I had walked into Nightingale Investigations on a Thursday. It was Sunday and my life wasn’t just pretty fucking complicated, it was completely out-of-control.
I managed to quit shaking. I did this not with cookies because, after a very thorough search of Luke’s kitchen, I found that Sandra Whoever-She-Was hadn’t stocked Luke’s cupboard with cookies, only healthy eating crap which didn’t do anything to stop the shakes. I did it by alternately working, tidying Luke’s loft and drinking diet liberally mixed with splashes of Sailor Jerry.
I finally was able to focus and was coming close to finishing my deadline project when I heard the elevator doors slide open. I turned in my chair. Luke walked in silently, eyes on me.
Or, I should say, his dangerously shining, dark blue eyes were on me.
Uh-oh.
I slowly stood and turned to face him. He walked directly to the semi-circular bar and dropped a pair of cuffs and what looked like a weird gun on it.
I stared at the cuffs and the weapon, thinking upsetting thoughts.
He rounded the bar and came into the kitchen area. He stopped, put a palm on the counter and leaned into it. The whole time he did this, he kept his eyes on me.
“Hey,” I said, trying for innocent and casual. “You have a good afternoon?”
“Come here,” he replied and he did not use his soft, gentle, affectionate voice.
Eek!
“Everything okay?” I asked, still clinging onto innocent and casual with all I had.
“Come here,” he repeated.
Okay, innocent and casual weren’t working.
“What’s going on?”
“Ava, if you make me say it again…”
I went silent.
He moved, just slightly but it was enough to make me jump. This made him smile, not a Sexy Luke Smile, a Dangerous Luke Smile.
“Luke, tell me what’s going on!” I demanded, beginning to freak out.
This was not smart. He bit his bottom lip with his teeth and looked away from me. When his eyes came back to me, my body went still.
Oh dear, Good Ava muttered.
Holy SHIT! Bad Ava exploded.
One could say I knew Luke pretty well. I hadn’t been around him in a long time but I had watched him grow up (with avid interest). His Mom was friends with my Mom. He and I had shared some laughs and some intense moments. Still, you didn’t have to know Luke to know that grown up, tough guy, macho man Luke was barely controlling what appeared to be a very scary fury.
“Was it good?” he asked.
I blinked, not expecting that question not even understanding it. “What?” I asked back.
“When you touched yourself, was it good?”
My mouth dropped open and my lungs seized.
Ho-ly crap.
“How did you –?” I breathed.
“Cameras,” he told me and my body jerked. My eyes swung around the loft but Luke started speaking again and they went back to him. “You won’t see them. I had the place wired, surveillance put in so when I wasn’t here with you, the boys could watch out for you. When I’m not here, they’re monitoring the loft.”
Ho-ly crap.
“Did they see –?”
“Jack turned it off. He knew I’d break his neck if he watched you do that. He gave you some time. Apparently too much time. By the time he turned on the cameras, you were gone.”
I was certain I was going to die. I actually wanted to die. The very idea of the Nightingale Investigations men knowing what I’d done, it was mortifying.
“Where’d you go?” Luke asked, breaking me out of thoughts of how best to off myself.
“I spent some time with Sissy,” I told him immediately and that wasn’t a total lie.
“And Shirleen and Daisy?” Luke pressed.
I didn’t know how he knew this, but I thought it was safe to say, “Um… yes.”
“Spent some time being pursued by a dark blue SUV down Hampden Avenue? Your back bumper completely fucked up. Losing him after nearly rolling onto I-25?”
Holy crap!
How did he know this shit? It was just bizarre.
I kept my mouth shut. I thought that was the sensible way to go.
“It was reported to the police, by about two dozen other drivers. In detail, with license plates and descriptions of the people in the vehicles.”
Crapity, crap, crap, crap.
“Luke –”
“Come here,” he said quietly and his voice was not affectionate, it was lethal.
“I don’t think I want to,” I told him.
“That may be the smartest decision you’ve made today,” he said back.
Okay. Hang on a second.
Firstly, he was not the boss of me. Secondly, I was a free woman. I could do what I wanted, when I wanted, where I wanted, with whom I wanted. I didn’t need his permission for one goddamn thing. Thirdly, no one asked him to be Mr. Over-Protective. He’d given himself that role. He even put cameras in his house, cameras he didn’t tell me about which was a serious invasion of privacy beyond making me move in with him, sleep beside him and the list could go on (and on). Fourthly, he was not the boss of me.
I’d had enough.
“You’re not the boss of me,” I told him.