Complicated Creatures: Part One Read online

  Now, Jack longed for the sweet relief of sleep. So much so that he wondered about what he’d be willing to give up for that relief. As he watched the clock over his mantle strike 1:00 a.m., Jack contemplated his options dazedly. He pulled on a t-shirt over his lounge pants before wandering out to the terrace, seeking respite in the fresh, dark night air. He startled at the rhythmic slap of someone swimming laps in the pool.

  She’s back.

  The tension drained from his body as he saw her through the soft golden lights embedded in the pool. Samantha turned smoothly, arching up and out of the water in the same butterfly stroke he’d seen her do the first night they’d met. Jack watched her for long minutes until she finally slowed, her strokes gentling to a lazy rotation. He was holding out her towel as she walked up the steps, squeezing the water from her hair.

  “Hey there, Jack,” she breathed, accepting the towel.

  Jack’s throat worked as he tried to think of something to say other than how relieved he was to see her. He felt unsteady, fought to stay focused through the exhaustion.

  “How’ve you been?” Samantha asked when he said nothing. She peered at him in the low light of the pool, trying to ascertain if something was wrong with him. “You all right, Jack?” she asked, her head cocked.

  He nodded once before saying, “Can’t sleep,” his voice gruff.

  “Me neither,” she answered, still watching him. “I’m jet-lagged, on London time. I was going to make myself something to eat. Care to join me?” she asked.

  Jack nodded again, blinking against bleary eyes. She surprised him by threading her arm through his and strolling to her side of the terrace through the balcony doors. As he came into her home, he glanced dazedly at her spare furnishings, the soft walls and lighting, registering distantly she had Ella Fitzgerald singing softly through hidden speakers. She sat him at her kitchen counter, examining his bloodshot eyes, the hollows beneath from a sleepless week.

  “What have you done with yourself, Jack?” she asked, turning toward the stove where she had something cooking gently in a steel pot. “You look like you got dragged to hell and back.”

  “I think I’m still there,” he answered, voice strained. “I have pretty bad insomnia. Most times it’s manageable but sometimes…” He trailed off, watching her move around her kitchen. Samantha preheated the oven, pulled a French baguette from a bakery bag, and got butter from the fridge along with a sprig of dill and garlic.

  “I find it hardest to sleep when I’m thinking about how badly I want it,” she remarked. “Like now. I got into bed at ten and laid there, waiting for it to come. Finally, I figured a good swim and some stew just might be the answer.”

  “You made stew?” he asked, perking up slightly.

  “My housekeeper made stew. I’m fantastic at heating it up,” she admitted without hesitation. She minced the dill and garlic before heating the aromatics along with the butter on the stove, tucking the bread into the oven. She added a pinch of flaky sea salt and fresh black pepper to the saucepan.

  “Tell me about something to take your mind off it. What sports did you play when you were a kid?” she asked, reaching into a wine fridge she had tucked under her counter.

  “Pretty much everything,” he admitted. “Basketball, football, track, soccer. I got serious enough about soccer during college.”

  “Is that how you hurt your knee?” she asked, opening the bottle and pouring them both a glass.

  “How did you know I hurt my knee?” Jack replied, surprised she knew about the old injury.

  “I noticed it when we were on the boat.” She shrugged. “The surgical scar is almost gone, so I figured it happened when you were young.” She handed him a goblet of red wine.

  They toasted. Jack took a sip, eyes widening at the flavors. “This is excellent,” he told her, taking another small sip.

  Samantha looked bemused. “Well, if we’re going to be stuck awake, we might as well enjoy a good bottle.”

  She took her wine to the stove, gently stirring the heating butter, checking the stew. He watched her shuffle around in her robe, hair drying with the faint hint of saltwater from their pool. It struck him how laid back she was, barefoot and robed, making no effort to look sexy. But she was lovely, swaying slightly to the music, sipping her wine.

  “I’ll tell you about my knee if you tell me about your shoulder,” Jack murmured, feeling the tension loosening from his shoulders as he relaxed and leaned against the kitchen counter.

  She smiled as she put the lid back onto the stew. “You first.” Samantha came back the counter, resting on her elbows, hand cradling her glass as she swirled her wine goblet lazily.

  “Mitch and I met playing soccer at Northwestern,” Jack started. “We instantly disliked each other. I’m not even really sure why. We were both strikers. I had a little more staying power running, so I ended up playing second striker since Mitch is a sneaky, fast bastard,” he told her, laughing softly at the memory. “We didn’t do well in practice, but during games, we were united. Common enemy and all that.”

  “I can get behind that,” Samantha conceded. “Seen plenty of guys hate each other on dry land and when we get ’em on out on a carrier, you never saw a tighter unit.”

  “Similar principles minus the fighter jets and nuclear warheads,” Jack joked. “So, during a game against U of M, we’re up by one and close to the finish. I had the ball and was about to pass to Mitch when the center back and sweeper just came at me like torpedoes. They weren’t even really coming after the ball. The sweeper kicked me in the knee so hard I saw stars. I think the center back cleated me as he stepped over. They were already going to get red-carded but Mitch—Christ,” he laughed softly, wiping a hand down his face, remembering. “I’ve never seen him so angry. He knocked the sweeper out with a right hook and got the center back in a headlock before the refs could stop him.” He took another sip of wine. “The rest of our team joined him. It was like a scene out of Braveheart, except in Evanston with college kids and soccer moms shouting and hitting each other with those foam fingers,” he chuckled again, shaking his head in humor. “I had to have knee surgery, but we became pretty close after that.”

  “Did you play again after surgery?” Samantha asked, turning to pull the bread from the oven.

  “Yeah, but it just wasn’t ever the same. And during recovery, my priorities changed. I think being forced to sit still helped me prioritize.”

  “And what did you prioritize?” she asked.

  Jack thought back, fingers lazily fiddling with the stem of the wine glass. “Up until that, I was just another fraternity jock on the party circuit. I grew up with a lot of opportunities, and I guess it was just a given I’d follow my dad into politics eventually. I never really thought about it until the injury.”

  “You don’t strike me as the follow-the-leader type, Jack. If anything, you seem like the type to expect others to follow,” Samantha commented, drizzling hot garlic and dill butter onto the French bread. The scent was so heavenly, Jack’s mouth watered.

  “You’re right,” he agreed. “But I didn’t have a great deal of drive. Getting stuck in a wheelchair and then crutches was a great motivator. And to be honest, between physical therapy and classes, there wasn’t a lot else I had the energy to focus on. I started realizing how much I enjoyed certain things, and how little I cared about others,” he conceded.

  Jack watched Samantha pulling bowls from the cabinet.

  “Can I help?” he asked.

  “Sure. Let’s keep it casual and eat at the counter. Can you grab those place mats? Napkins and silver in the drawers over there,” she nodded.

  They moved around quietly, Samantha ladling hot stew into their bowls and Jack setting up their service.

  “So what did you find you enjoyed?” she asked, setting steaming bowls in front of them.

  “I’m about to enjoy the hell out of this meal. Thank you,” he sighed in expectant pleasure, picking up his wine glass. “Cheers.”

/>   Samantha chuckled, toasting him. “Everything’s always better after a good meal,” Samantha said, smiling at him over the rim of her glass.

  They dug into their food with gusto, relishing how the tender pot roast fell apart in their mouths, dipping the crusty, buttered bread into their stew.

  Jack elicited near-pornographic groans of appreciation. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had such a basic, hearty meal that felt so utterly wholesome and restorative.

  “So is this when you decided to become a real estate magnate?” she asked, pouring them both more wine.

  “No. That was accidental,” Jack admitted, toasting her glass gently. “I discovered how much I enjoyed civil engineering and architecture by proxy. Had this amazing professor who’d take us into the city for field trips, explaining structural development, water systems, bridges. All these places I’d grown up around—I started to see them completely differently. It was like figuring out a Rubik’s cube.”

  “So you’re a civil engineer?”

  “And an architect,” Jack nodded. “Got my master’s at Cornell.”

  “Why don’t you design? Or do you, and I just don’t realize it?” Sam asked.

  Jack shrugged. “I’m not a massively talented architect. I’m good enough to be dangerous. And I also discovered I’m more suited to the business aspects of property development. I’d been around city planning enough through interning with Dad to know how the system worked, and there was a lot I wanted to do. Figured if I wasn’t exceptional at designing buildings, I’d improve the skyline in my own way,” he said, taking a moment to savor the wine. “What is this? I’m buying a case of it.”

  She shrugged. “It’s a garage wine from a little vineyard a friend of mine owns in Mendocino. Is that why you restored the Whitney?” she asked.

  “Among other things,” he nodded. “There is such great architectural history in Chicago, but so few firms are interested in funding preservation. Mitch and I do a lot of commercial development outside of downtown Chicago and the Loop, but I like keeping the history of the buildings here intact. The Whitney and a half a dozen other buildings we’ve restored have shown we can do both profitably. Sometimes it just takes longer and is more of a labor of love than anything.”

  Samantha glanced through the balcony doors to the dimly lit terrace. The lights of the city twinkled in the distance, the trees of Grant Park swaying gently in the breeze. “I love living here. I told Mitch I used to walk by this building every day when I was in law school. I watched when you bought it, started the restoration. I couldn’t wait to see it. When it was featured in Architectural Digest, I knew I had to have it.” She smiled as she leaned forward. “Tell you a secret?”

  Jack nodded.

  “This is the first home I’ve ever bought for myself. Thank you for selling it to me.”

  Jack grinned. “Yeah, well, I didn’t really plan on selling it. Especially after Cassie died. I wanted Jaime and Maddie close, but she’s better off in Oak Park, terrorizing the neighbors.” Jack laughed. “I remember how much we used to love running around the neighborhood. Would be a shame for her to miss out on that.”

  “I grew up on a ranch,” Samantha told him. “I look back now and realize how lucky I was to have all that land to run around on. At the time, it felt so isolating. No trick or treaters, forty-five minutes of driving the world’s most boring road to get to school. Hindsight twenty-twenty, I wouldn’t change it for the world.”

  “Are you telling me you know how to drive a tractor?” Jack teased.

  “What?” Samantha looked up, feigning surprise. “You don’t?”

  Jack just laughed, picking up their bowls and taking them to the sink.

  “I’ll have you know I may have been daddy’s little girl, but daddy had his little girl baling hay, fixing fences, and driving cattle while I was still in grade school,” she told him, chuckling at the memory.

  “Daddy’s self-sufficient princess,” Jack smiled.

  “He wouldn’t have it any other way,” she remarked, shooing him away from the sink as he finished cleaning the bowls. “I got a ridiculously huge sectional. Perfect for kicking your feet up,” she told him. “Why don’t you go sit and finish your wine before I kick you out.”

  He smiled at that, wandering over to her living room. It was sparse, but comfortable, a beautiful hand-woven silk Persian rug under his feet and her admittedly huge sofa looking soft and inviting. As Jack leaned back on her couch, he felt utterly content. Belly full, a gentle, relaxed feeling from a few mouthfuls of delicious wine, and Ella Fitzgerald crooning in the background. Jack blinked, struggling to keep his eyes open. In a moment, he felt Samantha’s hand sift through his hair, her fingernails gently scratching his scalp. His whole body relaxed into the cushions.

  “That feels good,” he murmured, turning his face into her hand. He pressed a kiss to the inside of her wrist.

  Her face seemed to float in front of him, her dark eyes soft and warm.

  “Would you do me a kindness?” he asked, already drifting toward sleep.

  “Besides feeding you and plying you with good wine?” Samantha teased, fingers still gently scratching his scalp.

  “Would you sit next to me?” he murmured, his voice trailing to a husk. He felt her move to sit beside him. She brought him down towards her gently, lowering his head onto her lap. He shifted to his side, sliding an arm around her legs, tucking her closer to him, her terry cloth robe soft on his cheek as her fingers kept sliding through his hair, lulling him.

  He wanted to tell her thank you, that it was the best he’d felt all week, that he loved their simple meal and their delicious wine and the easy banter. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt so content, so completely relaxed, and he wanted her to keep talking to him, to tell him more about growing up on a ranch, how she knew about garage wines, and how she got that scar on her shoulder.

  “Don’t let me fall asleep,” he murmured. And then he was out.

  *

  September—Saturday, late morning

  South Side, Chicago

  S A M A N T H A

  She was doing all right, considering how little sleep she’d gotten. She’d snapped awake after a couple hours of dozing on the couch with Jack. She must have jerked when she woke because Jack muttered something in his sleep, loosening his arms from around her and shifting, giving her just enough room to slip off the sofa without rousing him. She briefly considered waking him, but decided the charitable thing to do was leave him alone, enjoying the rest that seemed to elude him most of the time. She dragged herself upstairs, collapsing into a deep sleep for a few more hours before her phone’s alarm went off.

  She and Carey taught a self-defense seminar a couple times a month at a women’s shelter in South Loop. She’d suckered Talon and Rush into being her demonstration dummies for today’s session after their regular workout in the morning.

  Talon showed up to the class with a darkening bruise blossoming across his cheekbone and a cut on the wing of his brow. The cocky bastard was smirking too as he walked into the rec room of the shelter.

  “What in the hell happened to you?” Sam asked as he dropped a bag full of pads and gloves.

  “Whooped some ass in the Octagon,” he said.

  Sam eyed his fat lip. “You sure about that?”

  “Dumbass got into it with Goro today. He barely got out of there alive,” Rush corrected, coming up behind Talon with another bag of pads.

  The gym they regularly attended was geared toward professional and trained fighters. Goro was a trained sumo wrestler who had diversified into mixed martial arts and easily had about sixty pounds on Talon. She didn’t completely understand their desire to get in the Octagon any chance they got, but she figured their jones for blood sport had a lot to with their natural enjoyment for rough-housing—not to mention the fact that after years in Special Forces, they still missed the adrenaline rush of a hand-to-hand encounter with someone who truly wanted to hurt them. That sentimen
t was mixed, of course, with plenty of good old-fashioned machismo.

  “Psshaaaw.” Talon waved off. “I had him.”

  “You barely got out of that head lock,” Carey muttered, joining them with a medical kit. “You’re lucky you were able to kick his feet out from under him or he would have done more than he did.”

  “Chicks dig scars,” Talon replied flippantly.

  Carey smacked Talon in the back of the head. “Chicks dig guys who aren’t morons. You nearly got nailed by Goro back there. You need to work on your Jiu-Jitsu.” He proceeded to clean a cut over Talon’s brow before slapping on a couple butterfly tapes harder than necessary.

  Talon winced and shrugged. “I did fine. Besides, I hate wrestling. I’d rather beat the living daylights out of someone on my feet. More than one way to skin a cat.”

  Carey rolled his eyes before looking at Sam. “You gotta help this guy get his ground game on. He’s too reliant on hand-to-hand and kicks. Can you work with him?”

  Sam smiled. “Sharpshooters like their distance. I don’t think he’d abide by anyone tugging him down and choking him out, especially me. He’d just lie to St. Peter at the pearly gates and tell him he hit his head in the shower.”

  “Nah, I’d tell him I died in the arms of a beautiful woman,” Talon replied. “No shame in that,” he flirted, wagging his brows at Sam.

  “No one would have the balls to call Goro a beautiful woman,” Sam replied drily. “Now put on your pads. You’ll need ’em.”

  The women who were taking the self-defense course rolled in, greeting Sam and Carey while they checked Talon and Rush out. There were about twenty women, across ages.

  “Who’re these guys?” one of the women asked, wary.

  “Your dream come true,” Talon grinned, bowing dramatically in front of the women.

  Sam rolled her eyes. “He’s right in a way. Carey and I are going to show you how to beat the hell out of these two today,” she replied, introducing Rush and Talon by name. “While they’re putting on their padding, Carey and I are going to walk you through some great defense moves for an attack from behind and show you how to get out of choke holds.”