Forever Never

Brick sat at his own dining table and tried not to acknowledge the rage that blazed inside him. Camille Vorhees sat across from him, carefully sipping water through split lips as Remi clutched her free hand.

“I appreciate you doing this here,” Camille said, automatically assuming the role of hostess as if the instinct had been bred into her.

“I’m sorry this is necessary at all, Mrs. Vorhees,” Chief Ford said from the head of the table. “But I appreciate you trusting us. Where would you like to start?”

“I spoke to my attorney. He’ll be filing for an order of protection and divorce tomorrow,” Camille said. “He felt it prudent that I discuss the situation with law enforcement.”

Darlene nodded. “We’ll take down the information and pass it on to the Illinois authorities since that’s where the alleged abuse occurred.”

“Alleged?” Remi snapped. “He drove us off a fucking cliff. There’s nothing alleged about it.”

“Remington,” her mother said crisply, then pointed to the tape recorder. Remi flipped the recorder the middle finger.

Brick wanted to reach out, to touch her, to reassure her with his body.

“Why don’t you two go get us some tea or coffee or ice cream,” Darlene suggested, looking between Brick and her daughter.

Camille gave Remi an encouraging smile. “Go ahead. I’ll be fine.”

Remi and her mother shared a meaningful look as she rose.

Brick followed her out of the room.

“I can’t tell if she’s giving us busy work so she can make Camille feel more comfortable or if she knows it was fucking torture for me just to listen to some of the things he’s done,” Remi complained.

He couldn’t hold himself back anymore and pounced. Grabbing her mid-stride, Brick hauled her into his arms and carried her past the kitchen where the rest of their house guests were pouring coffee and eating pancakes.

He stepped into the living room but couldn’t put her down yet.

“I want him dead, Brick. And I know that’s uncharitable and bad karma and all of that. But he’s a fucking monster, and I want his life over. He’ll never stop otherwise,” she whispered.

He held on tighter, unable to speak.

“Some protection order isn’t going to keep her safe. If anything, it’s just going to make it worse. I get it now. It was safer to stay. Even though it was going to always end with him trying to kill her. She’s actually safer living in that fiend’s house.”

Brick felt like he couldn’t breathe. “Remi,” he finally managed to rasp.

She pulled back and looked up at him. Her expression softened. “Hey, it’s okay, big guy. I’m not going anywhere. Certainly not to prison for murder. I’ll make it look like an accident.”

“Remi,” he said again. “He’s going to come here. He’s going to follow the trail and find you and Camille here.”

She cupped her hands to his face, rubbing her palms over his beard. “And you’re going to stop him. You aren’t going to let him anywhere near Camille, and you’re only going to let me close enough so I can relocate his balls to his throat.”

“I can’t—” He paused and cleared his throat. “I can’t lose you.”

She tried to squirm out of his arms, but he only held on tighter until she went still in his arms.

“Look at me,” she ordered, her voice steady. “Look at me. I’m not going to do anything that puts me or Camille or anyone else in danger. Okay?”

“I can’t handle the thought of him anywhere near you.” His voice shook. She was so fucking precious to him. He wouldn’t survive it if something happened to her. Wouldn’t be responsible for his actions if someone tried to take her from him.

She gave him a hard hug, pressing her face to his chest. He cupped the back of her head and held her there.

“Come watch me paint.”

He released her, frowning. “You’re going to let me watch you?”

“They’re going to be in there a while. Camille has a lot of incidents to report. I’ll give you a behind-the-scenes peek at the creative process.”

He let her lead him into the studio and suppressed a smile when she locked the door and drew the blind. Even when she hadn’t been speaking to him, the door had remained unlocked, the blind open.

“Come on,” she coaxed, tugging him down the ramp into her chaos.

He hesitated, feeling the pressure of the preparations he needed to make. But he’d always wanted this. He’d always wanted to see how the magic came to be.

“I’ll even let you pick the song,” she said, positioning him on a paint-splattered stool off to the side of the easel. She handed over her phone and pointed him in the direction of her music app.

He watched her as she pushed the canvas she’d been working on out of the way, replacing it with a fresh canvas.

The drop cloth on the floor wrinkled under her bare feet as she worked her hair into a high knot.

“Did you pick a song yet?” she asked.

He shook his head. “You choose.”

“Gentleman’s choice,” she insisted. “What song makes you think of summers here?”

Inspiration struck. He typed it in with a quirk of his lips and hit play.

“Nice choice,” she said with a sly smile as Neil Young began to sing about harvest moons.

“We danced to this at your sister’s wedding,” he said.

“I know. Crank it loud.”

He did as he was told and watched as she began to sway to the beat. “Good song,” she said again, her body seeming to loosen with every note.

She didn’t reach for a brush immediately. Instead, he watched as she started organizing colors. Pinks, reds, oranges. Cocking her head at the ceiling, she added blue and purple.

He watched in fascination, wishing he could see what she saw. Wished he could be inside her head. Maybe then he’d finally feel close enough to her.

She danced and hummed and swayed to the song as she organized her tools. Brushes, palette knives, jars of cleaner. Her palette was a thin slice of acrylic stained from all the other music, all the other paintings. A rainbow-colored echo of creativity.

Brick watched as Remi dribbled the colors one by one onto the palette and then dragged a long thin brush through the orange and white, swirling until the color got lighter and lighter.

He held his breath as she stretched her arm toward the snowy white canvas. The clean, blank space. With a deft flick of her healed wrist, she swooped a four-inch swatch of tangerine across the white. Just like she’d done with his life, his blank canvas, she added color, layering it, texturing it, turning the void into something more beautiful than he could have imagined.

It was like witnessing a miracle unfold.

His hands fisted on his knees. He wanted to be part of the miracle. Needed to touch her. He rose without making the decision to and closed the distance between them.

It hit him when he saw the painting straight on.

She put the palette down and cocked her head, studying what she’d created so far.

“It’s like the one upstairs.” His voice was hoarse.

She stood there in his t-shirt, looking smug. “Of course it is. It’s the same song. I’m just a lot more talented now.”

She’d painted their song before. She’d remembered dancing with him. Had wanted to commemorate that moment. She’d loved him then and now.

Brick sank to his knees and pulled her to him.

“What are you doing?” she whispered as he pushed the hem of her t-shirt high. He groaned when he realized she hadn’t even bothered putting on underwear.

“Let me love you.”

Swiftly, he hooked her leg over his shoulder and pressed his mouth to her smooth, soft folds.

Her gasp went straight to his dick, which was suddenly as hard as steel. She was already wet.

“You’re ready for me,” he said in wonder, letting his tongue flick out to taste her. “Does painting turn you on?”

Above him, Remi sucked in a breath and shook her head. “You watching me turns me on. It makes me feel…possessed.”

He growled against her sex, and her legs began to shake.

There was nothing in this world that felt more like home to him than Remington Ford’s tight, wet pussy. He slid two fingers into her wet opening and hummed out a prayer of gratitude as he began to tongue her slick folds.

Her flavor was intoxicating. And it belonged only to him. She’d made him a fucking king.

A jagged moan ripped free from her throat, and his cock swelled. He freed himself from his sweatpants with one hand while he worked her hot little cunt with his other. Precome flowed from his crown, dripping onto the drop cloth as he fucked her with his fingers, worked her with his tongue.

“Oh my God.”

Her broken, breathy sob had him fisting his shaft in an iron grip.

She was bucking into his face now, the silky leg over his shoulder angled to open her wider for him. He rewarded her with a third finger, stretching her tight.

He danced his tongue over her clit with exactly the right pressure.

“Brick,” she whispered. “You’re gonna make me come.”

He couldn’t help himself. He ached for her. His hand jerked up from root to tip, releasing another thick bead of moisture, this one pooling on his fist. He groaned, the vibration taking her pleasure to another level as her legs quaked.

Stiffening his tongue, he went to work on her clit as his fingers pumped into her hard and fast. He jacked himself at the same speed with a vise-like grip.

He felt her needy muscles quiver on his fingers and nearly came himself.

There were so many things he should be doing, so many preparations to make, details to take care of, but in the moment, nothing but Remi’s orgasm mattered.

She shattered around him, her cunt clamping down hard on his fingers as she came. He was right there with her, the first spurt of his release burning its way up his shaft, erupting like a geyser.

He licked and fucked her through her orgasm and wrung himself dry in the process.

Reminding them both exactly what was at stake.

“Got a minute, Sergeant?” Chief Ford asked.

Brick glanced up from the plate of pancakes he was sharing with a sated, loose-limbed Remi. “Sure.”

She jerked her head toward the side porch, and he followed her outside.

“We’ve got a strong case,” she said. “She’s got six months of photographic evidence documenting injuries. A diary of each incident.”

“Smart.”

“I’m going to lean as hard as I can on the Illinois boys to move fast for an arrest.”

“But?” he asked, reading between the lines.

“I think you and I both know how that will go.”

He nodded. A man like Vorhees had power and money. Which meant he also had people. The justice system didn’t exactly move swiftly, even without those added complications. And professional courtesy only extended so far when it came to a police chief on some tiny island in another state. Even if they could get him arrested, he’d be walking on bail in less than an hour.

“There’s something else,” Darlene said, turning around to study him. “Our vic hasn’t just been recuperating at home since the accident. She’s been doing a little digging on her own. Seems she got the idea from my daughter.”

Brick closed his eyes. “What are we dealing with?”

“She’s got some information the Federal Election Commission might be interested in.”

“Campaign finance violations?” he asked.

She nodded. “And some election fraud.”

“Evidence?”

“Enough for an investigation. Hell, there might already be a Matter Under Review happening. The FEC doesn’t exactly broadcast their cases.”

He crossed his arms over his chest as a little flame of hope began to burn inside him.

“Does it ever piss you off that a person gets a stricter sentence for financial crimes than abuse?” Darlene mused. “If she gets that protection order and he violates it, it’s a slap on the wrist. Not even a year behind bars. But buy yourself an election, and suddenly the legal system cares.”

“What do we do next?” Brick asked.

“I’m gonna head back and type up the report. I’ll make some calls before I send it on its way and then brief the mayor. If shit’s going down on Mackinac, we need to be ready.”

“It can’t come to that. We have to get him at home,” he said.

“I know. Tell you what, you write the report while I see if I can get someone in Chicago and in the FEC to answer the phone.”

His hands bunched to fists at his sides. Real danger lurked

“Just remember, Brick,” Darlene said, eyeing him. “We’re the good guys.”

He couldn’t say he’d stay on that side of the law. Not if Remi’s life was hanging in the balance. The rules no longer applied, and for the first time in his life, he felt the siren’s call of the gray area between right and wrong.