Authors: Cate Beauman
Abby stood in her dining room workspace, humming
along with Sarah McLachlan’s smooth voice crooning through the speakers. She grabbed one of the half dozen pins she held pressed between her lips and secured the clinging, one-sleeved black top above the short denim skirt riding low on her mannequin’s hips.
With a tilt of her head she eyed the fit of her sample outfit, making certain her visions on the sketchpad translated well in ‘real life.’ She stepped back, continuing her scrutiny of the simple yet flirty design. “Perfect,” she muttered, smiling, knowing she would see this look,
her
look, gracing the catwalk during one of the industry’s biggest weeks. Most of her creations made up Lily’s spring and summer collection—a huge step in the right direction and a dream come true, or one of them anyway. Eventually Lily would see that she was ready to take on her own line—the
Escape
line—but first she had to help the team get the upcoming season off the ground.
She unpinned the figure-hugging fabric and walked back to her worktable, marking the small adjustments she’d noted with her model’s slim build in mind. She sat in front of Gran’s old Singer she’d used since she was a teenager and altered her hems, occasionally glancing up at the bold, waxing moon outside the window. Lifting the lever, she turned the garment and continued with her work, stifling a yawn.
She had yet to sleep—except for the thirty minutes or so she’d dozed off and dreamt of Margret. She’d woken with a start, her heart aching, her spirit bogged down with the heavy weight of guilt. Somewhere out there, the sweet-faced fifteen-year-old, her favorite of all the victims passing through the raunchy stash house in DC, was still waiting to be found.
I want to go home, Abby. I just want to go home.
The words echoed through her mind, and she closed her eyes against the haunting memories of Margret’s teary, desperate whispers. How many times had she soothed Margret, promising her that everything would be okay? How many times had she hugged the thin girl, reassuring her that she would find a way to set them free?
But she hadn’t.
Dozens of girls had been rescued during the raids in July, but not the one she yearned to save most. Six months had passed without a lead, despite Abby’s weekly check-ins with Special Agent Terron through the dummy e-mail account Jerrod had set up. She had little trust for the taskforce and its agents who’d willingly let her rot while they waited for their big break, hoping to bring down Zachary Hartwell, but she needed to do whatever she could to return Margret to her family safe and sound.
I just want to go home.
She heard the words again and shook her head, willing Margret’s tortured voice away, fully aware that her best efforts might never be enough to bring back Margret.
Sighing, she forced away her troublesome thoughts and focused on her work, sending the needle through fabric, creating her final seam when she heard something clatter down the hall by the bedrooms. Startled, she flinched and glanced at the funky wall clock Wren had helped her pick out for the modern space—six a.m., which meant Jerrod was up working out. He bench-pressed and arm curled, jump roped and squatted, keeping that gorgeous body of his sinfully delicious. Rain or shine, holiday or not, he was up at five forty-five starting his day.
She looked out the window, taking in the endless city lights and stood, needing to get on with her own. She took the skirt off the mannequin and walked with the new top and bottom to the small privacy screen, stripping from her robe and nighty. She fastened on the strapless bra she kept handy and pulled on the new clothes she would dress Monique in for a final fitting once her model finally kicked the flu bug plaguing her.
Sliding on black heels, she made her way to the center of the room, staring into the three-way mirror, studying the way the lines lay on her body. She backed up several steps and moved forward—head and back straight, arms at her sides, one foot crossing in front of the other, strolling down the improvised catwalk, constantly scrutinizing the black fabric clinging to her curves and the short denim slung low over her slim hips, stopping mid-thigh. The 2015 spring/summer line demanded fun and flirty. This number delivered both in spades.
Turning, she stood hipshot, studying her profile from the side, checking for flow. The snug, black fabric stopped just above her belly button, exposing a sexy inch and a half of toned tummy, with dark denim and three-inch heels completing the look. The top would pair well with skinny jeans as well as numerous other options. Versatility was key. She turned again, walked back, and repeated her process, catching Jerrod’s eye in the mirror as he stood in charcoal-colored gym shorts and a white t-shirt, drinking a tall glass of water. She averted her gaze with a wince and glanced at the smooth oak floor, struggling with the embers of embarrassment after the way she’d behaved. She met his eyes in the mirror again, trying to gauge him as he took another long guzzle. “Good morning,” she tried.
“Morning.”
She cleared her throat in the heavy silence. “I thought you might sleep in since we’re not going anywhere until this afternoon.”
He shrugged. “I slept plenty.”
Nodding, she licked her lips, desperate to move past the awkwardness. “Jerrod, I’m sorry about last night…this morning…” She shook her head. “Whenever it was.” She turned from the mirror, facing him. “I’m really sorry for everything.”
“You don’t have to apologize.” He set his glass on the white granite countertop. “I already told you that.”
“Yes I do.” She walked to him, stopping almost toe-to-toe, taking his hand. “I trust you. I feel safe with you.” She wrapped her arms around him and rested her head on his chest, finding comfort nestled against his powerful body.
He returned her embrace, hesitantly—like always—holding her to him gently. “Abigail, you don’t always have to be strong. You’ve been through hell. We both know it’s going to take some time to work through that.”
“But I pushed you.” She eased back enough to look him in the eyes. “I shouldn’t have done that. You’re nothing like the others. I know that. I want you to know that I know that.”
“I do.” He rubbed rough palms up and down her arms in a rare gesture then stepped away, reaching for his glass.
Warmth hummed along her skin, and she took her own step in retreat, brushing her palms along the path his hands had just taken, attempting to banish the newly familiar sensations. She studied his steady blue eyes and the sexy scruff along his jaw, struggling to ignore the accompanying flutters in her belly.
Jerrod paused with his glass halfway to his mouth. “What?”
“What do you mean, ‘what’?”
“You’re frowning.”
She blinked, standing ramrod straight, realizing she was not only frowning but staring. “Oh. Huh. I don’t know.” She shook her head and took another step back, dismissing the whole thing as foolishness...or distracted thinking. She brightened as she realized that’s exactly what this was. If she was picking apart silly, made up sensations, she wasn’t focusing on Margret’s heartbreaking situation. Relaxed again, she uncrossed her arms.
He shrugged and drained the last of his drink. “I think I should be the one apologizing. I didn’t realize installing the bar would be a trigger. We should’ve talked about it first.”
“No. It’s not that big a deal. It’s just—I was…” She almost shared her horrors of being trapped in the hot, dark closet for days. She almost admitted that one experience alone was the reason she still couldn’t bear to close herself behind her bedroom or bathroom door, but she didn’t. Her scars, her problem. Jerrod knew plenty about her situation, but he didn’t have to know everything. She could hardly expect him or anyone else to believe she was normal if she bombarded him with another one of her one hundred and one neuroses. “It doesn’t matter.”
“I can take it off.”
She shook her head. “If we didn’t need it, it wouldn’t be there.”
“Abigail—”
No more
. “I want to make you breakfast. How about an egg white omelet with spinach, tomato, and a sprinkle of feta?”
He raised his brow. “Do you think I’m foolish enough to turn that down?”
She smiled, relieved that the air was clear and he was going to let the bar issue go. “Give me a minute to change out of one of two thousand-fifteen’s hottest summer looks, and I’ll get to it.”
“Isn’t Monique supposed to be wearing that?”
“Yes, but she’s sick, and we wear the same size. I wanted to check the fit and make sure I didn’t need to make more in-depth alterations.”
He looked her up and down. “It’s kinda skimpy. And tight.”
She beamed. “I know. It’s perfect.”
“It doesn’t exactly scream ‘casual day at the office.’”
She laughed, delighted with his critique. “I certainly hope not. This is for the woman who’s a little more daring. She would wear this for a night out with the girls or maybe that special guy. It’s casual, fun, flirty.” She gave him a playful wink and poke to the stomach.
He grinned.
“The sundresses, slacks, and other office attire are hanging with Lily until the show.”
“I’ll leave the fashion to you.”
“And the omelets. Give me just a minute.”
“I’m gonna catch a quick shower.”
“Let the washing commence. I’ll begin my culinary masterpiece in twenty minutes or less.” She walked to the privacy screen, gathered up her nighty and robe, and made her way to her room for a shower of her own.
Thirty minutes later Abby stood in the kitchen in her red tank top and snug black workout pants, singing along with 2014’s Top 100 Countdown while she whisked a bowl full of egg whites and one yolk for color. She dumped the eggs in the hot pan and gave her hips a wiggle as she grabbed three slices of bread from the whole grain loaf and popped them into the toaster. She broke into a series of kick-ball-changes, spun, and slid backwards in socks, pulling off a decent moonwalk, whirling when she collided with the solid mass in the center of the kitchen. Smiling, she continued her dance, breathing in Jerrod’s fresh, soapy scent, eyeing his still damp hair and freshly shaven face, his Levis and light blue Polo shirt. “I love this song. It screams girl power, ya know?”
“I guess.”
“I know it’s not all gritty and electric guitary like the stuff you listen to.” She rolled her eyes. “No wonder you never smile. You wanna dance?”
“No.”
“Aw, come on, big guy.” She moved in closer, taking his hands, placing them on her shoulders. “We’re perfectly safe here, bodyguard, so let’s
mambo
.” She settled her hands at his waist and moved backwards with several jerks of her hips, pulling him with her as she broke into the dance. “It’s quick, quick, together like this.” She stepped forward, crashing into his chest when he made no attempt to reverse his position. Pursing her lips, she shook her head mournfully. “Bump on a log.” She turned away to save the eggs from burning. “One of these days I will succeed in teaching you the dance,” she said in a thick Spanish accent.
He chuckled as he grabbed two glasses. “Do you want orange juice?”
“Mmm, just a little.” She added chopped spinach, tomato, and a sprinkle of feta to the pan and folded the eggs over, well used to omelet preparations. The cheap meal had been a staple in Gran’s house. “We’re about two minutes away from a five-star breakfast.”
“I’m going to get the paper.”
“Okie-dokie.” She cut off a fourth of the enormous omelet for herself, placing two perfectly cooked pieces on plates, then plucked the toast from the toaster. She brought the dishes with her to the small table instead of the bar where they typically ate. Today was their day off—or mostly. She wanted them to enjoy it.
The door closed, and Jerrod walked to the table, settling in the seat next to her. “Smells good.”
She breathed deep. “Mmm.”
He cut in and took a bite. “Delicious as always. Thanks.”
She savored the fluffy eggs, feta, and veggies on her tongue. “You’re welcome.”
Jerrod unfolded the paper as she stared out the windows, glancing toward the lights already on in Ethan Cooke Security’s thirty-fourth-floor offices five blocks away. She smiled, watching Los Angeles awaken for the day. She loved the city, was fascinated by the people, the buildings, the
energy
. Hagerstown had been a safe, quiet place to grow up, but she’d yearned for the excitement of urban living for as long as she could remember. Life moved faster here. She could watch the hustle and bustle from her windows high above or take the elevator down nineteen floors to the bottom and be a part of the action—with a dozen safety precautions in place, but that was a temporary problem. She picked up her glass of juice, enjoying the sweet bite of orange. “So, what’s happened in the world since yesterday?”
Jerrod turned the page. “Well, rumor has it we rang in a new year.”
“You don’t say.”
“There was a water main break over in West Hollywood. Guess it’s a damn mess.”
She sipped again. “Fascinating.”
“Looks like the cops finally made an arrest in the ‘Pirate Bandit’ case.”
“Good. Another bank robber off the streets.”
He frowned, grunting as his eyes tracked along the next page. “They found that woman who was abducted in the Las Vegas area Wednesday night.”
“That’s great.”
He shook his head. “She’s dead.”
“Oh.” She scooted closer to Jerrod’s side, glancing at the picture of the beautiful raven-haired victim, reading the story of the newlywed found badly beaten, raped, and stuffed in a dumpster behind some nightclub. “That’s so sad. I hate stories like this. I was hoping they would find her alive.”
“It’s unfortunate. Hopefully they’ll catch the bastard who did it.”
“Yeah.” She played with the remaining bites of her breakfast. The story hit too close to home. How many times had she witnessed a beating in the stash house or in the filthy dressing room at Lady Pink? And rape… She’d been powerless to stop the violence. She set her fork down and picked up her juice, sipping, relieving her dry throat as Jerrod turned to the next page and brought the paper closer to his face.