Anything for Her Read online

  “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 brea
th, “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.”

  (Present)

  The moment he walks into my office I know that I have been lied to. I was told that time and distance would help my feelings fade but that’s not the case. Looking at him in the doorway, I want him now more than I ever did before. My heart aches when he doesn’t reach out and hold me. I don’t know what I was expecting when he entered. Did I think he’d shake my hand or pull me in for an embrace? It was stupid to expect a hug but I think in the back of my mind, that’s exactly what I was hoping for. My heart sinks from the rejection. Even with everything that’s going on, my desire to be in his arms nearly overwhelms me.

  When he asks me what’s going on, I stall because I want to know what’s going on with him. I want to hear his voice and get a window into his life. I know that he’s here for me and that his focus is on his mission. But I don’t want to be a mission. I want to be…

  What do you want to be, Shay? His girl? You had that, and how did that work out?

  It’s clear that he wants to stay on task. I can tell by his tone and his alert posture. God, I forgot how large and imposing he could be. I remember being stunned to find that while his body was firm and strong, his touch was gentle—when he wanted it to be. But there were also nights when his hold was firm and deliciously possessive.

  I miss him reading over my shoulder and nibbling on my neck, trying to distract me. It didn’t take a lot. When his lips brushed against my skin, he ignited a spark in me that I couldn’t control.

  Is that spark all gone?

  While I’m offering him drinks I know he does not want, I look at his hands—big mistake. I remember what those hands were capable of doing to my body. I recall all the places he skimmed, slid, and slurped on: places that have been waiting for him to visit once again. My body craves him like a damn drug. And being only a few feet away from him is giving me serious withdrawal symptoms. One gaze into his heart-stopping eyes and he destroyed my will.

  The only thing Logan did better than fuck me was love me. He loved me better than any girl had a right to hope for. He never gave me flowers; instead he gave me his undivided attention. He never took me to the movies, but when he parted my pulsing opening with his tongue, he’d make me see stars. He never let go of my hand—not while we kissed, not while he made love, or even when we slept. He never let go of me. Logan Hunter loved me. That loved showed itself in his silence, in his sighs, and in his inability to look away when I entered a room.

  But now, as I sit down on the sofa and ask him to join me, something becomes painfully clear: that love is gone. He won’t even sit next to me. I know why he feels this way but it still hurts. I tell him about Joanne and while he doesn’t come sit next to me, he hands me the tissue box, so I guess all hope is not lost.

  God, how pathetic is it that I am trying to find meaning behind someone handing me tissues?

  He patiently waits for me to continue. I dry my eyes, reach for the water bottle on my desk, and drink the rest of its contents.

  “Sorry about that,” I reply before I continue.

  “You lost your friend; you have every right to cry. I can wait if you’re not ready to talk,” he offers again. I inhale deeply and assure him that I am in fact ready to continue.

  “What happened after he killed her?”

  “I hid in the closet and escaped when he went to make a call. I ran out of the building and ducked into a coffee shop. By the time I stopped shaking long enough to call the cops, the crime scene had been altered.”

  “How the hell did that happen?” he asks.

  “I think he’s actually far more powerful than Joanne let on. The official story is that there was a break-in that went wrong. They have Malone’s DNA all over the crime scene but…”

  “It’s his wife’s office, he argued he goes there all the time,” Logan says.

  “Exactly. The only hope we had was the footage of him entering the office building, but that was stolen. And to make things worse, he got a number of staff members to alibi him. They all claim he was with them going over paperwork.”

  “So the DA had to use the only thing he had left, an eye witness. He convinced you to testify,” he says to himself bitterly.


  “He didn’t need to. I’m happy to go to court and put that psycho behind bars.”

  “Let me guess, they want you to go into witness protection until the case goes to court,” he says.

  “Yeah, but I said no.”

  “Sounds like you,” he mumbles, shaking his head.

  “Hey, I’m not gonna run away from his. I watched Malone kill my friend, I’m not gonna let him get away with that.”

  “Then you’re going into WITSEC, there’s no other way around it,” he says with finality in his voice.

  “I can’t. This center is everything to me. I can’t turn these women away.”

  “Someone else can run it,” he says.

  “No, this is my baby. I have turned this place around. And every day we tell women to be brave. How would it look if the director of the center went into hiding?”

  “It would look like she had some damn sense!” he barks.

  “I am not a coward,” I remind him.

  “Maybe not but I don’t need you to be brave right now, I need you to be smart. Staying in town is stupid, and you need to be smart about this.”

  “Logan, the mayor’s office is honoring some of the women in our program for their bravery and their hard work. I have a million things to do to get everything ready. The women in this program, my staff, everyone has worked tirelessly to make this happen. I can’t just pull out of this ceremony,” I beg.

  “Well you can’t stay here. This Malone guy could have figured out Joanne wasn’t alone. Then where would you be?” he pushes.

  “He knows I was there. He must have looked at the tape of that night. He knows it’s me.”

  “What makes you so sure?” he says.

  “He came to the center and went on about how much he misses his wife and how it would be a shame if I met a similar fate. He was such a bastard. He said he’d keep me in his prayers in hopes nothing bad happens to me.”