The Ringer (4 page)

Thick painter’s plastic protected a hodgepodge of mismatched furniture. Various pieces of contemporary fixtures and plush fabric littered the living room. She worked her way past the disorganized mess and followed the sounds of a police scanner. Calls from dispatch to various neighborhoods around the city fired out in a chaotic order she couldn’t understand.

When she made her way toward his makeshift office, the cold planks of the wood floor assaulted her toes. Immersed in something on his computer screen, Jax didn’t look up.

“Good morning,” she chirped with fake enthusiasm. Dwarfed by the pajamas she’d borrowed from him, the sexless number pooled at her feet. She couldn’t have felt more unappealing standing five feet away from this hunk of a man. She tried not to stare at his shirtless, chiseled chest.

“Hey, how did you sleep?” He ran his hand through his ravaged hair before he began searching for something on his desk.

Until this very moment, Lane had never had a thing for Clark Kent. The Superman who saved her last night had turned into this mild mannered but equally sexy alter ego. Well aware her libido meter hit on Homeland Security orange alert, she fought the urge to squirm.

“Great, I slept so well I almost forgot last night,” she babbled.

“Nice,” he replied. Dark circles under his eyes told her he hadn’t slept a lick. “Coffee?”

“Sure, but don’t get up. I’ll get it myself.” She waved him off before he could stand.

“If you insist.” He held up his coffee cup while he gave her a sheepish grin. “Refill.”

When she reached over to grab his cup, the tips of her fingers grazed the knuckles of his rough hand. Lane could have sworn his grin grew broader, before his face fell into a mask of disbelief.

He dropped the mug. The remains of his coffee spilled all over his desk. “One sec,” he told her, swinging his chair over to the police scanner. “11-99 to 721 Diversey. 11-99 to 721 Diversey between Halsted and Orchard.”

“Shit.” Jax flung his glasses off. The good-humored man disappeared, leaving the hard-nosed detective in his place. “How fast can you get ready?” he asked, digging through the papers in front of him.

“Just give me a second to get my boots,” she told him, hoping she wouldn’t have to pepper spray anybody today.

***

Early yet, Jax managed to coast his brother’s Z28 Camaro around back streets, which turned into good shortcuts—a trick he had learned working narcotics.

He revved the engine to the fixer-upper, happy it had taken him this far into the city.

The front paneling had rusted out some time ago, and the dent near the rear would almost be impossible to get out. He would have to replace the whole side, but his favorite part about the sports classic wasn’t her looks, but her tags. Since they weren’t in his name it allowed him the ability to get around unnoticed.

Confident she was an intricate part of the mark’s death, he wanted her near him until he could figure this mess out. A good twenty minutes after they left his house, he pulled into the alley behind Lane’s place.

Before she could reach for the stripped down door, he touched her arm to stop her. “Stay away from windows and just grab the essentials.”

A shy smile lifted her face, reaching her eyes. He wanted to reassure her everything would work out. At the very least, move his head down a few inches to capture her lips between his. Beyond tired, Jax shook his head in an attempt to knock the lust out since kissing her would be a bad idea. She had just been through a shock, and this was hardly the time to put the moves on her.

“And no credit cards,” he instructed her. “The temptation to use one will be too great. Just leave them behind.”

She nodded and opened her mouth but then shut it before she could say anything.

“I have to make a quick call to Raff, but I’ll be in to help you in a minute.”

“This isn’t my house,” Lane admitted. She nodded toward the looming brownstone. The brick house sat on Chicago’s ritzy Gold Coast. “I’m just a guest.”

“I know,” he said with an encouraging smile. Jax didn’t believe in coincidences, at least not in his mind. Loose ends always troubled him, and Langley Garrett couldn’t have been a bigger one.

“I’ll catch up with you.” He waited for her to make it inside the house before he picked up his phone.

Lane tried to sneak in the backdoor by tiptoeing across the Spanish tile floor.

“Freeze!” Ava shouted. “What the hell do you have on?”

Lane groaned. She still had on Jax’s pajamas, a jacket for the cool weather, and her high heeled stripper boots from the night before. It would figure if Ava had something to say, it would be about her wardrobe.

“Someone robbed you?” Her cocoa face twisted into a patronizing frown.

“I went on a decoy job last night,” Lane said, hoping to leave it alone.

“And the brute mugged you!” She cried in disgust. “A cheater and a fashion thief. He should get the chair.”

Ava almost always kept late hours. A premier fashion designer lauded for her classic eye for detail was one of the naturally prettiest people Lane had ever laid eyes on. Stunning, even in her silk robe, Lane never expected the night owl to be awake this early. A quick snatch and grab was what she had planned instead of the hot seat.

Embarrassed enough, Lane slipped off her boots so she could appear less like an Amazon next to the petite woman. Her best friend’s strong personality would often make her appear much taller. It also didn’t hurt that the little fashionista’s waist-length dread locks were piled on top of her head. It created the illusion of Ava being as tall as the leggy models she styled.

“Please sit and tell me why you look like a brain-damaged street urchin from
Les Misérables
.” She guided her to the center of the kitchen, toward the stool at the granite island.

“I have to go,” Lane said, not wanting to alarm her best friend, but the strong hint of espresso beans filled her nose and kept her rooted to the spot. Torn by Jax’s warning about time and Ava’s ineptitude for all things domestic, Lane made a decision.

“Where’s the chef?” she asked, while looking around for the nasty man.

“I gave him the morning off.” She waved away her question before gliding over to her Starbucks cappuccino maker.

“Let me,” she blurted, while shoving Ava aside. One cup wouldn’t hurt anyone.

Under her guidance, the machine sputtered to life while Lane mixed the right amount of espresso and steamed milk. She could practically hear Jax in her head. The demanding cop told her twice to grab her stuff and hustle back to the car. Unfortunately, the sweet smell of the mocha concoction oozed into her senses, hypnotizing her.

“Did one of your marks get out of hand?” she asked when Lane set a fresh cup in front of her. “Let me guess, a sexy cop came to save you after you did something silly?” Her friend continued to push well after Lane’s mouth had fallen open, “And to show you how much he hated you, he gave you those heinous PJs and made you walk home.”

Lane glanced down at the pajamas she had borrowed, suited for a man entering the prime of his twilight years. Too damn comfortable for Ava’s biased judgment to affect her, she didn’t care about the plaid mess she wore.

“All right, Ava, quit teasing her. She’s had a rough night,” Jax scolded from the backdoor.

Ava shrieked before she ran over to him, nearly tackling the man. Surprised, Lane watched them hug one another with familiarity.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been by these last few months,” He told her.

“No worries, Batman. Gotham would have a hell of a time surviving without you.” Ava patted Jax’s chest before she went back to her kitchen stool to take a seat. Dying to know but not wanting to rush their tender moment, Lane worked on another cup of cappuccino.

“Is the house empty?” He accepted the cup she passed to him.

“All clear,” Ava said.

“Bags?”

“By the door.”

Lane looked over and saw her luggage stacked neatly to the side.

“I took the liberty of leaving the Camaro in your garage. Are you sure it’s safe?” he asked again while they continued to talk around her.

She nodded and tossed a set of keys to him. “The tank of Milo’s Mustang is half-full. I try to take it out every once and a while.” She shrugged. “I don’t have the heart to sell it.”

“Thanks, sweetheart.” He reached over to kiss her on the forehead. “You’re a life saver.”

Kiss me
. Lane desperately pined for him while she waited for the explanation. Instead of filling her in, he took a drink from his cappuccino with a pleasurable sigh, before he set Ava’s priceless coffee cup down and lick the foam from his top lip. Fed up, Lane screamed one of those healthy numbers. She pushed the scream from the pit of her belly and into her lungs as he laughed.

“Jax is, I mean
was
, Milo’s best friend,” Ava said. Her brown eyes grew soft, which happened often when she talked about her dead husband.

“Yeah, friends since junior high,” he admitted.

“Jax introduced us.” A slight tremble in Ava’s voice tugged at Lane’s heartstrings. The past two years had been rough for her friend, but no one from the outside looking in would have ever been able to detect it.

A master at social disguise, but after the agents, publicist, or models went home, the indestructible Ava Garibaldi would curl up in a ball and cry. Lane had found her more than once in that state.

“He called at an unholy hour and told me to get your stuff ready. Lucky I was awake,” Ava said, quickly changing the topic. “Now all you need to do is burn those PJs.” She arched one finely manicured eyebrow in Lane’s direction. “With fire.”

Unwilling to argue with one of
Vogue’s
top ten designers of the year, Lane hurried to finish her cappuccino.

A shot of caffeine will always do the trick
. She put the mug in the dishwasher. “Five minutes,” she called over her shoulder before she hotfooted it up the stairs.

The camouflage of humor and goodwill slipped from the room nearly as fast as Lane did. Sadness cloaked the air in her absence.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been more…present,” he said.

Ava held up her hand to stop him. “Looking at you and hearing your voice makes me think he’s around the corner and he’ll be home any second.” Tears shimmered in her eyes, twisting his insides. “I can’t imagine looking at me is any different.”

Jax considered lying to her, but at the least, he owed her the truth. “It should be easier by now,” he admitted more to himself. “Milo’s number is still in my phone. I’ve caught myself calling it a few times.”

“It’s been two years, and I’m still a mess.” Ava tried to brush her tears aside. Used to fixing situations, he understood he could do nothing to change this. “If it wasn’t for Lane, I would be lost.”

Ava’s face graced the cover of magazines, and famous stars clamored for her fashions. Jax had taken all these as signs she had moved on. He never imagined a cloud of depression still hung over her head. The depths of her sadness floored him.

Guilt wormed its way into his gut. He should have been a better friend, if not for Ava, at least for the memory of Milo.

“I wish I could have done more—”

“Nobody had any idea but Lane. If it wasn’t for her moving in here….” She bit her bottom lip.

So immersed in his own grief over losing his best friend to cancer, he forgot about her pain. She had no family except Milo, and since her husband’s passing, she was basically alone. Milo’s parents had never accepted her. It could have been the color of her skin or her rank within their social class. He just didn’t have the answer.

The exclusion seemed to make the couple closer. Unfortunately, selective memory on his part did not excuse his behavior. Jax felt like a true selfish ass—an emotion he would have to explore at a later date since the clock didn’t stop ticking for them. To avoid arrest, they needed to motor.

“She doesn’t have family?” He asked. The night before he’d pulled Lane’s background, which gave him parts of her story; he needed details.

“No, she had older parents. Lane’s mother passed away when she was eight I think, and then her father a few years later, broken heart.” Ava sighed before heading to the sink to spritz the red blotches on her face. “She managed to hang around the small town for a while,” Ava continued, “hopping from one distant cousin to another until she got her inheritance at eighteen. Then she left for Seattle I think, but not sure.”

“How did you two meet?” He pushed. The night before just didn’t settle right with him. Deep down he sensed it had something to do with Lane.

“One of those stick-in-the-ass charity events.” Ava shook her head. “Right after she married Parker.”

“Not a fan?” he asked, noting her deep-set frown.

“Milo couldn’t stand him. Parker always made these backhanded comments about my race. They almost came to blows one night.”

“Sounds about right.” For the most part, the problems he had with Parker stayed rooted in high school. Over the years, he had caught wind of a rumor or two, but his job kept him too busy to give a crap about Lockland.

Ava peeked over her shoulder toward the stairwell and whispered, “I don’t get why she married him. Lonely maybe.” She shrugged. “She’s not his type.”

“What do you mean?” Jax played stupid, hoping she would reveal something useful. He didn’t want his own bias about Parker messing with his mind, but Lane picked the wrong moment to come back and break up the party.

“Don’t play dumb with me, Jackson Thornbird. You take care of my best friend, or you’ll have me to answer to,” she threatened before she gave his hand a quick and sneaky pinch.

“It didn’t take me long. Some crazy OCD mouse arranged my clothes on the bed and….”

Jax yanked his hand back and stared at Ava in disbelief.

“Why are you holding your hand? Ava! You didn’t pinch him, did you?” Lane hurried over to him and took his hand. “Sorry,” she apologized for Ava while she patted the spot until the pain went away. “Those hurt like a son of a bitch don’t they?”

He nodded and frowned at the mischievous woman who acted innocent to any wrongdoing.