Due to this, I felt annoyance mix with the confusion, which caused an edge to my voice when I asked, “Can I help you?”
He nodded. “Ms. Sheckle.”
My body snapped tight.
“I’m Walter Jones,” he went on to declare. “I’d hoped to—”
He didn’t get to telling me what he’d hoped, even though I knew what he’d fucking hoped, so he didn’t have to tell me shit.
This was because I lost my mind.
“Are you fucking shitting me?”
My voice was loud.
His face set. “Ms. Sheckle—”
“No,” I bit out, shaking my head. “Unh-unh. Man, when a woman does not take your calls, you need to get the hint no matter what reason you’re makin’ that call, and especially when you’re makin’ the calls you made to me, that you should leave it alone.”
“As I hope you heard in my voicemail message, I intend to compensate you for your time,” he told me swiftly. “I’m prepared to give you a thousand dollars to speak with me. If I could just come in—”
“Listen, asshole,” I shot back. “For me to talk to some goddamned stranger who’s lookin’ to make money off the shit Dennis Lowe piled on me, a thousand dollars won’t cut it. You could throw four fuckin’ zeroes at the end of that and it still wouldn’t cut it. Jesus, showin’ up at my door…” My voice, already loud, was rising. “What’s the matter with you?”
He opened his mouth to speak, but then his gaze darted over my shoulder, surprise hit his eyes and his body snapped alert.
I was so pissed, I didn’t feel it.
When Walter Jones did that, I felt it.
And it was not good.
What it was was me learning the intensely uncomfortable feeling of the vibe Garrett Merrick gave off when he was about to lose his motherfucking mind. When he was about to lose hold on his brand of messy that made the likes of Ryker look adjusted. When he was preparing to get covered in a pile of shit in an effort to dig someone he cares about out from under it.
Slowly, even though I should have gone faster—his mood was so extreme, it made me move like I was surrounded in molasses—I turned to him.
I felt the vibe, but the look on his face confirmed it.
In fascinated, terrified awe, I saw that his handsome features now appeared carved from marble, and his eyes were glinting, wintry shards of blue ice that I could fucking swear lowered the temperature around us by thirty degrees.
I stood immobile, terrified, not that he would harm me, but that he was about to do something that might bring harm to him, and yet I was so enthralled by the sheer menace he was exuding that was so far from the Merry I knew, it shook me and I couldn’t move.
Merry was immobile too, for one beat…two…three…four…all of these feeling like eternity, nothing about him changing until finally I saw a minute shift in his expression and he stepped forward.
I braced to block his way so he wouldn’t go apeshit on Walter Jones.
“Step off Ms. Rivers’s stoop,” he ordered, that smooth voice that hid the rough underneath a memory, his voice was vibrating with the rage he was not hiding.
“Sir—” Walter Jones started.
Merry shifted a hand, pulling back the dark blue suit jacket he was wearing to expose the butt of his gun in its holster at the side of his chest as well as the shiny badge clipped to his belt.
“Take…your hand…off Ms. Rivers’s door…and step…the fuck…off her goddamned stoop,” Merry growled.
I heard the storm door whisper, but it didn’t bang into place because Merry moved quickly and caught it with his hand.
I moved to go after him.
He stopped and cast the blue ice of his eyes down to me.
“You stay in here, baby.”
His tone was not gentle. It wasn’t soft. It was a hard order he expected to be obeyed.
And the addition of “baby” was not meant to soften that order.
It was a communication to Walter Jones of who I was to Merry.
Thinking my best move at that point was to do what I was told, I nodded.
Merry pushed through the door. It whispered again as it closed and I caught it before it banged. Then I stood on the other side of it to watch Merry prowl the three strides that took him to Walter Jones, who was standing at the foot of my stoop.
When he stopped, he pushed both sides of his suit jacket back to plant his hands on his hips, again exposing his badge and gun, but also expanding his frame so he bested Jones in height and in width.
“So you been in contact with Ms. Rivers about Dennis Lowe,” he stated unhappily.
“Can I ask your name, Detective?” Jones returned.
“It’s lieutenant…Lieutenant Garrett Merrick of the BPD. Now, confirm. You been in contact with Ms. Rivers about Dennis Lowe?”
“I’m an FBI profiler—” Jones started.
“I don’t give a fuck what you are,” Merry cut him off. “What I want right now is to be sure I’m gettin’ straight what’s goin’ on here. You been in contact with Ms. Rivers about Dennis Lowe. Yeah?”
“I’m writing a book—”
“I don’t give a fuck about that either.” Merry’s tone was deteriorating. “I asked you, you been in contact with Ms. Rivers about Dennis Lowe?”
“Obviously, I have,” Jones sniped in the face of Merry’s interrogation, his patience waning too.