Sergeant Sexypants

by Tawna Fenske

  I’m paraphrasing a little, but that’s exactly how it went down. Bree—pathetic, friendless Bree Bracelyn—is the reason those girls lost everything.

  Austin shakes his hand and puts his hands on my knees again. One palm cupping each, so he can look me in the eye. So he can will me to hear what he’s saying. “Other people made choices here, Bree. You can’t put this all on yourself.”

  “I can, and I do,” I tell him. “It’s because of me that four girls’ lives were ruined. More than that. Their families’ lives, too. Hell, the pedestrian—the guy who was in the coma?”

  “Who survived,” he says gently, like I might have forgotten.

  “The medical bills practically bankrupted his family,” I say.

  I don’t tell him that I made sure that didn’t happen. That I drained one of my trust funds and donated it anonymously to his family. None of that absolves me, none of it makes things better.

  “This is why.” My words are weak, like someone drained all the life out of my voice. “Why I don’t date cops. Or anyone else who’s good and law-abiding and—and—”

  “—And likely to find out?”

  I shake my head, even though there’s no accusation in his eyes. Just the facts, ma’am, but no judgement from Austin Dugan. That almost makes it worse.

  “No. I mean, yes, but that’s not the main thing.” My eyes flood again, and I grip the handkerchief in my fist. “Because you operate under a code of ethics. Right and wrong, good and evil, law-abiding citizens and bad guys. It’s what I love about you, but it’s also a world I don’t belong in.”

  His eyes flicker at the word love. I’m gripping the handkerchief so hard my knuckles have turned white, and the sight of Austin’s hands on my knees sends a tear slithering down my cheek. “I don’t deserve that, Austin,” I whisper. “I don’t deserve someone good and honest and perfect.”

  He snorts and rakes a hand through his hair. “Jesus, Bree. I’ve spent the last month proving to you how imperfect I am. The stories about lighting my hand on fire and talking to a mannequin weren’t enough to convince you I’m far from fucking perfect?”

  “But that’s just it.” I shake my head and swipe at my eyes again. “You’ve been honest with all the imperfect parts of you, and I’ve been a cowardly, lying piece of shit.” I drop my knees and plant my feet on the floor, locating my shoes with the tips of my toes. I wobble as I stand, but I don’t let that stop me.

  “Bree, wait—”

  “No.” I scuff my feet into my shoes as I start for the door. “It took you less than a month to dig up all this dirt on me. How long do you think it’ll take the media? To start pointing fingers at the guy who’s in line to be chief.”

  “Bree—”

  “And you’re about to get pulled into a big, public trial and you know something like this could come up.” I’m already halfway to the door. “Think about it; Lieutenant Dugan is dating a criminal,” I sputter. “Clearly his judgement can’t be trusted. You can’t tell me that wouldn’t happen.”

  Austin catches me by the arm and turns me around to face him. “Stop,” he says, but I can see in his eyes that he knows my points are valid. “Just sit down and let’s talk about—”

  “I can’t.” I wrench my arm free, hating the loss of his touch. Hating myself even more. “I knew better than to date a cop. Just let this die before I end up wrecking more people’s lives. Please.”

  He reaches for me again, but I’m too quick this time. I’m almost to the door now, fumbling my keys out of my pocket as I run. He could catch me if he wanted. He’s bigger and stronger and faster, and he could have me pinned against the wall before I closed my fist around the doorknob.

  But that’s not the sort of man he is. He’s gentle and kind and respectful of my space.

  And he’s everything I don’t deserve.

  Choking back a sob, I fling open the door and sprint for my car, Austin’s voice ringing behind me.

  Chapter 15

  AUSTIN

  It’s been three days, and Bree’s still not answering my calls.

  On day four, I drive out to the resort. The morning air is crisp and spiced with the scent of leaves and frost-crisped grass. It won’t be long before we get our first snow.

  Snow makes me think of bonfires and hot tubs, which makes me think of Summer Lake Hot Springs, which makes me think of Bree, though pretty much everything does these days. How the hell could she think I’d judge her for what happened thirteen years ago? Or blame her for something that wasn’t her fault.

  It’s not about you, dumbass. It’s got nothing to do with what you think.

  It’s my sister’s voice I’m hearing in my head, though I haven’t breathed a word of Bree’s secret to her or anyone. She’s right, my subconscious-sister-voice. Bree’s not crippled by my opinion of her.

  She’s crippled by her own.

  I’m considering this as I pull up in front of her cabin early Tuesday morning. It takes me a few seconds to spot Mark standing off to the side. He’s gripping an axe and staring at a small wooden shed I never noticed before. His head snaps up when I open the car door, and he watches me without expression as I make my way up the path to the house.

  “She’s not here.” He doesn’t move a muscle, not even to set down the axe.

  I give him my best cop stare and avoid looking at the heavy piece of weaponry in his hands. “You sure about that?”

  He laughs, which startles me. I’ve never seen him do anything but glower. “Yeah,” he says, wiping a faded red bandana over his forehead. “I like how you think, though. Fuck yes, I’d lie to the cops or the pope or anyone else to protect my sister. But I’m serious, she’s gone.”

  I’ve gotta admire the guy’s straightforwardness. And his love for Bree, which makes two of us. I lean against the side of her cabin and glance at the mountain of firewood he’s stacked in the shed. Bree’s set for winter. “Where’d she go?”

  I don’t expect him to answer. He stares at me a long time before he does. “Some financial meeting in Portland.” His expression softens almost imperceptibly. “James is with her.”

  I haven’t met the whole family yet, and I must look unsure because he adds almost kindly, “The lawyer brother. She’s in good hands.”

  Lawyer. I roll the word around in my head, wondering whether to read anything into it. How much does Mark know? Or James or Sean or—hell, I can’t remember all their names.

  But I appreciate what Mark’s telling me: She’s safe. She’s not alone. We’ve got this.

  I can respect that.

  “Will you tell her I stopped by?”

  Mark grunts and gives a faint head-tilt that might be a nod. Not the world’s most scintillating conversationalist, this brother.

  I turn to go. I’m halfway to my car when I hear his voice over my shoulder.

  “Don’t you goddamn quit on her.”

  I turn back around, sure I’ve heard wrong. “What?”

  He watches me for a second like this is a test. Like he’s waiting to see what I’ll do.

  I stand my ground, keys gripped in one fist. I’m not going anywhere.

  “Bree.” He shoves the bandana in his pocket and stares at me. “She seems tough. She fucking bosses us around like it’s her job, which it pretty much is, and she’s good at it. She thinks she knows what’s best for everyone else, and the thing is, she does. But she’s shitty at knowing what’s good for her.”

  He scrubs a hand over his beard, and I get the sense this is the longest string of words he’s put together all week. Maybe all year. “She’s headstrong and protective and bossy as hell, but she’s also smart and generous and the kindest fucking person I know.”

  My throat pinches tight. “I know,” I manage. “I know all that. Especially the kindness.”

  He nods once. “So don’t fucking quit on her,” he says. “Even if she says that’s what she wants.”

  I grip my car keys harder, determined not to let my voice shake. Not to let Bree’s b
rother see how much his words have rattled me. “Thank you.” I loosen my grip on the keys and wonder if I should say anything else.

  I’m still thinking about it when Mark shoulders the axe, then turns and stomps around the corner of the cabin. I stare at the space where he vanished, at the neatly-stacked piles of firewood.

  I don’t know if Mark’s lying about Bree leaving town, but if it’s true, she’s not the only one. I’ve got two hours to get to the airport. I turn and make my way back to the car as a faint flicker of hope sparks in my chest.

  It’s early the next morning by the time my red-eye flight deposits me in Boston. My first interview with the potential witness in the Zonski case isn’t until tomorrow, but there’s a reason I flew in early. It’s the same reason I paid out-of-pocket for the extra hotel night and for the rental car that carries me across state lines and into Rhode Island. Traffic is heavy, but Google driving directions get me right to the front gate of the women’s penitentiary in less than two hours.

  Visiting hours have just started when I walk through the door. I’m wearing jeans and a button-down instead of my uniform, but I flash my badge at the guards. I pocket it fast, determined to play this like a regular guy. Just a friend checking on something for a friend.

  As soon as I’m seated, Bridget Mueller takes one look at me and frowns. “Cop.”

  “Yep.” I fold my hands on the table. Big shocker that she’s bristly about law enforcement. The trouble she got into at seventeen wasn’t the beginning, and it wasn’t the end, either.

  She stares at me with deep suspicion, folding her tattooed arms on the table in front of her. Her short curls are bleached the color of faded straw, and she’s got a scar on her right cheek. She was pretty once; I can see that. She’s pretty still in an edgy, angry way.

  “Who the hell are you?” she demands.

  I don’t beat around the bush. “A friend of a friend,” I tell her. “You remember Breeann Bracelyn.”

  Her brows arch in surprise, but she’s trying to hide it. “Yeah. Skinny little rich bitch. So?”

  I keep my expression neutral, not letting her see that the attitude pisses me off. That won’t get us anywhere. “You haven’t forgotten the person who took the rap for you.”

  There’s that flicker of surprise again. I expect her to deny it, but she shrugs and lifts her chin. “Statute of limitations is up. Besides, that was a long time ago.”

  Neither of these things is precisely true, but that doesn’t matter right now. I lean back in my chair, adopting my best casual cop pose. “Tell me about what happened before the accident,” I say. “When you were sixteen, before you even knew Bree.”

  Her eyes widen again, and I can tell I’ve shocked her for real this time. She doesn’t even try to hide it. She knows damn well what I’m talking about, and I can see her puzzling it out. Looking for ways this could be a trap. She owes me nothing, and it’s possible she’ll stand up and walk away.

  But she stays sitting. I watch as her expression shifts from surprise to curiosity. “Why should I tell you anything?”

  “Maybe because you’re ready to.”

  She snorts and looks down at her hands. Her nails are bitten to the quick, and there’s something vulnerable in her eyes. Something I recognize from Bree’s face on my couch the other night. From every suspect who’s ever reached a breaking point.

  When she looks up, some of that false bravado is back. “Those records are sealed.” She narrows her eyes. “Why the fuck are you here?”

  “Confirming a theory,” I say. “For a friend.”

  “Friend.” Bridget scoffs, like it’s a curse word, and I’m reminded of the tremble in Bree’s voice.

  “I didn’t have friends. Not a single one.”

  I press a little harder, right where I know it’ll matter. “Bree Bracelyn wasn’t the only girl whose daddy knew how to bail her out of trouble,” I say. “Two DUIs when you were sixteen, Bridget. And they both magically vanished the year before that accident. Before Bree took the rap for you.”

  She looks away, muttering something under her breath that I don’t quite catch. “They couldn’t prove shit,” she says. “Breathalyzer was faulty. And anyway, that dumbass cop forgot to read me my Miranda rights before—”

  “I don’t give a shit, Bridget.”

  She whips her head back to look at me. “What do you give a shit about, huh?”

  “Bree.” I don’t hesitate at all. “I care about Bree. About helping her get closure.”

  That gets me another snort. “Closure? Closure for what?”

  “For ruining your life,” I say.

  I thought I’d learned all her expressions of stunned surprise, but this is a new one. She jumps like I’ve poked her in the ribs, mouth falling open. It takes her a few seconds to recover, and when she does, she rolls her eyes hard enough to knock them out of the socket. “Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

  “Do I look like I’m kidding?”

  She tries to hold eye contact, but I wait her out. After a few more breaths, she looks down at her hands again. “What do you want me to say?” She rubs her thumb over a scratch on the edge of the battered table, and I watch the web of lines deepen between her brows. “You want to hear that my daddy was a sick son-of-a-bitch who wanted everyone to think we had this perfect life in our perfect fucking mansion on the hill, but behind closed doors, he beat the shit out of my mother every chance he got. Is that what you want to hear?”

  It’s not at all what I want to hear, but it’s the truth. It’s what I pieced together from Bridget Mueller’s file, so I’m not surprised.

  But in a fucked-up way, I’m relieved. This isn’t the first time Bridget has told someone this part of her story, but it’s a puzzle piece Bree has never had.

  And that’s why I came here today.

  “You were dealt a shitty hand from the start, Bridget.” I keep my tone gentle, the one Bree called Officer Velvet Voice. The thought of Bree makes my chest pinch, but I keep going. “Between your dad’s issues and your mom’s depression and your trouble with the law starting when you were twelve—yeah, I know about the shoplifting—you got on a lousy path pretty early in life. Bree Bracelyn didn’t put you there.”

  She looks up sharply. “Who the fuck said she did?”

  I don’t answer that, waiting for her to fill in the blanks. It’s better that way sometimes, letting someone get there on their own.

  “Bree does.” She shakes her head as the reality sinks in. “Little-Miss-Goody-Two-Shoes thinks she ruined my fucking life.”

  “Not just yours,” I say. “The other girls in the car that night.”

  She snorts again and looks back down at the table. “That bitch wasn’t the one behind the wheel.” She shakes her head like she can’t believe we’re having this conversation. “Claire and Ashley and Marcella were just as fucked up as I was. Not that anyone deserved to die—”

  “Of course not.”

  “Shit.” Bridget looks away, and I swear I see liquid pooling in the corner of her eye. “Bree really thinks it’s her fault?”

  “Yeah. She does. And it’s been eating her alive for thirteen years.”

  Bridget grunts and returns her gaze to mine. There’s defiance in her eyes, but there’s something else. Something that tells me I may not have wasted a trip here.

  “I know a few things about regret.” She shakes her head again, and I pretend not to notice the tear that slips down her cheek. “Stupid bitch.”

  I’ve never heard those two words spoken with such an odd mix of affection and sadness. And regret. A lot of regret.

  Her gaze narrows on mine. “Why the hell did she do that, anyway? Take the rap for—” She stops short, pressing her lips together.

  “This isn’t a trap, Bridget.”

  “No?” She swipes at her face with the sleeve of the long-sleeved tee she wears under her prison blues. “So what the hell is it?”

  “A chance to make things right.”

  Her lau
gh comes out more like a choked sob. “Oh, that’s rich.” She laughs again, but there’s a flicker in her eyes. Something that looks a tiny bit like hope. When she looks at me again, her bottom lip quivers.

  “How?” She sniffs. “How do I make things right?”

  Chapter 16

  BREE

  “I’m so glad I caught you!”

  I look up from my desk to see travel blogger Shawna Anders hustling into my office. She’s half of the couple that runs the Wandering Hearts blog, and from the way she’s beaming, I’m guessing things are going well with her other half.

  The half who has—to the best of my knowledge—managed to keep his hands off Gigi from the other travel blogging duo since I embarked on my mission to keep them apart.

  “Hey, Shawna.” I click “save” on the marketing plan I was working on and pivot my desk chair to face her. “I saw you and Chris got checked out this morning?”

  She settles herself in my guest chair with her curtain of silky blond hair falling over her shoulder the way it does in half her Instagram photos. I might hate her for being beautiful if she wasn’t pretty damn nice. “I just settled up in the restaurant with your brother.”

  I frown and reach for a pen, though there’s nothing I need to write. “All your meals were comped.”

  “I know, but I always like to tip extra,” she says. “The service was really excellent.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” My fondness for Shawna cranks up a notch. I’m a big fan of anyone who remembers to take care of our waitstaff and housekeepers, even though we pay them a generous wage.

  “Thank you,” she says. “Not just for the great stay. For everything you did. Everything.”

  Her flawless features settle into a knowing look, and I wonder how much she’s figured out. If she’s aware of my efforts to help her idiot boyfriend keep it in his pants.