Page 9 of Protected from Malice
And when Indy woke up and told her to leave, that he didn’t want her to see him like that, she told him in no uncertain terms it wasn’t happening. She wasn’t leaving. Not until he did.
Everyone was a little in awe of her, really.Iwas in awe of her, just like I’ve been for years.
But that wasn’t the Eden I talked to last night.
Last night, she sounded afraid. And I hated it.
I hate that she won’t tell Indy—her own damn brother—about whatever’s scaring her.
I will. Once I find out the whole story, if Indy needs to know, I’ll tell him.
How could I not? Even though we’re not on the same team anymore, he’s still my best friend. Shit, even though we’re not bonded by blood, he’s my brother in all the ways that count. So if his sister is in trouble, I’m not keeping it a secret from him.
Last night, Eden begged me not to tell him. “It might all be in my head,” she explained. “Work… it’s been stressful. I don’t want to worry Indy for no reason. If you’re sure you don’t mind coming… Maybe we could talk it through. Andthendecide if it’s something Indy needs to know or not.”
Another fucked up thing? How unconvincing she sounded when she tried to use work as an excuse. Not that her work isn’t important or stressful—as a lead researcher for a prominent pharmaceutical company, I know she deals with high-stakes projects all the time. But there was just something in the way she said it. A hesitation. Something that made me think there was a lot more shewasn’tsaying.
Glancing at the dashboard, I grimace at the time. It’s almost nine PM, which is hours later than I intended to arrive. But I had to finish that damned job last night, and I was so distracted by Eden’s call it threw me off my game. The fugitive I should have been able to apprehend with no problem ended up getting the jump on me, and I have six stitches in my arm because of it.
Not that six stitches is a big deal. It’s not. And the other guy—a piece of garbage domestic abuser who jumped bail and fled to New Mexico—ended up hurting much worse than me.
Could I help it if he ran into a few walls while he was trying to escape? Or if he happened to trip over a coffee table and break his nose?
And if I don’t feel bad about it at all? Well. He sure didn’t feel bad when he beat his wife so badly she ended up in the hospital for weeks. So I think it’s karma. Hammurabi’s Code in action.
I’m not a violent guy by nature. I’m really not. But there are just some people who deserve a different kind of justice. Abusers. Killers.
And assholes who scare people like Eden.
Sweet, smart, kind, beautiful Eden.
Shit. It doesn’t matter if she’s beautiful.
I mean, she is. There’s no question about it. With curly brown hair that turns bronze and copper in the sun, bright blue eyes, a cute little nose that wrinkles when she laughs, and her body…
Ishouldn’thave memorized what she looks like in a bikini. But shit, how could I not? Indy and I were visiting Eden in Boston, and we took a day trip out to Orchard Beach. Eden wore a bikini—not a skimpy one, but it showed enough—and it was fucking torture keeping my eyes off her. Not to stare at her flat stomach and sweetly flaring hips and the swell of her small but perfectly formed breasts. Not to want to get closer to the little double helix tattooed on her back, and run my fingers across it to see if her skin was as soft as it looked.
But.
I’m going to Portland as a friend. As a surrogate brother, so to speak. And any other feelings I have about Eden are completely irrelevant.
All that matters is getting there. Finding out the whole story. Making a plan.
I’d be there already if I didn’t have to go to the fucking hospital after midnight to get stitches. I wouldn’t have evenbothered, but the company I work for insisted. Liability and lawsuits and all that shit.
Then the damn flight got delayed.
The rental company couldn’t find my reservation, so that was another hour of pissing around with paperwork and wasting time.
And now I’m three hours later than I’d planned to get here. Which, in the scheme of things, isn’t that long.
But when it means Eden is sitting at home, scared and alone, three hours is a big fucking deal.
I asked if she had any friends to stay with her, just until I arrived. But independent Eden insisted she was okay. “I’ll leave work on time so I’m driving home with lots of traffic around,” she explained. “And I have security here. A camera at the front door and the back. So I’ll be perfectly fine until you get here.”
Somehow, I doubt her idea of adequate security is the same as mine. But that’s something else I can check when I get there. I may not be a security systems expert, like my buddies, Matt and Leo, but I know enough.
A quick look at the map on the dash tells me I’m less than ten minutes from Eden’s place. I’ve never been there before, but I’ve seen pictures of it—ones that Eden sent when she first moved in two years ago, and the ones I pulled up from the property listing while I was doing some research last night.
