Page 50 of Savior
“You better be,” she warns. “Sienna is a sweet girl. In fact, you’d do well to have a woman like her.”
Normally, I’d be the first to remind her that I’m not looking to remarry, but my train of thought derails as my eyes snag on a line of the report. I read it three times over before my brain processes the words. When I do, my fingers clench over the paper and it crumples.
“Hey, Aunt Diane, I’ve gotta go, but I’ll see you for breakfast later.”
I don’t wait for her response, which will surely earn me another lecture, but the note on her background check has all of my attention. According to the report, Piper Sienna Davenport was involved in a murder investigation before she lit out of Miami, like she said.
A murder investigation that included a woman murdered inside Sienna’s bedroom. The victim in questions, a 25-year-old female, had been stabbed to death. Sienna found her after she returned home from a bar where they’d both had a couple drink a few hours before. All of that, I was expecting.
The papers flutter to the top of the desk with Sienna’s—Piper’s—license photo staring up at me as I dial the Miami-Dade Sheriff’s Department to request a copy of the records. The unreachable itchy space between my shoulders intensifies as all the details snap into place.
Piper
I’munsurprised by Logan’s terse summons to meet him at work the next morning. It’s the call I’ve been dreading since we started getting closer. I face it like I’ve faced every other hard decision since I was ripped from my home: with detached determination.
The sheriff’s office isn’t what I expect. The plain white stucco stained with years of dirt and grime is underwhelming. The big box stores and discount foods across the parking lot seem out of place. For a man like Logan Blackwell, I expect...more. Something as sleek and devilish as the image he inspires whenever I think about our interrupted morning. Or maybe a grimy old Western style jailhouse just as dangerous as the man himself.
Apprehension rolls through me, thick and hot, turning the chicken salad sandwich I’d snagged to fill my stomach from the gas station into a greasy ball. I suck deep breaths in through my nose and exhale through my mouth.
It doesn’t help. There aren’t enough calming techniques in this world to quiet my growing panic.
Fall is technically upon us, but Florida hasn’t quite gotten the memo. The stale air inside the tight cab of my 1998 Ford is about ten degrees over roasting, and the ancient air conditioner does little more than puff out even more hot air. Sweat is already clinging to my hairline, melting off what little makeup I cared to put on this morning.
I thought I’d be more prepared for this, having done it once before, but I guess I can’t prepare for giving statements to the police. It’s one of those things that doesn’t get easier with repetition. Like major surgery or going to a funeral. No matter how much I prepare, it’s just going to suck all around.
I wipe my upper lip and forehead and then turn off the car, tossing my keys into my small handbag.
Based on his reputation alone, I’d imagine a huge detective’s office with expensive furniture, a lethally sexy blonde secretary, and three piece suits. Not peeling paint and parking spots with faded yellow lines.
Brushing off the sense of foreboding that coats my skin like a sticky layer of sweat, I pull the handle to the front door and simultaneously take a deep breath to settle my nerves. In spite of the lackluster exterior, the inside of the office is pleasantly clean and modern. I wince when my clearance rack sandals squeak against the pristine polished white floors.
The receptionist greets me and motions me back to Logan’s desk in the middle of an empty room full of them. She offers to call him in, but I tell her no. I’d rather wait and allow myself one moment of reprieve. It’s not cowardice. It’s...preparation. Confronting my past should be like dipping into a pool when I’m unsure of the temperature. One step at a time.
As I wait, I study the news clippings lining the walls of his cubicle. In addition to his certificates, I find a prestigious college degree. A ton of commendations. My stomach muscles are finally starting to unclench in small degrees when two burly men burst through the side door, scaring me so bad, I jump to my feet and put my back to the cubicle wall.
“Goddammit. I told you to stop resisting, cupcake,” comes a low, gravelly voice that strokes all of my girly parts to life in spite of my apprehension. In contrast to his words, his voice is altogether too delicious, like smooth hot chocolate. “It’s your own fucking fault if you break your arm.” The ‘your’ is more like ‘yo’, and I have to press a hand to my stomach.
Stop it, Sienna.
The jangle of nerves multiplies, and I glance at the door over their shoulders. Maybe I can make a run for it before either of them notice me. This was a bad idea. A very, very bad idea. Running is preferable to baring myself to him this way. Physical intimacy is one thing. Emotional intimacy is another altogether.
“Then uncuff me, and we’ll make this a fair fight,” growls the man pinned to the floor.
Logan grunts when the smaller man, though only marginally smaller, elbows him in the gut. Then Logan simply body slams his attacker right at my feet, as though it’s an everyday occurrence. Based on the easy rise and fall of his massive shoulders, it very well may be an everyday occurrence.
His hooded, jewel-blue eyes spare me the briefest of glances, and I do my best to ignore the fact that he doesn’t even blink twice before he hauls the now moaning and hand cuffed man to his feet and tosses him into the chair next to me. “You wait right fucking there, cupcake, or we’ll move on to round two.”
Not wanting to draw his intense stare my way again—at least not for a few more minutes—I very carefully and very quietly take my seat again, even if it’s next to a criminal. I’d almost prefer the criminal’s presence. Logan didn’t look too happy to see me, which doesn’t bode well for me and kind of makes me mad since he is the one who called me down here.
The man lifts up the receiver for the landline and angrily punches in numbers. He pauses, keeping those hard as granite eyes on my companion. “Hey,” he says into the phone. “It’s Blackwell. I’ve got a skipper here just waiting to be taken home.”
He flashes another cool glance at me and blood rushes to my head, drowning out the rest of his words to whomever is on the other end of the line.
The tips of my fingers and my lips go numb and I have to blink heavily to make sure I’m not staring. He’s...not like the other police officer’s I’ve had to work with. But at the same time, he fits the role of cop and all around badass about as well as his jeans hug his enormous thighs and firm backside.
“Dude, let me the fuck out of here and we’ll work something out,” says the man next to me, desperation seeping into his voice.
Logan ignores him, instead reading out something front a piece of paper. Then he says, “Thanks, gorgeous,” and sets the receiver back down on its cradle.