“It wasn’t her fault,” he said.
The chief’s eyebrows rose. “For once. How serious we talking?”
“From what I’ve heard, very. But I’d like to do some digging before I formally brief you and get my ass kicked for it.”
She blew out a breath, the pencil tapping double time now. “Okay. I am trusting you to get to the bottom of this. Figure out what we’re up against. How credible this threat is. What’s the likelihood of it coming here or—God forbid—her going to it. Then we’ll talk specifics. Whether my daughter likes it or not.”
He gave a curt nod and got to his feet, suddenly anxious to get back to her. To stand guard while she slept. To pump her for information until he knew exactly what he was up against.
“Oh, and Brick?”
He paused, hat halfway to his head. “Yeah?”
“I don’t like to give my cops or my daughters relationship advice. But be good to each other. By my calculations, you two have been circling this for a long-ass time. I’d hate to see one of you fuck it up.”
He swallowed hard. “Are you giving me your blessing to date Remi?”
She snorted. “I’m not an idiot, like someone else in this room. You’ve had my blessing since she was of age. Not that I was going to broach the subject. They don’t come better than you.”
She put down the pencil and picked up a half-eaten donut. “You two are what the other needs. But if you know my daughter at all, having my blessing is just as likely to push her out of your bed. So if you want my advice—which I’m giving you anyway—don’t tell her anything about anybody blessing anyone and quit wasting your time. You two have been tangled up together for far too long without doing anything about it. Now get out of here and don’t let anyone else see those hickeys, or you’ll never hear the end of it.”
Dismissed, Brick settled his hat on his head and he walked out with a distinct spring in his step.
Remi wasn’t in bed when he got back to her place. A lick of panic flamed to life in his gut as he checked the bedroom and bathroom. There were no signs of her. It wasn’t until he returned to the main living space that he saw the note on the table next to his neatly folded underwear.
I’m at your place. Get your ass over here.
The words were encircled with a heart.
Carried by both temper and the driving desire to see her again, he hauled ass across the street.
“I see you took my advice,” Spencer said, stepping out of the kitchen, a smug look on his face and a bowl of cereal in his hand.
Brick stared down at the toes of his boots and squashed the urge to toss his brother aside like he wanted. “What advice would that be?” he asked, trying to sound innocent.
Spencer punched him in the arm. “Remi’s in the back. Weird coincidence about you both showing up with matching hickeys.”
Brick slapped his hands to his neck to hide the evidence.
“Relax. I’m happy for you, man,” his brother said with a genuine grin. “Seriously.”
Brick reached out and squeezed Spence’s shoulder. “Don’t be happy for me yet,” he said grimly. “I have to go lay down the law with her.”
His brother snorted. “That’ll go well. What kind of lining do you want for your casket?”
“Flannel,” Brick said, shooting the smallest of grins over his shoulder as he stomped down the hall.
She was wearing one of his old t-shirts and singing at the top of her lungs behind the easel. Just seeing her swamped him with a wave of possessiveness. Mine.
Tears streaked her cheeks, and he wanted to go to her. To stand between her and whatever was upsetting her. But there was something triumphant in her stance, in the way she held brush and palette that held him back.
Shoulders back, head high. She jabbed the brush at the canvas. Her ability to not just feel emotions, but embrace them, always floored him. Where some sought to numb themselves, Remi welcomed them all.
He stepped into the room and stopped. She didn’t let people watch. She’d always been fiercely protective of her art, her process. Magnus hopped off one of the work tables and came to wind around Brick’s feet. He bent down and stroked a hand over the cat’s long tail.
The song started over, and she swiped at fresh tears with the sleeve of her shirt. He wondered what it was about this particular song that captivated her. Or haunted her.
He wasn’t sure how long he stood there watching, but when her eyes found his, when her mouth stretched into a victorious smile, time stopped.
She crooked her finger at him, and he wandered down the ramp in her direction. Her hair was pulled up in a high tail. There was a smudge of purple paint on her jaw and flecks of blue and red on her fingers.
He was still two feet away when she launched herself into his arms, locking her legs around his waist.
The lecture he was going to deliver, the questions he needed answers to, fell out of his head as she cupped his face in her hands and poured herself into a kiss.
Her mouth was jubilant against his. On instinct, he gripped the back of her head and coaxed her mouth open so he could taste her. The kiss spun out into something wild and free, like her. When she pulled back, he tried to follow her. But she stopped him.
“I painted,” she whispered over his lips. Then she sank her teeth into his lower lip.
He growled his approval and gave her a nip of his own. “I can see that.”
“Look,” she said, turning his head in the direction of her easel.
It was hard to look at anything other than her lovely face. The shadows had been vanquished from her eyes. Selfishly he hoped he’d played a role there.
“It’s kind of just a draft. Sometimes it takes me a couple of attempts to get it right. But this was more of an exorcism,” she said, unaware that he was still looking at her instead of her painting.
He managed to drag his gaze away from her and focus on the canvas in front of him.
Dark purple bled into unrelenting black around two jagged, off-white splotches. Sharp, hard lines in orange and yellow divided the eerie night from the bottom of the canvas. She used the palette knife not so much to blend, but almost to rend. The bottom was a snowy white with scarlet red stains.
Brick’s heart started to hammer in his chest with recognition. He knew what she’d painted.
Pain, trauma, terror. Lights cutting through the dark. And the unholy splatter of red on pristine white. It made him feel. Rage, bone-deep fear.
A few colors on a canvas, and she’d made him feel as if his heart was being carved out of his chest.
She turned back to him, tears and triumph on her face, rendering him breathless. “I won,” she whispered.
She’d vanquished demons. She’d painted their likeness. She’d risen from the ashes in oils and color.
Remington Ford wasn’t scared anymore. But he needed her to be.
34