Forever Never

One second, Remi was miserably shoveling rainbow unicorn cereal into her mouth as a replacement for the dinner she’d forgotten to cook or order. The next, the Joy of Painting rerun she was watching went dark, as did the rest of the house. Her spoon flew out of her hand onto the rug.

“It’s just a regular ol’ power outage,” she told herself. “No deranged murderer is out there in this squall cutting the power just to break in and commit a homicide.”

Though maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to have a weapon of some sort on hand. Just in case. The wind that had been whipping the island since yesterday gave a particularly creepy howl outside the windows.

She tiptoed her way around the couch and into the kitchen, where after a brief, blind rummage through drawers, she found a pair of kitchen shears. Tucking them into the pocket of her sweatshirt, she began a search for candles and a lighter. She found one taper candle and a box of matches that had apparently gotten wet sometime in the last five years and were basically useless.

Uneasiness curled in her belly.

The gas fireplaces still worked, so she’d be warm. The toilet would still flush. A big plus. But it was dark. Very, very dark.

“This is fucking stupid,” she muttered to herself as she dashed across the street in the frigid night air. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s just a little power outage.”

It was so damn dark. The lights up and down the block were out. Except for the house across the street. The lanterns on either side of Brick Callan’s front door blazed bright, beckoning her like a beacon. Because of course the man she’d been trying to avoid since her drunken alter ego had made a fuzzy yet certainly embarrassing appearance had a generator.

Her teeth were chattering so hard her jaw ached. It wasn’t the cold that had her literally shaking in her boots. Well, it wasn’t only the cold. The dark was suffocating, closing in around her as the cold burned her bare legs.

She wasn’t running to Brick, she told herself even as she picked up the pace, bounding up his front steps. She was merely knocking on a neighbor’s door and—

The heavy wooden front door was wrenched open just as she raised her hand to knock.

“Holy Miles Davis!” she yipped, slapping a hand to her chest and taking an involuntary step backward. “Jesus, Brick. You scared the life out of me. Where are you going?”

“To get you.” He said the words simply as if they weren’t meant to give her solace and hope and make her feel weak in the knees.

His gaze heated her straight through to the bone. He had boots on with pajama pants stuffed into them. On the opposite end, those flannel pants rode low over his hips, revealing the waistband of his underwear. He had one arm shoved through a heavy winter coat and no shirt. The man was shirtless. There was so much to look at.

Her brain came to a screeching halt as she stared at a solid acre of muscular flesh. The comforting bulk of broad shoulders. The taper of his stomach to his narrow hips…and the dangling temptation of an untied drawstring.

“What the hell are you wearing?” he demanded.

Tearing her gaze away from his man chest, Remi glanced down at her middle of the night ensemble. In her panic, she hadn’t changed out of her hoodie and shorts before pulling on snow boots and running for her life.

“I don’t know what you’re complaining about. It’s a hell of a lot more than I was wearing five minutes ago,” she told him.

He swore under his breath, then grabbed her by the front of the sweatshirt and dragged her inside.

“I swear to God, woman,” he said, pulling her further into the house without loosening his grip.

The first few rooms were dark, but the living room was warm and cozy with a fire going in the fireplace and a single lamp casting a glow from the end table.

The light drew her in, instantaneously lowering her pulse from a gallop to a steady jog.

She threw herself on the worn, plaid couch and went to work pulling her boots off. Brick waited until she was done and moved the boots closer to the fire.

On the coffee table, a laptop was open to a search engine. She sneaked a peek when his back was turned.

Remington Ford artist Chicago mayor.

That sneaky son of a bitch was snooping on her.

Under most normal circumstances, it would piss her off. But in the current situation, it damn near made her panic. He needed to leave this alone. She couldn’t let more people get hurt because of her.

While she feigned interest in a blanket on the back of the couch, she noticed him close the computer and move it.

It was quiet, aside from the soft whir from the fireplace fan and the purr of the generator outside.

“Do you want me to turn on more lights?” he asked, his voice low and rough.

She squeezed her eyes shut. “Damn that Darius and his pink flamingos. So I did tell you?” She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes and held them there. “I couldn’t remember if I actually opened my big, fat mouth and told you I was afraid of the dark or if I just wanted to tell you.”

“Why did you want to tell me?” He hadn’t moved any closer. His back was to the fireplace, the coffee table between them. But he still managed to take up all the space in the room.

“Because you used to make me feel safe.”

He flinched. An actual physical recoiling like she’d managed to hurt him. Then it was gone.

“Tell me why you don’t feel safe now. Why you sleep with the lights on. Why your name doesn’t come up in any accident records but you were taken to the hospital for a severe asthma attack.”

She jumped up from the couch, and something slid to the floor, landing with a soft thump.

“Tell me why you’re carrying a pair of fucking scissors in your pocket?”

“You spied on me?” It had been a mistake coming here. Coming home maybe. But running to Brick? Definitely. “You can barely look me in the eye but you went digging for information on me?”

She didn’t make it two steps before he caught her around the waist. They both went stock-still. She could feel the steady thump of his heart. His heat. His glorious, intoxicating, hypnotizing heat seeped into her bones.

“You’re shivering.” His voice was a rumble at her back.

“I’m not shivering,” she said through chattering teeth. “I’m shaking with rage. Totally different.”

For a beat, they stood exactly where they were, bodies touching, breath audible. Then he released her and pointed to the couch. “I don’t care if you’re trembling with hysteria. Sit your ass down and explain to me what the fuck is going on,” he said.

“It’s none of your business.” It wasn’t. She wouldn’t make it his. If she couldn’t protect Camille, she could at least protect him and the only way she was going to be able to accomplish that was by pissing him off.

“I don’t know why you think you can just stick your nose into other people’s business and then demand they explain their lives to you,” she huffed, working herself up into a temper.

“I’m a cop and a bartender—it’s what I do.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not a criminal or a patron. So back off.”

“Where’s your inhaler?” he demanded crisply.

“What?”

“You’re starting to wheeze.”

She didn’t have to work herself up now, she was actually there. For the first time in weeks, she felt strong, not weak.

He blew out a breath. Standing there, hands on hips, he looked formidable. And safe. But it didn’t matter. She wasn’t his problem. He’d lost the opportunity to make her his problem a long time ago.

“Sit,” he ordered.

Stubbornly, she remained standing until he gave an aggrieved groan and took a seat on the couch. “Happy?”

“Not until you tell me why the hell you decided it was imperative that you go digging into my business,” she shot back.

His hands closed over his knees, and then he slid his palms up his thighs. “Because you’re fucking scared, Remi. And the girl I know isn’t afraid of anything. So when you show up here, unannounced, with some bullshit story and a broken arm, and you can’t sleep with the lights off, you’re fucking right, I did some digging. I know you were hospitalized for an asthma attack, not injuries sustained in an accident. You didn’t mention that to your parents when they asked.”

Suddenly weary, she stalked to the opposite end of the couch and sat. Pulling her legs up to her chest, she rested her chin on her knees. She couldn’t afford to tell him the truth. But he wasn’t going to leave this alone. So she had to find another solution.

“Talk to me,” he pressed.

She stared at the flames as they flickered in the fireplace. “Why?”

“Because as much as you don’t believe me, I care.”

“Why?” she asked again.

He rubbed his palms over his thighs. “We’re practically family.”

She shook her head. “Is that how you really feel? That we’re family? That you’re some big brother figure to me?”

He hesitated, and the silence filled every corner of the room. Tension built.

“Yes,” he said, his voice hoarse.

She stared him down. “You want me to be honest with you. Yet you’re willing to sit there and tell me you think of me as a little sister?” she challenged. The man was either lying to her or to himself.

“This isn’t about me,” he began.

“Do you see why I don’t feel like showering you with honesty? You can’t even be honest about that. Something we both know is true, and you still can’t admit it.”

Her phone rang from the pocket of her hoodie, and she yanked it out. It wasn’t a number she recognized, but the area code was Chicago.

Without an explanation, she bolted from the room.

“Hello?” she breathed, hurrying into the kitchen.

“You want to explain to me why my top client isn’t returning any of my calls?” Rajesh Thakur, her annoyingly needy agent demanded.

Remi’s shoulders sagged, and the hope that had built inside her deflated like a punctured bounce house.

“Why are you calling me from some random number?”

“Bigger question. Why is Alessandra Ballard answering some random number instead of the last eleven calls from her agent?”

“Did it ever occur to you that I don’t want to talk to you?” she hissed, peering over her shoulder to make sure she was still alone.

“Bro, did it occur to you that I don’t care?” Raj, as he was known in the art crowd, was immune to digs and insults. He dressed like a mob boss, spoke like a recently graduated fraternity brother, and demanded VIP service everywhere he went. As long as he was negotiating his clients’ fat commissions, he didn’t care what anyone had to say about him.

Brick appeared in the doorway and strolled over to the refrigerator. He leaned against it, arms crossed, and watched her, openly eavesdropping. She would have stepped outside, but it was fucking dark out there.

“What do you want?” she asked Raj.

“To tell you to snap out of this little meltdown funk and get your ass back here. We should be plastering your face all over the blogs.”

“I’ve seen what they’re writing. There will be no face plastering,” Remi said, glaring at Brick.

He raised an inquisitive eyebrow. She returned it with a middle finger.

“Negative attention is still attention,” Raj insisted in her ear. “And in this case, it’s paying off big. Ask me how.”

She blew out a breath through gritted teeth. “You’re the worst. How?”

“First, tell me I’m the world’s greatest agent, and you want to up my commission to twenty percent.”

“No.” As a baby, untested artist, she’d surprised Raj by battling him down from his standard twenty percent to a more palatable fifteen. He secretly respected her for it.

“Your motherfucking genius agent just sold Once Upon a Dream.”

Remi spun away from Brick’s weighted stare. “Wait. What? That wasn’t even in a gallery yet.”

The piece was huge and complex. Her best yet. It was a wild fever dream of color. It came to being after she’d asked a DJ friend to mix two of her favorite songs together. She’d finished it just before the show at the gallery. Just before the night that had changed everything.

“No gallery, no gallery commission,” Raj crowed.

“Raj, that painting was in my apartment.” Her apartment was a minimalist, white loft with high ceilings, tall windows, exposed ducting, and wood floors. While it was exactly the kind of place Alessandra Ballard would have been expected to have, it hadn’t ever truly felt like home to Remi.

Sure, the light was great for her work. But no amount of comfy furniture or cozy throws ever made it feel warm.

“I’ve been watering your plants and drinking your booze since you pulled the runaway act. You’re welcome, by the way. Anyway, with all this press about the accident, your name and your paintings have been splashed all over the fucking place. So when a tech guru from Silicon Valley in town for a conference came sniffing around for a Ballard original, I took her to your place. Don’t worry. I hid your laundry under the sink first.”

She’d left the place a wreck. Paints, brushes, drop cloths everywhere. She’d packed in a whirlwind, leaving discarded clothing and toiletries scattered across every flat surface.

“I feel violated.”

She sensed rather than witnessed Brick’s reaction. When she glanced over her shoulder, he was standing, hands fisted at his side, a scowl on his handsome face. She shook her head at him.

“The price tag will make that go away,” Raj said with confidence.

“I doubt that,” she said dryly.

“The whole behind-the-scenes, art-in-its-natural-habitat thing added a few pretty G’s to the asking price.”

“What was the number?” she asked.

“A hundred thousand dollars.”

Remi’s knees went weak. She took a shaky step toward the table and gave up, sinking to the floor. “What did you say?” she asked, rubbing two fingers to the spot between her eyebrows that felt like it was going to explode.

“Your first six-figure price tag, bro,” he said smugly. “They only go higher from here.”

Her head was spinning.

“Remington,” Brick growled.

She ignored him.

“Is that the dick who answered your phone the other night?”

Her gaze slid back to the man in question. “Oh, it better not be.” The glare she leveled at him should have made him weak in the knees, should have at least had the survival instinct to cover his crotch kicking in.

Instead, he doubled down and stared back. “Get. Off. The phone.”

“Raj, I have to go murder someone.”

“I expected a little excitement out of you. But I guess that’s what I get for representing temperamental pains in the asses. You’re out of good wine, by the way.”

Remi disconnected the call and climbed back to her feet.

“Did you answer my phone, talk to someone, and not tell me about it?” She congratulated herself on how deadly calm she sounded.

The man didn’t even have the good grace to look embarrassed.

“I did. You were passed out. I thought it might be an emergency. Who made you feel violated? Was it that Rajesh guy?”

“How dare you!” she snarled. “I don’t even know what to yell about first. The fact that you keep invading my privacy—”

“You’re in my house.”

“That can be remedied,” she said, striding for the doorway.

He stepped in front of her, a wall of muscle and angst. “No. Not until you tell me exactly what the fuck is going on.”

She went toe-to-toe with him, tipping her head back so she could look at him. “I don’t owe you a goddamn thing!”

“Don’t push me, Remi,” he warned.

“Or what?” she taunted, poking him in the very large, very hard chest. “You’ll storm your way into my business? You’ll treat me like a little sister? Oh, wait, I know. You’ll go back to disappearing every time I come home—”

He grabbed her by the front of the shirt, and she found herself pinned between a plaster wall and a Brick one. She froze as those massive hands settled on either side of her head. His chest was heaving, nostrils flaring like a stallion about to run. His hips held her against the wall, an obscene length of hard flesh pressed against her belly.

“Shut. The fuck. Up,” he enunciated a mere inch from her face.

It was the shock and not the command that had her obeying, she decided.

Then he dipped his head toward her, and she forgot everything. It all slipped out of her head as her attention zeroed in on the man’s firm, scowling mouth as it drew closer in slow motion.

Her lips parted as if they were under someone else’s control. Heart thundering away in her chest. His breath was hot on her cheek. His body so warm against hers. Every part of her was alert. But this wasn’t fear. No. This was alive.

The breath she let out was a tremulous one. It had one corner of Brick’s mouth lifting in smug satisfaction.

But just when she thought he was going to finally, finally kiss her, he tensed against her instead. Those heated blue eyes were no longer focused on her face.

She heard it then. The squeak and swing of the front door. The change in him was instantaneous. Gone was the stubborn seducer and in his place was a battle-ready sentry. Her blood ran cold. No. It couldn’t be. Not here.

Brick, eyes blazing, clamped a firm hand over her mouth, dragging her out of her frozen fear. She managed a shaky nod, and he removed his hand. With surprising grace, he whirled her away from the wall and put himself between her and the intruder. Her brain, scrambling to keep up with the ever-changing situation, took a hot second to admire the barricade of muscle.

Footsteps realigned her priorities, and Remi snagged a knife from the butcher block on the counter. The hand that wrapped around the hilt shook, but it felt damn good to take a stand.

He spared her a glance, spotted the knife and mouthed the word “No.”

She jabbed the blade in the direction of the hall where it was apparent someone was approaching.

Brick moved soundlessly to the doorway, sinking into a crouch. A lion ready to pounce. She gripped the knife in both hands and held her breath.