Justice Mine: a Base Branch Novel (3 page)

The impact jarred the handle in her grasp and Mags fought against the instinct to release the bat and retreat from the pain. It hurt a hell of a lot more than hitting a ball. Her bones resonated from the force, but the sight of the abusive ass hitting the ground on all fours stole her attention from the pain. His chest spasmed and his face arched for air. It was the first time she’d gotten a look at it. The sight twisted her stomach back in tightly thatched knots.

He looked like a weasel. She’d thought the things were cute before. But bugger. Near pitch-black eyes matched his slicked back hair. A button sized nose set between those round eyes held not the slightest slant of natural curve. His lips, thinned in outrage, or agony, capped off the rodent-like features that would haunt her dreams for the foreseeable future.

Rats rally quickly, to eat you out of house and home, and this one was no different. Magdalena took a step toward Will to collect her from the floor and make a run for it, but stilled in a battle ready stance when the weasel staggered to his feet.

“You stupid bitch. You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.”

Coming from a naked chap holding his stomach when he should have been hiding his pathetic excuse for a dick, the threat shouldn’t have cut Mags to the quick like it did. Maybe it wasn’t him, but the look of utter panic etched in Willow’s expression that frightened her.

“Please,” Willow said. Her red cheek shook back and forth as her eyes finally engaged, pinning Mags by the throat. “I’m fine. It’s not what it looks like. Please, just go.”

Weasel puffed his impotent chest out at that. “Yeah, so fuck off.”

Screw him and to hell with Willow’s opinion. Her friend needed help. First a doctor then a shrink. Magdalena squared her shoulders and took a step toward the man. To his credit he took one back toward the window.

“You sod off, mate, or I’ll knock your balls all the way to Manchester. I’m sure United wouldn’t mind lobbing them around, sailing a few in the net. My straight drive’ll do the trick,” Mags said. To emphasize the point she tightened her grip on the handle.

“Stupid bitch,” he tossed, scooping up his clothes from their neatly folded pile on the bed. “You’ll get yours.”

“You’re not man enough to give it to me, asshole.”

“I know people who are,” he snarled.

T
he metal
-on-metal
thunk
had never sounded so sweet. Magdalena secured the feeble knob lock in addition to the deadbolt and chain. “Does he have a key?” she hollered through the flat, which still seemed to reverberate with the dramatic aftershocks of a Roman tragedy. When Willow didn’t answer she dragged a chair from the kitchen and propped it under the handle. She hadn’t the faintest idea if it would work or not, but hell, they did it in films. Now the only problem would be getting out if the place caught on fire.

Magdalena snatched the bat from its prop in the corner and headed back to the kitchen. They’d upgraded to this flat from their closet-sized one after Willow graduated art school. It afforded them more living space, which Will used to create canvas masterpieces. The artful kitchen with gleaming stainless steel appliances had been for Mags’ benefit. If she had the time and inclination she could make any kitchen her bitch, but none really compared to Baine’s. Though, the exquisite mix of old-world charm and modern technology that existed in her brother’s estate really belonged to her father.

When it’d been Desmond McCord’s home, her father had made that place sing with aroma and she’d been his eager pupil. Mags ignored the flood of happy memories and appliances. She propped the bat under her arm and reached for a glass of water and a dishtowel. The cool liquid soothed her dry throat as she swallowed several gulps. What the fuck had she walked in on?
Hell of a homecoming.
She took a deep breath, refilled the cup, and headed for the back bedroom, bat in tow.

Willow lay curled in the center of her double bed, a thick quilt pulled high over her shoulder. Tiny sobs shook the huddled ball of patchwork color. All the anger and fear dripped from Magdalena’s limbs as her heart broke for her friend. Willow had always been the good girl, the angel on Mags’ shoulder, while she’d played the roll of her own forked tailed devil.

“Willow?”

“Just go away, Magdalena.”

The bite in her friend’s tone had wicked teeth. It gnashed at the neatly wrapped package of insecurities Mags struggled to bind and banish in the recesses of her mind. Its gnarled edges flapped open at her friend’s demand. At the banishment. But this was no time to worry about her inadequacies. Willow needed her, whether or not she recognized her own fragility.

Magdalena shoved her own vulnerability and anxiety back into its obscure corner, and walked to the wrought iron head of her friend’s bed. “I’m not leaving you, Will. We don’t have to talk.” She paused for a minute, realizing the lie only after it left her lips. Her head shook. “No, that’s not true, sweet. We need to talk.”

“You messed it all up,” Will heaved through hiccupped weeps. “Everything is ruined.”

“It was messed up before I got here, Willow. If you’re into kink, you find someone who respects you. Treasures you, even. You don’t deserve to be treated like shit.”

One more step brought her even with Willow’s face. The crusts of dried blood formed a riverbed for the steady stream of tears coursing down her slight cheek. Mascara obscured her lashes and created a near carbon copy of the terrible excuse for make-up artistry she’d seen on the runway two seasons ago.

“Oh, sweetie.” The endearment came from her heart as did the need to comfort her friend. Magdalena braced her weapon against the wall and reached out to smooth back the mussed locks from Willow’s muddy brown eyes. Will’s body lurched beneath the covers. She cringed, every visible muscle constricting like she prepared for an impending blow. Magdalena’s body temperature dropped about ten degrees as she froze in place, her hand hanging in the nothingness that gapped between her and her best friend.

The constriction in her throat and the moisture hitting her exposed cleavage clued Magdalena in to her own torrent of emotion. She snatched back her hand and held it to her chest. Willow’s wide, wild eyes stared back.

Through force of will, Mags steadied her quavering insides before she spoke. In Swahili she quietly recited the Introit and Kyrie, a prayer in song for the souls of the dead, she learned from Malaika. The nurse she’d met in a large village she frequented had recited the words far too many times. She had no damn clue what it meant and, obviously, wasn’t particularly religious, but the things she’d witnessed over the last year prompted her to echo her friend’s prayer. Time and again. The familiar words and their foreign meaning stilled her tears and shaking hands. She swallowed past the tightness in her throat.

“Willow. I would never hurt you.” Magdalena held her hands out, palms open, in surrender. Pretty hard to do with a glass and rag in tow, but she managed. “I’m sorry. I won’t try and touch you again. Not without asking first.”

Whoever held Willow’s legs eased off their contorting hold and she noodled against the mattress like an unwound violin string. Her breath came in airy gusts across Magdalena’s bare shoulders. Dark circles collected themselves under the lee of Willow’s bloodshot eyes. At least her tears had ceased their flow.

“I have some water,” she offered. For the first time since she’d walked in the bedroom, her friend’s eyes focused on her. So many unspoken thoughts danced their way through those troubled depths. Magdalena wished she’d pick any one of them and start talking. Not only to ease her own discomfort, but to take some of the burden from Willow’s too-slight shoulders.

Unable to take the quiet, Mags filled it. “You know you can tell me anything and I’d never judge you. I’m no better than you or anyone else in this world. We’re all just trying to find our way in this tricky fucker.”

The first flicker of a smile creased the tiny lines by Willow’s long lashes and curved one side of her mouth. Bolstered by the sign, Mags continued. “I don’t know if anyone has figured their way through it unscathed, but it doesn’t stop us from trying.”

“I love you, Mags.”

Willow’s words were a whisper, but they rang in her ears like a chorus. Magdalena enjoyed the warmth that thawed the uncertainty in her chest and hated that she needed reassurance from her friend. But like she told Will, they were all damaged goods on one level or another.

“I love you, sweetie. Now, let’s sit you up.” Willow’s fingers whitened at the knuckle as she clutched the quilt to her. Mags could have kicked her own ass for not thinking about her roommate’s state of undress. “Hold on a tick. I’ll fetch your smalls and a shirt.”

Since they used to wear the same size and shared clothes like sisters, it only took Mags a second to locate a bra, panties, and T-shirt. She laid them on the bed and turned to give Will privacy, something she’d never done before. Yet, this situation called for as much personal space as Mags could give without allowing Willow to continue down the destructive path she wandered.

“Does he have a key, Willow?”

After an audible breath, she answered. “No.”

As reassurances went it was nice to know that bastard couldn’t let himself into their flat on a whim. It also meant Willow let him inside.

“Good. I’d hate to have to kill him, if he came back.”

“No, Magdalena.” The voice sounded surprisingly sturdy for a girl who’d been in a blubbering heap only minutes before.

Mags turned, uncaring what she caught sight of since she’d seen it all before. She had the same bits anyway. Willow stood, chin up. Her hands fisted at the hem below Mick Jagger’s bright red tongue. The paint-splattered mouth insulted Magdalena's help, as did the expression on Will’s face. Gone was the sad girl. In her place was the strong-willed friend she’d left a year ago. But something about her narrowed gaze and the stern set of her shoulders said this show of power wouldn’t help either of them extricate that piece of shit from their lives.

“I don’t understand,” Mags said. The effort to keep her jaw off the lacquered floor and her hands from shaking sense into Willow just about snapped her in two. Heat flushed her cheeks and her close-cropped fingernails indented the skin of her palm.

“I don’t expect you to. I do expect you to respect me and my privacy.”

“You’re going to pull that shit with me while you’re standing there with blood and the beginnings of goddamned bruises on your face?”

Willow’s chest rose and fell several times, but the facade of control didn’t budge. “You’ve been gone for a year, Magdalena. You can’t walk through the door and start ordering me around like you know what’s best. I mean, how many mornings did I shove blokes out the door for you?”

Magdalena’s mouth gaped.
What the fuck is wrong with her?
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you, when you obviously needed someone, but you can’t hold that against me when you’re in danger. And those guys fucked me. Because I wanted them to. And not one of them hurt me.”

A tear rolled down Willow’s impassive face. She batted it away with excessive force, clearing a swath of red with the moisture. Her flushed cheek and smooth skin peeked out from beneath. “Didn’t they?”

“No,” Magdalena bit. “I did that all on my own.”

Willow’s jaw worked. “I don’t need you or anyone else.”

“Yes, you do, and I’m here for you. No matter how much you try to push me away.”

The unflappable exterior broke and Willow buried her face in her hands. Sobs wrestled from Willow’s chest, saturating the air with desperation. She sank to the floor, a ship taking on water.

Magdalena needed backup. Crouching, she sought Will’s gaze. “It’ll be okay, Willow. You don’t have to be afraid of that ass. Your dad could ruin his life with a few well-placed calls, if he didn’t take the bastard out at the kneecaps instead.”

At the mention of her father, Will’s head reared. Her reddened skin paled despite the blood. “No,” she shrieked.

“You don’t have to tell him the whole story. He wouldn’t ask questions. He’d protect you, Will. He’s a powerful man who loves you more than life, more than Parli—"

“I think it’s time you found your own place, Magdalena.”

The last words Mags ever expected to hear from her friend cut deep. It didn’t matter the reason for the extrication had nothing to do with Magdalena, personally, and everything to do with the intimate drama unfolding in Willow’s life.

“Hold the fucking ringer! What did you just say?”

That deceptively strong chin shot up again and Willow’s eyes cleared slightly with renewed authority. “I’ll give you a week to clear out your belongings.”

A gleam sparked in Willow’s eyes and all the fight left Magdalena in a rush. Her hands wrapped around her middle in an effort to ward off the ocean trying to drown her and force her to create a new life for herself.

“You’ve gone bloody mad, Willow.”

“
N
o
. Thank you,” Magdalena said with a stalling shake of her head. “I’ve got it. Really.”

The middle-aged cabbie pinched the brim of his woolen flat cap, closed the trunk, and shuffled toward the hackney’s open driver door. “You take care now. A lass like you has no business being about at this time of night. Mornin’, really.”

“Thank you,” Mags repeated. She tried to keep the huff out of her tone, but she already had a dad who’d be none too happy with her early morning arrival. Especially since she had to turn around and head back to campus in a few hours. Plus, it’s not like she would have been out at this time, if she could have helped it.

She’d stewed in her room for an hour without a hint of sleep in her future and knew from the butter-thick tension in the air she’d have better luck heading back to London for the night. Mags waved the paunch driver off as he exited the gravel drive of Baine’s estate, and then contemplated sitting on her ass in the pokey rocks and using her luggage as a pillow. That’s how damn tired she was.

The main house loomed over her like a sleeping giant. All the windows gleamed onyx from the darkness, inside and out. Hell, the full moon even hid behind the ever-present thicket of clouds that hung in the English sky, despite the present heat of summer. Mags heaved a lung full of soggy air, swept the beads of perspiration off her upper lip, and then hefted her bags.

Her father’s house, the one of her fondest and most adverse childhood memories, sat tucked in a nest of hazel trees. The vibrant green leaves, thick trunks, and the side yard garden all helped give the place a magical feel. She headed toward the cottage and the front room lamp always lighting the way home.

Instead of knocking, Mags fished her keys out of the depths of her tote and let herself inside. Maybe she could sneak in like old times and avoid a proper dressing down. She slipped through the door and fastened it behind her. She turned to tiptoe through the warmly decorated living room, but abruptly teetered. Something metal caught the toe of her sandal and upended her world, yet again. Metal clacked and clattered around her body as she landed hard on…she didn’t know what the fuck it was, but it hurt. Heavy footfalls thudded down the stairs in a rapid beat. And instantly her heart revved a notch.

Easton Wells, her dad, didn’t get in a rush about anything, and he was a slender fellow. Not nearly as big as the thunder rumbling in her direction. Though her pulse ratcheted with each closing step, Mags’ brain kicked into gear after the tilt-a-whirl ride of the evening and she sighed in relief.
Baine.
Her brother was that big, but why in the world would he be in her father’s house?

Still weary, Mags scrambled to her hands and knees. At least, she tried. Tubular metal polls rolled under her palm, caught the edge of the bag on her arm, and sent her sprawling again.

“What the hell,” a deep baritone boomed.
Not Baine
. Baine’s voice was similarly bass, but this one held a rough quality that quaked its way down her spine.

“Dad,” she screamed with every bit of air she held in her lungs. What had he done to her dad? Who was he? What did he want? That fucking weasel from the apartment…he’d held true to his word and worked too damn fast…

A big hand clamped around her upper arm and pulled. Magdalena let the tote slip from her opposite shoulder as the behemoth hoisted her from the floor, and then balled her fist and rammed. She looked past the wide expanse of his bare chest and aimed for his throat, like Baine had shown her.

Before she could blink, he had her restrained. Thick arms coiled around her chest and arms as he pinned her to his body. Her face burrowed into a valley of muscle while her breasts smashed against the rippled tract of his abdomen. Heat radiated from the man, warming every inch of her exposed skin from brow to ankle. He touched her everywhere. Encompassed her completely.

Panic seized her as stories of sexual violation flooded her memory from the interviews she’d taken from Goma to Bunia. Now she’d have her own story, if she survived. Her arms and legs flailed of their own volition in a primal struggle for freedom. For life.

“Magdalena, calm down.” His voice brooked no argument. And damn her body, but it obeyed, going rigid as a board.

“How do you know my name? Where’s my father? Who are you? What do you want?” The questions, jumbled from her addled brain, fell out of her mouth in a breathless line of inquiry.

“Baine said you asked lots of questions.”

At the mention of her brother’s name she sagged into the man, completely spent. He accepted her weight without the slightest sway of his stance. On a pivot he leaned over her. Embarrassed and absolutely confused, Magdalena hid her face in the hard ridge of his chest as he hooked one arm behind her knees and collected her in his hold.

“What are—" Her question was a whisper he cut off with that rugged voice of his.

“No more questions. I’m still processing the last interrogation. You’d think you were a reporter or something.”

“Journalist.”

“College student,” he shot back.

Mags hated the smile that curved one side of her mouth because she didn’t understand it at all. Nor could she comprehend why the sweaty musk of his skin made her want to lap it clean with her tongue.

Son of a fuck, add it to the list of things you don’t understand about tonight.

“That better?” His question came in time with the soft cushion of couch meeting her butt as he sat her before him like a child.

The scene she would have thought couldn’t get any more awkward, did. When he pulled back he found himself pinned by her draped arms, which refused to release his warmth. She’d claim shock or jet lag for her peculiar behavior. At this point it was more like sleep deprivation anyway.

“You’re all right,” he said in an even voice. His fingers glided up her forearms and slipped between her hands. He separated them and sat back on his heels in front of her.

All thought of the
zing
dancing along her skin where he’d touched vanished at the sight of him. The light cast by the single shaded bulb deepened the shadow of his scruffy, wide set jaw.
Screw five o’clock shadows. That bitch is a ten. Ten o’clock. Ten on a hotness scale of one to five.
The close cropped hairs plunged down his neck then receded midway, making room for meters of smooth skin pulled taut over slabs of corded muscle.

Heading north, her bearings did not improve. Thick lips plumped above his mandible. Hued in red, they called to her like instruments of lust. As his beard rose into sideburns it met again, covering his perfectly shaped skull with the same stubbled hair. The shade seemed dark in the muted room, but when he tilted his head to scrutinize her it caught and reflected gold in the light.

His bronzed skin creased at his brow and Mags was further dumbstruck by the most exotic pair of eyes she’d ever seen. Green brilliant enough to match the leaves of the trees outside lay encircled by a ring of black. The contrast of the light and dark, perhaps, gave a hint of the nature of the man who hosted the unique gaze.

His calm reassurance said
safe
. His body said
danger
.

“No one expected you here.” His scowl deepened. “Especially at this time of night.”

“Morning,” she shot back.

“Semantics.” He turned her hands over in his own, examining them closely. “Are you all right?”

Mags pulled her hands from his grasp in an attempt to balance herself and order her thoughts. His touch, his nearness set her gauges on the fritz. “I’m tired. It’s been two long days and I need sleep, but first I need answers. You’re Lawrence Pierce, right?”

“When questioning, you should never lead. You corrupt the mind of your witness and in turn, your information,” he said with a lightened scowl.

“I don’t have the time or patience for a lesson.”

He smiled and Mags had to staunch the urge to punch him or shag him.

“Yes, I’m the lug Baine has tolerated over the last few years. Sorry about your fall.” He gestured toward the door and it was all she could do to rip her gaze from his face to follow. “I’m replacing some of the old pipes in the house.”

“At this time of night,” she said with a shake of her head.

He chuckled. “Morning. And yeah, I couldn’t sleep.”

“Me either, but not for lack of trying.” Mags sighed.

The smirk vanished from his face. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

“I am. I need a bed, but you’re blocking me from it.”

His gaze narrowed. “You’re not one for unscheduled visits. What’s wrong?”

Law’s body caged her. His wide, leanly muscled chest blocked her view of the room. Thick legs, stretching the confines of denim, spread in a squat bracketing her bare legs. Unable to take the closeness any longer, Mags stood on wobbly legs and shoved past his shoulder. “You’re just upset you didn’t have forewarning to run and hide.”

“What on earth are you rattling about?”

“Rattling,” she balked. “Ass. Of all the times I’ve come home over the years, I’ve never met you. Don’t you find that a little odd?”

“You’ve been away at school and on some internship for the last year, and on the few occasions you graced your father with your presence, I was out of town on business.”

“Few times? I only live two and a half hours away. And yes, maybe I enjoy my freedom, but I visit.
And
,” she said, foisting her hands to her hips, “lawyers don’t travel as often as you and Baine do.”

He mimicked her posture. “
And
, that would be where you’re wrong. Since we
are
lawyers and we
do
travel often.”

Magdalena's hands slipped from her curves. “Why am I fighting with
you
?”

Law winked at her. “Because you were spoiling for a fight and I like to oblige lovely ladies, when I can.”

I’ll bet you do.

“Where’s my father?”

“At Ruth’s.”

“Ew, he spends the night?”

His ripped chest shook with laughter, the thatching of muscle contracting with each whoop. Magdalena swallowed the saliva pooling in her mouth.

“He’s been staying over a lot lately.”

“Fine,” she said, halting any elaboration with a thrashing hand. “Where’s Baine?”

“Away on business.”

“Right. I’m going to figure you two out one of these days, but not today. I’ll get out of your hair, so you can finish whatever it is you’re doing.”

Mags went to grab her bag, but Law’s thick fingers curled around the strap and hoisted it effortlessly. His chin nodded toward the door. “Sorry, but you’ll have to stay in the main house tonight. The water is shut off and I won’t be able to finish until tomorrow.”

“Fuck.”

“Anytime,” he said.