Emilie Rose - A Cop's Honor

“I promised to help paint, and I don’t break promises.” Except for the one he’d made to Rick. But he was righting that now. Hannah had reopened the door. He wouldn’t let her close it again.

“I don’t think you should exert yourself.”

“I’m fine, Hannah. I’m not allergic. Just ugly.”

“Did you pour gas in the hole and set it on fire?” Mason asked, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

Was Mason a firebug? That would suggest even bigger problems. “No. You have to do night ops to kill yellow jackets.”

“How come?”

“Yellow jackets return to their nest at dusk. After dark they can’t see as well and they’re less likely to attack. I’ll hit all of them at once with chemicals that’ll fog them to death.”

“Can I watch?”

Bloodthirsty little rascal.

“No,” Hannah replied before Brandon could. “It’s a school night.” Ignoring Mason’s “Moooom,” she swung her gaze to Brandon. “Come inside.” He followed her in. “Wait in the den. I’ll get the first-aid kit. Mason, stay with Brandon and watch for...anything unusual. Belle, put on the painting clothes I laid out for you.” Hannah left. Two sets of footsteps ascended the stairs.

Mason studied Brandon’s face as if he’d never seen anything like it before. “There are bites all over. You look like you’ve been beaten up.”

“You ever been in a fight?”

The boy’s expression turned defensive, cagey, putting Brandon on alert. “Maybe. You’re not going to like, die or something if I leave the room, are you? I’m hungry. I need a sandwich.”

“Go ahead. If I was going to drop dead from anaphylaxis I’d have done it by now.”

Mason headed for the kitchen. His actions confirming what Brandon suspected. The boy was evading providing a direct response. So Brandon followed him and leaned against the doorjamb. “Do you know how to defend yourself, Mason?”

Wary blue eyes whipped his way. “Why?”

“Because your dad didn’t. I had to teach him.”

“Why?” he repeated and grabbed a loaf of bread and a jar of jelly from the fridge.

“He was having trouble with a bully. I don’t like bullies.”

Mason paused with his knife above the peanut butter jar while he mulled that over. “Would you teach me to fight?”

“To fight? No. To defend yourself? Sure. There’s a big difference in the two. Hand-to-hand combat is always a last resort for when you have no other choice. It’s better to walk away if you can.”

The answer earned him an eye roll. Mason returned to assembling his sandwich. “You’re only saying that cuz you’re a cop. I’d be called a pussy if I ran.”

“Name-calling doesn’t break bones but fighting can. I’m saying it because you’re built like your dad. Not a lot of muscle yet. I don’t want you to get your butt kicked or to get suspended from school. You’ll have to use your brain instead of brawn.”

Another eye roll.

Hannah returned with a small box. She took in the situation. “Did you offer Brandon a sandwich?”

“Want one?” Mason asked with his mouth full.

“No, thanks. I ate before I came over.”

Hannah aimed a dark look at her son for talking while chewing, then turned to Brandon. “Pills or cream? I’d recommend both.”

Brandon recognized the pink bottle she displayed. “Antihistamines knock me out. I’ll stick with the topical.”

“Take off your shirt and have a seat.” He did as directed then sat at the table. By the time he had his shirt fabric bunched in his hands, she’d set down the box and held a playing card. Her gaze ran over him. She blinked, hesitated, then licked her lips. He caught himself watching her pink tongue and mentally kicked himself.

“Where are the ones you couldn’t reach?”

“Back.” The word came out gruffer than intended.

She whirled a finger, signaling him to turn. He twisted in the chair. “There are three and two stingers are still in.”

He felt the rasp of the card across the first bump, then the second. A moment later the coolness of the cream hit his inflamed skin, accompanied by a twinge of pain caused by the light pressure of her touch. Then the warmth and slow caress of her fingertip registered.

“Turn around,” she ordered before he could figure out what was causing him to have difficulty breathing. Was he having a delayed reaction to the venom?

He turned and found himself at chest level. The neckline of Hannah’s sundress dipped low enough to reveal smooth skin and a fine gold chain that disappeared between her breasts. His lungs locked. He swallowed—hard—then closed his eyes and forced a breath into his tight chest. Her scent, combined with a hint of flowers, filled his nostrils. His mouth dried. He opened his eyes and searched for safer territory. He spotted a quarter-inch thread standing out from the seam of her dress on her left shoulder and fixated on it. But then his mind took an unexpected detour. What would happen if he pulled that thread? Would the dress fall from her shoulder?

“You’re lucky you’re not allergic. With this many stings this could have been a life-threatening situation.”

His attention lasered in on the gentle stroke of her finger on the thin skin beneath his eye, then she moved on to the sting on his cheekbone, smoothing small circles over the puffy flesh. His pulse jackhammered with near-deafening force against his eardrums.

Delayed reaction to the venom.

She rubbed the lump beneath his earlobe and the one under his chin, and his respirations shallowed and quickened. The pressure descended from his chest to his groin. What in the hell was wrong with him? This was Hannah. Rick’s Hannah. And getting a woody in response to her was unacceptable. But there it was, straining against his zipper. He held out his hand to take the tube from her.

Ignoring his silent request she squeezed out more cream. “Sit still, Brandon.”

He gritted his teeth against the pleasure/pain and gripped the T-shirt in his lap so tightly he’d probably imbed permanent wrinkles into the cotton. He hoped like hell Hannah didn’t notice his condition.

She brushed the tender, swollen flesh of his upper lip and a lightning bolt of sensation shot south. He jerked out of reach, sucked in a sobering breath and snatched the tube from her hand. “I’ll get the rest.”

She stilled. “I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”

What was that song lyric? Hurt so good? “No. But we need to get painting. Put on your work clothes. I got this.”

Looking as relieved as he felt, she stepped back. “Well...if you’re sure. The guest bathroom is—” She shook her head. “You know where it is.”

“Yeah. I do.” His momma had raised him to stand whenever a lady entered or left the room. He did so, but he kept the T-shirt in front of his crotch until Hannah left.

What in the hell had just happened? And how could he make sure it didn’t happen again? He mentally shook himself and caught Mason watching. “Put on your painting clothes, kid. After we knock out this job I’m going to wipe up the basketball court with you.”

The kid glanced toward the den. “I need to work on my project.”

“More online research?” The computer was in the den.

“Yeah.”

If Hannah was going to paint upstairs and Mason was going to be on the computer downstairs, then the kid wasn’t as supervised as Hannah thought. Brandon filed that away and went into the bathroom to treat the remaining stings.

Once that was done he climbed the stairs. As he reached the landing the spare bedroom door opened. Hannah, wearing a T-shirt that had seen better days, cut-off jeans a thread longer than indecent and sneakers, stepped out. She’d changed clothes. Behind her he spotted the dress she’d been wearing draped across the corner of the bed he’d slept on a few times when Rick’s renovation projects had run late into the night.