Finally he says, “You can sleep at the police station.”
My mouth falls open. “You’re putting me under arrest?”
“Absolutely not,” he said smoothly.
“Would I be sleeping a cell?”
After a pause, “Yes.”
“So let me get this straight. You want to take me, in your police car, to the police station, where I’ll spend the night in jail. How is this different from being arrested?”
He cocks his head. “Less paperwork?” At my small noise of protest, he looks apologetic. But unrelenting. “The cot is very comfortable, I’ve been told.”
“Oh great, well if the cot is comfortable…”
“We do it all the time when someone has a little too much to drink at the bar in town. They can’t drive home so they sleep it off.”
I can’t believe how wrong I had been, not only fifteen minutes ago. Immediately wrong. I thought things couldn’t get worse? I’m going to jail. My optimism was well and truly deflated, punctured by a handsome sheriff and a country road that last for eternity.
“And what about Ky? He’s going to be under arrest? He’s six months old!”
“He won’t be under arrest.” The sheriff’s brown eyes soften. “His name is Ky? Does it stand for something?”
His interest makes my heart swell with pride, a maternal instinct that overwhelms self-preservation. “It’s not short for anything. Only Ky. I wanted to honor my mother, Makenna.”
To honor the woman she could have been if she hadn’t been beaten down to the mere shadow of a woman by the time I was born. This is how they kept us docile, generation after generation of girls broken before they were even women.
The sheriff takes a step toward my car, looking at Ky through the back window. “He’s a handsome boy. I’m sure she’s proud.”
Sometimes it’s a relief that she died before I could be sent away as a gift, fourteen years old and crying like a child. What would she think of me being a mother? What would she think of me running to keep Ky safe? Would she be proud? “I like to think so.”
Recognition flashes over his face, grief for a woman he didn’t know. “I’m sorry.”
I manage a pained smile, tears pricking my eyes. At least it’s dark enough that he can’t see my lower lip trembling, my breath shuddering in and out of my chest.
“I’m not arresting anyone,” he says gently. “It’s just a safe place for you to rest.”
Something clicks into place inside me, as if I’ve been waiting for this offer my whole life. A sad little jail in a country town shouldn’t be anyone’s idea of paradise, but I’ve been afraid for so long. A safe place to rest sounds like heaven.
“Okay,” I whisper.
“Why don’t you grab what you need from your bags? I can move the carseat over.”
I pull the baby bag from the backseat, then move aside so he can unhook the carseat. He does so with a quiet efficiency that has me raising my eyebrows.
“I have three nieces,” he says when he sees my face.
And he does handle the carseat like a pro, lifting the heavy weight with ease, using his free hand to keep the base steady while he circles my car to his. I watch him lean into the backseat of his patrol car, latching the seat into place and measuring out the bands so that it fits securely.
The beige fabric of his uniform slacks pulls taut over his ass and thighs, revealing strength and leanness in one package. Shock rises inside me, swift as a flood. I’m checking him out. That’s what I’m doing right now—checking out the man who’s not-arresting me.
I can’t remember the last time I checked someone out.
I can’t remember ever checking someone out.
My sexuality was stolen from me a long time ago. Before I became a mother. Before I had even become a woman. Men were always things to be feared. Monsters that sometimes had nice smiles, which only made them scarier.
And in the middle of nowhere I had found something other than fear.
I found desire.
CHAPTER SIX
The wise young fairy came from behind the curtain and said: “Your daughter shall not die. I cannot undo what my elder sister has done; the princess shall indeed prick her finger with the spindle, but she shall not die. She shall fall into sleep that will last a hundred years. At the end of that time, a prince will find her and awaken her.”
Jessica
Finn. That’s his name.
He stands back from the door and gestures me inside. I would want to sit next to Ky no matter what, so it shouldn’t feel like I’m under arrest. Probably I would be handcuffed if that were happening. But I can’t quite step inside. The glass divider and handle-less doors might be the straw that breaks my emotional state’s back.
I’d be trapped back here, unable to leave until he let me out.
“Wait,” I say, my throat thick with fear. It doesn’t have that much to do with him. It’s about me, and the all the ways I’ve been trapped before. “What if you’re not a cop at all? What if you’re a serial killer and this is some sort of death contraption you’re using to lure me in?”
I follow his gaze inside the police car, where condensation hugs a large Styrofoam cup and an array of crackling equipment crowds like barnacles to the dashboard. If this is a kidnapping, it’s a pretty elaborate one. And if he planned to kill me he could have done so on this deserted road without anyone seeing a thing.
So I feel a little silly, as the blatant accusation hands in the air between us, until I see his face. For the first time, his reserved expression cracks. I bask in the approval that shines there, like I’m seeing the sun for the first time. No one else has protected me.
No one else even wanted me to be safe.
He nods toward the baby bag slung over her shoulder. “Do you have a cell phone? Call 911 and they’ll confirm my identity.”
“911? That seems a little… excessive.” Not to mention, a pretty good way to alert Stefano about their location. That call would definitely be recorded.
“Your safety qualifies as an emergency, Ms. Beck,” he said, and I believe he’s law enforcement officer for sure. He has the voice, sort of gruff and condescending at the same time.
It makes me wonder uses that tone in the bedroom, if he ever lectures on the perils of sexual dissatisfaction. Your need to climax qualifies as an emergency, Ms. Beck.
And it did qualify as an emergency. Suddenly. Shockingly.
How could I have given birth without having one?
I don’t doubt him in this moment, but I already started this. He watches me expectantly, so I make a show of getting out my phone. “Give me the number for your precinct,” I say.
His eyebrows raise, but he gives it to me in that low, authoritative voice.
I press each number carefully as he says it, feeling something tight in my stomach that has nothing to do with fear or pain. Something about him giving me commands and me following them. Something primal.
My forefinger hovers over the Send button.
His eyes become hooded, a challenge and a command all at once.
It’s a game of chicken between his lids and my finger—which one would drop first.
Well, he asked for it. I press the button and wait while it rings.