Sanctuary (Family Justice Book 3) (3 page)

An almost empty water bottle teetered on the edge of the table. He tore off the cap, downed the last of the beverage, crushed the plastic bottle, and put the cap on. Looking over his shoulder for the mesh can he kept for recycling, Brody turned toward it and made a silent bet.

If it goes in, I call her. If it doesn’t, well …

Eyeing up the shot, the damn basket was all the way across the room, he pitched the crumpled plastic
in a wobbling arc and
watched it sail through the air. Twisting his body as if it would affect the trajectory, he was sure it was a bull’s-eye. But at the last second, the fucking thing hit the wall, and instead of dropping neatly into the basket like a good backboard shot should, it careened to the left and plunked onto the carpet.

So … no phone call. Uncomfortably disappointed, he pushed the wrapped present into the duffle and went back to the sofa with his deteriorating thoughts. What the hell was he going to do about Heather?

He’d been asking that question almost nonstop since the reality hit of what joining Justice full time was going to mean to his life.

Christmas was in three days. The next college term began right after the New Year. Suddenly, the wisdom of bailing on Arizona right before the holidays seemed like a bone-headed move. He’d been so wrapped up in the drama of Baby St. John’s arrival that once Daniel was safely in the arms of his parents, he immediately started worrying about all the changes coming his way. Instead of hanging around and sharing the joy that the next generation of Justice kids brought, he’d fallen back into old habits, put his head down, and ran at the first opportunity.

He loved kids. Kids loved him. Hell, Dylan Cameron at just three months old was practically a BFF-in-the-making.

But seeing Draegyn St. John in the role of a new dad shook him up. Big time. No one was a more unlikely family man, so when Cam and Drae strutted about with their newborns, it hurt him in ways he hadn’t expected. After all, he was a dad too.

Eventually, an overload to set in. His thoughts wouldn’t cooperate, and he’d been up to his hairline in wishful scenarios that in the end, tore him up inside. Leaving was the only option if he wanted to keep it together.

But even that didn’t stop all that shit in his head from running a motherfucking marathon that went on nonstop, torturing him with Christmas Day fantasies. His baby girl would be five this year, practically the best age for holiday magic to sweep her away. He’d spoil the crap out of her. Just like his dad did for him. They’d read
The Night Before Christmas
and get silly making up their own verses. There would be hot cocoa the way his mom used to make and though both his parents were long gone, his granddad, Pops, would be there to fill in the hole.

And here’s the thing
, he thought with an uncomfortable flutter of hyper-awareness. He’d added Heather to this happy scene and himself cold sober. A woman he was intimately involved with but who was as much a mystery to him as he was to her.

On reflex, his hand slid into the pocket of his jeans to remove his wallet. The soft, old leather opened easily—his fingers swiftly pulling at the tattered corner of a picture. A deep, painful sadness squeezed him the second the photograph revealed the face of a tiny baby girl, wrapped loosely in a pink shawl. His daughter. Mia.

Swallowing past the thickness in his throat, Brody let the sadness sweep over him. He couldn’t avoid how he felt and had been through enough fucking counseling sessions over the years to know that fighting his emotions only made the reaction worse.

He was many things. A teacher. An Iraq veteran. A grandson. A dog trainer. And a motherfucking expert on post-traumatic stress. He thought about everything he’d been through because of the PTSD shit and nodded, remembering that was how he’d met Heather. They might not talk inside their intimate bubble, but she knew things about him and he knew things about her. Things they never, ever discussed.

What would Heather make of finding out he had a kid? One he hadn’t seen since she was a wiggling pink bundle.

Huffing, the sound filled with frustration, he carefully slid Mia’s picture away and turned frustrated eyes on the snowfall.

He’d come back to close out this chapter of his life. To do the right thing before moving on. The grown-up thing. But the way his thoughts and emotions were tangling … Mia … Heather … an imagined future, well … he was fucked.

“Get your shit together, dude,” he muttered. Pressing two fingers on a spot between his eyes, Brody fought back against the dull throb building in his head. “Fuck.” The last thing this situation needed was a migraine.

A
W, FOR GOD’S SAKE
… really? Why did today have to be when the heating system in the old building where her tiny cubbyhole of an office was located decided to take a crap. Dammit. She wasn’t in the mood for bullshit.

Trudging down the dingy hallway lugging an enormous leather satchel, the only sound she heard was of her boots pounding out a brisk rhythm as she marched straight to her office door.

A shiny plaque slid into the holder mounted to the door announced her name and position … Heather Clarke, Counselor.

Digging into her coat pocket for the keys she kept on a funky lanyard covered with Grateful Dead rainbow bears, Heather juggled the Starbucks container she held in her other hand, hoping she didn’t end up wearing the steamy beverage as she fumbled with the lock.

Making it through the door without incident, she made a beeline to her desk, quickly emptied everything from her hands, and slid the heavy satchel off her arm. It landed with a loud
thunk
as it hit the wood surface.

The heating system must have gone down overnight
, she thought because it was miserably cold in the tiny space. Maybe opening the blinds would help by bringing in some warmth from the sunlight, so she twisted the hanging stick that controlled the ancient metal slats until her modest workspace flooded with light.

Checking the decades-old thermostat on the wall by the coat tree where she hung her heavy coat, she groaned. “Really? Fifty-two degrees?” Felt a hell of a lot colder than that. Puffing quickly, she fully expected to see her breath.

Muffled sounds outside the office got her attention. As they got louder, Heather went to the doorway and saw Mr. Dan making his way along the long hallway with a phone pressed to his ear. It was somewhat of a relief to see he was on the job. The older gentleman was their resident troubleshooter, doubling as both Head of Maintenance and part-time campus security.

“Same shit, different day,” she heard him chortle into the phone. “Bet the boiler went to sleep and forgot to set the alarm!”

Pfft.
At least, someone found this amusing.

Ending his call, Dan looked up and smiled. She was leaning in her doorway, hands shoved into the pockets of a thick sweater and bouncing lightly on her toes to keep warm.

“Thought that was you, Ms. Clarke,” the always happy man called out as he hurried toward her. “Only you would come in during the holiday break.”

She sniffed and shrugged an awkward acknowledgment of his comment.

“Well.” He laughed. “You and that geek squad in the STEM building. That they get a whole wing just for science, technology, engineering, and math cracks me up!”

Heather laughed too. Everyone knew STEM was the new thing in education. It was what brought students in, so the college threw down and fancied up a huge, new building just for them.

“Bet their damn heat works,” she snarled.

Dan pulled a comical face and muttered conspiratorially, “And if it doesn’t, they can make a new boiler on the fancy 3-D printer whatchamacallit they got.”

“So what’s up with the heat?” she asked. “I suppose you were talking to your guys?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he replied, absently waving his phone. “Good news. Not the boiler. This time, it looks like just a thermostat short. And only these two floors. We’re on it.”

“Hmmm.” She looked around, spotted her Starbucks, and figured
what the hell
. It was just a bit of cold. She’d survive. Besides, sitting at home with nothing to do finally drove her nuts. Waiting another couple of days for the term to start wasn’t working for her. She needed to stay busy. It was the best insurance against the demons inside.

“I passed June Porter on the way in. She has a bunch of work-study students helping clear out the old file room. If they can handle it, so can I.”

“There’s actually quite a few faculty on campus. The quiet before the storm. Well, look now, Ms. Clarke,” Dan insisted with a serious grunt. “You’ll be fine. We’ll have the problem fixed by lunchtime, okay? Want me to call you when the heat comes back up?”

“Thanks, Dan,” she replied with a warm smile. She kind of liked that he was on the job and watching out for her. For everyone. “I have a ton of paperwork to deal with. Probably be here all day,” she added casually.

“Well, don’t work too hard,” he admonished, his feet starting to move on down the hall. “If you’re feeling adventurous … grab a hunk of cardboard from recycling and head on down to Poet’s Hill. All the new snow has turned it into an awesome butt-sled spot! See ya,” he boomed, and in a flash, he was gone.

“Butt-sled,” she murmured with a chuckle. As if!

Turning back to the quiet of her office, Heather shut the door and sighed. This was her life. Work. Eat. Sleep. Work some more. No butt-sledding.

Stomping her feet because that was what you did when it was cold, she growled a lengthy, “Brr,” and looked around. Not normally prone to fanciful thoughts, she was a bit displeased when a desire to get rid of the boring glumness in her life invaded her mind. Nice thought but she didn’t have time for such nonsense. She was what she was and this was what it was. Totally lame excuse for a saying, but there you have it.

Sighing, she snuggled deeper into her sweater and started for her desk. And then she saw it. A Post-It note stack, purple, right in the center of her workspace.

Rushing to get at it, she stumbled forward and got tangled between a chair and a table. Finally extricating herself, she stopped again when the bottom of her sweater snagged on something.

Rather frantically struggling to get free, her gaze swung again and again to the purple square. She was a trained psychologist and a licensed social worker, so she knew a Pavlovian Response when one hit her. The second her eyes landed on the purple stack, she reacted to the potent stimuli, which signaled only one thing.

Brody.

A research scientist would have a field day with her reaction. Right away, her heart thumped wildly and her breathing became choppy. The room might be chilly, but suddenly, heat was surging through her body and she felt an unmistakable tingling in her core that quickly turned to a heavy ache.

Lurching from her awkward predicament, she managed to bump a thigh and smack a knee in her haste to reach the desk.

Snatching the purple stack, she gasped. Oh, my god. He was back.

Cold enough for you?
They’d done this before so she knew the drill. Snowflakes doodled in the corner were the clue to read on. Tearing off the top note, she eagerly continued.

Wonder what you’re wearing
… This time, the doodle was a dress and some pants. Nobody doodled quite like Brody did. Tearing the note off, she stuck it on her desk beside the first one. Like a storyboard.

If it’s pants … over my knee you go
. The doodle was a hand and some lines to suggest motion. Oh. That must be his spanking hand, she snickered while tearing the note off.

But if it’s a skirt … take your panties off.
Boom! An explosion of heat detonated inside her and started a rush of liquid arousal that felt awfully damn good. The panties drawn dangling from a finger in the corner might as well have been triple-x porn the way it got her blood pumping.

Next note -
Put ‘em in your purse and show me.
But no doodle. She knew what that meant.

Without a second’s hesitation, Heather reached beneath the heavy sweater and found the hem of her skirt. Pulling it out of the way so she could get to her undies, she made quick work of peeling the white cotton away as the cold air hit her exposed flesh.