Not Without Risk by Sarah Grimm Page B

ground, hands in his pockets.
    “Good-bye, Justin.”
    The warm rush of humid air greeted her as she pushed through the door and into her
     studio. Without turning to see if he’d left, Paige closed the door behind her. With
     a low groan, she dropped to sit upon the bottom step of the stairs leading to her
     living quarters. She pulled her hair from its braid and ran her fingers through the
     strands to ease the strain on her scalp. She toed off her shoes and unbuttoned her
     blazer. She fought the urge to cry.
    Justin. His name was Justin. After years of yearning, of searching for someone who
     could arouse her both physically and emotionally, she’d finally stumbled upon the
     man. His name was Justin and he too closely paralleled the one part of her life she
     would never repeat.
    She’d done the right thing in ending it before it could even start. She’d done the
     right thing.
    So why did she feel as if she’d just been tossed against the side of her building
     for the second time that day?
    * * * * *
    Not until he crossed the threshold to his home and locked the door behind him, did
     Justin give in to the strain of the day. His body ached, screamed in protest of the
     crack on the shoulder the young officer delivered and the stiff, unyielding stance
     he’d maintained since the incident. He’d held tough, showed little weakness and no
     complaint, and he’d paid dearly for it.
    His shoulders sagged beneath the weight of his exhaustion as he moved with uncharacteristic
     slowness through his kitchen, to the desk situated in the corner of his living room.
     Dropping his duplicate copy of the St. John file onto the glass-covered mahogany,
     he melted into the executive chair. With careful, precise movements, he released and
     removed his shoulder rig from his side. He opened the center drawer of the desk.
    The lone content of the drawer rolled forward and bounced off the handle, stopping
     label up. Justin stared down at the small, brown bottle and frowned. His name, printed
     in bold script, stared back.
    He hated that bottle and its little white pills, hated everything it represented.
     Weakness and pain were his enemy, his inability to make it more than forty-eight hours
     without medication, his curse. He worked hard, did everything and more than the therapist
     prescribed and yet every day the ache persisted—a constant reminder of his vulnerability.
    Hell, he should be happy to be alive, with all his faculties intact. What was muscle
     and nerve damage compared to paralysis, even death? So what if he had days so bad
     that he questioned his ability to continue working the job he loved. He could always
     put in for a transfer. After all, a cop who rode a desk was still a cop, right?
    His fingers tightened on the prescription bottle of pills. “I’d rather be dead,” he
     admitted aloud.
    Justin set his jaw. Frustrated and worn out, he palmed a pain pill. He needed the
     rest the prescription narcotic would bring him, no matter the muddled senses and loss
     of concentration he knew from experience he would suffer tomorrow. Without sleep,
     the pain would have a tighter hold on him, become even harder for him to ignore. If
     the price for that sleep was loss of mental acuity and a bad attitude, so be it. His
     mood was already just this side of foul.
    Scowl firmly in place, he swallowed the pill dry. He flipped open the case file he’d
     brought home with him and began reading through what little information he and Allan
     had managed to gather. Though he knew the meager contents backwards and forwards,
     the impending arrival of Detective Jon Brennan, St. John’s partner from Boston, drove
     him to take a closer look. There had to be something there, something he’d missed.
     He resolved to find it.
    With single-minded determination, he dove into the file. An hour later, he’d only
     made it half way through the information when the telephone at his right rang. His
     thought processes interrupted, he