Authors: Jill Sorenson
“Is it sexual?”
“Of course.”
“When have you felt emotionally connected to a woman?”
Other than her, he hadn’t. Cole thought about the girls he’d dated in high school and the women he’d slept with between prison terms. There was no one special. “I haven’t had a steady girlfriend in a long time.”
“How long?”
“Ten years.”
“Why is that?”
“I wasn’t ready to settle down, I guess.”
Outside of prison, he could get sex whenever he wanted. He preferred the freedom of being single, the excitement of bedding a lot of different women. But something had happened to him after Courtney and Rylan died. His needs had changed. Instead of excitement and variety, he longed for a deeper connection. Things that had never appealed to him before, such as sappy kissing and hand-holding, sounded just about right. He wanted more than a quick get-off. His previous experiences were like a porno, focused on body parts, zooming in on the money shot. With Mia, he saw the bigger picture.
“Are your parents happily married?”
“They’re comfortable together. I don’t know about happy.”
“Why not?”
They bickered a lot. The last time he’d seen them they’d looked skinny and weathered from the desert sun. “They’re crackheads. How happy can they be?”
“Was she peripheral in his meth dealing?”
“No, she was right there with him. Like Bonnie and Clyde.”
“Was she a good mother before that?”
“Yes,” he said, clearing his throat.
“How so?”
“She was affectionate. She took care of us.”
“Why do you think she got involved in drugs, like your father?”
“It was either that or lose him.”
“Did he drag her down?”
“She went willingly.”
“Do you feel abandoned by her in particular? Because she was your primary caretaker?”
Pressure built behind his eyes. He blinked it away, frowning. Most of his anger had been directed at his father for being such a loser. Or his uncle, for being such a hard-ass. His mother inspired a different sort of anger. Sad-anger. The kind that sucked the life from you, like marrow from the bone.
“My father was distant and unemotional. I never expected him to be there for me. But my mother had been. So I missed her more.”
“Do you have any other nonsexual relationships with women?”
“My cousin, before she died.”
“What about your aunt?”
Cole reached for the ice pack and pressed it to his burning cheek. He couldn’t tell Mia what had happened between him and Shawnee. Not in a room he didn’t trust, with no confidentiality agreement. Revealing a secret like that wasn’t just shameful, it could have deadly repercussions.
“We’re close,” he said shortly.
“Did she fill the space your mother left?”
“Sort of.”
A crease formed between Mia’s brows as she examined his body language, his uneasy expression. “Are you related?”
“Not by blood.”
She wrote something down in her notebook and showed it to him.
Nonsexual or sexual?
Cole refused to answer.
“Have you ever been with a married woman?” she asked.
“Yes.”
She pointed to the notebook, indicating that she meant Shawnee. “How old were you?”
“Old enough.”
“An adult?”
He nodded, though he’d been underage. Seventeen.
“What would her husband do if he found out?”
“Kill me.”
“So she holds your fate in her hands.”
“And her own.”
“He’d kill her, too?”
“Probably not, but he’d go apeshit.”
She set the notebook aside, considering. “How did you hear about your cousin’s rape? Did Courtney tell you directly?”
“No.”
“Who did?”
“My aunt.”
“Did she want you to retaliate?”
“It doesn’t matter what she wanted. All that matters is what I did.”
“What did you do?”
“I took care of him.”
“Do you wish you hadn’t?”
He dropped the ice pack again, staring out the window. “I wish I hadn’t gotten caught, but I think it was a fair punishment. He was in the hospital for a few weeks, and in prison for almost as long as I was.”
“I’m concerned that you’re too easily manipulated into violence.”
His gaze returned to hers. “Like I said before, I’m responsible for my own actions. I’m not a victim. I understand right from wrong.”
“You don’t think you have a problem?”
“I know I have a problem. I just refuse to blame anyone else for it.”
“Do you have a soft spot for women?”
“Maybe I do,” he said, lifting his chin. “Are you going to cure me?”
She frowned at the question. “The way you express yourself is often physical.”
“Yes.”
“With men, your emotions manifest in fighting. With women, it’s...”
“Fucking.”
“How are these impulses related?”
“They both release tension.”
“And anger,” she theorized. “Fighting is a way to punish men.”
“Fucking is no punishment.”
“Denying yourself love is.”
He didn’t have a response for that. If he’d been denying himself, he’d done so unwittingly. But he also wasn’t sure he deserved love. He’d chosen a dangerous lifestyle. Avoiding commitment was better than letting women down. He would never abandon a family the way his father had.
The session ended with a chime from her phone.
“Meet me at the lake again,” he said. “We can both stop denying ourselves.”
She rose to her feet, hesitant. Cole stood with her. Before she could answer, there was a sharp rap on the door.
Vargas.
“Be careful this weekend,” she said. “No more fighting.”
“What about fucking?” he asked, lowering his voice.
A pretty flush rose to her cheeks. She moistened her lips nervously.
He gripped her elbow and leaned in closer. “I jerked off three times the other night, thinking about your mouth.”
Vargas knocked on the door again. Damn him.
Mia pulled away from Cole and crossed the room. He wasn’t interested in bumping shoulders with Vargas or instigating another fight, so he waited for the other man to come in. Then Cole walked through the doorway and strode down the hall, secure in the knowledge that he’d left her breathless.
CHAPTER TEN
M
IA SHUT THE
door behind Damon, her pulse racing.
It was difficult to look him in the eye, but she had to. Smoothing a hand over her fluttering stomach, she lifted her gaze to his. She doubted he’d bugged the office. He didn’t know she’d gone for a ride with Cole on Tuesday, or almost screwed him on a picnic table. They were tracking Cole’s locations, not spying on him.
She hoped.
“I have to remove you from this assignment,” Damon said.
Her heart sank. “Why?”
“Why do you think?”
Mia had no idea. There were so many possibilities. She’d violated more professional standards than she could count.
“Don’t play dumb,” Damon said. “He’s panting over you.”
She gathered her cell phone and notebook, trying to collect herself. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”
Damon didn’t respond to the accusation. “I’m concerned for your safety.”
“What about his? You asked me to monitor his stress levels and give an evaluation, but you’re clearly not interested in his well-being. You want to make him uncomfortable and force him to take risks.”
“I want him to give me information, like he promised. If he has to be squeezed for it, that’s not my problem.”
“It affects his progress, so it
is
my problem.”
“He’s a maniac with no self-control.”
She shook her head in disagreement. “I don’t believe he’s a danger to me. These sessions are helping him.”
“Right,” Damon scoffed.
“If you didn’t think he could benefit from therapy, what’s he doing here?”
Damon couldn’t answer that. His motivations for requiring Cole to see a psychologist had nothing to do with mental health benefits.
“I won’t be a pawn in whatever game you’re playing,” Mia said. “It’s not fair for you to dangle me in front of him and then yank me away when he reacts in the exact manner you intended.”
“There’s another complication,” Damon said.
She folded her arms over her chest. “What?”
“He says his uncle is working with White Lightning on the sly. Shepherd might not be a direct threat to you, but they are. Continuing to counsel him could compromise your identity. If WITSEC found out, they’d write us both up.”
They’d discussed this before the sessions started. Cole’s rivalry with White Lightning—the men responsible for her husband’s death—meant that Mia had to take extra precautions. If the two clubs were collaborating, there was even more cause for alarm.
She could argue with Damon all she wanted. He wasn’t her boss and he certainly wasn’t her boyfriend. But she couldn’t go against a federal agency with the power to relocate her. “Did you call them?”
“I will if I have to.”
She retrieved her satchel from the drawer, her spirits low. WITSEC didn’t know the specific details of this case, and they wouldn’t have cleared her involvement. They hadn’t even wanted her to come back to California. “That won’t be necessary.”
His shoulders relaxed at her capitulation. He wasn’t an easy man to read, but she could tell he was on edge. His commitment to busting motorcycle club members had become an obsession. She didn’t think he felt the least bit conflicted about initiating a physical altercation with a criminal. What he cared about was the
appearance
of professional ethics, and staying in her good graces.
“Roughing up your informant isn’t the best way to gain his cooperation,” she said.
“I suppose he claimed it was police brutality.”
“No. He said he incited you, and deserved what he got.”
“Really?”
“He’s not stupid, just combative. Be patient with him and you’ll get better results.”
Damon put his hands in his pockets, jangling his keys. “I’ll walk you out.”
She nodded and left the office with him. They rode the elevator in silence. The day’s residual heat shimmered on the horizon and radiated from the asphalt. She disengaged the alarm as they reached her car. On Tuesday evening, she’d asked her neighbor for a ride back to Indio. The little old lady next door had been happy to help.
She glanced at Damon, noting the dark circles under his eyes. “Get some rest,” she said, feeling a pang of sympathy.
“Do I look like I haven’t slept?”
She didn’t answer. He had recurring nightmares; he’d told her that once. But never what they were about.
“That dinner invitation is always open,” he said.
She made a vague promise to call him and climbed behind the wheel. She hoped he’d find someone else to have dinner with, to sleep with and sleep
beside
. He needed a woman to shake up his workaholic routine before he drove himself into an early grave.
She didn’t allow herself to consider Cole’s offer until Damon was no longer visible in her rearview mirror. Then she gripped the cushioned steering wheel and let out a ragged breath, remembering what he’d said.
Meet me at the lake again.
We can both stop denying ourselves.
I
jerked off three times
,
thinking about your mouth.
She’d touched herself after she’d arrived home that night, too. She’d ridden the bus for over an hour, lulled by the rocking motions, squirming with arousal. Biting her lower lip, she’d replayed every hot second of their encounter, over and over. She’d walked home from the bus stop in a sexual trance. As soon as she got through the door, she’d tugged her panties to her knees and buried her fingers in her pussy. She’d stroked herself to a mind-blowing orgasm, sagging against the couch.
God.
If the sex was half as good with him as it was without him, she’d be satisfied.
Not that she’d planned on meeting him for sex. Or, she hadn’t planned on it until Damon asked her to step down as Cole’s psychologist. And just like that, she’d experienced a watershed moment. A watershed moment that had nothing to do with her sopping-wet pussy, and everything to do with her recently abandoned revenge plan.
Dirty Eleven was working with White Lightning. What if the second perpetrator was a member of Cole’s motorcycle club? Maybe the “E” tattoo stood for Eleven. Dirty Forever, Forever Eleven.
Damon had searched his database for “E” tattoos + wrist and came up empty, so Mia assumed this guy wasn’t in the system. She could ask Cole if any of his buddies had a tattoo like that, but he’d wonder why she wanted to know. It was too random a detail, too specific for an offhand conversation. She’d have to be subtle in broaching the subject. If someone in Dirty Eleven fit the description, and she could identify him, she’d tell Damon. Then Damon could pick up the suspect and play his favorite game: bad cop.
If they were lucky, the mystery man would rat out Gordon Lowe, the president of White Lightning, and both criminals would go down. Justice would be served without vigilantism and illegal machinations.
Well, fewer illegal machinations.
And more fucking.
Okay, so maybe this watershed moment
did
have something to do with the flood of desire she felt for Cole. He’d inspired her sexual awakening. She couldn’t go back to her empty apartment and dry, passionless existence.
She needed him. Inside her.
Justice wasn’t her main focus anymore. She’d broken so many rules that ethics didn’t matter. She wanted to be with Cole. She’d also like to see her husband’s killers behind bars, but she knew her obsession with them wasn’t healthy. She could live without vengeance. She couldn’t live without being touched.
Cole wasn’t a good choice for a long-term relationship. She knew that. Sleeping with a client, even a former client, could destroy her career. The fact that he was a criminal informant made the situation more precarious. And she simply did not care. She didn’t care about the professional consequences or the potential dangers. It wasn’t just about sex, either. Her body burned with arousal, but she could endure the frustration. The thought of never seeing him again made her heart ache unbearably.