I promise myself before I exit the plane that no matter what happens, I will stay focused on her protection and her protection only. I’m not going to get sucked into the shit that already happened and go down the rabbit hole. I did that before and I will not do it again.

A long-time contact of mine picks me up from the airport and drops me off in front of the help center. There’s a cop car stationed across the street from her building. I get in without him noticing, meaning he’s a fucking idiot and this place is not safe. So, we can’t stay here long.

Copy that.

I make my way up the steps to the help center three at a time. The center takes up the entire third floor. It has an open layout with desks and chairs throughout. If memory serves correctly, there are a few rooms in the back where various classes and counseling sessions take place. The layout is the same as it was three years ago but the design is friendlier. The space used to have stark white walls; it used to feel like an admin office. The walls are now various shades of warm blues and soothing grays. It looks more like someone’s home than a cold office space.

I knock on the glass door and soon a figure approaches. It’s Kat, Shay’s best friend. She was always fun to be around. She has a dirty mind and a big heart.

“Hard candy!” she says warmly as she unlocks the door. We embrace and I study her face.

“Where is she? Is she okay?” I ask.

“She’s—I’ll let her tell you. My husband’s waiting for me downstairs, we’ll talk again.”

“Definitely,” I reply as I pat her on the shoulder on her way out.

“Logan...” Kay calls out to me but doesn’t finish her thought; she doesn’t really need to. The fear in her eyes says it all. Shay has gotten into something real bad, and Kat is terrified for her friend.

“Kat, I’m on it,” I assure her. She nods slowly and walks out the door. I enter Shay’s office, and relief washes over me. She’s safe, at least as of right now.

“Logan…” She’s not sure how to end her statement. She’s fucking beautiful, even more so than when I last saw her. I scan her, trying to get a read on exactly how much trouble she’s in. If her eyes are anything to go by, she’s in deep.

“Are you okay?” I demand to know. I think I pick up on a hint of disappointment on her face but I could be wrong. She nods quickly and tries to put on a brave face.

“I’m alright—or trying to be anyway,” she says cryptically.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“Why don’t you sit down?” she says, motioning toward the leather sofa in her well-decorated office. “Do you want some water or something stronger?” she asks.

“No, I’m good. I just want to know what’s going on,” I reply. She sits on the sofa and invites me to sit next to her. I can’t do that. It’s hard enough staying focused and on task. Since I entered her office and saw that she was in one piece, my mind has begun to go places it should not.

It started with her scent. I can smell it from here: she smells like jasmine and crisp air just before the first snowfall. In fact, every inch of her brings back a vivid flash in my head. I recall taking a fistful of her hair, coiling it around my hand, and pulling on it hard as she climaxed. I look in her eyes and remember her pupils dilating when I moved in to kiss her for the first time. I see her lips and remember the moan that escaped from them when my tongue claimed her.

My eyes travel down to her chest. I remember cupping her warm, swollen breasts and molding them until she sighed my name. I recall how suckling on her distended nipples made my cock so fucking hard, I had to close my eyes and count backwards so I wouldn’t lose control. I look down at her stomach and flash back to licking my way across its flat, soft surface. I steal a glance at her thighs and right away I remember all the nights I spent between them, exploring, devouring, and drinking.

Jesus…

I want to sit next to her. God I want that shit more than I have ever wanted anything in my life. But I know that sitting next to her would be a bad idea. So instead I pick up the chair in the corner, flip it to the back, and straddle it.

“Are you sure you don’t want anything to drink at all? Maybe coffee or tea? We normally go food shopping for the center but this week has been a little crazy,” she admits.

“Christ, I don’t want anything to drink. I want you to tell me what the fuck is going on.” I know I’m being as asshole but I don’t care. I need to know exactly what we are getting into or I won’t be able to help.

Shay opens her mouth to counter; I knew she would. She has never been one to shy away from a comeback or rebuttal. But thankfully she thinks better of it, takes a deep breath, and begins.

“I was at a fundraiser thrown by the mayor and his wife. They had given generously to the help center and so I went to support them. I ran into a couple, Mr. and Mrs. Malone. They are very rich and very influential. We spoke for a while about this and that, nothing really important.

“Later, I was coming out of the ladies room and she approached me. She signaled that she needed to talk, so she met me in the coatroom, where she asked for my help to leave her husband. She said she read about the help center and the work we did and she was desperate that I help. I agreed and we were supposed to meet the next morning. Then she texted me and said it was all a mistake and to forget about what happened in the coatroom.

“It took another week for her to agree to meet with me, but she did because she knew that was the only way I was going to drop the subject. I needed to look in her eyes and see that she really was okay. She runs a design firm downtown, something her husband ‘allowed’ her to have to fulfill her time. He told her she could have it so long as she was a ‘good girl.’

“Right away, I knew he was a controlling asshole and that she needed to leave him. But she wanted to stick it out. Then a week later I read on the news that she ‘slipped in her home’ and broke her jaw. I knew I had to keep working on her. So we kept in contact and finally she was ready to leave her husband. I arranged for her to get to a safe house, and there, she’d be given a new driver’s license and new credit cards. Everything she needed to start her new life.

“She was so excited. We started to really get to know each other as I made the plans. She was more than a client—Joanne became a friend. She took half of the allowance her husband gave her and set it up so that every month it would automatically go to ‘Doctors without Borders.’ And she had a thing for romance novels and chocolate. She was really something…”

“You don’t normally send women away though, right? You usually help them get out and file reports. Why did you feel she had to be given a whole new identity?” I ask.

“Her husband is a wealthy businessman. He owns the largest accounting firm in the city. He’s connected and ruthless. That’s a bad combination.”

“Yeah, it can be,” I mutter. “So, what happened to Joanne?”

“It took us awhile to set up her exit plan. Once we were all set, I texted her information about the extraction team and where to meet up with us. But when the time came, she never showed up.”

“She got cold feet,” I conclude.

“Yes, she remembered what it was like in the beginning before he started to hit her and she thought maybe it could go back to being that way again. She thought there might be some small sliver of hope for the two of them.”

“And you wanted to convince her otherwise?”

“I wanted to at least try. So, later that evening, I went to her office after hours and convinced her to let me in. We began to talk and I was getting through to her but then her husband called and said he was on his way up. Her husband knew who I was and what I did for a living, and she knew he’d put it all together. She wanted me to go but it was too late, he was stepping off the elevator. So, she made me hide in the back room where they keep the samples. So I did. I left the door open just enough to allow me to see out.

“He came into her office and soon the two of them began to argue. I think she thought that she could shock him into changing his behavior by letting him know that he was about to lose her. She said, ‘I am sick of the way you treat me. You better watch it because I don’t have to take this anymore. I can leave you. In fact, that’s exactly what I plan to do, tonight!’

“I saw a flash of rage come over his face, and he picked up the paperweight on her desk and struck her over and over again until she stopped moving,” she says as she covers her mouth with her hands. The tears flooding down her face make it so fucking hard to stay seated.

I want like hell to hold her and stop her from trembling. My chest is getting tighter and tighter each time she sobs. “I’m sorry you watched that go down. And I’m really sorry about your friend. We can pause if you need to,” I offer, reaching for the box of tissues on her desk.

I hand it to her; she takes them and dries her eyes. I place my hand on top of hers. Reaching out to comfort her may have been the right thing to do but it came with a price, a jolt of electricity courses through us as our hands connect and takes me back to the first time we touched…

***

Three years ago…(Logan)

“Whiskey” is far more trouble than I first imagined. The captain was so impressed with her work; he asked the help center to loan her out to them on some other domestic abuse cases. In addition to that, she’s also involved with helping Martha through the process. That’s why I see her at the station every day, and every day she proceeds to grate on my fucking nerves. And she never misses the opportunity to remind me that she hates my guts.

Yet no matter how much animosity surrounds us, I find myself looking for her when I get to work. It’s truly insane but that’s the honest truth. When I get to the station and she’s not there yet, I feel agitated and pissed off that the day has begun and I haven’t set eyes on her. Right away, I worry that she’s mouthed off to the wrong person and could be in trouble. I look at the clock on the wall and if she’s so much as five minutes late, it bothers me.

A few days ago, she came in ten minutes late and I lost my shit because I didn’t know where she was or more importantly, whom she was with. Was she with some guy? Were the two of them enjoying a nice breakfast after a marathon of sex the night before? Was she headed out the door but held back by him because he wanted more of her?

I could see wanting more of her…

When she finally did walk through the door of the police station, my heart began to beat normally for the first time since I got to work. While she was signing into the staff logbook at the front desk, I dropped my head as I walked by and whispered in her ear. “Tell your asshole boyfriend you have a fucking job to do.”

She stood upright and looked over at me, confused. I didn’t explain myself. Fuck that. I needed to see her and she wasn’t there. We have a deal, well, an unspoken deal. She gets to work on time so I can see her and know that she’s okay because it’s the only way I’m okay…

It’s easy to say that I am drawn to her physically and that’s why I keep checking for her. She has the kind of body that could start wars. When you add up those eyes, her pouty lips, and glowing skin…shit, she could really do some damage to a guy if she wanted to.

However, her body isn’t the main thing on my list. Okay, no bullshit, her body is high on my list. I’d like to rip her clothes off, make her face the wall, and bite the nape of her neck as my cock splits her in two. My longing for her should stop right there but it doesn’t.

I don’t want to just fuck her. I want to know what she’s thinking when she’s nibbling on the end of her coffee stirrer and looking off into the distance. I want to know why the screensaver on her laptop is a box full of packing peanuts, and why she smiles every time she looks at it. And I often want to ask her if this guy she’s with holds her protectively against him all night. He should; I would.

But the first and most important reason I need to see her as soon as I get to work is that—and this shit won’t make sense—I miss her. She normally walks in, says good morning, and smiles at everyone but me. Then she heads over to her little desk and I watch her throughout the day.

When she’s talking to the women that come in her tone is warm, caring, and supportive. The crazy shit is, it doesn’t matter what the woman’s background is: she could be a meth head, a soccer mom, or a hooker. Shay addresses them all with the same understanding and respectful tone. I fucking love to watch her work.

In the week that she’s been working at the station, the number of women willing to report their abusers has gone up. This girl is really amazing at her job. I’d like to tell her that but I hate her for messing with my mind and she hates me for—well, being a guy I guess. So, the two of us having a conversation that doesn’t involve arguing is not likely.

I’m standing by the coffee maker talking to a beat cop who asked me a question. I see Shay headed towards us. She’s wearing an off the shoulder blouse with dark colored slacks. Shay comes by and mumbles under her breath, “Geez, get a room.” It’s true the female officer was checking me out and had been doing so for the past week but that doesn’t excuse Shay’s rudeness. I see her heading out of the building to get lunch and I follow her out.

“Can I help you?” she asks as she hustles down the street.

I place my hand on her bare shoulder. Her skin is soft, like fucking clouds, and warm from the sun’s kiss. As soon as we touch, I feel a current run through me. She feels it too. It’s written on her now flushed face. We stand and face each other, frozen for mere seconds that seem to last for fucking ever. I clear my throat and drag my ass back to the real world, the same world where Shay has found a new way to piss me off.

“What the hell was that back there?” I demand.

“I think it’s unprofessional to flirt in the office, but that’s just me.”

“I wasn’t flirting,” I reply.

“Oh please, you looked into that officer’s eyes, you nodded your head with understanding and concern, and you placed your hand on her shoulder.”

“That’s called a conversation,” I correct her.

“And what about your hand?” she pushes.

“She was nervous about patrolling a certain area known for high crime and so I assured her she’d do fine.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you’ll do some more ‘assuring’ with her later tonight,” she mocks.

“First, I don’t sleep with the people I work with. And second, why do you care so much about where my hands go? Did you have plans for them?” I smirk.

“You think I want you? Please. You’re not my first ‘lollipop-hunk.’ I know that for all your candy-coated charms, you’re hollow inside. So, believe me, I’m not into you at all.”

“Look, I’m a damn good cop and I know how to separate my personal life from my professional one. And you going around insinuating otherwise is bullshit. You don’t even know me,” I challenge.

“Yeah, I do. Guys like you flirt and play around with girls’ emotions for sport. You will use anything to date a girl: your dog, your mountain of muscles, or cash money. Whatever it takes to make her think you care, but in the end, you only care about yourself,” she says as she pulls the door of the café open to go inside. I hold the door and block her entrance.

“I don’t need a dog to get laid or any other gimmick. And for the record, I don’t date; I fuck. And I would never lay hands on you because I don’t mess with children.” I let go of the door and march back towards the station. She follows in a huff, like I knew she would. Damn her.

“How dare you, just because you’re older than me doesn’t mean you can treat me like I’m a child,” she informs me.

“I’m treating you like you’re acting—like a damn kid.”

“I’m twenty-four years old. You’re only a few years older than me. And for the record, if you don’t want anyone to think badly of you, maybe you shouldn’t be charming the entire department. Frankly I’m surprised you have time—with the amount of screwing you do in the evening, it’s a wonder you can walk,” she mocks.

I turn to face her. “You want to know about who I do and don’t bang, fine. I’ll send you a list. Or better yet why don’t you bring your sweet ass to my house and I’ll give you a tour of my bed.”

“Are you serious?” she demands, clearly offended.

“Sweetheart, you wish I were. But it’s never gonna happen with us because even if we weren’t working together, I’d never bang you.”

“Oh really?” she says in a tone that I could swear seemed more hurt than angry.

“Yeah, that’s right. You and me, never gonna happen,” I vow.

“And why is that?” she says with ire in her voice and fire in her eyes.

“I’m not into having sex with objects. And if I were, I wouldn’t start with a block of ice.”