Without Restraint

by Angela Knight

  “Why can’t we catch a break with that son of a bitch?” Frank growled.

  “We did,” Alex told him. “We’re alive. Being alive constitutes a break.”

  “I’d like to break something. Like that bastard’s skull with a bullet.” He sighed. “We’d better get back.” They still had two hours left in their shift. “Let’s hope that fucking sniper doesn’t have a spare rifle and a yen to try for us again.”

  * * *

  Sergeant Rob Henson was a thin, angular man who wore his dark hair buzzed so close it looked like peach fuzz on the smooth curve of his skull. He had a beaky nose, a mouth that seemed perpetually thinned, and the cold blue stare of a Siberian husky in a snowbank. He was also waiting impatiently at the Bradfield Auto Seating garage.

  Bruce fidgeted by his side, visibly tense. But then, given that he’d been shot at, that was understandable.

  “What the hell took you so long?” Henson growled as they got out of their cars, the doors slamming with a heavy double thunk. He stalked over to them with long, aggressive strides, as though claiming the ground he walked on. “You should have been back here half an hour ago.”

  “I had to book Charlotte Shepherd in and get in touch with her family,” Frank said calmly, despite the waves of Pissed Bastard the shorter man was beaming at him. “She’s suicidal; she needed to be hospitalized for observation as soon as possible.”

  Henson’s lips thinned even more, going almost invisible in the shadows cast by the garage driveway’s security lighting. “You ain’t a social worker, Murphy. You’re a damned cop. You should have let the jail personnel handle the family. Your job is to be here, patrolling your area and serving the people who ain’t crazy. Especially with some son of a bitch shooting at fellow deputies.”

  A muscle worked in Frank’s jaw as he said stiffly, “Yes, sir.”

  Henson turned to Alex. She’d never liked the sergeant, for whom “asshole” was evidently the preferred leadership style. But he knew the job, and he’d never hesitated to roar to the rescue whenever she, Ted, and Bruce had their hands full. He waded into fights with the vicious intensity of a honey badger on a snake; if you fucked with cops, Henson would fuck with you right back. That counted more than a sunny personality in her book, a viewpoint she shared with every cop she knew.

  But now, as that cold stare raked her, Alex had to work not to squirm. There was a hostility in his eyes she hadn’t noticed before. She wondered if it was her imagination, or if he was just pissed in general. “What’s your excuse, Rogers?”

  She met his glare, fighting her submissive’s instinct to drop her gaze before that Alpha Male eyefuck. “I was backing up my partner. The woman fought us pretty hard, Sarge.”

  He grunted, flicked a look at Frank. “Thought you were supposed to be some kind of badass SEAL. You couldn’t handle some little female?”

  “You know how crazy people are,” Alex said, knowing better than to stick her oar in, but doing it anyway. The bastard hadn’t been there; he had no right to judge Frank, supervisor or not. “It was like stuffing a bobcat in a bag.” She gestured at the bruise she could feel swelling on her cheekbone. “My bruises have bruises.”

  “Wasn’t talking to you, Rogers.” Henson hadn’t shifted his gaze from Frank’s. “Your partner’s got a nice little mouse coming up on that cheek. You don’t seem to have any.”

  “The subject couldn’t reach my face,” Frank said, his expression utterly neutral. He didn’t seem to give a shit whether Henson believed him or not. “She did take a chunk out of my arm with her teeth, and she kicked like a Clydesdale. It’s lucky she didn’t break every window in the back of my vehicle. She sure gave it her best shot.”

  Henson grunted sourly. “Yeah, well, get used to it. The good, the bad, and the batshit are all part of the job. You’re with me, Murphy. I want to see how you do on the road, find out if you’re really as good as Gaffney says you are.” He turned to Alex. “You and Greer are together. With some fucker using y’all for target practice, you three will not be riding alone until further notice. I don’t want any more dead cops on my shift. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” they chorused.

  Henson started for his car, then broke step to glower at Frank. “Why’re you still standing there, Frankencop? Let’s go.”

  “Glad you’re okay,” Frank told Bruce before turning to follow Henson.

  “Let’s take my car. I want to drive,” Bruce told Alex, a snap in his voice.

  Alex eyed his flexing jaw on the way to his Crown Vic. “You sure you’re okay?”

  He shrugged and got in. “It was a clean miss. CSI was still looking for the bullet when Henson and I left to go back on patrol.”

  “Scary as hell, though. And they couldn’t give you the rest of the night off?” Pushing his laptop aside on its swinging arm, Alex got in the passenger side and buckled up.

  “Henson offered, but I turned him down. I’ll do better if I’ve got something else to think about besides getting shot at.”

  As Bruce started the car, Alex watched Henson slide into the driver’s side of his own vehicle. Frank took shotgun, stone-faced. Pissed though she was at him, Alex winced on his behalf, knowing the rest of the shift wouldn’t exactly be Happiness and Glee.

  Bruce grunted, watching the other car pull out and take off up the street with a screech of burning rubber that spoke of Henson’s temper. “I do not envy Murphy having to spend the rest of the shift with Sarge in that mood.”

  “When is Henson ever in a good mood?” Alex asked as he pulled out and headed in the opposite direction the sergeant had taken.

  “That would be—oh, let me think—never.” Bruce drove well, his big hands sure on the wheel. The lights of passing cars painted sliding patterns of illumination along his handsome profile, with its strong nose and rounded chin. He looked a hell of a lot less battered than Frank, between the SEAL’s scars and broken nose. Bruce’s hair was just as thick and shining as Frank’s, too, the color of roasted coffee beans. His smile was quick and frequent, an expression of his warped cop sense of humor.

  Dammit, why couldn’t she be attracted to him? Life would be a hell of a lot simpler. Unfortunately, he didn’t he do a damned thing for her. Anymore, that is. Back in high school, she’d been head over heels for him. But that was before she knew she was kinky.

  Fact was, Alex just didn’t go for nice, normal guys like Bruce. She wanted a Dom. Worse, she wanted a Dom who played knight errant for every female wingnut who tried to commit suicide in his presence.

  “What’s got you stewing?” Bruce asked.

  Alex shook off her irritation. Her old lover had a finely honed intuition that served him well on the street. Unfortunately, those same instincts could make him a pain in the ass when there was something she didn’t want to talk about. “Nothing.”

  He shot her a longer look before returning his attention to the road. “Now that sounds like a nothing that’s definitely a something. What’s going on?”

  “I meant ‘nothing’ compared to that murdering bigot taking a shot at you. I’m glad you’re okay, Bruce.”

  He threw her a glancing smile. “Right back at you. We have definitely pissed somebody off. But I have no idea who, and I just spent the last three hours getting grilled about it by Tracy and Henson. I’d rather talk about why you look so damned unhappy.”

  Oh, what the hell. Maybe if she got some of the pissed off her chest, she could be a little bit more rational when she finally did have it out with Frank.

  Alex sketched the encounter with Charlotte Shepherd in a few sentences that emerged as a hot snarl. “It’s not that I wanted to shoot that poor woman—I’m damned grateful Frank got the gun away from her so I didn’t have to—”

  “But the fact that he had his weapon holstered under those circumstances makes you mad enough to chew through Kevlar,” Bruce finished for her. “And I don’t blame you. It was boneheaded. Especially for a guy who spent most of the last decade exchanging fire with jihad
is. He knows better than that.”

  “The thing that gets me is . . .” She broke off as Bruce pulled up in front of a strip mall and killed the engine.

  Picking up the car’s mic, he keyed it with a click. “Dispatch, Charlie 22 out at Southern Shops.”

  “10-4, Charlie 22,” dispatch replied.

  “I’ve got to check doors,” Bruce told Alex, pulling his Maglite out of its magnetic clip on the side of the radio. “Make sure no enterprising burglar has broken in and had himself a good ransack.”

  Alex nodded, pushed his laptop out of the way, and got out. “I’ll take the other end and meet you—”

  “We’re supposed to stay together, remember?”

  “Oh, hell, right. Okay.” She trailed after him. But as she scanned the surrounding area for snipers, she saw nothing but parking lots, streets, gas stations, and shops. “I don’t think he’s going to try anything here. It’s too open. Bastard likes trees.”

  “Maybe, but I still feel better with you on the lookout.” His smile this time was definitely a little tight. “I’m a bit tense.”

  That was a plea Alex couldn’t resist. Damn, he knows me entirely too well. She followed him, one hand on her weapon, alert for motion, for any pattern of shadow and light that could suggest a face, a hand, a rifle.

  A watching killer.

  Bruce moved quickly and efficiently along the length of the mall, pulling at doors to make sure they were locked, shining his flash into each store and scanning for burglars.

  Alex followed him around the strip mall’s corner. There in the deep shadow of the building, he paused to rattle a doorknob. Moving closer, she kept an eye on the stretch of empty ground that lay between it and the gas station beyond. If somebody was out there, her money was on the long, dead grass.

  “Alex?”

  She turned her head to glance at him. “What?”

  To her utter shock, he caught the back of her neck and leaned in. His lips settled against hers, wet and shocking. She tried to jerk back, but the hand on her nape held her where she was. His mouth slipped and tasted, his tongue investigated hers with delicate skill.

  And she felt nothing at all. Damn, Frank’s really done a number on me. Finally she wrestled loose. “What the fuck, Greer?”

  “I just wanted you to know that when you grow tired of Murphy, I’m here.” His lips curled. “And I’m not an arrogant asshole.”

  Shocked, she stared at him. Bruce turned and walked away. “But he’s not an asshole,” she said. The other deputy didn’t turn.

  Which was when she realized she hadn’t denied that Frank was arrogant. But then, he was a Dominant; arrogance was part of his job description.

  And so, at least sometimes, was “asshole.”

  * * *

  Into every life, Frank reminded himself, a little asshole must fall.

  And all too often, that asshole somehow became his supervisor. This was a problem, because assholes found fucking with him irresistible. Maybe it was his size that set them off, or maybe it was because of the alpha male streak he could never quite disguise. Whatever the case, they just had to put him in what they fondly imagined was his place.

  This wouldn’t have been a problem, except military organizations frowned on bitch-slapping superior officers. So Frank was always forced to suck it up. Fortunately, he’d learned how to ignore irrational, infuriating, and even outright terrifying behavior when he was still playing with Legos.

  “So,” Henson drawled. “We’ve all been wondering how Rogers managed to piss this prick off enough to make him want to kill her. Given that he went after Arlington for being a fruit, the gossip says she must have a taste for pussy. But since I hear you two are dating, maybe it’s something else.” His mouth stretched in something more leer than grin. “Unless she’s using you as a beard. How about it, Murphy? You ever tasted catfish on her breath?”

  Gay, lesbian, or bisexual had never mattered to Frank. Bullies, though . . . He fucking hated bullies. “Are you really willing to say that kind of stuff on the job, or are you just testing me to see if I’ll explode?” Which was outright insubordination, but he was too pissed to care.

  “So that’s a yes on the fish tacos.”

  Frank stared at the man, narrow-eyed and unspeaking.

  Henson turned back to his driving. “Hope you’re gettin’ something out of it, because you could’ve taken a bullet for that girl. And you still could.”

  “I’ve been shot at before. I’m still here. The shooters aren’t.”

  The sergeant raised an eyebrow at him. “Let’s hope you’re as good as you think you are, or you could be the one getting a skull full of lead.”

  Frank showed his teeth. “We’ll see, won’t we?”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Frank got through the rest of the shift without decking the little bastard, despite Henson’s efforts to goad him. Even so, he was simmering with frustrated anger as he followed Alex home.

  It was, he thought, a nice little place. There was a warmth and coziness about it, as if the ghost of old love still clung to its well-worn furniture and chipping paint. Stepping into the tiny living room, he took a deep breath of air that still bore the scents of mothballs and cedar, looking around at three generations of family photos that decorated damned near every flat surface.

  Some of the anger bled out of him, soothed and . . .

  Something furry exploded out from under the couch and attacked his feet, sinking claws into his boots and yowling like a demon out of hell. He didn’t shoot it. Quite. Mostly because he looked down and realized his attacker was Alex’s cat just before his weapon had cleared the holster. SIG, unfazed by his brush with death, chewed the toe of Frank’s boot, growling maniacally. “For the love of God, cat! I almost shot you.”

  Instead of rescuing him from the cat, Alex rocked back and lifted an eyebrow at him. “Big guy like you, afraid of a little pussy?”

  “Jesus, not you, too.” He bent and gingerly reached for the cat, only to jerk back as the psychotic little beast went for his hand with a rumbling growl. He straightened, glowering down at it. “Henson spent half the shift talking about pussy. Either yours, your girlfriend’s, or mine.”

  “Yours?” Taking pity on him, she crouched and started peeling her pet off his right leg. SIG cussed, but allowed himself to be detached with a minimum of bloodshed. Straightening, Alex cradled the cat and lifted red brows. “I’ve checked you really thoroughly. I don’t remember a pussy.”

  “No, only a pair of balls that wanted me to clock him.”

  Stroking the cat, she eyed him. “And what’s this about my girlfriends?”

  “Not your friends who are girls,” Frank clarified, dropping down on the armchair beside the door and scraping his hands through his hair. “The lesbian girlfriends who inhabit his fetid imagination.”

  “Henson actually said that?” She carried SIG off into the kitchen. The grind of a can opener and greedy feline yowls sounded a moment later. “Doesn’t he realize the sheriff could fire him for that kind of crap?” She returned, pausing at the refrigerator to pull out a Coke for herself and a Mountain Dew for Frank.

  “He assumes I won’t rat him out because he’s my sergeant.”

  “And male, and therefore share his Jurassic opinions.”

  “Which I don’t. On the other hand, I’m not sure I like the idea of tattling either.”

  “There’s that.” Alex strolled over to hand him his drink. Dropping onto the couch next to his chair, she popped the top on hers. They both took long swallows and sighed, almost in unison. At last she said, “Though to be fair, he’s never behaved like a sexist or bigot with me.”

  “How can you tell through the waves of asshole he emits?”

  “Takes effort. But he’s doesn’t discriminate. He’s a dickfritter with everybody.”

  Frank paused, considering it. “Point.” They drank again, the silence companionable. “You know, I’ve been thinking,” he said at last. “I wonder if our sniper bud
dy has planted any surprises in this house like the one in Ted’s.”

  “That’s . . . crossed my mind, too. You want to search, see if he’s left us a present?”

  “Actually, what I’d rather do is adjourn to my house. I’ve got a pretty good security system I’m willing to bet he won’t be able to bypass. You can stay with me until the bastard’s caught.”

  “Frank, that could take months.”

  “All the more reason for you to be somewhere he can’t get to you. Especially since he’s demonstrated his skills at breaking and entering.”

  Alex gnawed her lower lip, then sighed. “I’ll pack my bags and get the cat carrier.”

  “Don’t forget the litter box.”

  * * *

  An hour later, Alex was busy stashing her clothes in the two drawers he’d cleaned out for the purpose. SIG was off exploring the house.

  Probably making sure there was a can opener.

  “Henson wasn’t the only one to do stupid shit tonight,” Alex told Frank, who was clearing space in his closet for her uniforms. She launched into an account of Bruce’s kiss.

  “He did what?” Gray eyes narrowed and went hot as he stared at her.

  “Kissed me.”

  Now his frown was pure Dom, forbidding and dark and deliciously sexy. “And you let him?”

  “He grabbed my neck and planted one on me. There wasn’t much ‘let’ about it.”

  “Oh, bullshit. I’ve seen you fight.” A muscle rolled in his jaw.

  Alex eyed its restless flex with a certain wicked amusement. “Are you jealous?”

  “Of Bruce?”

  “Hey, he’s a good-looking guy.”

  “And if he was any more vanilla, his ass would be ice cream.”

  “Good one.”

  “I thought so.” They worked in silence for a minute or two before he asked, “What the hell happened with you two? I know you have a history.”

  Alex pulled a stack of athletic bras from her bag and tucked them into the drawer. “Ancient history.”