Staying With Her

Chapter SIX

She laid like a doll over the grass, limbs at awkward angles and her head held in a position that she couldn't be asleep.

The silence caressed her skin like a chilly breeze, numbing her soul, taking away her jagged edges. Kate stood over the body. A scarf wrapped around her neck and mouth, and her black gloves shoved inside of her red double-breasted trench. Scrunching footsteps reached her, she spun around and met the eyes of Martin.

"One gunshot wound and she's missing a shoe," he said.

Kate shook her head and found the hazel iris of Martin. He was a graceful man. Light brown hair painted with salted age and a beard groomed around his narrow lips. Those eyes trapped a woman's heart. When in tough times, he'd be there to save her? He was the safest person around and she'd never thanked him for all that he gave. Except for what she's about to give him.

His fingers brought tingles to her body even through the woolen fabric of her trench and work shirt. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine."

"That's not what I see." Though he knew he'd caused her pain but wanted her to address it.

Kate pulled away and covered herself as if exposed bare to a cunning man. Though he was anything but a manipulator. He was a man of a few words but when content, he would sing to the world. Every time she'd see him, she'd become sick of guilt and betrayal. He was much older than her and yet she found him to be younger. He was more so a protector than a friend.

"I should go–"

"Where the hell are you going?"

Behind Martin stood a critical Blackhawk–a man who made Kate's insides jump at the same time; she wanted to punch his guts out. His face was one of the utmost nonchalance as he joined the scene. His eyes shot to his partner's hands-on Kate and Martin shuffled away.

"You didn't have to come," she said.

"Who's our Vic?"

Martin looked between the pair.

"Charlotte Dixon, thirty-eight."

"No witness?"

They shook their heads.

"I'll be at the station."

• • •

Clarissa looked at herself in the mirror. Her eyes, like the indigo ocean, were pools of iridescent blue stared at the mark on her chest. He was rough, nearly breaking her bones with the intensity of his plunging. But she loved it. She hadn't had a mind-blowing fuck in forever. She hadn't had intimacy ever since Josiah had been born. Ever since he'd left her. She'd never experienced grief that bad before.

Every memory played like a song in her head, repeating itself for what seemed like forever. She was lost mostly because a big part of her ripped away with a blink of an eye. Her son was born into a world of domestic violence. A world where breath could tear in half in the hands of the law. He was fatherless. And she intends to fix it. He needs a man in his life. To guide him. To love him. And to shape him.

The cop had her right where he'd wanted her. In his room, in his bed. The man was powerful. Demanding. Aggressive and body built of iron. She'd never thought she'd end up in this predicament. Her mother taught her well enough to never climb into a stranger's bed. She wouldn't approve of her selfish act for lusting after a man who might be her father. He brought out a side of her she'd never thought to exist.

Closing her gown, she stepped out of the room and into the kitchen. Clarissa cooked him a pizza and could put anything on it and make it taste fabulous. She'd spend her time rushing around the kitchen, squeezing, cutting and tasting the deliciousness that her father taught her. At a young age, she used to work part-time at her father's pizza parlor after school. Earn a few tips and perks before she knew it, at thirteen, she sold more pizza than her school teachers would make monthly.