Page 338 of Off Limits: The Firsts

“If you’re worried, just drive there now. I can sit and wait out whatever you need to do. Don’t waste the time taking me back,” I ramble, hating that he is so upset about this call.

“You sure?” He eyes me in a way that says he knows more than I do, which is obvious, and yet, I’m not sure why he feels the need to relay it.

“Yes. Positive. Go.”

He grabs his cell, punches a few numbers, and then holds it to his ear, waiting. “Dispatch, I’m an off-duty officer responding to the call for 12662 Serenity Court,” he says. “Yes. Grant Malone . . . I’m in civilian clothes but want it known to the guys on scene that I’m responding . . . No. It’s an ongoing situation. I’ve been monitoring every call you have listed there . . . Yeah . . . I know, but I’m on my way. 10-4.”

It doesn’t take long to make it to the address, but that could be because Grant may or may not have completely demolished the speed limit.

When we pull onto the street and park beside two other cruisers, trepidation takes hold. I’m sure it will be cool seeing Grant in action, but at the same time, I feel like I’m eavesdropping on someone else’s life.

As if I’m violating their privacy by being here.

“Goddamnit,” he mutters as he slams the truck into park, flings the door open, and jogs up the front walkway.

Then I see her.

The little girl sits on a rock in the middle of a planter in the front yard with a teddy bear hugged tight to her chest. She’s looking down at her bear’s face, fingers picking at its eyes, as a big, burly police officer awkwardly tries to talk to her.

“Keely.” I hear Grant say the name, and the minute it is out of his mouth, she looks up. A ghost of a smile turns up the corners of her lips, but something about her face expresses a sadness so strong I can feel it deep in my bones.

Big, burly officer visibly relaxes and has no problem stepping back. Grant lowers himself to the ground and sits cross-legged beside her.

“Oh.” My hand flies up to cover my mouth, and tears sting my eyes at the mere sight of them. There is a comfort between them, a gentleness to him I never expected to see. He talks to her, pointing to her bear and the rocks in the planter around her. It’s so obvious from the outside how hard he is working to make her smile and put her at ease.

Curiosity has me glancing to the backs of the officers standing at the front door, but I can’t keep my eyes away from Grant and Keely for very long. There is something so precious and heartbreaking about their interaction. He dwarfs her, and yet, she seems completely at ease with him. They talk some, his expression so serious when she looks away and then warm when she comes back to him. He works for her smile, and when she grants it, there is a flicker of hope under all the shadows haunting her eyes.

It kills me. In every sense of the word.

Why does this little girl trust Grant so much? More so, why would a little girl know a police officer enough to trust him?

And then I remember the code 10-16—domestic abuse. Grant told dispatch that he’d been to every one of the previous calls to this address.

Every.

One.

How many times has he been here?

I push the thoughts and scenarios from my mind. I don’t want to think or assume, but it doesn’t stop the sting of tears in my eyes as he reaches out and holds her little hand in his.

Because it’s real. Grant’s hero complex and his need to save everyone is real, and I’m watching it firsthand.

He and Keely are pointing to the smaller rocks around them, and after a bit, I hear her giggle. It’s the most adorable sound in the world. All I can do is stare. And wonder. And hope she’s outside because whatever happened inside doesn’t involve her.

I’m not sure how long I sit and stare at the two of them, but it’s long enough that my feet are numb from their positioning and the sky has slowly faded to black. So lost in thought, I’m startled when Grant slides behind the wheel, starts the car, and pulls away from the curb.

“The fucker’s lucky he wasn’t home,” he mutters under his breath but doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t ask for more.

I turn some in my seat so I can study him and try to wrap my head around how the man, who seemed so at ease moments ago with a little girl, now feels like a ticking time bomb. The lights from passing cars and streetlamps lighten and darken the features of his face, leaving me to wonder what’s going on in that mind of his. I’d also love to pepper him with questions about what the call was all about, but for a woman who doesn’t like to answer questions herself, the safe strategy is to keep my mouth shut.

We drive for some time, winding up through the hills around Sunnyville until Grant pulls off the asphalt and onto a graded road. We continue for a ways, and it’s only when he pulls into a clearing that overlooks the city and all of its lights below that I know where we are: Grant’s place he goes to think.

Our silence stretches, long and thick and heavy, but with the windows down, the sounds of the nightlife around us soften the tension in it. Every part of me wants to ease whatever is upsetting him but I have no clue how to even begin to do that.

“You want to talk about it?” I ask, hoping enough time has passed that he can think rationally about whatever happened.

His sigh is heavy. “I’m not sure that I can.”