Shattered Trust (2 page)

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Authors: Leslie Esdaile Banks

BOOK: Shattered Trust
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James pulled back his hand and leaned forward to clasp hers. This was exactly what he didn't want her to think about. Truthfully, it was exactly what he didn't want to consider, but had to, especially now that the subject had been broached.
“Laura, listen to me. The man's son will be behind bars until the end of time. His niece was killed, shot by her own husband—whom I'm sure they all know by now that you had a hand in bringing down, even if they'll never be sure how. All his cronies and contracts were fucked. The man's reputation was so badly damaged that he can't even get a job in a 7-Eleven back home. All his allies have distanced themselves from him. The casino boys won't even jeopardize their construction contracts to help him out, given that the big eye in the sky, the media, has been all over this thing like white on rice. To my mind that leaves an old man with nothing to lose, a lot of time and energy to focus on vengeance ... which you and I both know can fuel the craziest of things in a person for years, baby.”
She squeezed his hands tightly and let her gaze drift out of the window toward the horizon. James slipped his hands out of her grasp and stood, rounding the table to stand behind her and caress her shoulders.
“I didn't want to worry you,” he murmured, bending to land a kiss on the top of her head.
“I'm all right. Just thinking.”
His hands slid down her shoulders in a slow, comforting rub back and forth. “No you're not. But that's OK. I got this, baby. Maybe that's why you married a cop.”
She forced herself to smile. “You still have your Peacekeeper?”
He leaned down and nuzzled her neck. “Yep, plus a shotgun, a rifle, two nines, and plenty of shells.”
He felt her body tense and gently pulled her up from the chair to embrace her. “I told Mr. and Mrs. Melville the situation a few weeks ago. The man is coming this week to install a security alarm system in here that should have been a part of the rebuild while construction was going on, anyway. Plus security cameras. . . and I've alerted the island authorities of any potential issues. Steve's getting his house wired, too, with a monitor in his office that links to ours—plus panic buttons.”
Laura laid her head on his shoulder, her hands caressing his back. “You're really worried, aren't you?”
His answer was a tender kiss. “No ... I just have trust issues.” He forced himself to smile for her sake, and knew she had done the same for him.
She looked into her new husband's intense, dark eyes and saw an old fear flicker within them. She understood it well, and knew the same was frozen within hers.
Without more conversation, she surrendered to his method of banishing reality as his hands untied the sash of her robe. Yes, she understood his need to touch skin, to keep himself rooted in the present. That had also become her need.
His mouth took hers in a slow opening of lips, a gentle duet of tongues, and she understood that their minds no longer had amnesty from the past, now that the dread had been admitted and named. Paradise had been compromised, but coffee-sweetened mango still tasted so good first thing in the morning. Their hiatus had been a placebo; they knew that. Caresses and passionate days and nights were just anesthesia ... an endorphin rush, like morphine, to chase away the adrenaline tension of bad nerves. That didn't matter right now.
She helped him shed his burgundy silk boxers, and allowed him to lead her back to the kitchen chair. She totally understood James's way of saying, “Baby, I'm worried.” That was her way of banishing fear, too.
It was all in his eyes, the way he took her mouth again ever so gently as she carefully straddled his lap. It was all in his touch, the way it grazed over the surface of her skin like she was fragile glass. It had been so obvious in his newfound interest in opening a small sporting goods shop with Steve ... the way they'd both talked in rapid-fire sentences about the most mundane of things; serving burgers and light fare, frozen drinks, Najira doing the books, Jamal working the registers, her marketing the concept to the resorts.
She understood that James's way was an easy slide into the present that kept him anchored, the same way he'd just slid into her. His motions were steady, not rushed, like his planning. Methodical to the point of crazy-making was his trademark, unraveling her resistance to let go of the past and the tension, one slow stroke at a time ... his unspoken signature making her keep her eyes on him, her eyes on the present not the past, a gentling of her spirit, the way one would calm a frightened thoroughbred. Just don't look down and come to me, his touch beckoned, hands gliding over the now too-sensitive tips of her breasts, causing her soft gasp, which he swallowed.
“I got this,” he whispered into her mouth.
She swallowed his promise with a slight shudder. “I know,” she murmured against his neck, allowing her fingers to revel in his short-cropped hair, the slight waves within it teasing her fingertips. Her husband knew her very, very well, just like she knew him and could tell that he needed her to stay in the here and now.
Releasing the threat of tomorrow, she bore down on him harder, gently rotating her hips in a slow, undulating circle that finally drew a quiet gasp from him and made him close his eyes.
God yes, his wife knew him so very, very well, and the disturbing conversation began to ebb and flow like her hips, pushing itself into the far recesses of his mind. His hands found her tight, fleshy backside as her hands rested gently against his shoulders. Thoughts of possible hit men embedded in their future seemed so remote as he became more deeply embedded within her, their thigh muscles working in unison, in partnership to keep their slow, steady rhythm, the flow of agonizing movements unbroken.
He loved the way coffee and mango lingered in her sweet kiss ... the way her tongue explored the inside of his mouth, pulling a moan up from his lungs as her tempo increased ever so slightly. Yeah ... right now, nothing else mattered, and that was just the way he liked it—easy. Nothing too profound. Her body heating until he could feel a light sheen of perspiration beginning to claim it. Her voice a muffled whimper grazing the soft tissue of his palate, something to savor and allow to hold him hostage, just like her natural scent.
She threw her head back and gave him access to kiss her windpipe, and down to the soft cleft at the base of her throat, her full, pendulous breasts swaying slightly to every rise and fall of her voluptuous body against his—easy. Coffee with her in the morning, have mercy. A slow sip of hard, java-hued nipples between his lips; his most favorite of ways to begin the day.
“Laura.” One strangled word, her name, brought her back to him hard, and fast, and hot—scalding ... making him meet her where she was, close to the edge, as the burn ran down his shaft and imploded in his sac.
She moved against him like a sudden island rain, pelting his groin with intense pleasure, no longer a slow dissolve of his sanity. This morning wasn't a light shower, but had opened up to an unexpected, torrential downpour—an event that would now happen quickly before the clouds parted and allowed in the sun of her smile again.
Humid, wet, she contracted against him, consuming worry, washing it away with a steady beat against his hard ground until he almost lifted them both out of the chair with each upward thrust. The steady sound of the wicker's groan was no comparison to his, her breaths now a chant of urgent compliance—easy was gone, heat surreal. His hands in her hair, not long, needing the feel of her fleshy backside, her hips to anchor and gain leverage until he could barely breathe.
The sound of his voice thundering throughout the kitchen had done her in.
Slow
, what was that?
Tender
, the word had lost meaning. Patience was an impossible concept when she could feel his definition sliding within her ... the head, the groove of it pulling against her agony-fired canal, lodged so tightly inside her that she could feel the vein pulsing down his engorged shaft to the wide berth of his base each time he drew out again.
Then he'd found that spot like he always did. His tight, muscular legs were pushing them both up and half-out of the chair till she nearly shrieked it felt so good. Every bulge of six-packed abdominal sinew worked like a hard, fast sit-up, his arms steel cable wrapped around her waist—her hands ached to hold his fantastic stone-carved ass, but his massive shoulders were all she had access to.
His touch was now a severe, aggressive sweep of pleasure against every aching place on her skin, leaving her unable to take enough of him into her fast enough, hard enough. Forget about tomorrow, when his name became a non sequitur fused with the Almighty's, “OhmigodJames!”
Head thrown back, mouth open for air, he felt the first lightning strike arch her, and then it immediately sent a crack-whip of motion down her spine that opened him up to a pure holler. Nails in his shoulders, he didn't care, just don't stop the electric current; let it flow. Jags of pleasure sent a convulsing wave through his scrotum that he couldn't hold back if his life depended on it. Her body froze like her gasp had for a second as though she'd been hit with another sudden jolt of lightning, then she released in repeated, jerking shudders that ruined him to thunder her name one more time.
And just as quickly as it had begun, the storm was over. Damp forehead to forehead they stayed in the chair for a long while, breathing hard, clinging to each other, dazed.
When he could finally focus and open his eyes, she peered down at him with a brilliant smile like the island sun had just come out again.
He wiped his brow with the back of his forearm and let out a deep exhale. She dabbed at her cleavage with the heel of her palm, chasing a tiny trickle of sweat that rolled down between her breasts. He watched the perspiration, his eyes following the path of it until she'd blotted it dry, his mouth also going dry in the process. Lord, his woman was fine.
“Good morning to you, too,” she said with a soft chuckle and then kissed the bridge of his nose. “Want another cup of coffee?”
“Maybe in an hour,” he said, smiling, and dropped his head to her shoulder, beat. “Coffee like this every morning might kill me, woman.”
Chapter 2
S
teve rolled over with a groan and rubbed his palms down his face. His shoulders still stung from the slight sunburn that had reddened and had begun peeling the tender skin. The floorboards in the house were strumming with bass line from the stereo, which meant Jamal was up, and the sound connected to the mild hangover throb in his temples. It was time to get back into some sort of routine. Never in a million years would he have dreamed that he'd be trying to escape from an extended vacation.
Slowly swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he attempted to gain his bearings. Najira's quiet appearance in the doorway of the bathroom helped considerably. She was wearing only a towel, and he watched the dampness soak into her pretty brown skin. Was he outta his mind? This was
the life
.
“Good morning,” she said with a bright smile that lit up her face. “I figured since my brother was cranking the music, it was time to get up.”
Steve shook his head and chuckled. “Yeah,” he added with a sigh. “But can the man give it a rest—just once?”
She came to him and leaned in closely, whispering in his ear. “You know why he cranks the music, so don't even play.”
A sheepish grin slid across Steve's face. “What can I say?”
“Nothing,” she giggled, and kissed the top of his head. “Go get a shower, man.”
“Thought you might hang out in there with me?”
She rolled her eyes and walked away with a smile, giving him feigned attitude as she sashayed across the room. “I already got mine.”
“So you'd just leave a man hanging like that after you already got yours? You're wrong, 'Jira.”
They both laughed hard.
“That's why Jamal's got Missy Elliott rockin' the house first thing in the morning—he ain't tryin' to hear you get yours, okaaay?”
“He didn't hear all that,” Steve said laughing as he walked into the bathroom. He peered around the doorframe. “Did he?”
She held up her hand and sucked her teeth, trying to appear annoyed.
“That was real early, though,” Steve protested. “After smokin' blunts and wearing out the blender with rum drinks, you know Jamal wasn't hardly awake.”
One hand went to Najira's hip. “He probably wasn't when you started, but after hollering and—”
“All right, all right,” Steve said, holding up both hands and backing into the bathroom with a belly laugh. “Let's go get some breakfast.”
Najira shook her head as she listened to the shower go on at the same time the toilet lid slammed up. “Bathroom door all open ...” she grumbled as she slipped on a thong and began searching in the dresser for a tank top and shorts. How in the world had she found herself hooked up with a cool white boy from Philly, living with her half-gangsta brother, no less, down in paradise with her outrageous cousin around the corner in a villa? No job, more money than she'd dared to dream of, all because they'd pulled a smooth heist that was so sweet it still tasted like cotton candy.
She couldn't make the smile leave her face. Pure contentment settled into her bones as she yanked her dreadlocks up into a ponytail held by a scrunchie, dressed, and left Steve washing up in the shower. What were she and Laura doing messing with two ex-cops and loving every minute of it?
Cool air filtered through the house and put small pebbles of gooseflesh on her skin as she made her way to the kitchen looking for Jamal. The blaring music added extra bounce and rhythm to her step, almost making a giggle bubble up within her as she entered the brightly lit room and saw Jamal hunched over a plate, shoveling food into his mouth.
“Hey,” she said, swinging open the refrigerator door.
“Yo,” he mumbled through his food. “Don't even look for any fried fish or grits. Gone.”
“Dag, Jamal. You ain't leave nothing good for breakfast.” Najira extracted the nearly empty carton of orange juice and held it up to the light. “If you were only gonna leave a corner, you might as well have drank it all.”
“Hand it here, then,” he said smiling. “Got the munchies like
a mother
this morning.”
“See ...” she shook her head and handed him the carton, too done as he turned it up to his mouth.
“That's why y'all need to go on ahead and make some fresh, 'cause you know I done drank out the carton any ole way.”
She cut him a glare through a smile and went to the fruit bowl to gather up a few oranges and a small pineapple for the juicer. “You know,” she said slowly, peeling the fruit without looking at her brother, “we've gotta get into some sorta routine around here.”
“I have a routine,” Jamal said, unfazed, wiping his plate with a biscuit and stuffing it into his mouth.
“You know that business idea Steve and James was talking about? Well, it might be good to have something to do every day, other than sitting around here, or—”
“Knocking boots every chance you get.”
Jamal gave her a sly smile and went back to his plate, seeming pleased when Najira looked away.
“I'm serious,” she finally said, setting the small paring knife down on the counter hard.
“I am, too, boo,” Jamal said calmly. “I have to get up and get outta here early every day like I'm in a shelter program or something to keep from hearing—”
“All right, all right, all right,” Najira said, becoming peevish as she shoved fruit into the juicer and depressed the top, hoping the sound would drown her brother out. “You get on my nerves, Jamal.”
“I love you, too.” He winked and stood up, stretching like a lanky cat, his boxers three inches above the waistband of his baggy jean shorts, and then raked his fingers down the exposed, greased parts in his immaculate cornrows. “I ain't hatin',” he said, taking his plate to the sink. “Steve is cool with me; I just don't wanna hear all that, is all I'm saying. I'm still your big brother, feel me?”
She swallowed away a smile, determined to stay annoyed but couldn't. “That's why we've gotta get something productive happening. Just like James said the other night, he and Steve had never done more than ten days off at a stretch, and really hadn't been beyond the Jersey shore, at that. Nobody is trying to travel to any terrorist hot spots, and after you do all the clubs, try all the water sports, take all the tours, and act up at Carnival, other than chill on the beach, golf, or fish, what is there to do?”
Jamal leaned against the refrigerator with a soft thud and folded his arms. His expression became serious as he searched her eyes for answers. “I hear you. Never thought I'd ever say something like that, myself. A year island hopping, seeing all the fine women and chasing booty for days ... just having stoopid money in my pocket, I gotta do something, 'Jira. I ain't cut out for the quiet life.”
Najira nodded, and moved him aside to collect eggs and breakfast sausage out of the fridge. “Laura agrees; we've been laying low for a long time, and everybody is bored. Like, she was a real workaholic, and I've never known her to take any kind of real extended vacation in her life—even on so-called vacations, she was really working, scheming, schmoozing, hooking up a deal, hustling something.” Najira looked at Jamal and stared at him for a moment. “I think she's feeling it the most.”
“Not necessarily,” he said quietly, closing the refrigerator door as Najira balanced her armload of food.
“What do you mean?” Najira waited, and then watched Jamal push away from the appliance to go stare out the window.
“'Jira ... all my life I've been hustling, scramblin', trying to get here.” He turned and looked at her, his expression pained and his tone gentle. “I always wanted to be phat paid, have enough money to never worry about the basics, with extra left over to be able to do whatever I wanted to do. Now I'm here, got that, and ... I can't explain it, sis. It's like this empty feeling ... I don't know. Like living on the edge was the razor that kept me sharp, kept me—I don't know.”
She set down the eggs carefully, and placed the sausage beside them as a guard so they didn't roll off the counter. “I know. Maybe because we've got Dad in us.”
He smiled. “Yeah. The old man was always freedom fighting, always had something to do.”
She chuckled sadly and reached down a pan from a hook above the center island range. “Be constructive and productive, right?”
Jamal nodded and let his breath out hard. “Yup. How many times growing up did we hear that?”
“So, what are we doing?” she asked, beginning to prepare breakfast for her and Steve. “Laura got married,” Najira added quietly. “But she ain't gonna have no kids, probably.”
Jamal froze for a moment and then glanced around the kitchen, dropping his voice. “You pregnant?”
“Huh?”
He closed his eyes and rubbed his palms down his face. “Oh, aw'ight.”
“Jamal,” she said, both hands on her hips. “Do I look ready for kids and all that, yet?”
“I'm just saying ...”
“What?”
He glanced around the kitchen again, clearly listening for Steve. “This is the one, ain't it?”
She looked away and began breaking eggs into a small bowl, whipping them hard with a fork. “You got a problem with that?”
“Steve's my boy, I'm just wondering how Pop is gonna take it, long term.”
For a moment, neither sibling spoke. The only sound in the kitchen was Najira's frantic destruction of egg yolks.
“Have you really broken it down to Pop how deep this has gotten?” Jamal's question lingered in the kitchen, blending into the sound of a metal fork hitting the side of a Pyrex bowl.
“I didn't think it was necessary to tell him who I was sleeping with, if that's where you're going.”
Jamal watched her go back to the refrigerator and extract a stick of butter and several biscuits. She took her time, dropping a pat into the pan and turning the skillet over the heat until the butter melted and coated the bottom of it.
“I'm cool with it, sis,” Jamal said in a mercifully quiet tone that finally made her look up at him. “You just need to be sure you're really cool with it before you break it down to Pop. You know you're gonna have to stick to your guns to get him to deal with it. 'Cause you also know he probably had one of the Budweiser king of kings series poster brothers mentally picked out for his baby girl, boo. The gunshot ain't kill him, but, uh ...”
“I know, don't even say it,” she muttered, holding up one hand as she stirred hardening eggs around in the pan with a spatula. She watched the slurry begin to congeal in the skillet.
“You're doing it all backward,” Jamal said with a sheepish grin.
“I am not!” Najira practically hollered. “I know what I'm doing. I know how I feel, and—”
“If you don't start the other stuff, first, the eggs are gonna get done before the sausage, is all I'm saying.” Jamal reached down a black, cast-iron pan, issuing Najira a sly wink, and began helping her cook. “Timing is everything.”
“I know what I'm doing,” she said in a testy tone, snatching the pan from him.
“I ain't trying to cook for your man or get in between it,” he said grinning. “All I know is, you need to have a real conversation with Pop before he gets down here.”
She stopped moving about, nearly paralyzed. “Did he say he was coming?”
“Do it matter?” Jamal said, raising an eyebrow.
“Stop playing,” she whispered.
“Aw, girl, no. He didn't say he was coming, just that I know James and cuz are trying to get him down here with the quickness.”
Najira let out her breath and turned off the flame beneath the pan. In jerky, halting motions, she flung sausage links into the pan Jamal had reached down, and then spun around to put biscuits in the microwave.
“I don't understand why all of a sudden there's this big rush to get Dad to come down here and whatnot.” She opened the refrigerator door and leaned in, hunting for guava jelly, fussing at the shelves. “There's no good reason for the man to be uprooted from his neighborhood and friends, if that's what he doesn't want to do—besides, if he's dead set on staying put, and hates to fly, why can't they leave well enough alone? I mean, Jamal, the man won't halfway take the money we send him, let alone pack his bags for an extended stay.” She stood quickly and placed her hands on hips, still staring at the semi-vacant shelves for what no longer existed. “Give me one good reason.”
Najira stepped back quickly as the refrigerator door seemed to close on its own and Steve's sudden presence gave her a start.
“For his safety, hon,” Steve said carefully.
Najira placed a flat palm on her chest. “Don't
do
that. Lord have mercy, Steve!”

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