Sanctuary (Family Justice Book 3) (2 page)

In the dense silence, she lay there willing the torrent of dark thoughts that wouldn’t stay put in the shadows to back the hell off. It was damn hard on one hand to love her brother and his growing family as she did and then on the other, battle a team of inner demons that reacted to all reminders of what she’d never have. A man to love and protect her as Travis did Missy. Or kids to chase after while you dreamed about their future.

Those things were not a part of her. Not anymore.

George got up, turned in a complete circle, and then flopped down again. A spray of dust motes danced in the air, visible in the rays of sunlight streaming through the window.

Heather wondered if the tiny speckles were unique like snowflakes. Different but alike. A little like how she felt. Detached, but engaged and in the loop. She was deeply involved in her career, was active in the community, and even managed to maintain a couple of professional friendships. As a social worker and therapist, she knew everyone needed those things. But that didn’t stop the relentless belief that she was outside all of it.

Different.

Damaged.

She wondered if a time would ever come when she’d find some sort of sanctuary from the past. Somewhere she’d feel safe. With someone she could shelter with. Wishful thinking on her part.

The shimmering motes danced through the rays of the sun, drawing her gaze across the room to the dining set she was working overtime to avoid.

Muttering, “Shoot,” she really didn’t want to go there but couldn’t help it. George’s head lifted sensing her agitation.

Without lifting from her pillow, she reached behind and scratched the dog’s head. “It’s okay, boy. I was just thinking about Brody.”

At the mention of the man’s name, George sat up, plunked a big heavy paw on her hip, and made a quiet, “Woof.”

Eep
. Of course. George and Brody were BFFs.

Ripping the pillow from beneath her head, Heather sat up and tossed it away. “I’m an idiot.”

The dog sat there, tongue hanging out, and gave her a soulful doggie expression that summed up how she was feeling.

She’d let Brody Jensen get under her skin, and that wasn’t a good thing. Not for her. Not for him.

What they had was …
hmph
. What they had was a connection, not a relationship. A relationship implied feelings and communication when what they did was quite a bit more basic and primitive than that.

They had sex. Lots of it. When he was around, that is, and when he wasn’t, she, well … she did her thing and shut down any and all thoughts about him that went beyond ‘insert penis here.’

George licked the side of her face. Damn dog. She hadn’t wanted a dog and still couldn’t fully figure out just how it was she ended up with one. One day, she’d been living her quiet, solitary life, and the next, Brody was stocking her pantry with puppy treats and play toys. That was six months ago. Right about the time the school term ended and he’d pulled his annual disappearing act.

She slept with him on a regular basis from January through June without knowing anything about what he did when he left. Heather didn’t encourage connection. The sex, high voltage and uh, complex as it was … well, that was enough. It had to be. Because it was all she could allow.

The dog jumped down off the sofa and squirmed through the space between Heather’s legs and the coffee table. As he lumbered by, his tail swished, scattering the mail stack everywhere.

“Aw, come on,” she muttered under her breath. Bending, she scooped up what fell reaching under the sofa for the edge of an envelope. “Least you could do,” she quipped to the dog’s retreating back, “is learn to pick up after yourself.”

Dropping the stack back on the coffee table, the top envelope caught her eye.
Pfft.
Another holiday card. Damn.

“Uh-oh,” she murmured aloud. “Killjoy alert.”

It wasn’t that she disliked the holidays. Not at all. She rather enjoyed the pleasure others got from the season. But the closer it got to the big day, the more adrift she felt. The screaming reminder of her solitary life, one that came around annually and kicked her in the butt, was not helpful.

Eyeing the envelope with a foreboding that pierced her brain, she quickly noted the return address. Arizona. Who the hell did she know in Arizona?

Tearing the gold trimmed envelope to shreds in her haste to get at the card, she instantly loved the charming drawing of a Southwestern adobe glowing with luminaries and red flowers. A cactus, instead of an evergreen, was decorated with lights under a moonlit sky.

Carefully opening the card like it was something of rare value, she wasn’t prepared when a bomb detonated inside her. Her breath lodged painfully in lungs that lost the ability to function, and she caught the slight tremble in her fingers as her world slipped slightly on its axis.

Seconds ticked by until minutes passed. At some point, she remembered how to breathe. Fingers gone numb began to tingle when sensation returned.

Brody.

Oh, my god. Brody.

Brody Jensen sent her a Christmas card.

From Arizona.

Heather’s eyes swung to the dining table again, remembering in vivid detail the last time she’d seen the inscrutable loner. That time, he’d laid her out like a gourmet, five-course meal and feasted on her body until there’d been nothing left. Of her. She’d been shaken by the experience, and though she was loathed to admit it, nothing was the same since.

Brody Jensen was in Arizona. And he’d sent her a card. Through the mail.

What the hell was she supposed to make of it?

J
ESUS CHRIST, WHEN
did he become such a huge pussy?

Slamming the refrigerator door shut with more force than reasonably necessary, Brody vigorously shook the bottle of Naked Juice that would have to suffice for dinner and plodded into the living room.

Stepping over the pile of bags he hadn’t bothered to unpack, he kicked away a pair of boots and scowled. A pussy AND cowboy boots? What the hell?

Dropping like a stone onto an old sofa that’d seen better days, he just sat there and stared straight ahead. As usual, his inner silence was met by an equally loud exterior silence that pretty much summed up the state of his life.

He was … alone.

Guzzling half the bottle of juice in one draw, he let out a hefty, “Ahhhh,” and set the crappy excuse for a meal aside. Though he’d made some decisions recently about the direction of his life—good decisions—he was at loose ends. And going from the bustling Justice compound to this empty solitude wasn’t helping. He fucking missed people. Being part of a group. Having a family, although he still mostly winced at the notion.

Slumping back, he propped bare feet on the coffee table and put one hand behind his head. Until he caught himself doing it and stopped, he’d gone full Al Bundy and slid his other hand into the waistband of his pants.

“Holy god.” He chuckled. “Get off my damn lawn,” he barked at no one.

This was the exact reason why he’d grabbed his balls and stopped fucking around about the future. The last two years he’d been well on his way to grumpy old man territory, devoting way too much internal dialogue on shit he couldn’t change and shouldn’t be dwelling on.

Telling the Justice Brothers about his kid and being given a seat at the Family Justice table—well, that shit was bigger than huge. Those two things were everything. Now, all he had to do was figure out how to reconcile this other part of his life with the one in Arizona.

And that was why he was a pussy. There wasn’t a goddamn thing here to reconcile. Not really. Being a part-time instructor let him steer well clear of department squabbles and college politics, so where that was concerned, he wouldn’t sign his contract for the next winter term and that would be it. When Memorial Day rolled around, he’d be a free agent.

He squirmed at the phrase. Yeah, maybe he had it easy where the job thing was concerned, but the truth was he was by no means a free agent. To pretend otherwise was plain stupid.

Hey,
his conscience tittered.
Remember that Christmas card you just had to mail before flying home? Well, asshole, free agents don’t make special trips to the card store and don’t do shit like that. What the hell were you thinking?

Brody snorted. Shit, that was easy. He was thinking about Heather. Imagining what it would be like to spend Christmas with her because even if they did nothing but fuck, he wouldn’t be alone. And neither would she.

A slight movement caught his eye and he turned his head to investigate. It was snowing. Swirls of white drifted in front of the window of his second-floor apartment.

Looks like we’ll be having a white Christmas, after all.

Floundering around in the moments that followed, he thought about this being his last winter holiday and how different life was going to look a year from now. When he’d be living in the Arizona desert and devoting all his energies to things other than teaching English to a bunch of snotty, uninformed teenagers.

But what about Heather? What was he going to do about her and why the hell did he go to such lengths to send her, and only her, a Christmas card? Shit. He didn’t even send a card to Pops anymore. He’d call him on the big day—wouldn’t miss it. But a schmaltzy holiday card? Nah.

He knew the answer. It was because she was the one thing he needed to reconcile before he could move forward. But good god, their relationship was complicated, and he was using the term relationship quite loosely.

Rolling off the sofa with a groan, he grabbed the strap of his duffle bag and pulled it behind him to the kitchen table. A quick zip and the bag opened so he could upend the contents, sending a bunch of crap spreading across the surface. A pair of Beats headphones in a case covered with travel stickers landed next to a well-read copy of
Huckleberry Finn
.

He couldn’t help the smile that seeing the book caused. As an English teacher, he relied on Twain’s thought-provoking themes in the classroom. Huck was his inspiration and encouragement during some strange times. In many ways, the story was about him.

His stomach rumbled as he eyed a heavy tin filled with Ria’s sweet, salty, and spicy homemade nuts. The crunchy bits were hard to resist so he’d already broken into the tin a bunch of times.

There were a couple of cards that’d been pressed into his hand as he’d made the rounds through the compound saying good-bye for now and wishing everyone a happy holiday plus a bunch of random shit he pushed to the side so he could untangle the wrapped gift that looked the worse for wear after being stuffed into the duffle at the last minute.

A book. An early illustrated copy of
Alice in Wonderland
. For Heather. A present he would probably never give her. And why? Because he was a fucking pussy. That was why.

It would be so easy to text her. Let her know he was back and maybe ask if she wanted to come over.

“Bah.” He snorted. Who the fucking fuck was he kidding? They didn’t deal with each other like that. There was no asking if she wanted to hang out, and maybe that was a lot his fault.

They didn’t hang out. Didn’t go to the movies. Didn’t hold hands and stroll through town. They had sex. Lots of it. Generally in unusual places. The only other thing they did together was eating. Had to keep your strength up, after all. That was how he discovered she was an amazing cook. Heather could take the nastiest ingredients and make them into something spectacular.