Break for Me (7 page)

Over in the corner, Dean sat quietly. He’d driven her over here and it never occurred
to her to tell him to leave. Frankly, she couldn’t stand the
thought
of him leaving. Just looking at him calmed some of the chaos in her brain and if
that chaos broke free just now, she thought maybe she’d start to scream and never
stop.

His solid, quiet strength had kept her sane throughout the afternoon and right now,
she was relying on his solid, quiet presence to keep
her
steady.

She couldn’t break down here.

She should be able to, she knew. This was her family and if she broke around anybody,
it should be them. But she didn’t want to.

Swallowing, she licked her lips and blew out a breath, trying to find some semblance
of control before she started to talk.

“The body is female,” she said quietly. “They won’t be able to tell much more until
tests are done. But…”

Tears blurred her eyes and she tipped her head back, staring up at the ceiling until
they cleared. “There were rings . Still on her hands. The—” She blew out a breath
and then kept going. “The mud kept them on her all this time. I’m pretty certain they
were Mom’s.” She flicked a look at Dad, saw those stooped old shoulders flinch. “I
brought pictures. It would be better if Dad could give his opinion. It’s been so long…”

Chris started to sob.

Tate lifted his head and she saw the tears on his face. He crossed the room and sat
down by Chris, wrapping his arm around her.

“Can I see the pictures, Jensen?” Doug asked softly.

She pulled them out of her purse, but her hands shook so badly, she couldn’t open
the envelope.

Dean’s hand appeared in her line of vision. “Here, let me,” he said gently.

She nodded and pushed it into his hands.

He took the envelope to her father and showed him the pictures of each of the three
rings.

And when Doug would have sank to the floor, Dean caught him. “Let’s sit down, Mr.
Bell,” he said, using that same gentle, calm voice as he guided Doug over to a nearby
chair.

“They’re hers,” Doug said, his voice dull. “My wife. She’s really gone.”

Chapter Six

Rain had rolled in last night.

Dean sat on the small balcony just outside his bedroom and stared across the street
at Jensen’s apartment.

The lights were off.

She was home.

It had been a few days since he’d seen her, and he was trying to give her time. She
seemed to want it, even if she hadn’t outright said it. He haunted his front windows,
watching to see when she arrived, when she left. He felt like a stalker, kept telling
himself he knew she needed time.

They’d finally discovered what had happened to their mother … no.

That wasn’t exactly correct.

They’d
found
her.

But they didn’t have answers.

Something bad had happened, though.

He’d noticed how she’d kept quiet about some of the more awful parts when they’d told
her family. Had it really just been a few days ago? It felt like longer. Too long
since he’d seen her. Touched her. But, yes, it had only been a couple of days since
they’d looked at the body, since the two of them had seen up close all that remained
of Nichole Bell. He knew what Jensen had kept to herself—the damage to the skull..

There was going to be an investigation—she’d told them about that, but he didn’t know
if she’d gone into detail in the days since then.

For the hundredth time, he started to go over there.

For the hundredth time, he stopped himself.

Ever since he’d met her, he’d been doing this. Stops and starts, like a stupid kid
with a crush, but now … fuck, now look at him. He was even more unsure of himself
and if ever she
needed
somebody who was
sure
, it was now.

The question was … did she need it to be him?

Did she just need a friend?

Could he
be
just a friend?

Fuck that shit.

With frustration tangling inside him, he locked himself in his weight room where he
couldn’t see her place. The weights, the sweat, the punishing workout wouldn’t take
his mind off his troubles, but at least he wouldn’t be sitting on the porch, obsessing,
like some kind of fool.

“No, you stupid jackass,” he muttered as he lay on the weight bench and did chest
presses. “You’re in
here
obsessing.”

The ringing of the doorbell was the last thing he wanted to hear.

But it didn’t go away, even after he tried to ignore it for the next few minutes,
so he headed down the hall, temper flaring.

As he passed by the entertainment center, he paused. Just as always. There was a picture
of a young girl, a child. He touched a finger to her smiling face.

The ache was still there. Even now.

Closer to the surface even. Had to do with everything going on, he knew. With his
temper flaring and his own grief threatening to surge out of control, he jerked the
door open, ready to tear into whoever had the bad luck to stand on the other side
of the door.

At the sight of Jensen, he snapped his jaw shut, swallowing back whatever he’d been
about to say—and he didn’t even know
what
he’d been about to say.

Rain rolled down her face.

Clung to her eyelashes, her nose.

“Jensen…”

She looked lost, her eyes darker than they should be, her skin paler. Her hair hung
in wet, chunky strands that clung to her cheeks and her shirt was soaked.

She’d never looked more beautiful to him.

Or more fragile.

“Jensen.”

She licked her lips. “Is … is this a bad time?”

“For you, such a thing doesn’t exist.” He caught her hands and drew her inside. It
was hot outside, despite the rain, but under his hands, her skin felt like ice.

Her red T-shirt clung to her and he led her down the hall to the bathroom, grabbing
a thick towel and draping it over her shoulders. “You’re soaked,” he said.
Way to point out the obvious, dumbass
.

“You sure I’m not bothering you?” she asked, her voice low.

Bothering me
?
Baby, you’ve been bothering me from the first time I laid eyes on you
. Although he didn’t think that was what she needed to hear. Instead, he just smiled
at her. He laid a hand on her cheek, using his thumb to tilt her head back. “I was
working out. I’m always happy for an excuse to get out of that.”

He reached past her and snagged another towel, using it to dry her hair.

“You seem to have some practice at this.”

He smiled. “Yeah, I got ladies coming in and out of my house all the time, just for
this special service. Haven’t you noticed?”

Jensen laughed, a hiccupping little sound that caught at his heart and tugged on it—like
she’d just reached inside his chest and wrapped her fist around it, pulled. As he
tossed the towel over his shoulder, he realized it wasn’t just rain on her face.

Wiping the tears away, he cupped her cheeks in his hand and wished there was something,
anything he could say to help.

But nobody knew better than he that words didn’t take grief away.

So instead, he dipped his head and pressed his lips to her brow.

A sob ripped out of her and her arms came around his waist.

“You go ahead and cry, baby,” he whispered, pulling her against him and guiding her
head against his chest. “You just go ahead and cry.”

*   *   *

They were on the couch.

Jensen didn’t remember even coming over here, not really.

She had some vague memory of needing to see him, then a flash of him opening the door,
being in the bathroom as he rubbed a towel over her wet hair. She’d been cold, so
cold.

Then, just breaking.

It was like all the tears she’d kept pent up inside for years …
years
 … had just come ripping out of her. Like somebody had just taken a knife and sliced
her open and all that pain had to get out.

It was still there.

Even now, empty of tears, but the pain still lingered.

Her throat hurt and her head ached and her eyes were all gritty and raw.

Curled against his side, her hand clenched in the faded fabric of his University of
Kentucky T-shirt, she stared dully at the cross he wore and tried so very hard just
to not think.

That pain kept snaking up to nip at her, like a little demon, taking awful, tormenting
bites at her and she just couldn’t stop it.

He pressed his lips to her temple and then he eased her to the side. Jensen closed
her eyes and pressed her face against the cool, soft leather of his couch, breathing
in the scent of Dean and leather.

The floorboards creaked and she felt the couch give way under him a minute later but
she didn’t have the energy to look at him until he slid his arm around her waist.
Look at me, baby.”

She turned her head and stared at him, scowling. “I don’t much care for the term
baby
,” she said, lying through her teeth. Normally, she didn’t. But there was something
about the way
he
said it that made her not mind so much. He could probably call her dollface or cupcake
or any number of cutesy names and she wouldn’t mind. As long as she didn’t hear him
doing it with anybody else.

A smile tugged at his lips. “I’ll try to keep that in mind.”

“Whatever.” He lifted his hand and she saw the rag just before he pressed it to her
brow. She all but whimpered in relief at the cool, damp feel of it against her skin.

“Your head hurting?”

“Like a bitch,” she said.

“Want some water?”

She nodded and he pushed a bottle into her hands.

“You’re pretty good at taking care of people,” she said. “Sure you shouldn’t have
gone into medicine instead of law?”

“I prefer to specialize … keeping it to a select few people.” He shifted on the couch
and guided her until she had her head in his lap. The position was incredibly intimate
and heat gathered inside her, even as a blush spread to her face. Part of her thought
about turning in to him, pressing her mouth to his lean belly, maybe exploring a little
lower.

Sex was good for headaches, she’d heard.

But another part of her felt too raw. Too exposed. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to
get horizontal with him when every nerve ending she had, every emotion was so completely
wide open. She was already teetering too close to a precipice with him, one she’d
easily avoided with any and every lover she’d ever had.

“I…” The word formed on her tongue.
I need to
do something.
She didn’t know what. Move. Get up. Think. But before any of those words made it
to her mouth, he placed one hand on her scalp and gently started to massage. All thoughts
of
moving
or
thinking
fled as he worked some form of magic on her.

Groaning, she felt herself going limp.

Time faded away and bit by bit, the pain in her head eased back. Outside, the rain
continued to pound down around them, wrapping around them. There was no light on and
she thought she could just lose herself, right there, to the feel of his hand, stroking
the pain away, and the sound of the rain outside.

“Better?” he murmured.

“Yeah.”

He brushed her hair back and she dragged her lashes up to stare at him. “Sorry to
fall apart on you like that.”

“Don’t say that,” he said, shaking his head. He stroked his thumb over her lower lip
and that light contact sent shivers through her. “If you need me, for anything, I’m
here and I don’t want you to be sorry.”

Something hot unfurled in her belly and she wondered what he’d say if she sat up and
draped herself across him. All of a sudden, the idea of being exposed to him wasn’t
as scary as it had been.

Maybe she shouldn’t think about being
exposed
. She should just think about nothing. Think about forgetting. If anybody could help
her lose herself for a while, it would be him. But … hell. That wasn’t really fair.
Not to him.

Slowly, she sat up and although sanity tried to insist she move away, she ended up
curled against his side and when he wrapped his arm around her, she couldn’t help
but think how utterly right that felt.

Everything
with
him felt completely and utterly right, now that she’d let herself stop running.

The knot of heat in her belly expanded and she bit her lip, looking around the room,
all but desperate for a distraction.

Her gaze landed on the small collection of pictures sitting on top of his entertainment
center. She saw one of him with his parents; she’d met them a couple of times. He
had barbecues a few times a year and they always came, along with his brothers, a
sister, and an almost scary number of cousins, aunts, uncles, and nieces and nephews.
There were pictures of him with the family, his siblings. Some of the faces were vaguely
familiar. She tended to memorize faces that she saw around her street—there was no
turning off the cop, she’d learned.

Her eyes focused on the one of a child. A young girl. Maybe five. She didn’t remember
seeing the girl before, but she was adorable. That smile …

That
smile
. Slowly, she sat up, staring at that picture.

“Who is she?”

He was quiet for so long, Jensen wondered if he’d answer. Turning her head, she looked
at him, but he wasn’t looking at her. His gaze was on the little girl in the picture.

The girl with his smile.

“That’s Amaya.” He looked down, a sigh escaping his lips before he turned his head
and met her gaze. “My daughter.”

“I didn’t … I didn’t know you had a daughter,” she said, forcing the words out.

He reached up, touching something under his shirt. She recognized the gesture. It
was the same one she made when she was thinking about her mom. The little silver pendant
she wore was the last gift she’d gotten from her mom, a present for her twelfth birthday.
She never went anywhere without it.