Law Man

  “Mara, stop it and come back to me.”

  “The likes of you aren’t for the likes of me,” I told him softly.

  “Jesus, baby,” he said softly back, his thumb sweeping my cheekbone, his eyes roaming my face.

  “I need to go.”

  “You’re not gonna go.”

  “I need to go,” I stated urgently.

  “Sweetheart, I’m not gonna let you go. You were right, we need to talk.”

  “I need to go,” I warned, “before it’s too late.”

  He opened his mouth to speak but it was too late.

  There was a loud knock in the breezeway. Not at Mitch’s door. Distant.

  I knew it was at mine when I heard my mother shout, “Marabelle Jolene Hanover! We’re done fuckin’ with you! Open this goddamned, fuckin’ door!”

  Not again!

  I froze in Mitch’s arms, my head jerking toward his door and I felt his arms get tight.

  Then I tipped my head back to see he’d pressed his lips together like he was fighting against a smile and my eyes narrowed on his mouth, not finding one thing funny. Then something came to me and my eyes shot to his.

  “My name is Marabelle Jolene Hanover,” I told him in a whisper.

  “What?” he whispered back but that one word trembled and I knew it was with suppressed laughter.

  “If that isn’t a trailer trash name…for trailer trash,” I added, “then nothing is.”

  His lips twitched and he muttered, “Baby.”

  “It is, admit it,” I pushed.

  “Actually, I think it’s pretty.”

  He was so full of it.

  “It’s trailer trash,” I returned.

  He shook his head, his lips twitching.

  Twitching!

  Then he said, “It’s pretty. It’s even kinda sweet. And it’s both these things because it’s yours.”

  My name wasn’t sweet.

  But he was.

  Argh!

  I changed tactics.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “You know my name,” he answered.

  “Your full name,” I pressed.

  “Mitchell James Lawson,” he told me.

  “Right,” I mumbled and his arms gave me another squeeze.

  “And?” he asked.

  “Your name is the name of a hot cop, a hot baseball player or the third cousin of a king.”

  His body started shaking as he turned his head in an unsuccessful attempt to hide his smile.

  “Marabelle!” I heard Mom screech. “We’re sortin’ this shit right…fuckin’…now!”

  I closed my eyes.

  “They’ll go away in a minute and I’ll call North to tell them we’re gonna be late,” Mitch said calmly and I opened my eyes to stare at him, not calmly. In fact, I was pretty certain my eyes were bugging out of my head.

  “Mitch!” I hissed.

  “It’s gonna be all right,” Mitch soothed, his hands traveling up and down my back, most of which was bare, so this felt really good. “I’m giving them this one. I don’t have time to deal with their bullshit and get you to dinner. They’ll give up and go away then we can go eat and we’ll talk while we eat.”

  Jeez, he was stubborn.

  Of course, I was too but I decided not to think about my stubbornness. Only his.

  “We’re not going to work,” I whispered, again returning to my earlier theme (see? Stubborn).

  His full attention focused on me and it did it in a way I braced as one of his hands slid up my neck and into my hair.

  Then his head dropped, his mouth captured mine and he kissed me, hard, wet, deep, thorough and long.

  Very long.

  And very, very well.

  So long and so well, when he was done, he lifted his head and gazed down at me, the haze he created took its time to clear and I heard it.

  Nothing.

  “I think they’re gone,” I whispered.

  He cocked his head and listened. Then he let me go, grabbed my hand and dragged me toward the door saying, “Thank Christ, let’s go eat. I’m fuckin’ starved.”

  Yep, that’s what he said.

  Not like we had a drama.

  Not like he heard a word I said.

  Not like the Trailer Trash Twins had again come calling.

  No, like we often went out to dinner and all that had gone before was like a last minute phone call that was a minor diversion before we could get out the door.

  Yes, Detective Mitchell James Lawson was stubborn.

  More stubborn than me.

  Damn.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Drug of Choice

  My eyes opened slowly and they instantly took in everything.

  I was in Mitch’s big bed. Down the bed I could see his club chair and draped over the club chair was my silky, sapphire top and jeans. These were tangled with a man’s espresso-colored, tailored shirt, matching sports jacket and another pair of jeans with a brown belt threaded through its loops. My shoes were on the floor as were a pair of men’s boots.

  There was heat behind me and I knew what this heat was. It was Mitch. There was weight on my waist and I knew what this weight was. It was Mitch’s arm.

  I felt warm and safe and I knew why this was. I was in Mitch’s bed, in Mitch’s apartment with Mitch.

  And no Billie.

  Billie and Billy were in another house somewhere not there.

  Oh boy.

  * * * * *

  North was an Italian restaurant in Cherry Creek. I’d been there twice before. The food was fabulous, the décor gorgeous – dark wood, cream leather seats with hints of lime green and bright orange. It was awesome.

  Nearly the minute we arrived, Mitch being a detective, stubborn and clearly, I was belatedly realizing, having an insane desire to wheedle himself into the life of a Two Point Five, took advantage of my highly emotional state.

  He barely had his beer, me my passionfruit frizzante and our waitress had just turned away from our table after getting our food order when the interrogation began.

  “I wanted you to do this in your time, at your pace but after watchin’ you go wherever the fuck you went in my apartment I’m seein’ I can’t let you do this in your time and at your pace. So, right now, you’re gonna tell me about your Mom,” he ordered.

  I looked anywhere but him, took a sip of my refreshing, delicious drink and tried to get my wits about me after experiencing the drama with Mitch which included a side order of my Mom at the same time trying to figure out a way to do anything but tell him about my Mom.

  Unfortunately, I did this with my left hand resting on the table. Therefore, I found my left hand stretched halfway across the table and my fingers laced with Mitch’s.

  Mitch’s fingers laced with mine felt nice. And not a little nice.

  A lot.

  Damn.

  I put my glass down and looked at our hands. Then I looked at Mitch.

  “I don’t think –”

  His fingers squeezed mine. “Tell me.” His voice was very firm.

  I decided first to try bitchy. “It’s really none of your business.”

  He shook his head. “I know you’re filtering this information so you don’t have to deal with it so I’ll keep tellin’ you until it sinks in. Mara, you’re gonna be in my bed and my life, and when you get a new one, I’m gonna be in your bed and your life. And, cluein’ you in, you might take a good look at things and notice you’re already in my bed and my life. So, since I intend for that to keep goin’, I’m gonna have to know about your life. Not what you’ve built for the now but what you survived to get to the now. So,” his fingers gave mine another gentle squeeze, “tell me about your Mom.”

  I glared at him then informed him, “You’re filtering information too, such as me explaining about boundaries and then me telling you that you have to move on.”

  “I’m not filtering, sweetheart. I’m ignoring that shit because it’s whacked. Now, tell me about you
r Mom.”

  “It’s not whacked,” I replied.

  “It is,” he returned then pushed, “Tell me about your Mom.”

  “It is not.”

  Yet another finger squeeze and then, “Mara, baby, tell…me…about…your…Mom.”

  My head tipped to the side and my eyes narrowed. “You’re very stubborn.”

  “Tell me about your Mom.”

  “And annoying.”

  “Tell me about your Mom.”

  “And bossy.”

  “Mara, your Mom.”

  “And you can be a jerk.”

  “Mara –”

  I rolled my eyes and said to the ceiling, “Jeez, all right, I’ll tell you about my Mom.”

  This was not me giving in. This was my new strategy. I decided that maybe he should know about my Mom. Maybe, even though it was clear he was always alert, very insightful, often figured me out and already knew a lot about me, maybe he was somehow blind to my Two Point Five-edness.

  So I decided to let him in on it.

  I took another sip of my frizzante, put the glass on the table and launched in, not looking into his eyes, finding anywhere to look but him as I re-colored the Mara he thought me to be.

  “My Mom’s a drunk. So’s Aunt Lulamae. Functioning alcoholics. They smoke, cigarettes and pot. They carouse. They party. They’re both in their fifties now and even though I haven’t spoken to or seen either one of them in over a decade, except our loving reunion at the store, I suspect this behavior hasn’t changed.”

  “It’s not good your Mom and aunt are functioning alcoholics, Mara, but none of that is really that bad,” Mitch pointed out.

  My eyes went to his beautiful ones. So brown, so warm, so deep. Fathomless. I wanted to drown in them, get pulled under, swim in his gaze for the rest of my life.

  Instead, I pulled in a soft breath, steeled myself and I gave to him all he needed to understand why he was not for the likes of me.

  “My first living memory is watching my mother having sex on the couch in our trailer with a hairy truck driver.”

  Mitch’s gaze grew intense.

  “She knew I was there,” I added.

  Mitch’s fingers spasmed in mine.

  “She didn’t stop even after she saw me,” I continued.

  “Jesus, sweetheart,” Mitch murmured.

  “I walked out when she was giving him a blowjob and I finally wandered back to my room when he started doing her doggie-style.”

  Mitch’s jaw got hard.

  “I remember every second,” I whispered. “It’s burned into my brain.”

  Mitch sucked in breath through his nose.

  “I was four,” I finished.

  He closed his eyes. I thought I knew what this meant so I ignored the brutal clutch that suddenly had hold of my heart, squeezing the life out of me. I looked away and took another sip of my drink.

  Keeping my eyes on anything but him, I went on, “I don’t know who my father is because my mother doesn’t know who my father is. I grew up in a small town. Everyone in that town knew about Mom and Aunt Lulamae so everyone in that town thought certain things about me. Parents, kids, teachers, everyone. Parents and teachers thought I was trash and they treated me like trash. Not even when I was young did they treat me any differently. I was tarred with her brush from the minute I entered this world and I knew nothing different every breath I took in it. Parents didn’t let their daughters come over to my house or me go over to their daughters’. Teachers barely even looked at me. When I got older, boys assumed I was easy. This was not fun because it was difficult to convince boys who thought you were easy that you were not easy. Therefore after a few very not fun dates, I stopped dating. I had two friends, my cousin Bill and a girl named Lynette whose parents were the only parents in town who were nice to me.”

  When I took in a breath, Mitch urged on another finger squeeze, “Look at me.”

  I didn’t look at him because I was certain what I would see. And I didn’t want to see it.

  But I did keep talking.

  “Aunt Lulamae had been married to Bill’s Dad but they got divorced and he stuck around town. Their divorce was bitter and it was ugly. And before they split up, it was loud and their dysfunction and hatred played out for everyone in town to see, in their trailer, outside their trailer, in Mom’s trailer, in bars, on sidewalks. And after they split up, it went on just the same. Bill’s sister has another father but he didn’t even stick around to see her born. Bill had the same reputation as me and, when I was young, I felt it was the two of us against the world so I latched on because I needed somebody. As he got older, he responded differently than me to all that was happening. He was a couple of years older than me and I got caught in that because I was young and stupid. I didn’t realize that what I was doing was solidifying in everyone’s mind that I was just like Melbamae and Lulamae Hanover. But it was more. Being with Bill meant not being around them and I hated to be around them so I escaped any way I could.”

  I took another sip of my drink and Mitch gave my hand another squeeze and a gentle tug.

  “Mara, sweetheart, look at me,” he called softly.

  I still didn’t look at him as I set my glass down and continued my story.

  “It was Lynette who saved me, her and her parents. All through senior year she told me I had to get away but I knew in my heart I’d never get away. I knew I was destined to have some crappy job making just above minimum wage and living in a trailer, just like my Mom, just like Aunt Lulamae. And I’d live in that town knowing everyone looked down on me. But for graduation, Lynette’s parents gave me an old car but it was one that worked really well because Lynette’s uncle was a mechanic and they also gave me a thousand dollars.”

  My eyes slid across his face so fast I couldn’t register his expression and I kept on going but in a whisper.

  “It was a nice thing to do. No one had ever been that nice to me, that generous. The tank was filled up, they had a cooler in it filled with pop, made up sandwiches in Ziploc bags and candy bars and Lynette, her Dad and Mom told me to get in that car and go. So I packed up everything I owned, some clothes, my music, that was everything I owned, and I drove. I got on I-80 and headed west. The minute I hit Denver, the second I saw the Front Range, I knew this was the place for me. The city was huge, no one here knew me and the mountains were beautiful and I wanted to see that beauty every day. I didn’t have much beauty in my life so it seemed a good idea to be somewhere that I could see beauty every day. So I stayed.” I sucked in a deep breath and ended my story with, “And, since you looked into me, you know the rest.”

  “Did any of those boys who thought you were easy hurt you?” Mitch asked gently and I chanced a glance at him to see he looked his usual alert but otherwise his face was studiously blank.

  “In the way you’re thinking, no. But it got physical, that physical was unpleasant but mostly it was what they said to me, the way they looked at me and the way they talked about me afterwards that was not nice. The girls did it too and girls can be way more not nice than boys could ever hope to be.”

  “Did your Mom look out for you at all?”

  I shrugged. “It would have been better if she thought of me as just an annoying drain on her meager resources but she didn’t. She thought I thought I was too big for my britches and told me so, repeatedly. She thought I was uppity and told me that too. I got good grades but she didn’t think that was something to be proud of. She made fun of me. She had a lot of boyfriends who were really just fuck buddies and she made fun of me in front of them too. When I got older and her special friends realized I was no longer a girl but a girl, they got ideas. Sometimes they acted on them. This ticked her off and then she started to see me as competition. She didn’t protect me from them, she shouted at me, called me a slut then she’d call me a tease. I couldn’t win either way.” I shrugged again and looked away when Mitch’s eyes darkened and not in a sexy way, in an angry way. “I used to slip out at night, especially
if she had someone over or she had a lot of someone’s over and she was partying. I’d go to Bill’s trailer, sleep on the floor by his bed or go to Lynette’s. She had a double bed. I thought her bed was huge.” I pulled in a short breath, let it out on a soft sigh and whispered, “I loved her bed.” Then I blinked, pulled myself together and kept talking, “I used to climb in her window. Her parents knew I was doing it but they never said a thing.”

  “Let’s go back to the men in your mother’s life trying it on with you,” Mitch demanded in a careful way and I looked back at him.

  “It wasn’t that, Mitch. I wasn’t violated or not completely,” I told him without a hint of emotion. “They’d come in my room, be handsy but they were usually drunk or high so I’d get away. Then I learned to get away earlier so they didn’t even get to take a shot. Some of them were even nice. Some of them, I think, knew what it was like being Melbamae’s daughter. A couple of them tried to be like dads to me.” I shook my head and looked away, muttering, “Melbamae hated that most of all.”

  I grabbed my drink and took the last sip, setting the glass down and staring at the floor beside our table. Through this, Mitch didn’t speak. Through all of it, Mitch kept hold of my hand. When it hit me he wasn’t talking, just sitting there holding my hand, my eyes drifted to his.

  The instant they did, he asked, “You do know she isn’t you?”

  “I know,” I whispered.

  “And you know that isn’t your life and it really never was.”

  I pressed my lips together and shrugged again. My eyes started to slide away but Mitch’s fingers tensed in mine to the point where it almost hurt. It definitely caught my attention. At the same time his hand gave mine a rough jerk, pulling it toward him which meant I had no choice but to lean in and my eyes flew back to his.

  “I don’t understand how your mind works, baby,” he said softly, also leaning into me. “How you twist shit around but that was not your life then and it isn’t your life now. Instead of you sitting there looking at anything but me, thinkin’ I’m gonna judge you for shit that was never in your control, you should be sitting there proud in the knowledge that you got the fuck out and made somethin’ of yourself, made somethin’ of your life.”