Page 45 of Shield
“I want to come with you,” I began, but he pressed a finger to my lips and shook his head. There was so much unspoken in that moment. It wasn’t my place to rush to a crime scene. I wasn’t a cop. This was a friend of mine. This was something to do with the clinic, but worse was that if I went, I might compromise something. “I wish I could go with you,” I amended, and couldn’t help feeling sidelined when it mattered most.
In his car, the conversation shifted rapidly to Lazlo’s condition, the senseless violence, and what it might mean for the clinic. Each question I posed seemed to weigh heavier on Jackson, his responses short, tinged with anger and resolve. He couldn’t tell me anything, and the last thing he needed was me asking anything.
When we reached my gate, he unbuckled his seatbelt as I did mine, then dragged me over to him, kissing me deeply and holding me tight as if he never wanted to let me go. The kiss felt like a promise, but it was also me asking him to stay safe.
Then, he was gone, leaving me in the dark, both literally and metaphorically.
Standing there, watching the taillights disappear, I felt a mix of emotions. Concern for Lazlo, frustration at being left behind, and a nagging fear for Jackson’s safety. The night that had started with such promise had taken a dark turn, leaving me upside-down. I punched in the gate code, then waited until it closed behind me before trudging up to the house.
Back inside, the familiar sounds of theGreat British Baking Showfilled the living room and Jamie was there, his long frame stretched out on the sofa, a cup of tea in hand, completely absorbed in the show. The normalcy of the scene felt almost jarring.
As soon as I walked in, Jamie’s attention snapped to me, his relaxed demeanor changing instantly as he scrambled to his feet. “Back already? Shit, you look knackered?” he blurted out, ready to spring into action. “What did hot-cop do?”
I slumped to the other end of the sofa, and Jamie must have seen something in my expression because he paused, then his gaze shifted, landing somewhere on my throat. His eyes narrowed, and a smirk slowly spread across his face as he pressed a hand to his neck. “Hmm, is that a birthmark? Or did Jackson take a bite out of you?”
Horrified, I reached up to cover the mark, feeling my face heat.
“So, I take it you did the nasty?” he poked, but I couldn’t bring myself to banter. “Oli? You’re worrying me. If you’re home, then where’s the cop, and why do you look like death warmed over?”
“Shit, J,” I muttered and bent over my knees, my chest tight.
“Was he terrible in bed?” Jamie teased, but his tone was filled with concern.
“No,” I said, though my voice sounded weak.
Jamie’s expression softened as he took in my state, the jesting falling away. “Ollie, mate, talk to me. You look like you’ve been through the wringer.”
His concern was genuine, and the events of the night replayed in my mind. Each minute with Jackson, the call about Lazlo, the sudden and stark end to the evening, I kept going over every moment.
“Someone shot one of the staff at the clinic—Jackson had to leave, and he gave me a ride back.”
“What? Who?”
“Lazlo.”
“The young guy at reception?”
“Yeah, he’s a good kid. Young, motivated, and he loves working there, and I was only talking to him a few days ago.” I closed my eyes and covered them with my hands. “Someone’s shot him.”
The room fell silent except for the muffled voices on the TV. Something about raspberry and white chocolate and one presenter wearing a floppy hat. What that had to do with baking I didn’t know, but Jamie and the girls loved this show. Jamie’s hand landed on my shoulder, a silent message of support, and he squeezed.
“Christ, Oli, that’s rough.” Jamie’s voice was low, the usual playful edge gone.
I nodded, feeling the full weight of the evening. I dropped my hands and opened my eyes, meeting Jamie’s gaze. “I don’t understand it, Jamie. The clinic, it’s a haven, a place that’s supposed to be above all the… the violence and darkness of the streets. Lazlo, he’s just like Joe, someone who wants to make things better.”
“Was he shot at the clinic?” Jamie asked, and I had to admit, I didn’t know.
“I guess so. Jackson said the security guy had been knocked out, so yeah, the clinic, Jackson wouldn’t tell me anything.”
“It could have been a drive-by.” Jamie shuddered. “I’ve lived in the US for eight years, and I still don’t get the gun thing,” he murmured. Then he shook his head, his expression grim. “Some people want to watch the world burn. Doesn’t matter who gets caught in the flames.”
The bitterness in his tone matched the helplessness I felt. Lazlo, with his whole life ahead of him, suffered, and now, the man I loved was out there trying to fix the broken things.
The man I loved.
“I told Jackson I was falling for him,” I whispered.
Jamie blinked at me, then muted the TV. “Really?”
