The Drowning Man (13 page)

He also owed the guy an apology. And the sooner he got
that
unpleasant task out of the way, the better. He walked into the lounge, his eyes focusing on the probie. He nodded towards the hall and walked back out of the room, the probie a step behind.

“Let’s go outside,” Trent said.

They went out the back door and stood in the parking lot, silently facing each other. Trent looked down at his bandaged hand, forced his eyes to the probie's. “You did a hell of a job in that house, Drew.”

Drew blinked at Trent's use of his real name. “I should have done more-”

“No.” Trent cut him off. “You did your job. We couldn’t have saved that kid without you.”

“But you,
you
did it.”

Trent sucked in a breath, put his hands on his hips, leveled his gaze on the probie. “Don’t use me as an example, unless it’s of what not to do. The chief, Ted. Chad. Those are the guys you should look up to. Not me.” He shook his head. “Not me.”

Drew didn’t respond.

Trent looked up at the sky, then glanced back at Drew. “You’re a good fireman,” he said as he walked back towards the building.

When Trent couldn't sleep, he ran. It didn't matter what time of the day or night it was. Running brought release. It brought freedom.

He used the anger when he ran. It made him faster, more focused. He used it at work. And if he used it enough, he could almost forget. Almost. But if he stopped, if he slowed down for even one minute, the dark nightmare began seeping back into his mind. And if it came back, he was afraid it would destroy him and he'd lose himself forever.

So he used the anger and ran until his legs gave out, until his vision went dark, until he couldn't feel anything. It was the only thing that brought relief and exhausted him enough so he could sleep.

Sometimes he ran and then stopped for a donut and coffee then continued on, fueled by the sugar and caffeine. He ran until they burned out of his system, then went home and collapsed into a dreamless sleep. Most of the time it worked. When it didn’t, the nightmares had to make up for lost time, and hit him with crippling intensity. It never ceased to amaze him how something that wasn’t real could bring him to his knees, making him wish for death.

The all night coffee/donut shop at the end of his street was his safe haven. Late at night there were few customers and the ones that were there usually wanted to keep to themselves. The skeleton staff didn’t pay much attention to him, let alone recognize him. It was one of the few places he felt totally at ease. At least it had been, he thought, as he looked up and watched Detective Lora Tatum walk through the door, wiping cold rainwater from her face.

He dropped his gaze to the table, not sure if he felt up to talking to her. He wanted to, God did he want to, but he wanted to do it on his terms. When his head wasn't so screwed up. Maybe she wouldn't see him.

“Hey stranger.”

Trent jerked his head up, then forced a smile. “You found out my weakness. Glazed donuts,” he said, gesturing at the crumbs on his plate.

“You already know mine,” she said, blowing onto her coffee. “Don't you ever sleep?” she asked.

“Don't you?” he countered.

“Occupational hazard.”

Raindrops glittered like diamonds in her hair. Her deep green eyes pulled him in, washing away his dark thoughts. He didn't want her to leave. “Have a seat,” Trent said, using his foot to push out the other chair.

Lora sat, in no hurry to go home to her empty condo. Nothing waited for her there. She took a sip of coffee, not knowing what to say now that she was next to him.

Trent looked out the window. “I like to come here when it rains. Usually I run when I can't sleep.”

“Not a good night for that,” Lora said as lightening lit up the sky outside. And she didn't need to ask why he had trouble sleeping. In the room’s harsh artificial light his face looked tired, drawn. She figured hers wasn't much better.

She studied the hand wrapped around his mug. His fingers were short, his hands muscular. She imagined them on her body, caressing her, then forced herself to focus on the pale raised ridges that covered his hand. She thought about her own scars, outside and in and wished she'd gotten her coffee to go.

“I meant to call you …” Trent stopped when he realized how lame he sounded.

She waved it off. “You don’t have to explain anything to me.”

He wanted to. But what did you say to the person who’d saved your life when you’d spent weeks hating them for it? He was so damned tired. He just wanted to feel normal again. Whatever the hell that was.

Lightning flashed. Their eyes met. Words suddenly weren’t necessary. Whatever connection was between them didn’t require an explanation. It just was.

Lora smiled and scooted her chair closer to his. Together they drank coffee and watched the storm building outside the window.

Trent liked the subtle warmth of her body next to his. Lora Tatum was not one of those touchy-feely women that had always annoyed the hell out of him. From the little he knew of her, she was the exact opposite. Yet for some reason, he wanted her to touch him.

He
ached
to touch her. And the ache was getting worse each second she was next to him. He
had
to touch her, couldn't wait any longer. Then she reached for him.

She took his hand, studying the faint burn scars. “I read about you in the paper, when you got these.”

“I'm no hero,” he said quickly.

She raised her eyebrows.

“I'm not. I was just doing my job,” he said, avoiding her gaze.

“Trent, we both know that there aren't a lot of people, trained or not, that would have done what you did.”

He raised his eyes to hers. “You would have,” he said.

It was her turn to look down.

He nudged her shoulder with his. “You would have,” he said again.

She looked up at him, a slight smile softening her mouth. “Maybe.”

He grinned and focused on her lips, leaning in towards her. Her eyes widened but she didn't back away. He moved across the last few inches that separated them and kissed her, softly at first, then deeper, feeling that at last he'd found someone who could understand him. He couldn’t explain it, but he didn’t want to let her go. She gripped his knee and his hand tangled in her hair, pulling her even closer as the soft strands slid between his fingers.

He pulled back and took her hand in his, his eyes searching hers. “Come home with me.”

Simon Hewett bit off a curse as rage flooded his system. He adjusted his binos and watched Trent Barlow walk the bitch cop out of the coffee shop. He could tell by their interaction that they were intimate. What the hell did Barlow see in her? She wasn’t even that attractive of a woman. Too cold and masculine for his tastes. Maybe it was gratitude. Whatever. Didn’t really matter anyway.

So be it. He’d take Barlow out too if he got in the way. He didn’t want to, but it was an acceptable loss.

Simon was a very patient man. He’d wait for just the right opportunity. In the meantime, he'd have some fun with this, teach Barlow a lesson or two before he killed the bitch.

Lora got in her car and followed Trent's truck to his apartment, wondering what in the hell she was doing. But she didn't turn around. Trent Barlow fascinated and intrigued her like no one she'd ever met. And her body's response to him compelled her to find out where this would lead.

It was amazing for her to see who Trent really was. She'd spent countless hours studying his file, learning about his life and habits, hearing stories about him from his brother, then she'd seen what was left of him after his weeks of torture. Now she was getting to watch him rebuild himself into someone better, stronger, than he was before. Maybe even playing a small part in the transformation. The surprising thought caused a foreign surge of warmth to spread through her chest.

She parked in the spot next to his truck. They didn't speak as he took her hand and guided her towards the dark apartment. Inside, he led her down a short hallway to his bedroom and flipped on a lamp. Warm, dim light filled the room.

Lora looked around the room as he watched her. There wasn't a lot to look at, the double bed was unmade, a dark blue bedspread lay rumpled at the foot end. A small table sat next to the bed, a matching dresser and a picture of the earth adorned the opposite wall. Her eyes dropped back to the tangled sheets where he'd slept. The indescribable masculine scent that was his alone surrounded her. She turned back to face him and felt her breath catch.

The way he looked at her, the dark intensity of his gaze, he was finally allowing her to see all of him – the good and the bad. His trust in her nearly broke her heart. She had to get out of there, get away from him. He was giving her something she couldn’t give him. He was giving her exactly what she'd wanted from him and it scared the hell out of her.

She stared at the face of the man she'd known as a victim, a case, a survivor, a picture in a file, a patient. A lover? She wanted to kiss him, very badly, ached with the need. She licked her lips, as her desire for him intensified. The feelings and emotions flooding her mind and body where overwhelming. “I should go,” she said, forcing herself to take a step towards the door on shaky legs.

“Wait.” He took her hand, pulled her down onto the bed with him. They sat, facing each other, in silence.

Trent knew her face so well now, knew every inch of it. He couldn’t keep from touching it. His fingers slid down her cheek and stopped at the base of her neck, pulled her closer. Her hands went to his chest, as if to push him away, then slid down to his waist and held on tight.

His mind was blissfully empty except for thoughts and sensations of the woman in front of him.

His lips gently brushed against hers and she sighed against his mouth, her body sagging against his. He kissed her again, harder, deeper. She moaned. Their clothes came off in a blur of tangled limbs. Then his mouth was back on hers, their tongues intertwining as their hands urgently explored each other for the first time.

Breathing hard, he flipped her onto her back. They both gasped as he entered her. Lora dug her fingers into his hips, urging him deeper, faster.

Lora's mind told her to slow things down. This wasn't how she wanted it to be with this man, all hot and heavy. She wanted to be slow and gentle. Making love with him. To him. But her body had other ideas and she surrendered to the forceful passion.

Too soon, she felt the spasms take over her body and bit her lip to keep from screaming with the intense pleasure of it. He drove hard into her, coming an instant after she did. After the last spasm rocked their joined bodies, he collapsed against her, spent, breathing hard.

The waves of pleasure slowly faded, leaving her empty and numb. She rolled away. Her instincts warned her to get away, to get the hell out of there as fast as she could. But the mistake had already been made. She couldn't take it back now.

Trent pushed himself up on an elbow and looked down at her, his finger lightly tracing the scar above her left hipbone. Lora tensed. After all this time, she could still feel the searing pain from when the bullet had hit. She shuddered and Trent immediately withdrew his hand and sat back. She couldn't meet his eyes.

The memories continued to come, chasing away the last of her soft afterglow. What she needed to do was get dressed and go home before she did something really stupid, like tell him her tragic life story. She turned to tell him she was leaving.

Trent was looking down at her with gentle concern now.

She blinked rapidly, felt the moisture on her cheeks, hadn't even noticed she'd been crying. She swiped her hands across her cheeks, angry at how her emotions had betrayed her. She did not cry. Ever.

“Since this is the first time I've brought a woman to tears after sex, I'm going to make you some coffee, then you're going to talk to me,” Trent said as he got up off the bed and pulled his jeans back on.

She nodded, reaching to the floor for her discarded shirt.

Shit.
What was it about this man? She couldn't make sense of the emotions he brought out in her.

Dressed, she followed him into the kitchen. He wordlessly handed her a steaming mug.

She sat at the table, eyes down, and wrapped her hands tightly around the mug, trying to draw strength from its warmth. At last, she spoke.

“I was off duty that day. I was pumping gas when I saw an officer drive by in his patrol car. He waved at me as he went past. There was a car going the opposite direction, an old black Impala, speeding, and weaving in and out of traffic.

“The officer did a u-turn and took off in pursuit. As soon as the lights and siren came on, someone inside the Impala started firing. The patrol car swerved off the road and I knew the officer was hit. I grabbed my gun out of my purse and ran and fired.

“But I was too late. I got off three shots before I was hit and lost sight of the car. The other officer was dead by the time I got to him. I tried to bring him back, but I was too late.” She blinked rapidly, then continued.

“The two suspects had just robbed a bank. They were caught the next day.”

Trent's jaw was clenched and he was pacing the small room. He closed his eyes, looking like he wanted to kill the bastards for hurting her. He opened his eyes, looking out the window. “They still in jail?” he asked, a hard edge to his voice.

“They are.”

He stopped pacing and turned towards her, raw fury burning in his eyes. “If they weren't …”

His anger and protectiveness warmed her. He looked so strong and fierce. Funny how she’d felt protective of him all those weeks ago, and now he was the one making her feel safe and secure. She felt that delicious ache start again. “Thank you,” she said softly. “Shit, just … thank you.”

Trent’s face softened. “You’re welcome. Though, maybe I should be thanking you.”

“Shut the hell up and kiss me,” Lora said.

“Yes, ma’am,” Trent said and eagerly complied.

Trent woke to the sounds of Lora fumbling around in the pre-dawn light. “You can turn the light on, you know.”