Are you scared yet, p.3
Are You Scared Yet?, page 3
The dog whined and tensed, but didn't raise his head. Once he was in the blanket, she squatted as if she was about to do a dead lift at the gym and then heaved him into her arms.
Delilah groaned with effort as she tried to redistribute his weight in her arms without jostling him. "Been hittin' the Dog Chow a little heavy, there, boy?" Holding him against her body, ignoring the blood that oozed through her freshly dry-cleaned jacket, she slowly rose to her feet and walked toward the car. "Good boy. Good dog," she murmured, keeping her face well away from his. He didn't appear aggressive, but she knew the "better safe than sorry" rule from experience. She and one of her brothers had once tried to rescue a dog from a muskrat trap when she was a kid. They'd both ended up with stitches and a tongue lashing from the pediatrician and their mama.
At the car, Delilah debated whether to put him in the front seat or back seat. In the front, she could pet the dog, keep him calm. In the front, he could also bite her ear off if he got agitated once they were on the road.
"Sorry, pooch." She maneuvered him in her arms, resting one knee against the car so she could get the rear door open without having to set him down. "No canine passengers in the front seat. Strict station policy."
She gently lowered him to the seat. "Good boy," she encouraged, releasing him and easing back. Seeing the seat belt, on impulse, she loosened one strap and buckled it around him, tucking the now bloody blanket around him papoose style. "There you go. Now stay put and we'll have you fixed up in no time."
Delilah closed the door and looked down at her uniform, opening her arms. She was covered in blood and dog hair. "Perfect," she muttered as she climbed behind the wheel and secured her seatbelt. Putting the car in gear, she hit the bubble light and siren buttons and made a U-turn in the road. She reached for her radio. "Looks like we're going to be seriously late to the shindig, old boy," she told the dog.
She clicked the transmit button on the old-fashioned style police radio. As the only detective on the force, she had been issued a car, but it was the oldest one in the fleet. It hadn't even been equipped with a cell phone and a computer, although they had been promised to her months ago. "Unit 7 to SCom."
"Ten-Three." The dispatcher's voice crackled over the radio.
"I've got a hit-and-run dog," she said having no idea what the code was for it, not even sure there was one. "Please notify Dr. Eagle of incoming." She glanced at the red numerals on the dash. "She may have already headed home for the day, but if not, see if she can hang around a few more minutes."
"Ten-four."
"And hey, Jer," Delilah said, completely ignoring radio protocol, "could you get a message to Chief Calloway at Maria's Place, let him know I'm going to be a little late?"
* * *
By the time Delilah had met the local veterinarian at her office and gotten the dog settled on the examining table and waited with her until a technician arrived, it was five o'clock. Delilah had fully intended to just go home, but Snowden called in and had the dispatcher patch the call to her car. There were still plenty of people at Maria's Place, some media still there, and he wanted her to come anyway. Before she could explain to him that she needed to go home and change, he disconnected.
Delilah was tired, she was annoyed with Snowden, and worried about Callie, Rosemary, and the mutt. The last thing she wanted to do was to show up at a public event in a uniform smeared with blood she'd tried unsuccessfully to clean up in the vet's office bathroom, and the teary eyes she kept wiping at. Dr. Eagle had determined she could probably save the dog's life, repair the hip, but the one rear leg had been crushed and it would need to be amputated.
Delilah knew it was silly to cry over a dog she didn't know, who was going lose his leg but not his life. It was just that... it was a day when she felt like she needed a break and no one was going to cut her one.
She pulled up in the cruiser behind a WKKB news van, complete with satellite dish on top. "Perfect," she muttered, grabbing her uniform hat, rubbing the wet, stained spot on her jacket just above her right nipple.
She had barely made it up the front steps onto the old farmhouse porch when applause rippled in front of her, moving from the porch, through the open door into the house.
Delilah felt her cheeks grow warm.
"We're never going to be able to live with you now," one of her fellow officers, standing on the porch, eating a piece of apple pie teased.
She looked at him.
"Jerry called the chief. Told him what was going on with the dog and the vet and all. Chief made a public announcement when he apologized for you not being here." John Lopez winked at her, a forkful of apple pie poised. "Be no livin' with you now, Detective Swift, stalker of serial killers and defender of homeless dogs."
"Eat your pie, Lopez," she muttered, walking in the front door.
"Nice job, Detective," a woman said to her.
"Congratulations," offered another. The hall was filled with people, many she knew from town, some she didn't.
There was more clapping. Someone patted her on the back. She nodded, half smiling, feeling totally out of place. Embarrassed. The dog was lying in the middle of the road. What was she supposed to do? Swerve around it and keep driving? She didn't even particularly like dogs. She was a cat woman all the way.
Halfway down the hall, under the stairwell, surrounded by pretty white and green flowered wallpaper she met Snowden's blue-eyed gaze.
"Detective." He nodded as she approached.
"Chief." She removed her hat. An elderly woman was trying to offer her a piece of coconut cake, but she shook her head. "No, thanks. Maybe in a minute." There were people all around, jostling her, congratulating her, making her really uncomfortable. "Sorry about missing the ceremony," she said quietly, stopping at Snowden's elbow.
He smiled with one corner of his mouth, taking in her shabby appearance before meeting her gaze again. "Sometimes these things can't be helped, Detective. Nice job."
From behind Delilah, a woman in a pink suit thrust a microphone in front of Delilah's face. A man emerged behind her with a camera on his shoulder and a bright light on the camera winked at her. Delilah recognized the woman now—she hosted the local evening news. Young, pretty, and single, she was a bit of a celebrity in the area.
"Here she is," Chief Calloway said, "Stephen Kill's very own Detective Sergeant Swift."
"Detective Swift, could you tell us the condition of the dog you rescued?" the reporter asked into the microphone and then shoved it at Delilah again.
Delilah looked up at Snowden, but he only flashed that little half smile of his again and walked away.
"Detective Swift," Marty Kyle, from the evening news pushed, "can you tell us about your heroic rescue? We understand that despite heavy blood loss, the dog is expected to come through surgery, thanks to you."
Delilah clenched her hat in both hands, trying to hide her stained uniform and looked into the camera, silently cursing Snowden under her breath as she scrambled to say something intelligent... vowing to get even with him for throwing her to the media wolves again.
* * *
Delilah had just hopped out of the shower when she heard a knock on the door. Glancing at herself in the mirror, running one hand through her wet blond hair, she dropped the yellow towel and reached for her blue silk bathrobe on the back of the bathroom door.
The knock came again, this time more insistently. It was the back door. "Open up," came a stern male voice. "Police."
She took one more quick look in the steamy mirror, wiping a smudge of mascara from under her eyes, and hurried out of the bathroom, through her dark bedroom, and down the hall.
He was still banging when she turned the deadbolt and jerked the door open. "Enough already."
Snowden quickly stepped in, closing the door behind him. Before she could speak, he grabbed her around the waist and pushed her against the side of the refrigerator.
"This police brutality?" She closed her eyes, lifting her chin, feeling the heat of his mouth against her throat.
He kissed his way upward to her ear. "You ducked out of there pretty fast. You okay?" he whispered.
"I fared better than my uniform."
"You know what I mean. The reporters. I didn't intend to... put you on the spot like that," he said.
She slid her palm across his smoothly shaven face, drawing in his gaze. "Yes, you did. I saw that evil little smile of yours. You know how much I hate those interviews and you were loving it."
He grinned as he slid her hand over her hip to her back and pulled her against him. Snowden had a way about him she liked. He was never too possessive, never too rough, but he was fun in his lovemaking. It was something she would never have guessed about him. At first glance, Chief Snowden Calloway did not give the impression of being a fun guy.
"You're our hero," he teased. "What can I do, but play it up while it lasts? A police force can't buy this kind of good publicity and you just drag it around behind you."
She grabbed two handfuls of his white University of Virginia T-shirt. It was one of his favorite jogging shirts, but he hadn't been jogging. He smelled just-out-of the shower clean and she leaned against him, pressing her cheek to one smooth, hard pec, breathing him in. "You should go back to using the front door. You're going to get caught one of these days, hopping Mr. Jenson's fence."
"Just out for a jog," he said, feigning innocence as he lowered his hand to one of her buttocks and gave it a playful squeeze, pulling her against him so she could feel his groin against her hips.
Delilah let her eyes drift shut for a moment, enjoying not just the pressure of his man stick as she and her girlfriends used to call it, but the feel of Snowden's arms around her. She didn't know exactly when it had happened, but this wasn't just about hot, sweaty, forbidden sex with her boss anymore. It was developing into something else. He knew it. She knew it. She just couldn't figure out which one of them it frightened more.
"I was going to pour myself a glass of wine." She lifted her chin to look into his pale blue eyes. He brushed his lips against hers before releasing her. "Want one?" She slipped out of his arms, catching his larger hand with hers before letting it go.
"Nah, I can't stay long."
"A beer?"
"No, thanks."
He leaned against a kitchen , crossing long, powerful legs that his baggy cotton gym shorts showed off to a T. Delilah thought he had the most beautifully colored skin, like a cup of coffee with just the right amount of cream in it. Here, in the civilized, almost north, she'd heard it referred to as café latte skin. Where she was from, the description was not nearly as poetic and a heck of a lot more derogatory.
She turned away from him, reaching for the bottle of Shiraz on the counter and a wine glass from the cupboard above. Despite her family's continuous prying, she had not told anyone about her relationship with Snowden. No matter how much her mother needled her about it being "high time she found herself a man," she kept her mouth shut. If her daddy, her brothers, found out she was dating a black man, they'd string them both up.
"Pretty amazing turnout at Maria's Place today." She removed the vacuum stopper from the bottle and poured herself half a glass. She hadn't cared much for wine when she'd moved to Delaware a year and a half ago. Maybe a glass of chardonnay once in awhile, but Snowden had introduced her to an entire world of rich, dark cabernets, merlots, and grenaches. What was interesting about Snowden's love of wine was that he never opened a bottle for himself or drank a glass alone the way she did. For him, wine was only meant to be shared with others.
"I think a lot of people were there to see you. Shake your hand," he said thoughtfully.
She grimaced. "I suppose that's good for Sister Julie and her girls, but I'm serious about feeling funny about all this attention. It just doesn't seem to want to go away."
"You made CNN and CNBC." He shrugged broad shoulders. "You're our star."
"But I wasn't solely responsible for tracking down Alice Crupp and you know it." She took a sip of wine, turning to lean against the counter beside him. "We all worked hard to put an end to those killings. You just pushed me out front when the media came knocking."
"I've got news for you, Delilah. You were already out front on that investigation. Besides, it's hard to interview an entire police force in a thirty second sound bite. And everyone likes a hero, especially if it's a—"
"Woman?"
He took the glass from her, watching her over the rim as he sipped from it. "I was going to say blue-eyed, blond-haired knockout with an attitude."
She laughed and plucked her glass from his hand. "You want to..." She lifted her chin suggestively in the direction of her bedroom.
"I don't know." He grabbed the end of the tie of her silk robe and slowly pulled on it. "You?"
The robe fell open, partially baring her breasts and offering a glimpse of pale thigh. She really did need to get some sun. "Maybe..."
She was just turning to him, lifting her chin to meet his lips when the phone rang. It startled them both, but she was the one who actually jumped.
"Sheesh," she muttered. She guessed all this sneaking around bothered her more than she thought.
The phone rang again.
"You going to answer that?"
It wasn't until then that she remembered the call earlier in the day from her sister. Delilah didn't curse often; it was how her mama had brought her up, but she was sorely tempted. She was not up to this conversation tonight.
The phone rang again.
Unfortunately, if she didn't answer it, the answering machine would come on and there was no telling what Rosemary might say. So far, Delilah had been pretty good about keeping Snowden almost entirely in the dark about her family. This was not the way she wanted him to start getting to know them.
She reached across him, grabbing the cordless phone from its cradle. "'Lo."
He grabbed the tie of her robe again, but she pushed him away with her elbow.
"Delilah? I thought you were going to call me tonight. You promised," her sister said in her ear, a quiver in her voice.
"I know. I... I was. I'm sorry." Delilah glanced up at Snowden and then turned her back to him, setting down her wine glass. "What's going on? What did she do?"
"Marijuana in her locker. This is bad, Delilah. She could be sent away to—"
"Look, someone's here," Delilah interrupted. "You think I could—"
"I've decided," Rosemary said. Either she didn't hear Delilah or she didn't care that her sister had company. "You're going to have to come get her."
"Wh... what?" Delilah looked at Snowden. Sorry, she mouthed.
It's okay, he mouthed back, reaching for her glass.
Delilah wandered out of the kitchen and down the hall. "Rosemary, I know you're upset," she said softly. "But don't you think—"
"Upset!" Rosemary interrupted. "I'm past upset, Delilah. I'm... I'm at my wit's end. I need you to come get her. Keep... keep her for the summer. At least until I can... I can get my head on straight. Get the kids calmed down and in some sort of routine."
"I'm not sure that's wise for Callie right now." Delilah stood in front of her bedroom doorway, trying to keep her voice down. She'd put fresh sheets on the bed in the hopes Snowden would stop by. She needed him tonight. Needed to feel his arms around her. "I know she knows she's made a mistake. I know—"
"You don't know anything, Delilah!" Her voice teetered on the edge of hysteria. "How could you possibly know, sitting up there in your nice, new town house, getting your name in Newsweek? Seeing your face on cable TV?"
Delilah rested her hand on the doorframe, closing her eyes for a moment. "Okay," she said softly. "You're right. You're right, of course, I don't know what you're going through. But I can't talk right now. There's someone here... someone from the station."
"You're not going to keep putting me off again, Delilah. I talked to Mama tonight and to Jeb and Jason. They all agree—"
"Rosemary," Delilah said forcefully. "I am not going to talk to you about this when you're this upset. It's not the way for either of us to make any smart decisions."
Rosemary was quiet on the other end of the phone.
Delilah thought she heard her sister crying. She opened her eyes. Rosemary had never been a particularly strong woman. Never very independent. Delilah knew this had to be hard for her sister. But did Rosemary think it was easy for her?
"You sound exhausted," Delilah said gently. "Why don't you make yourself a cup of chamomile tea and let me call you tomorrow after church?"
"I am tired," Rosemary breathed.
"I know, sweetie. Have some tea, get a good night's sleep and I'll talk to you tomorrow."
"Okay, but—" Rosemary halted and then started again. "I'm serious this time, Delilah. Callie and I need some time apart. Otherwise—" Her voice cracked. "Otherwise one of us is going to kill the other."
Delilah smiled, but it was the kind of smile she put on to hold back the tears. "Talk to you tomorrow, Suga. I love you."
After Rosemary hung up, Delilah stood for a moment in the dark hallway before going back to the kitchen. Snowden was refilling the wine glass. She looked at him, trying to figure out how much he had heard.
"My... my sister," she said replacing the phone on its cradle.
His broad forehead creased as he passed her the glass of wine. "I thought you had six brothers."
She lowered her gaze, sipping from the glass. "I do. And one sister."
"Something wrong?"
"There's always something wrong with my sister." She rolled her eyes, then realized that even if it was true, it was unfair for her to speak badly of Rosemary after all she had done for Delilah. She had, after all, basically saved her life. "She's just going through a bad time. Been married several years and her husband left her for some young bimbo." She lifted one shoulder. "Now Rosemary's had to go back to work full-time; she's dealing with day care and a hormonal teenager."
"She's lucky she has someone like you to talk to." Delilah looked down at the tile in front of her bare feet. Snowden was an only child, born illegitimately to a white woman. No one in the town ever knew who his father was. To this day, his mother wouldn't budge, not even telling him. Delilah gathered he had grown up lonely and the thought, now, brought a lump to her throat. Here she'd grown up in East Jesus, Georgia, running wild over her grandpappy's farmland, chased by six brothers and a sister, and he'd grown up a few blocks from where they stood, in a tiny house, under the shadow of illegitimacy, further stained by the fact that he was brainy and biracial.
