Kristen Ashley - Law Man

His hand slid from my hair to curl around the side of my head and his face got within an inch of mine. “Mara, baby, come back to me.”

I didn’t go back to him.

I went back to my earlier, far, far more important theme.

“We’ll never work,” I whispered.

“Mara, stop it and come back to me.”

“The likes of you aren’t for the likes of me,” I told him softly.

“Jesus, baby,” he said softly back, his thumb sweeping my cheekbone, his eyes roaming my face.

“I need to go.”

“You’re not gonna go.”

“I need to go,” I stated urgently.

“Sweetheart, I’m not gonna let you go. You were right, we need to talk.”

“I need to go,” I warned, “before it’s too late.”

He opened his mouth to speak but it was too late.

There was a loud knock in the breezeway. Not at Mitch’s door. Distant.

I knew it was at mine when I heard my mother shout, “Marabelle Jolene Hanover! We’re done fuckin’ with you! Open this goddamned, fuckin’ door!”

Not again!

I froze in Mitch’s arms, my head jerking toward his door and I felt his arms get tight.

Then I tipped my head back to see he’d pressed his lips together like he was fighting against a smile and my eyes narrowed on his mouth, not finding one thing funny. Then something came to me and my eyes shot to his.

“My name is Marabelle Jolene Hanover,” I told him in a whisper.

“What?” he whispered back but that one word trembled and I knew it was with suppressed laughter.

“If that isn’t a trailer trash name…for trailer trash,” I added, “then nothing is.”

His lips twitched and he muttered, “Baby.”

“It is, admit it,” I pushed.

“Actually, I think it’s pretty.”

He was so full of it.

“It’s trailer trash,” I returned.

He shook his head, his lips twitching.

Twitching!

Then he said, “It’s pretty. It’s even kinda sweet. And it’s both these things because it’s yours.”

My name wasn’t sweet.

But he was.

Argh!

I changed tactics.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“You know my name,” he answered.

“Your full name,” I pressed.

“Mitchell James Lawson,” he told me.

“Right,” I mumbled and his arms gave me another squeeze.

“And?” he asked.

“Your name is the name of a hot cop, a hot baseball player or the third cousin of a king.”

His body started shaking as he turned his head in an unsuccessful attempt to hide his smile.

“Marabelle!” I heard Mom screech. “We’re sortin’ this shit right…fuckin’…now!”

I closed my eyes.

“They’ll go away in a minute and I’ll call North to tell them we’re gonna be late,” Mitch said calmly and I opened my eyes to stare at him, not calmly. In fact, I was pretty certain my eyes were bugging out of my head.

“Mitch!” I hissed.

“It’s gonna be all right,” Mitch soothed, his hands traveling up and down my back, most of which was bare, so this felt really good. “I’m giving them this one. I don’t have time to deal with their bullshit and get you to dinner. They’ll give up and go away then we can go eat and we’ll talk while we eat.”

Jeez, he was stubborn.

Of course, I was too but I decided not to think about my stubbornness. Only his.

“We’re not going to work,” I whispered, again returning to my earlier theme (see? Stubborn).

His full attention focused on me and it did it in a way I braced as one of his hands slid up my neck and into my hair.

Then his head dropped, his mouth captured mine and he kissed me, hard, wet, deep, thorough and long.

Very long.

And very, very well.

So long and so well, when he was done, he lifted his head and gazed down at me, the haze he created took its time to clear and I heard it.

Nothing.

“I think they’re gone,” I whispered.

He cocked his head and listened. Then he let me go, grabbed my hand and dragged me toward the door saying, “Thank Christ, let’s go eat. I’m fuckin’ starved.”

Yep, that’s what he said.

Not like we had a drama.

Not like he heard a word I said.

Not like the Trailer Trash Twins had again come calling.

No, like we often went out to dinner and all that had gone before was like a last minute phone call that was a minor diversion before we could get out the door.

Yes, Detective Mitchell James Lawson was stubborn.

More stubborn than me.

Damn.

My eyes opened slowly and they instantly took in everything.

I was in Mitch’s big bed. Down the bed I could see his club chair and draped over the club chair was my silky, sapphire top and jeans. These were tangled with a man’s espresso-colored, tailored shirt, matching sports jacket and another pair of jeans with a brown belt threaded through its loops. My shoes were on the floor as were a pair of men’s boots.

There was heat behind me and I knew what this heat was. It was Mitch. There was weight on my waist and I knew what this weight was. It was Mitch’s arm.

I felt warm and safe and I knew why this was. I was in Mitch’s bed, in Mitch’s apartment with Mitch.

And no Billie.

Billie and Billy were in another house somewhere not there.

Oh boy.

North was an Italian restaurant in Cherry Creek. I’d been there twice before. The food was fabulous, the décor gorgeous – dark wood, cream leather seats with hints of lime green and bright orange. It was awesome.

Nearly the minute we arrived, Mitch being a detective, stubborn and clearly, I was belatedly realizing, having an insane desire to wheedle himself into the life of a Two Point Five, took advantage of my highly emotional state.

He barely had his beer, me my passionfruit frizzante and our waitress had just turned away from our table after getting our food order when the interrogation began.

“I wanted you to do this in your time, at your pace but after watchin’ you go wherever the fuck you went in my apartment I’m seein’ I can’t let you do this in your time and at your pace. So, right now, you’re gonna tell me about your Mom,” he ordered.

I looked anywhere but him, took a sip of my refreshing, delicious drink and tried to get my wits about me after experiencing the drama with Mitch which included a side order of my Mom at the same time trying to figure out a way to do anything but tell him about my Mom.

Unfortunately, I did this with my left hand resting on the table. Therefore, I found my left hand stretched halfway across the table and my fingers laced with Mitch’s.

Mitch’s fingers laced with mine felt nice. And not a little nice.

A lot.

Damn.

I put my glass down and looked at our hands. Then I looked at Mitch.

“I don’t think –”

His fingers squeezed mine. “Tell me.” His voice was very firm.

I decided first to try bitchy. “It’s really none of your business.”

He shook his head. “I know you’re filtering this information so you don’t have to deal with it so I’ll keep tellin’ you until it sinks in. Mara, you’re gonna be in my bed and my life, and when you get a new one, I’m gonna be in your bed and your life. And, cluein’ you in, you might take a good look at things and notice you’re already in my bed and my life. So, since I intend for that to keep goin’, I’m gonna have to know about your life. Not what you’ve built for the now but what you survived to get to the now. So,” his fingers gave mine another gentle squeeze, “tell me about your Mom.”

I glared at him then informed him, “You’re filtering information too, such as me explaining about boundaries and then me telling you that you have to move on.”

“I’m not filtering, sweetheart. I’m ignoring that shit because it’s whacked. Now, tell me about your Mom.”

“It’s not whacked,” I replied.

“It is,” he returned then pushed, “Tell me about your Mom.”

“It is not.”

Yet another finger squeeze and then, “Mara, baby, tell…me…about…your…Mom.”

My head tipped to the side and my eyes narrowed. “You’re very stubborn.”

“Tell me about your Mom.”

“And annoying.”

“Tell me about your Mom.”

“And bossy.”

“Mara, your Mom.”

“And you can be a jerk.”

“Mara –”

I rolled my eyes and said to the ceiling, “Jeez, all right, I’ll tell you about my Mom.”

This was not me giving in. This was my new strategy. I decided that maybe he should know about my Mom. Maybe, even though it was clear he was always alert, very insightful, often figured me out and already knew a lot about me, maybe he was somehow blind to my Two Point Five-edness.

So I decided to let him in on it.

I took another sip of my frizzante, put the glass on the table and launched in, not looking into his eyes, finding anywhere to look but him as I re-colored the Mara he thought me to be.

“My Mom’s a drunk. So’s Aunt Lulamae. Functioning alcoholics. They smoke, cigarettes and pot. They carouse. They party. They’re both in their fifties now and even though I haven’t spoken to or seen either one of them in over a decade, except our loving reunion at the store, I suspect this behavior hasn’t changed.”

“It’s not good your Mom and aunt are functioning alcoholics, Mara, but none of that is really that bad,” Mitch pointed out.

My eyes went to his beautiful ones. So brown, so warm, so deep. Fathomless. I wanted to drown in them, get pulled under, swim in his gaze for the rest of my life.