The Acceptance

“He?”

She shook her head, unwilling to go into her most personal relationship. “I witnessed a lot of stuff. And I had all these questions—”

Luther pokered right back up again. “You asked hookers to educate you on sex?”

“Yeah, but you don’t have to announce it to the whole street.”

He grabbed her arm and drew her toward the closest building. It didn’t offer much privacy, but at least they weren’t in the middle of the walkway.

“I thought we agreed you’d come to me.”

Snorting, she said, “I’d figured on never seeing you again, remember?”

Through his teeth, he said, “It’s not like I could forget.”

Ignoring his ire, Gaby added, “Besides, the ladies proved to be real candid about stuff. Way more so than you or Morty ever were.”

Tilting his head back, Luther groaned to the starry sky.

“Stop dying on me, will you? I’m just saying, now I have a better understanding on what all the hoopla is about—not that the ladies think sex is all that great. For them, it’s a messy chore, but hey, it pays the bills, right?”

Leaning back on the building, his jaw clenched and his eyes zeroed in on her, Luther said, “Selling sex and sharing it with someone special are two different things.”

“Even though it sounds pretty complicated and verging on gross, I think I agree with you. What I felt with you and what I felt when I watched the women—”

“You watched the hookers servicing johns?”

Did he have to keep sounding so appalled? “A few times, yeah. Occasionally some perverted creeps will visit, and I need to keep close, for protective reasons, you know. But my point is—”

“I do not want you watching that warped shit!”

Damn it, now she forgot her point. “Well, Daddy, it’s not up to you, is it?”

He loomed over her. “Do not push me, Gaby.”

“Or what?” she asked, very deliberately giving him a good hard push.

Silence stretched out while he mentally chewed on his response. “I haven’t forgiven you yet for disappearing on me.” He brought his nose to hers. “And I’m still suspicious of every damn move you make.”

That sobered her and sucked the anger out of her veins. Crestfallen, doused in icy reality, she nodded. “I know.”

Her meekness only ripened his fury. “If you force my hand, I swear to God I’ll handcuff you and drag your scrawny ass to the station where we can sort things out at my leisure.”

She wouldn’t—couldn’t—let him do that. If he ever got her locked away, he might not let her loose again, and that was a risk she couldn’t take.

Without the ability to follow God’s summons, the pain would destroy her. She knew it, she accepted it.

“I believe you, cop, I really do.” Turning away, she said, “And that’s why sex can’t ever happen between us, never mind my moment of— What did you call it? Insanity? That fits.” Strolling off, she added, “You do make me insane.”

In a roar loud enough to disrupt the dead, Luther demanded, “Where are you going?”

“To see Mort.” At least that’d take her a good distance from Luther, and she needed the separation before she got melancholy, or worse, before she broke his jaw. “Is that allowed, cop, or will visiting a friend put me in jeopardy of being arrested?”

In the time that she’d been away from him, Gaby had forgotten the soundless way he moved. Suddenly his hand clamped around her upper arm and he drew her to an uncompromising, but gentle halt.

She didn’t turn to face him.

He didn’t insist.

Leaning down, his mouth almost touching her ear, he whispered, “Seeing Mort tonight is fine—as long as I know where to find you tomorrow.”

“Why would you want to?” she asked, hoping he had a good reason that would miraculously lift the smothering desolation now cloaking her.

Fingertips grazed her skin as he lifted aside her hair and then . . . his mouth touched her throat just above the choker she wore. Damp. Warm. Tingling and exciting. Her heart threatened to escape the bony confines of her chest. Low in her belly, some insidious warmth writhed and wriggled.

Her eyes closed. “Luther . . .”

“When you’re like this, Gaby, you’re far more likable.” He stepped away, met her incredulous, wide-eyed gaze, and smiled. “Meet me here, tomorrow, at seven. It’s important.”

“Bastard,” she hissed.

He looked down at her tightened nipples, lifted a taunting eyebrow, and insisted, “I need your promise, Gaby.”

Slow and exact, she crowded toward him. “I can promise to make you a fucking choirboy if you ever again pull a stunt like—”

In a cheerful mood directly opposite of hers, he laughed, yanked her in for a fast smooch on her mouth, and released her again. “Heard it, and heard it again. But wouldn’t it be easier to just promise me?”

God, he was dangerous to her state of mind. Grudgingly, she said, “I’ll be here.”

“Be careful tonight.”

“Fuck you.”

A shake of his head showed his disapproval. “Same old Gaby—except with new clothes and hair.”

Self-consciousness crept in. “That’s the ladies’ doing.”

“The hookers?”

“They said if I was going to hang around, I needed to fit in.” Truthfully, she’d enjoyed their efforts. They’d painted her hair, and she’d grilled them on the how and why of sexual variations. Not a terrible trade-off.

“I like it. But then, I liked you before, too.” He touched her chin, looked at the choker he’d bought her, still around her throat, and then left.

Gaby stood there until he’d rounded the corner. Since he headed toward the building where she now lived, she would have been worried—except if he knew where she lived, he wouldn’t have exacted a promise from her to meet him on the street.

Right?

She started to follow him, just to make sure, but changed her mind. Seeing Mort was more important.

Tomorrow she’d deal with Luther.

* * *

Luther waited around the corner until Gaby had time to leave. When he checked, he saw her walking away, her stride cocky, her presence commanding. His gaze stayed glued to her narrow hips until she faded into the darkness.

Until recently—until knowing Gabrielle Cody—the protector in him would never have allowed a woman to wander the drug- and crime-ravaged area alone. During the day, the neighborhood was a cesspool of corruption where fights broke out every hour, flesh was traded, and drugs were purchased.

At night, the lowest kind of miscreants crawled out, willing to snuff life for a smoke, or sometimes, just for the pleasure of it.

Gaby could care for herself though. She’d proven that time and again.

Still, Luther took out his cell and called Morty Vance, Gaby’s old landlord.

He answered on the second ring.

“ ’Lo?”

“It’s Luther.”

“Hi, Luther. What’s up?”

Cutting to the chase, Luther said, “I found Gaby.”

Silence. And then: “You found her? How is she? Is she