“So –” I started but stopped when Tate’s face changed, went from serious to deadly serious and he leaned in super close.

And when he spoke, his voice was near to a growl. “A woman gets under your skin, the kind of woman that feeds the muscle, the bone, the soul, no replacing that. Jim-Billy knows it. Nadine’s a good woman but once you have that, there’s no replacing it.”

I stared at him and he stared back.

Then I whispered, “Tate –” but stopped speaking when his hand moved and his thumb tweaked the diamond he’d slid on my finger six weeks before.

“No replacing it,” he repeated on his own whisper.

He was right. I knew it because he was under my skin too. He was feeding the muscle, the bone but mostly my soul. And if I ever lost him, there’d be no replacing him. I didn’t know if I’d give up and drink beer in a biker bar for the rest of my days. What I did know was a life without Tate didn’t bear thinking about.

“I want to make out with you right now,” I blurted but I did it quietly.

His head jerked almost imperceptibly at my words and he asked, “Come again?”

“You’re being sweet and when you’re being sweet, I always want to make out with you. So, I want to make out with you.”

He grinned then he said, “Have at it, Ace.”

“Not in front of Jim-Billy,” I whispered.

His grin became a smile.

Then he said, “Office, in five.”

I smiled back and said, “Gotcha.”

I peeled away, checked on my very few customers, none of whom needed drinks and, after five minutes, I met Tate in the office where I participated in a heated and highly enjoyable make out session on the couch with my boss.

* * * * *

I had Christmas music playing softly (something Tate and Jonas could take, in small measures, then they couldn’t take anymore so I was enjoying it while I could) and was standing in the opened door of the fridge, staring at its contents, determined to make a good dinner out of whatever was in there in order to eat up all the food prior to us going off for two weeks when I heard a knock on the sliding glass door.

Tate and Jonas were in town running an errand the purpose of which they did not share. I didn’t pry. It was Christmas and when someone ran an unexplained errand at Christmas you didn’t ask questions.

Tate had been right that night six weeks ago, we were more than comfortable. We were good. I knew this because I’d taken over dealing with our bank accounts. Mine was still hefty because Tate didn’t let me pay for anything but food, clothing and the variety of household items I’d been buying to make his house a home. Tate’s was hefty because the bar was doing an excellent turnover and the skips he brought in earned him a whack and he (or, now, me as I prepared, sent and processed his invoices) charged expenses.

Considering the fact that Tate seemed dedicated to the cause of making certain I never regretted my move from a life of martinis and manicures in the gated community of Horizon Summit to a family life in a house on a hill in Colorado, I suspected that my Christmas was going to be good that year. I didn’t want him to worry about this because it didn’t matter to me. It also didn’t penetrate the many times I shared this fact with him. Therefore, I’d come to terms with the fact that it was something he was driven to do so I was going to let him do it. Really, who was I to complain?

I turned to the door and walked to it, seeing Dalton standing outside. This was a surprise and a worry. Outside of coming to get me or taking me home when he’d been called into Lauren Duty by Tate, Dalton didn’t hang out at my house and he’d never stopped by unannounced. He wasn’t on that night at Bubba’s but that didn’t mean that he hadn’t popped by for a drink, something he did, if not regularly then regularly enough. That meant he might be there about Jim-Billy.

I smiled at him tentatively through the glass and flipped down the door to the security panel on the wall, tapping in the code (Tate was adamant about the alarm being set when he was away, even if he was away for an errand). I left the door down to the panel, unlocked the sliding glass door and slid it open for Dalton.

“Hey, Dalton, what are you…?”

For some reason, Tate’s long ago words sifted into my head.

“Profilers think he’s able to assimilate. He’s one of us.”

Tonia. Neeta. The girl in Chantelle.

“He either knew them or he doesn’t pose a threat. He comes off as friendly. He might even be attractive. A good flirt. Turn a woman’s eye. Thinks she’s gonna get her some, not havin’ any clue.”

“Laurie,” Dalton said, coming into the house, the look on his face funny, tortured, his eyes shining with a light I’d never seen in my life, an unnatural light, a light lit from a deep inner madness and I knew.

I jumped forward and to the side, my finger extended to hit the red panic button on the alarm panel.

I had no idea if I touched it before the jolt hit me and everything went black.

* * * * *

Tate

Tate Jackson’s cell rang and, driving home to Lauren with his son in the seat at his side, he leaned forward and pulled it from the back pocket of his jeans.

He flipped it open, put it to his ear and said, “Jackson.”

“Tate,” Frank replied, “you at your house?”

Those four words coming from a cop hit him like a sucker punch to the gut.

“No, on my way home with Jonas, why?”

“Weird,” Frank muttered.

“Why?” Tate bit out.

“Laurie with you?” Frank asked.

“No, Frank, damn it, why?”

“Somethin’s up with your alarm, buddy. Dispatch got the alert that your panic button’s been hit.”

Tate’s gut dropped and his foot pressed down on the accelerator.

“Get units to the house,” he ordered.

“What?”

“Get units to the house!” Tate barked.

“Fuck, Laurie there on her own?”

“Frank –” Tate growled and Frank interrupted him.

“On it,” he stated and disconnected.

Tate flipped his phone closed, then opened, then he went to favorites to find Laurie’s number, accelerating faster.

“Dad,” Jonas whispered, hearing his father’s words, feeling his father’s vibe.

“It’ll be okay, Bub,” Tate told his son.