burning holes through her. “Okay, fine. I'll call and see if I can move in with them for a while.” She could practice her invisibility skills.
“You do that. I want this stopped before it starts, Chris. We have body armor and guns. You don't.”
“Yes, but I've got— ”
“Jake and your lucky bat, yes I know.”
“Well, thanks for the cheery pep talk.”
“Hey, I'm just trying to keep you safe.” He was still ticked at her, but at least he wasn't yelling anymore. “I'm worried about you.”
Under different circumstances his words might have made her feel all warm and fuzzy. “I'll need to go home to pack some things and pick up Jake.”
“We can stop by there right now. I'll follow you.”
She didn't dare argue, and felt much safer seeing his license plate in her rearview mirror all the way home.
On the way into her house she gathered up her mail, leafing through it as they followed Jake into the kitchen. Between her bills and the newspaper was a small envelope, her uniform number on the front. Her stomach dropped.
“Rayne... ”
“What?” He came over immediately.
Immobilized, her brain refusing to acknowledge her fears, she pushed aside the dread and opened it.
Do you like nursery rhymes? This one's my favorite: Run, run, as fast as you can Do you remember how it ends, sweet Christa ?
Her vision blurred, icy panic skidding through her. Oh, she knew how it ended.
You can't catch me, I'm the gingerbread man .
CHAPTER 7
A cop. Her boyfriend was a fucking cop .
The irony of it ate at his gut like acid. Yesterday he'd hacked into the Motor Vehicles database and looked up the boyfriend's license plate. More background checking revealed that the man Christa had chosen worked on some kind of SWAT team.
How could he despise her and worship her at the same time?
Earlier today he'd visited his esthetician. He'd admired the sway of her hips as she sauntered ahead of him in her little black sandals. Around twenty, with curly blonde hair and almond-shaped brown eyes, she had an innocent air about her, but he knew better than to believe it was anything more than an act. Eyeing her from behind his dark glasses in the dimly lit treatment room, he pulled off first his shirt, then his pants, his pulse rate increasing.
“So we're doing your chest, arms and legs today?”
He climbed onto the table and lay face down. Part of the planning was making sure you had good explanations ready. “Yes. I'm a competitive swimmer, and I've got an important meet this weekend.”
She made a murmur and wiped down his legs, sprinkled talcum powder and applied the first sweeps of hot wax over his skin. He sighed at the warmth of it, anticipated her pressing the adhesive strip down, yanking it upward.
He embraced the stinging. It centered him.
Rip... rip... rip...
He was no stranger to pain, had learned how to control the rage it triggered. He'd made a point to learn from his mistakes, studying the system from within, learning early never to trust cops. Of course he'd already learned that lesson at home.
He exhaled deeply as the hatred rose in a red haze, threatening to choke him. Whenever the memories surfaced he locked them in a vault in the back of his mind. His temper was harder to tame, despite his efforts to curb it. It was all his mother's fault. Her pathetic excuses, always turning a blind eye when he stumbled downstairs covered in bloody welts, seeking protection and comfort from the woman who should have rearranged the universe to keep him safe. At eleven, Seth had been no match for Henry's meaty fists.
When he'd run away and gone to the police for help, they'd done nothing. None of Henry's DUI charges seemed to make it to court, and his mother's allegations of domestic abuse by her second husband were never investigated. The cops had closed rank around their fellow officer, leaving Seth and his mother to suffer their private hell. The abused adolescent boy he'd been had learned that women were spineless,
“You do that. I want this stopped before it starts, Chris. We have body armor and guns. You don't.”
“Yes, but I've got— ”
“Jake and your lucky bat, yes I know.”
“Well, thanks for the cheery pep talk.”
“Hey, I'm just trying to keep you safe.” He was still ticked at her, but at least he wasn't yelling anymore. “I'm worried about you.”
Under different circumstances his words might have made her feel all warm and fuzzy. “I'll need to go home to pack some things and pick up Jake.”
“We can stop by there right now. I'll follow you.”
She didn't dare argue, and felt much safer seeing his license plate in her rearview mirror all the way home.
On the way into her house she gathered up her mail, leafing through it as they followed Jake into the kitchen. Between her bills and the newspaper was a small envelope, her uniform number on the front. Her stomach dropped.
“Rayne... ”
“What?” He came over immediately.
Immobilized, her brain refusing to acknowledge her fears, she pushed aside the dread and opened it.
Do you like nursery rhymes? This one's my favorite: Run, run, as fast as you can Do you remember how it ends, sweet Christa ?
Her vision blurred, icy panic skidding through her. Oh, she knew how it ended.
You can't catch me, I'm the gingerbread man .
CHAPTER 7
A cop. Her boyfriend was a fucking cop .
The irony of it ate at his gut like acid. Yesterday he'd hacked into the Motor Vehicles database and looked up the boyfriend's license plate. More background checking revealed that the man Christa had chosen worked on some kind of SWAT team.
How could he despise her and worship her at the same time?
Earlier today he'd visited his esthetician. He'd admired the sway of her hips as she sauntered ahead of him in her little black sandals. Around twenty, with curly blonde hair and almond-shaped brown eyes, she had an innocent air about her, but he knew better than to believe it was anything more than an act. Eyeing her from behind his dark glasses in the dimly lit treatment room, he pulled off first his shirt, then his pants, his pulse rate increasing.
“So we're doing your chest, arms and legs today?”
He climbed onto the table and lay face down. Part of the planning was making sure you had good explanations ready. “Yes. I'm a competitive swimmer, and I've got an important meet this weekend.”
She made a murmur and wiped down his legs, sprinkled talcum powder and applied the first sweeps of hot wax over his skin. He sighed at the warmth of it, anticipated her pressing the adhesive strip down, yanking it upward.
He embraced the stinging. It centered him.
Rip... rip... rip...
He was no stranger to pain, had learned how to control the rage it triggered. He'd made a point to learn from his mistakes, studying the system from within, learning early never to trust cops. Of course he'd already learned that lesson at home.
He exhaled deeply as the hatred rose in a red haze, threatening to choke him. Whenever the memories surfaced he locked them in a vault in the back of his mind. His temper was harder to tame, despite his efforts to curb it. It was all his mother's fault. Her pathetic excuses, always turning a blind eye when he stumbled downstairs covered in bloody welts, seeking protection and comfort from the woman who should have rearranged the universe to keep him safe. At eleven, Seth had been no match for Henry's meaty fists.
When he'd run away and gone to the police for help, they'd done nothing. None of Henry's DUI charges seemed to make it to court, and his mother's allegations of domestic abuse by her second husband were never investigated. The cops had closed rank around their fellow officer, leaving Seth and his mother to suffer their private hell. The abused adolescent boy he'd been had learned that women were spineless,
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