julie, the woman my brother had intended to marry.

“Bergen!” Henry said, his voice taking on the brash tone he used with his male friends. “What the hell are you up to, man?”

Satisfied the call wasn’t for me, I went downstairs to start preparing the food. Several minutes later, Henry followed. “That was my old buddy Bergen. We were stationed together in Korea,” he said, standing by the counter and snapping the green beans with his fingers.

I slipped my hand inside the turkey, reaching around for the elusive giblet packet. “Where the hell is it?” I mumbled, grimacing from the cold, clammy things I was touching.

“Is it wrong that I find your turkey fisting incredibly hot?”

“You should see what I can do with a duck,” I grumbled, my fingers making contact with something plastic.

“Please tell me it rhymes with ‘cluck.’”

I came up with the plastic package and threw it into the sink. “What’s Bergen up to today?” I asked, placing the small turkey inside the pan and rubbing two entire packets of French-onion-soup mix all over it, a trick I’d learned from my mom.

“He’s driving through Denver on the way to Colorado Springs. Do we have enough food for another person?”

“Oh definitely,” I said, helping him with the green beans once the turkey was in the oven. “You want to invite him over for dinner?”

He grinned sheepishly. “Already did,” he said and crunched on a green bean.

—

Several hours later, the doorbell rang while I was still getting ready. I could hear Henry greeting his friend downstairs, their deep, masculine voices echoing through the house.

I hurriedly dressed then applied my makeup. I looked at myself in the mirror, trying to decide what to do with my hair, but laziness won out so I just pinned it up and left a few tendrils down. “Good enough,” I said and went to meet our guest.

Bergen, a tall man with beautiful chocolate skin, a shaved head, and a bright smile stood up when I entered the room. “You must be the lovely Mrs. Logan,” he said, holding out a hand. “Henry has been talking about you for years.”

I smiled and returned the handshake. “And you must be the mysterious Mr. Bergen.”

“Major Jackson Bergen, ma’am.” He waited until I sat down before following suit.

“I’m glad you could make it, but if you call me ‘ma’am’ again, you’re not getting any pie.”

“Yes, sir,” he said with a tiny salute, the skin around his eyes crinkling as he smiled.

“At ease.” I grabbed Henry’s beer from the coffee table and took a sip.

“Hey now,” Henry said and touched his cold fingers to my neck in retaliation.

“Whipped,” Bergen coughed into his hand.

Henry laughed, leaning back into the couch and resting his arm across my shoulders. “I guess I am.”

Bergen smiled. “That’s good to hear, man.”

—

We ate our Thanksgiving meal at around four thirty p.m., passing serving dishes around the table wordlessly as we heaped food on our plates. Years of cooking with my mom had conditioned me to prepare more food than was necessary so we thankfully had enough to share with even a large man with an equally large appetite.

“So, Bergen,” I said after we’d been eating for several minutes. “What was Henry like at Osan?”

The two men exchanged a quick look that sent my spidey senses tingling. “He was a mess when he first got there,” Bergen said nonchalantly. “He was one depressing peckerhead, always talking about the meaning of life and finding oneself.”

“Ah, I wasn’t so bad,” Henry said, washing his food down with beer. “So anyway, what are you doing in Colorado Springs?”

Bergen took the hint and moved on, talking about his new job at NORAD, the U.S. North American Aerospace Defense Command. I sat back and listened, chewing thoughtfully and watching Henry’s face as they exchanged stories. Something about the way he talked—carefully, with every word thought out—gave me the feeling that Henry was being extra cautious about what was being said.

There was something the man wasn’t telling me and I, being who I was, intended to find out what that was.

—

After dinner, Bergen and Henry cleaned up while I was banished to the living room for some R and R. I turned on the television and burrowed under a blanket on the couch in a pleasant state of drowsiness.

My eyes were starting to get heavy when I remembered something. With great effort, I pushed up off the couch to remind Henry to put the pie in the oven but the sound of their hushed conversation froze me where I stood around the corner.

“She doesn’t know about what happened at Osan,” Henry said in a low voice, almost inaudible under the sound of running water.

“You never told her?”

“No. It’s not exactly something you want to tell your wife, you know?”

I entered the kitchen, deciding that getting the answer directly from the horse’s mouth was a better alternative to eavesdropping. “What is this big secret?” I asked the two men, who were behind the sink with identical looks of
busted
written all over their faces.

Bergen took a deep breath. “I need to use the restroom,” he said and left the room, not bothering to slow down or ask for directions.

I folded my arms across my chest, staring down my husband even as he towered over me.

He scratched his forehead. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Then why are you keeping it from me?”

His jaw tightened and his eyes turned wary, reminding me of that same stranger who came back from a six-month deployment to Afghanistan. “I’m not keeping it from you to hurt you, okay?” he said, his voice taking on a frustrated edge. “It has nothing to do with you.”

“Really, Henry?” I asked. I glanced down the hall to make sure our guest was still out of earshot. “This is how it’s going to be again?”

He ran a palm across his scalp, a nervous habit that persisted even without his long hair. “There are some things that I can’t tell you, Els.”

“Is it classified?”

He blinked a few times then said, “No.”

“Then why can’t you tell me?”

“Because it’s personal.”

“I’m your wife. I think I’ve earned personal.”

“There are some things between us that need to be kept secret.”

“Why? What’s the purpose of that?” I asked. “I tell you everything.”

He latched on to that subject with gusto. “Am I supposed to believe that you’ve told me every little thing about you, every shameful detail of your past?”

“Yes, for the most part.” I shook my head. “Anyway, this isn’t about me. This is about you keeping secrets again.”

He dodged around the counter and came toward me with an exasperated look. “Els, can we please just drop it for now and enjoy the rest of the day?” he asked, rubbing my arms.

“Why can’t you just tell me? Whatever it is, it can’t be worse than what my imagination can cook up.”

His eyebrows drew together as his eyes roamed over my face. “Yes, it can,” he said and left it at that.

—

Bergen stayed until late into the night. He and Henry pounded beer after beer while they exchanged stories, and by the time midnight rolled around it was clear Bergen wasn’t going to be driving anywhere. I offered him the guest bed and he accepted readily, if a little ungracefully, kicking off his shoes before stumbling face-first into the pillows.

Henry was usually a chatty and affectionate drunk, but he sensed my foreboding mood and didn’t try anything in bed. I turned away from him, the ball of frustration growing in my belly. How many times had he kept secrets from me only to have them blow up in his face? You’d think he’d have learned his lesson by now.

I stared at the digital numbers on the clock, seething. When I could no longer keep it in, I sat up and shook his shoulder. “Wake up.”

He stirred and immediately took in his surroundings. “What? What is it?”

Trying to take advantage of his inebriated state, I said, “Tell me what happened in Korea.”

He rolled onto his back with a sigh, covered his eyes with one arm, and groaned. He was quiet for so long, I thought he’d fallen asleep, but he finally gave a deep sigh and said, “I was cornered in an alley and assaulted by a group of men.”

“What? Why?”

He shrugged. “Money. Maybe because I looked like a big, dumb American.”

“Were you badly hurt?”

“Bad enough to be hospitalized,” he said with anger in his voice.

“Where? How?” I couldn’t find words beyond those breathless questions. How had I not known that Henry had been so badly hurt? Wouldn’t I have felt it in some way?

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore, Elsie. Please,” he said. “I told you what happened, don’t make me relive the entire night again.”

I couldn’t sleep afterward, imagining Henry being attacked and unable to defend himself, and when my alarm rang at six, I decided that it was just as well because my sleep would no doubt have been riddled with ugly, violent images anyway.

A week after Thanksgiving, Henry and I finally had time to put up our Christmas decorations. Since it was our first Christmas together, we went to the store and bought a fake seven-foot tree with twinkle lights already installed. Henry wanted a real tree but for the same reason I disliked receiving fresh flowers, I preferred a tree that would last and didn’t need to be replaced year after year.

After we hung the ornaments, we turned off the living-room lights and, with our hot cider in warm mugs, sat on the couch basking in the cheery display.

“You’re being really quiet,” I said, blowing into my mug.

He dropped a few Hot Tamales candies in his cider, something he and Jason had learned to do back in high school, and stirred it with a teaspoon. He popped a candy in his mouth and chewed for a few moments before saying, “It’s nothing.”

I squeezed his thigh. “No, tell me.”

He chewed some more. “My parents never bought a real tree. They always just threw up that white fake Christmas tree and called it good. I hated it. It was so . . . phony. I always told myself that once I had a house of my own, I would finally get a real tree. Maybe then Christmas would feel real.”

The faraway expression on his face as he stared at our impostor tree hurt my heart, making me feel like the most selfish person in the world. Hell, I could be such a self-absorbed jerk sometimes. “Then we’ll return the tree,” I said, my mind made up. “You’ll get your real tree.”

He shook his head. “Hell no. That monstrosity was a motherfucker to strap onto the Volvo.”

“But I want you to have your fresh tree.”

He waved the idea away. “It’s okay. Maybe next year.”

“Yeah, maybe,” I murmured into my mug, unable to quell the feeling that I was the world’s worst wife.

—

The next workday was busy but felt like nothing was getting accomplished. Every time I sat down and began a project, I’d get interrupted without fail and have to solve another problem or put out another fire. The freelancer Conor had hired was not much help either, all ego and no common sense. By eleven, I was already reaching for the bottle of Advil I kept in the top drawer of my desk.

During lunch, I managed to talk Kari into helping me with a personal project that took the entire lunch hour and then some. Thankfully Conor was out of the office for the rest of the day and didn’t see us sneaking back to our desks with pine needles still stuck in our hair.

That night, I sat in the darkened living room with a bottle of hard cider and greeted Henry with forced nonchalance when he walked in the door.

“Why is it so dark in here?” he asked, flipping on the switch, filling the room with white light.

I watched his face, waiting until the moment his eyes landed on the tree at the far side of the room. The corner of his mouth twitched as his gaze swung down to me.

“What did you do? That’s not our tree.”

I took a casual sip of my drink. “I don’t know what you mean.”

The smile on his face grew. “That’s . . . a real tree.” He walked over and touched it for confirmation.

“Oh, is it? I hadn’t noticed.”

He whirled around and took slow, deliberate steps toward the couch. “Did you get me a real tree?” he asked, taking the bottle from my hand and placing it on the coffee table.

I gave up the pretense. “I want you to have the Christmas you’ve always wanted.”

He grabbed my hands and pulled me up off the couch and into his arms. “How did you do this?”

“My friend Kari helped me during our lunch break. She has a pickup truck, so we took the fake tree back and got a new one at the place by the gas station.”

He glanced at the tree again, which was already decorated with string lights and ornaments. “You did this? For me?”

“Of course,” I said, beaming. “I would only place a tree corpse in our living room for you.”

Henry, still smelling like the gym, suddenly scooped me up in his arms and lifted me off the floor. “This is . . . really sweet,” he said against my hair. “Thank you.”

“You’re so welcome,” I said. “And oh, Kari said this gives her a free pass on a future speeding or parking ticket.”

He chuckled. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“We should make some popcorn so we can thread it and put it on the tree,” I suggested, enjoying the way his face was lit up. “But you should probably take a shower first, buddy.”

Halfway up the stairs, he paused and gave me the largest, most boyish smile I had ever seen. I knew in that moment that I would do anything in my power to keep that smile where it belonged.

—

The next morning Conor wandered down our row of cubicles with a stack of manila folders in his hand. He stopped when he caught a glimpse of me and turned around deliberately to give me a second look.

“Top o’ the mornin’,” I said, tipping my imaginary hat, even as I felt the first stirrings of a headache.

He rolled his eyes at my lame joke then regarded me quietly. “You feeling okay?”

“Do I look that horrible?” I asked, rubbing my eyes.

“No. You’re just frowning, like you’re really mad at your computer.”

I shook my head, pinching the bridge of my nose. “No, just a headache.”

He rumpled his dark eyebrows, which were the same auburn as the stylishly messy hair on his head. “Does that happen often?”

“No more than usual.” I waved his concern away. “Everybody gets headaches.”

“No they don’t,” he said. “I almost never get headaches. When I do it’s because something’s off.”

I sneaked a peek at his face and saw that he actually looked genuinely concerned. I supposed that was his charm, his way of making it seem as if you’re the most important person in the world, at least for that moment. And for my part, I felt like I needed to ease his mind. “I think it might be my eyes. I’ve been meaning to see an optometrist one of these days.”

“Yes, definitely do that,” he said. “Go today. You can have the afternoon off.”

“I can’t,” I said, gesturing with my hands at the mess in front of me. Somewhere underneath the folders, notes, and papers was my desk, I was sure of it. “I have a ton of work.”

“Email it to me and I’ll get it done,” he said. He smacked the top of the cubicle wall and pointed at me. “Then it’s settled. You are seeing an optometrist today.”

He started to walk away, his attention somewhere else. My fleeting time in the warmth of his regard was now over. “Thank you,” I called out, reaching for my phone to search for an optometrist nearby.

He didn’t turn around. He just threw a wave over his shoulders and continued on his way.

—

Later that day, I went home and logged onto the company server to look over the work that Conor had done. True to his word, he had completed my list of tasks. I was struck then by how lucky I was to have a boss who not only cared for his employees but helped out with the workload whenever necessary.

I left the home office when I heard the shower turn off in our bathroom, and walked to the bedroom with the new pair of glasses in my hand.

Henry was naked when he came out of the bathroom, affording me ample view of his muscled body before slipping into his favorite pajama pants. He kissed me on the cheek, patting my butt through my pencil skirt. “You had a meeting with a bigwig today?”

“Yeah, this morning. How did you know?”

“You always wear that skirt with a nice shirt or sweater when you’re meeting with a client.”

I laughed. Even after all this time, he still surprised me with how observant he was. “True. I didn’t think the company would appreciate me wearing jeans to a meeting.”

He gave me a sliding look that warmed every inch of skin from my face to my feet. “You underestimate the power of your jeans,” he said, his voice taking on a husky quality. “Or maybe just what’s underneath them.”

“You are a hornball today, aren’t you?” One glance down at the bulge forming in his pants confirmed as much.

He grinned without shame, advancing toward me with one eyebrow raised. He grabbed me around the waist and pressed a kiss to my neck, tickling me with his five-o’clock scruff.

I squirmed out of his grasp. “I want to show you my new glasses.” I sat down on the bed and slipped them on, feeling a tad insecure. “Turns out I’m a little nearsighted, which was causing the headaches.”

Henry said nothing, only stared at me with a dumbfounded expression on his handsome face.

“What?”

“Stand up,” he said. I went to kick off my heels when he said, “No, keep those on.”

I stood up, putting my hands on my hips. I raised my eyebrows in question.

“Hold these,” he said, coming closer and handing me a pile of law enforcement books from his bedside table. “Hold them like you’re about to put them back onto the shelves.”

“Oh my God,” I said, laughing. “You have a librarian fetish!”

He grinned and cocked his head. “I didn’t. Until now.” He came closer and his blue eyes flew all over my face, making me flush with his intensity. “I didn’t think it was possible, but you are even sexier with those on. Can you frown and pretend I’m returning my books a week late?”

I laughed and smacked the pile of books against his chest. “You are one strange man.”

He gripped me by the elbows and pulled my body against his. “Go on, Mrs. Logan,” he said huskily. “Recite the Dewey Decimal System for me.”

The laughter died in my throat when I felt his hard length against my abdomen. He reached between us and plucked the books out of my hand, flinging them onto the bed.

Without warning, he bent down and swept me up in his arms, walking out of our bedroom at a fast clip. He entered the office and deposited me in front of the large bookcase that took up nearly the entire wall.

“I was wondering if you could help me find a book,” he said, his eyes glittering with mischief.

I acted along. This was not the first time we’d played pretend. “What can I help you find?” I asked, adjusting my glasses.

“I was looking for a book called . . .” He looked up at the top shelf and said, “
Adaptive Web Design
.”

“Ah, I believe I know where that is,” I said, turning around and reaching up to retrieve the book, standing on tiptoe and lifting one foot back.

Immediately I felt his hot palms land on the back of my thighs. I continued to stretch as his hands slid upward and under the hem of my skirt.

“Now, I don’t think that’s appropriate library behavior,” I said in a prim tone.

I felt his large frame looming over me as he pulled on the stretchy material of my skirt, gathering it up and over my ass to reveal my black thong.

“Forget the book, I want something else,” he rasped against my ear then landed a quick slap on one cheek that sent a throbbing ache right to my crotch. I arched my back and pressed my ass into his groin, noting his rock-hard erection in his drawstring pants. His hands traveled up, skimming along my waist and up my arms. He gripped my wrists, holding them above my head, trapping my overheating body against the bookshelves.

“Keep your hands up here,” he said, hooking my fingers onto the highest shelf before his hands moved back down, sliding my thong down my legs. He traced a finger from the base of my spine to the crease of my butt and down to my slick folds. “Are you always so turned on, Mrs. Logan?” he asked, slipping one finger inside me.

I closed my eyes and nodded, squeezing at him.

“Do books turn you on?” he asked.

“No,” I breathed. I twisted around, keeping my hands on the shelf above me. “You do.”

He pulled his pants down, revealing his engorged shaft. I glanced down at it, licked my lips, and swung my gaze back up. His face was dark with desire and his chest was rising and falling. “Do you want me to fuck you right here in the library, Mrs. Logan?”

I spread my legs apart. “Yes, please.”

With that, he grasped my ass and lifted me up, plunging into me with a loud groan. His fingers dug into my skin as he held himself still for a few moments before sliding almost entirely out then entering me again. He moved slowly, torturing me with pleasure and anticipation. Each drawn-out stroke strummed against my sensitive nerve endings, slowly but surely driving me to insanity.

I opened my mouth to speak, to ask him to speed up, but only a sigh escaped when he hit a particularly sensitive part. I could feel his ragged breaths against my cheek, smell our arousal in the air. I pulled myself higher on the bookcase and wrapped my legs around his waist, meeting him thrust for thrust.

“You feel so incredible,” he rasped.

I closed my eyes and imagined my body as a piece of string, stretching, stretching, until I could bear no more. I snapped, throwing my head back as I cried out, my sex pulsing as he continued the languid assault. My orgasm went on and on, one long bout of ecstasy. Just when I was starting to recover, he slipped his hand between us and massaged my clit, sending a jolt of shock and pleasure through my entire body. My head fell onto his shoulder as I came again, my arms trembling from the strain.

Then he sped up, driving into me with force until he climaxed. With several long groans, he pushed up from the floor and speared me with deep little thrusts from his hips.

When he was done, he set me back down on my feet and adjusted my skirt. “Thank you for helping me find that book, Mrs. Logan,” he said between breaths as he kissed my neck. “I’ll be back to return it tomorrow.”