“Yo,” I said, the maximum investment I could bear to make.
“Couldn't help but notice—” His line was interrupted by a flock of LEOs. Gym rats migrated together. Was that called a flock? A gaggle? A gaggle of guys, complete with a ringleader at the head of the V and followers to ride his testosterone updraft. I received my smoothie, paid, and left.
He caught up with me.
“Let me walk you out,” he said. I threw him a feminist glare and he changed his tune. “It's a rough neighborhood and I'd hate to get mugged. The guys would laugh.”
“I'll protect you.” I said, with comic machismo.
White like snow, his smile. Great dimples. Suspiciously good-looking. He wanted to walk me out? Get me alone? If he touched me, I'd bust his nose.
“Come here often?” he said.
“That depends. What's your sign?”
He laughed. “Why don't we skip the nonsense? I think you're hot, and I like the way you powered through a tough set. Let's get a drink.”
“I'm tired and sore.”
“Luckily, I have a hot tub.”
“I'm not big on excessive heat.”
“Yet you live in Arizona.”
“Go figure.” I paused at the truck to unhook my keys.
“Sweet ride,” he said.
I squinted at him. Handsome, impeccable shape, outgoing, and he didn't try anything grabby. Adorable dimples. “Hot tub, huh?”
“Yep. Even has a low setting. More like lukewarm.”
I sipped the smoothie and considered him for another second. Zero creep factor. Why not? I had nothing better to do.
“Okay. I'll follow you. However, if you drive like a senior citizen, I will pull a U-turn and go home.”
Dimples blinked, surprised.
I climbed into the truck, slammed the door, and started it. He flinched when my music blared and scurried to his truck. Mine was bigger. Just saying.
I chugged the smoothie, enjoying the tart-sweet balance, and wrote his license plate number on the cup before he pulled out of the lot. He drove fast enough for me, probably because he was about to get laid.
During the drive, I didn't think about him at all. My brain fell quiet, thanks to the thump of concussive, well-orchestrated death metal. Finally, a moment of peace inside my head. The brain silence was magically soothing.
He drove to a modernized suburb with a twelve foot security gate. Definitely a LEO, I decided, but I was so horrible with names, faces, and social situations that I couldn't say if or when I'd seen him before. Hell, it was entirely possible I had already slept with him. Nah. He'd have acted differently. I parked next to him without worrying about whose spot I might be taking. Not like I'd be staying all night anyway.
“This is it,” he said. I offered a small smile, which he returned twice over. He led me to the building. I was torn between looking at his ass and making sure this wasn't a setup. He opened the door.
“Want a drink?”
“Water is fine. I'm still thirsty from the gym.”
He kicked off his shoes and I followed suit.
Dark, clean apartment. Beer mirrors, fantastic couch, big screen, surround sound, and no family photos. No indication of his name, no bills lying around, but he was certainly single. Beer galore in the fridge. He brought me a bottle of water and opened his beer. We were the same height. He watched me drink half the water.
“You look surprised to see me,” I said.
He chuckled and sipped his cold brew. “Honesty doesn’t usually work so well, but you don't look like the kind of woman who'd stick around for a long, flirty setup.”
“Got that right. Not one for idle chatter.” I touched his wrist and lowered his beer to the coffee table. His skin was hard, hot from the gym. His rippled scars tickled my palm and his pulse thudded under my fingers.
“Better have a condom nearby,” I warned.
“Bedroom.” He pointed down the hall. Good enough for me. I had him by the wrist, so I led him like I owned the place.
“You're very forward,” he said.
By then I was done talking. Gentle street lights came through the blinds. I backed until I felt the bed against my thighs. He found my lips easily in the dark. He tasted deeply of amber beer, and I wanted to eat him up, drink him down. Kissing usually felt forced, like bland pregame before the main event, but his flavor flipped a switch. I liked his nimble mouth and the gentle, pervasive things it did. He caught my excitement and put his arms around me. Thick, strong, and startling. I gasped in his mouth. I yanked his shirt over his head. His chest spread in front of me like a smooth, warm silk. Unmarred. Glorious heat.
Interesting to have another person's skin under my hands, to feel a beat, a flush, a quiver. The slaved-for abs. Gym time was paying off for him in more ways than one. His breath pounded against my throat, somehow more erotic than the kiss. Hard against me, his hands roamed under my shirt. He cupped my lower back.
Or rather, he fondled a handful of scars.
“Jesus,” he said. “What—”
I wanted to tell him to sit down and shut up until I was finished, not to ruin this. I jerked down his shorts and kissed the hell out of him. Invaded his hot, plush lips and forced my tongue against his. Seized his hips and dominated his mouth, and he didn't need much coercion to lower himself to the bed. I advanced, and he dropped all chatter to keep up. I lowered my guns and pants before I climbed aboard. His raw shape surged against my inner thighs. His legs were hard and softly-haired under my ass. He secured a condom.
He was bigger than I expected.
I must have been tighter than he expected, because he took it slow.
The initial penetration alarmed me, even though I anticipated it. Oddly virginal, though I certainly wasn't. When the entire length and girth of him was locked inside me, I swiveled a gentle circle. Testing, seeing how his body felt in mine. Thick. Tense. Burning. He tried to control my hips so I wouldn't bring him too fast, but I liked the breathy noise he made. The feeling of my insides growing wetter and his flesh sliding seamlessly into me. His excruciatingly taut muscle and rough groans spurred me on. I reached down to touch myself. He cried out at the sight. I was so ready. Wet. Slick. Steamy. Luckily, I knew exactly how I liked it and soon pushed my body into a gripping orgasm.
He trembled and strained like a man caught against an electric fence. His fingertips held me so hard I might bruise.
When done, his arms locked around me, his breath wafted in my ear, and I was a little tender inside. He smelled even better now: robust, spent, and well-ridden.
I needed a cold shower.
“Wow,” he said. Exhale. Pause.
He was planning something. A question. A proposition. I silenced him with a kiss, tasting him again. As I cupped his cheek, I felt his dimples and they made me smile.
“Why don't you take a shower and we'll have a few beers,” I commanded. Two types of lovers in the world: those you showered with, and those you didn't. I was the latter.
I slipped off and watched as he removed the condom and strutted across the room to put it in the trash. Admired his posterior. He said, “We can watch a movie if you want. I've got a few hundred channels.”
“I think there's a soccer game tonight.”
He grinned. “My kinda gal.” He kissed me again, just a peck. That was weird. I like casual sex as much as the next person, but casual kissing was something else. Dimples smiled. “Help yourself to the beer.”
“Thanks.” I turned my back and heard the shower start. Beer. Hmm. Just one wasn't enough to do any damage, but one quickly leads to twelve. Maybe I'd drink enough beer that I cried and quoted Treasure Island. Maybe more sex. Okay, probably more sex. But we'd have to talk at some point. He'd ask about my scars or say something offensive.
Who was I kidding? I would be the one saying offensive things. I should go home.
It went well. I was satisfied. Why ruin a good thing?
I slipped into my pants, settled my weapons, and went to get my s
hoes. My hand was on the doorknob when I realized how rude it would be to sneak out.
I returned to the bathroom, knocked, and spoke through the door.
“Hey, something came up at work and I gotta go. Emergency.”
“What? Oh, wait, let me—”
“Yeah, gotta split. Emergency. Take care.” I hotfooted to the door.
Coward, I told myself, and simultaneously, I don't owe him a thing.
I escaped and drove off before I could agonize over my etiquette. Dimples would forgive me. Hell, I hadn't even asked his name. He should have seen this shit coming a mile away.
Nicely-hung dimples guy would get over it.
I drove onto the freeway, gathered speed, turned the music up window-rattling loud, and didn't think anymore. Metal music was cathartic. Got home, chowed through a protein bar, took a lukewarm shower, and fingered myself. Already revved up, the second orgasm came easily. Finished, I took a book and read naked in bed until I dozed off.
All in all, not a horrible day.
Chapter 18
Sunday morning brought brunch with Sarakas, a ritual we indulged when we worked a Sunday night shift together. We met at the same place each time: a greasy spoon that gave cops free coffee and consequently was never shut down for health code violations. Sarakas was on time. I was five minutes late.
“You're late,” he complained.
“Noted.” I sat.
“You look different.”
“So do you,” I said quickly. He didn't though: same ol' handsome, friendly Sarakas with a wondrous smile and warm eyes.
“You look relaxed,” he persisted.
Play it cool. There was no reason for him to know what I did last night.
“A night at the gym, some reading, and stuff.”
“Holy crap, you got laid.”
“What! No.”
“'Stuff' always means sex when you say it that way. Who's the guy?”
“I can't say. Truly. Can I get a coffee and a change of subject?”
“Are you going to date him? If so, I should know. Tell me something about the guy.”
What's with the big brother routine? I glared. Something caught my eye, and I squinted.
“Is that a hickey?”
He flipped his collar and pulled it high. “I ran into a door.”
“Looks like you stuffed last night.”
“Can we change the subject?”
“All is fair when I turn the tables, silly.”
“Vanessa and I went to a movie.”
“That isn't all you did. Which movie?” I was ready to let the sex conversation disappear into our past until he told me what they saw. I laughed. “Andreas Sarakas saw a chick flick!”
“It's based on a book.”
“A chick book.” I wasn't fooled. Neither was he, and he executed a brutal change of topic.
“Were you sober when you had intercourse?”
“Jeez, intercourse? Really, Sarakas? Never fear, I was as sober as a monk.”
“Didn't monks invent beer?”
“Are we going to eat or what?”
Enter the waitress, stage left. Perfect timing.
“I'll have sausage and biscuits, sausage and eggs, three eggs poached without runny whites, and sausage.”
“You said sausage three times,” Sarakas reported.
“And I meant it. Sausage,” I emphasized to the waitress. She took the hint and sauntered off to place our order, which made me think about money. “Hey, have major funds ever disappeared from your account? Any paychecks accidentally not show up?”
“Nope. All the watchdog systems overseeing financial institutions keep things locked and loaded. Why?”
“They also profile your spending. Did you know—”
“How much have you lost?”
I told him. He whistled.
“Need a loan?”
“Nope. I had enough cash reserve to last for a while.” None of my legal activities were expensive. No lover, no costly bad habits. Did shooting people count? “The weird thing is the bank has no idea where it went. Like, they're surprised and nervous, that's how much of an idea they don't have.”
“Weird.”
“Absolutely.” I sipped coffee and moaned as the first full-flavored rush hit my tongue. Today was going to be a good day. “How do you like being our great leader?”
“Feels the same, but I get blamed more often. For example, PD calls me to complain that you're sticking your nose into homicide cases and correlating unrelated data that may derail the investigation.”
“Aw, c'mon. Doesn’t silver buckshot make it my business?”
“The bureau hasn't got any files on the victims. Zilch. They weren't tagged as potentials and PD found no evidence of mutt involvement. Therefore, this is a human issue. Some of the victims are illegals and vagrants, so we might never find a connection, but the crime is an issue for PD and ICE.”
“How hard are they looking for the killer?”
“Not your business, snoopy-pants. What, like you haven't got enough to do? Not satisfied with the mountains of paperwork and tag requests on your desk? Don't piss off PD. They back us up when we need it, and I won't have you alienating half the squad. Until homicide decides differently, this is a regular ol' human issue of violence.”
“Bossy.”
“Nosy.”
“Touché.”
I wanted to tell him what Mullen said about the killings, but I didn't. Mostly because Mullen might murder me, partly because I didn't want to sicken Sarakas without evidence to support the poacher theory.
Food came. Heaping platters of sausage, eggs, biscuits, hash browns: a plethora of grease and satisfaction with little grapes as decoration. I mowed down. Sarakas was a fast, quiet eater with better table manners than me. Even put the napkin in his lap, for goodness sake. A real gentleman.
“So, Vanessa...” I said, “Serious enough that you let her drag you to girly shows?”
“The movie wasn't that bad. The book won an award.”
“A chick award.”
“What's that even mean?”
“Means there's literature and fiction and non-fiction, and then there's emotional garbage. Like, the girl equivalent of porn, which is fine, I guess, but romance gets chicks hot and you bought into it. You're feeding an addiction at most, a delusion at best.”
“You are so sexist.”
“What? Like what I said isn't true? Like Mr. Bodice-Ripper on the cover isn't warping a woman's perception of what a man should be, precisely the way pornography ruins a man's perception of what a woman should be? Twisted, I tell you, it's all twisted up. Why can't people simply be people? Why all the roles and labels and crap designed to push people apart when the ultimate goal should be to foster human connections—”
“Is this some passive aggressive commentary? Are you bashing Vanessa with your movie critique? I'm telling you, there's nothing twisted about that amazing woman. Nothing. She's damn perfect. Or is that it? You've got a problem with who I'm seeing, and your diatribe is aimed at me—”
“Kee-rist! No. Dude, Vanessa is perfect as far as I can tell. Heck, I'd date her. I'm not teasing her, I'm teasing you for watching some romantic flick instead of the soccer game.”
“Tell me about it!” He lifted his hands. “I have no idea what the movie was about. I spent two hours agonizing over who was winning the game.”
“Aw, you missed the movie's titillating plot points? You could always read the award-winning book.”
“Over my dead body. Pass the syrup.”
“What you need is less sugar and sappy sweetness.” I passed the syrup. “Remember that fighter we saw last year in Vegas, Benoit? He's picked up enough mass that he can't fight bantam weight anymore. He was a good contender then, and he's even more aggressive with the extra muscle on him.”
“The FCC is looking to shut down all competitive fight sports, from boxing to mixed martial arts, and it looks like they'll succeed. Again.”
“
Then the fights will go underground and business will boom despite the legal bullshit. Exactly like the Prohibition.”
“The what?”
“The Prohibition,” I said. “Didn't you hear about it in school? Back in the early twentieth century, like, right after World War One, Congress gets the brilliant idea to make alcohol illegal. So they infringe upon the basic liberties of all the citizenry and set down an amendment in the Constitution making booze illegal. I guess they thought liberty doesn't have anything to do with making decisions about your own body. Anyway, it becomes a crime to sell and make alcohol. What happens? Everyone still drinks, but now they need muscle and firepower to keep the liquor flowing. Organized crime erupts. Things get bloody. The government finally sees the light and repeals the amendment. But by nosing into shit that really isn't a crime, Big Fed only makes things worse and encourages lucrative crime.”
“Alcohol does cause a lot of problems, which you can't deny.”
“Right, but we get to choose if we let it become a problem or if we behave like responsible adults. Making stupid rules won't take the stupid away.”
We often argued this issue. I thought a lot of rules were stupid, born of power-hungry, controlling assholes who wanted to subjugate people. Sarakas believed rules were in place for well-intentioned reasons. Cute idea. Whenever we talked about politics, I ranted and raved while Andreas remained calm and patient, assured everything was for the best, and it would all work out in the end. Truly optimistic. It was one of the things I appreciated about him, and yet it never ceased to irk me.
“For someone who doesn't like people, you tend to give them too much credit,” he said.
“Let's talk about something else.”
“Sure.” He broke into a grin and sing-songed: “Kaid got laid.”
I rolled my eyes and threw a grape at his head. He bobbed out of the way.
“Did anyone tell you that rolling your eyes is not something adults do?”
“This adult rolls her eyes when it's appropriate.”
“Maybe we'll sic Toshino on the bank issue,” he said.
“All over the board today, aren't you?”
“Eh. An extra jolt of coffee.”
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