Sustained (30 page)

The excitement and anticipation that was bursting out of me just seconds ago shrivels on the vine. My eyes close and I swallow hard, and there’s not a sound in the room, except for my question.

“Is she alive?”

Adams takes off his glasses and cleans them with a monogrammed
handkerchief. “Oh yes, Sabrina is alive, just a bit bruised. The police have arrested Senator Holten, so I’ll need you to head down to the precinct, assist him with any interrogations they may attempt, arrange for bail—”

“No.”

The one syllable is so clear and sounds so right on my lips. Almost as right as Chelsea’s name. I know the kind of man I am—and I know what I can do. And more important, what I won’t fucking do. Ever again.

“I won’t do that, Mr. Adams.”

His eyes squint, like he can’t see me clearly. “May I ask why not?”

“Because he’s guilty.”

“Has he confessed as much to you?”

“No. But I know he hurts his wife.”

Adams’s cheeks bloom angry red and his chest puffs out. I’ve wondered if Jonas is really that blind or just willfully ignorant. Either way, doesn’t matter.

“William Holten is a client of this firm, and more than that, he has been my friend for over forty years. He deserves a defense.”

“Not from me.” I shake my head, staring him down.

Adams’s lips tighten into a nasty little bow. “Mr. Becker, you should think very carefully about your next words, because they will determine your fut—”

“I quit.”

“Jake.” My name rushes from Stanton’s mouth in a hushed warning. But I don’t need one.

“My resignation will be on your desk in the morning, Mr. Adams. He’s your friend—you defend the piece of shit.”

Adams lift his nose. “Consider your resignation accepted.” He walks out.

And a weight vanishes off my shoulders.

Authority really never was my thing.

“Jake, what did you do?” Sofia asks, her eyes narrowing with concern.

I kiss her cheek. “The right thing.”

I smack Brent’s arm and shake Stanton’s hand, grinning like Ebenezer fucking Scrooge on Christmas morning. “And it was really easy.”

I head for the door. “I’ll talk to you guys later. Thank you—I don’t know how long it would’ve taken me to pull my head out of my ass without the three of you.”

“There’s a visual I really didn’t need,” Sofia says, and I laugh.

Stanton says, “Well, go get her, man.”

And that’s just what I plan to do.

•  •  •

Before I drive to Chelsea’s, I make a quick stop at the US attorney’s office. I take the elevator to Tom Caldwell’s office—he’s at his desk like I figured he’d be.

I lean against his doorway, scanning the room. “This is a really small office. I knew they were small—but this is like, you’ll-get-charged-with-animal-cruelty-if-you-put-a-dog-in-here kind of small.”

“Is there a reason you’re here, other than to compare office sizes, Becker?”

I nod. “Did you hear about Holten?”

“Course I heard—I’ll be the one prosecuting the son of a bitch. Why aren’t you down at the police station, protecting his delicate feelings from invasive questions?” I’d have to be deaf not to hear the scathing sarcasm.

“I dropped the case.”

His eyes pop wide open. “No kidding? Jonas must’ve loved that.”

“I quit.” I shrug.

“Huh.” Caldwell looks me over. “Don’t suppose you’d be interested in coming over to the light side of the force? We could use you in one of these shit-small offices.”

I chuckle. “No . . . locking people up just isn’t my style. A beautiful woman once told me I’m more of a . . . defender.” I step forward, pulling a business card out of my pocket. “I just wanted to drop this off for Sabrina Holten. My home number and cell are on the back. Tell her I’d like to help.”

Caldwell looks at the card. “Help with what?”

I slip my hands into my pockets. “Anything she needs.”

I turn to go.

“Jake.”

I turn back around. “Yeah?”

Tom looks on the fence about something—but then he decides. “Chelsea had the talk with me the other day. You know, where she tells me she doesn’t feel ‘that way’ about me.” He draws a square with his fingers. “I’m in the friend zone.” Then he shrugs. “I figured you’d probably be interested in knowing that.”

And my mood just got even better.

“I am. Thanks, Tom.”

“See you around, Jake.”

Look at that—Caldwell’s not such a douchebag after all.

T
he kids are on the front lawn when I pull up. Riley’s close to Regan, Rory is chasing a screaming Rosaleen around, and Raymond is working on flipping his skateboard.

“Get your goddamn helmet on, Raymond!” He rolls his eyes but puts it on.

“Jaaaake!” Rosaleen screeches, and my ears bleed. “Help!” She throws herself at me, with Rory hot on her heels, dangling a caterpillar from his fingers. “Rory said he’s gonna put the caterpillar in my ear, and it’ll eat my brain and lay eggs, and when all the baby caterpillars hatch my skull will burst!”

I pin the kid with a hard look. “What’s the matter with you?”

Rory shrugs, petting the bug. “She has to learn not to believe everything she’s told.”

Before I say another word, Riley shouts from the side of the house, “I’ll save you, Rosaleen!” Then she fires two automatic water guns high in the air.

“Yes—water guns!” Rosaleen and Rory yell, at almost the same time, before they all take off, screaming, in Riley’s direction.

I cup my hands around my mouth and remind them, “Stay away from the pool!”

I watch them for a minute, enjoying the smile that tugs so easily at my lips. And then I march inside the house. Chelsea’s in the kitchen, wiping down the counter—her hair is down in soft, silky waves, and she makes jeans and a T-shirt look more alluring than any cocktail dress.

She looks up when I walk in the room. “Hey. I didn’t know you were stopping by today.”

I don’t waste a second, don’t stop to overthink jack shit. And honestly, I’ve waited as long as humanly possible.

I walk up to her, take her face in my hands, and kiss her. I kiss her soft and sweet, hard and demanding. I kiss her until she moans and she has to grip my arms because her knees are weak.

Then I brush my fingers across her cheeks and look into those spectacular blue eyes. My voice comes out strangled and raw. “I love you.”

Chelsea gazes back at me, her smile pink and hopeful.

At first.

But then she remembers, and the smile fades. She pulls away from me, stepping back. Her arms fold, a mask of indifference covering her face.

“When did you decide that?”

But she can doubt me all she wants—I’m not going anywhere.

“I’ve known for a while. I just . . . decided to stop being an idiot about it. To stop fighting it.” I tilt my head toward the window, where five screaming voices come through. “I love them, too, in case that wasn’t clear. They’re awful and perfect . . . and I love them like they’re mine. Like they’re ours.”

She bites her lip and her eyes go wet and shiny. I step closer. “Please don’t cry. I love—” I choke on the words, throat burning, eyes stinging. “I love you.”

Chelsea sniffles and recrosses her arms, trying so hard to be tough. “Am I just supposed to forget the last few weeks? The things you said—how cold you’ve been?”

I rub the back of my neck. “I was kind of hoping you would . . . yeah.”

She looks down at the floor.

I step in closer, lift her chin with my fingers. “I was trying to protect you. I wanted better for you, Chelsea. For them. A good man. I didn’t think I was capable. I didn’t think I could be what you needed.”

She searches my eyes. “And now?”

“Now I know I can. Because . . . because no one could love you—need you—as much as I do. You’re everything to me—the only thing that matters.”

A tear streaks down her cheek. She drifts closer. “Don’t hurt me again.”

“I won’t.”

“Don’t pull away from me again.”

“I can’t.”

She leaps into my arms, squeezing so hard the breath rushes out of me. It’s the best fucking feeling in the whole world. Second only to the feel of her lips against mine. Her legs wrap around my waist, like she can’t get close enough. Her head angles, moves with mine, like she can’t taste deep enough. My fingers dig into her back and our hearts pound.

I set her on the counter, pressing against her, pushing her T-shirt up—needing to feel her skin to skin.

“The kids,” she gasps.

I kiss her neck, her ear, her beautiful face. “We’ll hear them. As long as they’re screaming we’ll know they’re okay.”

And we do hear them, loud and clear, through the window. Still yelling and playing—the good kind of screams.

Her tongue slides against mine and I groan. Then Chelsea pants, “But they could come in any minute. They might see us.”

She’s right.
Damn it.

I look around the room, eyes frantic and searching. The pantry!
I carry her in, slam the door behind me with my foot, and reach around with my hand to lock it.

Chelsea nips at my lips, sucks on my earlobe. “I always wondered why the pantry had a lock.”

All I’m able to say is, “Locks are awesome.”

She laughs against my mouth. Her feet touch the floor just long enough to peel our clothes off. Then I pick her up, legs around me, back against the wall.

I take my cock in hand and test the waters—they’re slick and wonderfully hot. I push in slow, gentle, ’cause it’s been awhile. When I’m fully seated, when there’s not a breath of space between us, Chelsea whispers, “I missed you so much.”

I start to move, sliding in and out in a smooth rhythm. And it’s so fucking perfect and real. And right. Nothing has ever felt this right in my life.

Her head tilts back and my eyes roll closed. I worship her neck with my mouth. I promise and whisper how beautiful she is. All the things I want to do to her. All the things she means to me.

She squeezes me harder, pulls me closer with her legs, fingers buried in my hair.

Chelsea’s breath hitches. “I . . . love you. Oh god, Jake . . . so much. I love you so much.”

And it’s too much. Overwhelming. And yet, not nearly enough.

The pressure builds, tight and low and fantastic. The purest of pleasure unfurls in my stomach, making my thrusts quicken, chasing that edge with Chelsea. We find it together, pulsing and writhing, clasping hands and moaning voices.

I pant against her cheek, my heart not getting the message yet that it’s time to slow. I brush her hair back from her forehead and gaze into her angel face.

“So . . . you love me, huh?”

Chelsea smiles, even as tears rise in her eyes. “Yes. I’ve loved you
since you carried me to bed, sick as a dog, and told me everything was gonna be okay. I love every part of you, even the parts you were afraid to show me. And even though you’re kind of an idiot sometimes, I’m going to love you forever.”

I laugh and kiss her sweetly. “Good to know.”

•  •  •

I spend that night at Chelsea’s. We make sure all the kids take baths and get to bed. Then we spend half the night talking. Planning. The other half is spent . . .
not
talking. Nothing coherent anyway.

I hand in my resignation letter the next day, begin to make the necessary arrangements for my departure from Adams & Williamson. And not a thing about it feels wrong.

Chelsea and I are both waiting when the kids get home from school. We gather them in the den, to talk about what we’ve planned.

“I know it seems fast,” Chelsea tells them while I bounce the hell out of Ronan on my leg. “But there was this movie in the eighties—your parents loved it—called
When Harry Met Sally
—”

“Sounds lame,” Rory interrupts.

“It was kind of lame,” I tell him out the side of my mouth.

But Chelsea hears me. “It was not lame! It was perfect. Anyway, there’s a line from it that says how when you find the person you want to spend the rest of your life with, you want the rest of your life to start right away.” She glances at me. “That’s how Jake and I feel about each other.”

I jump in. “But if you guys aren’t good with this, I want you to tell us. It’s okay to say no—you won’t hurt my feelings. I only want to move in here if you all really want me to.”

They look at each other. And think. It’s a little fucking weird, how quiet they are.

“Would you move into Mom and Dad’s room?” Riley asks.

I wink at Chelsea, ’cause we already talked about this.

“Actually,” Chelsea tells them, “we were thinking we’d do some construction on my room down here. Make it big enough for two people, make the bathroom and the closets larger. And your parents’ room . . . Jake and I thought it’d be pretty neat if we made it an upstairs family room. Somewhere we can all hang out together. We could get a pool table, a big couch, a new television . . .”

“And an arcade game!”

Rory’s obviously on board.

Chelsea nods. “And I could draw whatever you want on the walls. And we could paint it together.”

“Oooh, ooh—I want butterflies!” Rosaleen yells. “And unicorns and rainbows.”

“And monster trucks,” Rory says.

“And skateboards,” Raymond adds, tapping his brother’s fist.

“And,” Riley finishes, “a whole wall with One Direction and 5 Seconds of Summer Fatheads.”

“Yeah, we can do all that,” Chelsea tells them.

“It’s gonna look like a schizophrenic’s room,” I murmur, and she laughs.

“So about Jake moving in here with us, what do you say, guys?”

“Can I move in with my boyfriend one day?” Riley asks, because she’s smart.

“Sure,” I answer. “When you’re twenty-six and raising six children, you can absolutely move in with your boyfriend, and I won’t say shit about it. Until then, no way.” Because I’m smarter.

She rolls her eyes. “Whatever—I vote yes, Jake should move in.”

“Definitely,” Rory agrees.

Rosaleen’s smile is huge as she runs up and hugs me. “Yes, yes, yes!”

“Sure,” Raymond says.

We all turn to Regan, who grins her tiny baby grin and seals the deal—with word number four.

“Yes.”

•  •  •

That night, after the kids’ homework is finished and everyone is in their pajamas, we lie around in the den, watching TV. My cell phone rings on the table—it’s Brent.