Stark Raving Mad

by Knight, Vanessa

  When he was done with her, she’d be begging for fast.

  Chapter Eight

  Joe ran his hands along the edge of Brook’s open car window and leaned in. A giggle formed on her lips—an actual giggle. Nice. He leaned closer. He couldn’t help it. The scent of vanilla and mint met his nose and drew him in. She not only looked good, she smelled amazing, too.

  “Meet you around back.” She angled toward the center of the street and drove down the block. The scent lingered for just a minute, but he couldn’t turn around until it was gone. He hated to admit it, but he was getting use to her, her scent, her laugh.

  What a sap. When did he become whipped?

  He shook his head, and the cool, smoke-tinged air cleared his thoughts. He inhaled. No vanilla, no mint, the only smell was barbecue. The neighbors were cooking on the grill. Thank goodness. His mind was his again.

  He walked the skinny sidewalk lining the side of the house to Brook’s backyard. Dark. Quiet. No Stark sightings. Dammit.

  Joe was hoping the jackass would show up again. No matter what Brook believed, he was sure Stark had been in her house last night. But why? Why would he be in the house? No answer to that was acceptable. No reason wasn’t scary as hell. Joe just wanted him to make another appearance while Brook was at work. He wanted to deal with that crazy SOB once and for all. Not that a personal invitation into Brook’s house was a bad consolation prize. If he couldn’t get immediate gratification by punching Stark, he would settle for spending time with Brook. Although he didn’t feel like he was settling.

  He watched Brook walk out of the garage. Her high heels clicked on the stone sidewalk. Her long, lean legs bringing her closer and closer. Those legs were dangerous, and offered a great view coming and going. The lengthy, muscled stems led to a tight ass. He felt guilty for wanting to reach out and touch it, but it was so perfect. And he was only human.

  He followed her up the back porch stairs into the home. She hit a switch and the kitchen sprang to life. He’d been in the room when he was chasing Stark, but he hadn’t gotten a good look. Bright oak cabinets lined the walls, topped by black granite countertops. A matching island sat in the center of the room. It was simple, elegant. Well, except for the Mickey Mouse bowl in the center of the island, M&M cookie jar on the counter, and miscellaneous character-ware blanketing the room.

  “A little too much time on Home Shopping Network?” He lifted a red Olive Oyl spoon rest.

  “I prefer to think of it as surrounding myself with fun and nostalgia.” “Well, it’s interesting.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.” She dropped her briefcase on the counter. “Hungry?”

  He flipped the backdoor lock into place. “Yeah. You eat yet?”

  “I did, but I could be talked into a Malnati’s cannoli, if you want a pizza.” Brook removed her cell phone from her purse.

  “Sure. I could go for a pie. Pepperoni and onion.”

  “Good choice. I think I need to try some of that.” She clicked a button, and a callback tone came from the phone, followed by a voice.

  “I’m on hold. Make yourself at home. There’s beer in the fridge.”

  Joe wandered past the kitchen island and opened the stainless steel refrigerator. Thank goodness they were ordering in. Her fridge had plenty of water bottles and a few beers. Oh, and there was mayo, relish, and ground coffee. Who keeps ground coffee in the fridge?

  That was all the food in the box. What the heck did she eat?

  “Find what you need?”

  “Yeah.” He found two beers. Perfect. He moved closer holding out an open bottle. “How do you live on beer and condiments?”

  She rolled her eyes as she took the golden bottle from him, and then opened the freezer. The largest selection of Lean Cuisine outside of a grocery store lined the shelves. Stacks of frozen food boxes stuffed every crevice, except for the half-full bottle of Stoli in the door.

  “Wow. I thought I ate crap.”

  “I eat quite well.” She twisted the cap off her beer. “The good people of Winberie’s Restaurant know me by name. I think my obsession with their Jamaican pork paid for the new signage out front.”

  He sat on one of the ebony stools lining the kitchen island. “So, you don’t cook.”

  “Depends on your definition of cook.” She leaned against the counter and picked at her beer label. “I make a mean Lean Cuisine. Do you cook?”

  “Cook? If you count Spaghetti O’s.” “So, also no.”

  “Hey, I make an awesome mac and cheese surprise.” “What’s the surprise?”

  “Bacon bits.”

  “Surprising.” She laughed. “Culinary art. But I understand. Who has time?” “Yeah, Budget cuts have us running on a skeleton crew at the precinct.”

  “Ah, a fellow workaholic.” The label slowly peeled from the bottle, leaving a gooey paste A grin spread across her face as she laid the paper on the island and flattened it.

  “Um…” He wasn’t sure what to say as she pressed and fondled the label. His eyes couldn’t seem to look away. Her hands could stroke him like that anytime. His body started to react to that thought.

  Her eyes looked up and met his. “Sorry.” She snapped her hands away, moving them to her drink. “Everyone always tells me I fidget too much. But I love trying to get the label off in one piece. I can rarely do it.”

  “Why?”

  “If you want the label off, you need to separate the paper from the bottle, piece by piece. I don’t have the patience to take it slow.” She lifted the bottle to her lips and took a pull.

  “That sounds tragic. Slow is the best way to take it.” His tone softened as his finger rubbed along her chin, dislodging a piece of paper.

  Her eyes were hooded as her tongue ran the width of her plump lips. They looked soft and wet. They looked ready for his to…

  Flirting with the enemy and picturing those lips finding their way down his body. Dangerous.

  Of course, at that moment, he couldn’t quite remember why she was the enemy. Oh yeah, she was a lawyer. One of the sharks that always managed to fuck up his cases, get guilty assholes off scot-free. Not to mention they were all like his father. It was in the lawyer DNA to lie, to leave.

  It didn’t matter. He wouldn’t let her get close enough for it to matter.

  About an hour later, the doorbell rang and he slidhis wallet out of his back pocket as he walked to the front door.

  “I’ll pay for dinner.” Brook ran up behind him, carrying an open purse. “It’s the least I can do for your protection.”

  “I got this.” He opened the front door and exchanged a handful of cash for a steaming box of pizza.

  “I’ll turn on a movie.” She sat on the couch, pressing buttons on the remote. Watching a movie, great idea. He needed the mindless sound, the distraction.

  His thoughts were going in directions they hadn’t been in a long time. No idea why they’d gone there now. He hadn’t seen his father in twenty years, and he hadn’t thought about him in ten. It wasn’t a fun subject.

  Pizza and a movie could get his mind off that, and could keep him focused. Keep his mind off a past he couldn’t change, a father who couldn’t love him. And, better yet, keep his mind off the leggy blonde who smelled like candy and tasted like heaven.

  * * *

  The next morning, sun squinted orange streaks through Betty Boop curtains as Brook opened the cabinet and selected two to-go coffee cups. The least she could do was offer her protector a morning jolt of caffeine. After all, he spent the night on her narrow couch. She’d offered the guest room, but he said he couldn’t protect her from upstairs.

  Fishy? Yes. But, she didn’t have the heart to question it. She’d had a hard enough time sleeping knowing he was downstairs, in her home, a few feet away from her bed. Heat travelled up her neck. Yeah, it had been an uncomfortable night. But that didn’t mean she was going to be a bad hostess.

  She filled his cup with coffee and slid on the lid. It seemed like such an inade
quate gift for ten hours of personal bodyguard duties. Especially since there were so many other things she’d like to offer. Coffee still seemed like the best option. Anything else would have been way too complicated.

  Her cell phone chirped. She dragged the annoyance out of her bag and whispered into the handset. “Good morning, Mary.”

  “Good morning. I hate to call this early, but we have a problem. Don Ryder is back in jail.”

  “Shit. What happened?” Brook poured hot coffee into her own travel mug. “Prostitution sting.”

  “Great. Just what he needs, to be caught picking up a prostitute.” She shook her head. There went the “easy” in this easy case. No wonder Larry wanted her on it. He probably knew the little shit was only starting when he allegedly attacked that girl. Picking up prostitutes. What was he thinking?

  “Umm… He wasn’t picking up a prostitute.” “What?” “He was the prostitute.”

  “Wait, what? Why would he… He doesn’t need the money. His parents have more money than God.” Brook leaned against the counter, and raised a hand to her temples. It was barely seven in the morning and her head was already pounding a tap-dance rhythm against her skull.

  “He said something about money for drugs.”

  “Has Larry been called?” Brook slanted away from the granite and grabbed her briefcase.

  “They left him a message. He’s not answering his phone.”

  Great. This kid he cared so deeply about was selling his soul for a fix, and Larry was too busy with one of the interns to be bothered. “Keep trying. I’ll head over and meet with the kid. Push back my morning meetings. I have no idea how long this will take.”Brook pressed end and peered into the living room.

  Joe had her front door held open as he flicked the lock back and forth, his eyes narrowed as he watched the mechanism. “This lock is flimsy,” he said before she got all the way into the room.

  She handed him the second travel cup. “You’re up.”

  “Thank you.” He took the mug, still distracted by the lock. He tilted the cup to his lips and drank the black liquid down.

  “I didn’t know what you wanted in it. So it’s black.”

  “Perfect.” He tilted the mug back again. “Got any more?”

  “Kitchen counter.” She took the empty mug away from him easily—he was still staring at the door.

  “Thanks.” He leaned his head against the front door, and then knocked on the wood with his knuckles before shutting it and following her into the kitchen. “Nice sturdy door you got up there. Let’s check out the back.”

  His bare feet slapped against the hardwood floors, the rumpled T-shirt and jeans hugged his frame. Even his hair, pointing in twelve different directions, looked adorably jumbled and somehow hot.She spent an hour on her hair, face, and body so she could look presentable, and he just rolled off a couch—a couch—and looked sexily disheveled. Bastard.

  He picked up the refilled cup and opened the back door.

  “Are these the only two doors in the house?”

  “There’s a third door on the side of the house.”

  “Where?” He shut the door and followed her through the kitchen, to a door that looked like a closet. At least, that’s what Allison always told Brook. It wasn’t a closet, but a short set of stairs that led to the basement andserved as a side entrance to the bungalow.

  He checked the locks. “Locks aren’t bad, but they should be replaced.”

  “The locks are fine. I’m not replacing them. Adam told me who to call when I bought the house. I trust his judgment.”

  “I’ll call someone. Now…” He shut the door, sliding the lock into place before heading to the living room. “…who has keys?”

  “Why?” Arrogant ass. He wasn’t changing the locks, correction, she wasn’t changing her locks.

  “Crazy guy released from jail. Sound familiar?”

  She rolled her eyes. Stark. The man hadn’t done a damn thing. He was probably too busy drinking and picking up stray woman. The man had been locked up for years, after all.

  He stared at her, his arms extended, palms up. “What?” She jabbed her hands onto her hips.

  “Who has keys?” His eyes didn’t leave hers. Unwavering. Unnerving. Annoyance billowed off him. Well, dammit. She was annoyed, too. It was none of his business who had keys. Her locks weren’t his business, either. She wasn’t his business, nothing about her was.

  She glared back. “Brooklyn?”

  “I haven’t been called Brooklyn since I was sixteen.” The words snapped from her mouth.

  “Were you difficult and stubborn then, too?”

  She sighed. “Probably.” She pushed a palm to her temple, but the Joe-inspired headache wasn’t easing. “Fine. I have a key.

  My sister. Todd.”

  “Todd? Why does he have a key?” “He lived here.”

  “The same guy who found a hookup at your sister’s party?” Joe leaned down and stared at one of the living room windows, running a hand along the sill.

  “Yes, that’s him.”

  “Why does he still have a key?”

  “We were dating. We just broke up.” She shook her head. “It’s a long story.” “I’ve got time.”

  “I don’t.” She raised her wrist and stared at the hands clicking away the seconds. “I need to get to the office.” She tilted back the last of her coffee and headed to the kitchen, tipped the empty carafe into her cup. Dammit. She’d have to stop for coffee, not that she had time.

  “All right, I’ll take care of the doors.” “What’s wrong with the doors?”

  “I want better locks. How do you feel about video cameras?”

  “Cameras. Where?”

  “Front, back, side doors. Maybe garage.” “Don’t you have to work?”

  “I’ll multitask.” He played with his cellphone as he talked. He must have noticed the look on her face, because he continued. “I’m calling someone.”

  “What? You can’t take care of it yourself?”

  “Honey, I’m a cop, not a locksmith.” He smiled as he brought the phone to his ear.

  “So, can I trust you’ll lock up before you leave?” She tossed him her spare set of keys from a hook by the back door. “That hook has to go. And yes.”

  She ran out the door, and left the cop to play locks, stock, and hidden camera. It wasn’t until she was sitting in her car and headed down the alley that she realized if he changed her locks, she’d have no way to get into her own house.

  “Well, I guess that means I have to see Joe again,” she said before turning up the radio.

  She drove along the ramp to the expressway with a grin on her face. She kept telling herself it had nothing to do with the man she would have to see in order to get the keys to her house.

  Chapter Nine

  Joe walked into the chatter-ridden precinct a little after noon. The shower he’d snagged when he stopped at home helped him feel less comatose, but he was still exhausted. He’d checked on the dog, guilt-riddled into bringing extra treats. But the dog hadn’t seemed all that distraught.

  He was too busy playing with the neighbors’ kids to give Joe any attention. That didn’t seem to help his crabby, sleep-deprived brain, but it wasn’t Bruno’s fault. Joe had been too busy with Brook the past twenty- four hours to pay him any real amount of attention. Joe was going to owe him an extra-long walk and Frisbee toss.

  He twisted his neck from side to side trying to dislodge the exhaustion. His sleep had been choppy. Brook’s couch wasn’t the entire problem. It wasn’t all that comfortable, but he hadn’t slept well in months. Not that he had time to dwell on that, either. Sleep was overrated. At least, that was what he’d tried to tell himself as his mind raced night after night.

  He grabbed a paper cup of sludge-worthy coffee from the break room and headed to his desk. He took a sip. Not even close to the coffee Brook had given him that morning. She may not have been a cook, but her coffee was amazing. Maybe he should start keeping the ground coffe
e in the fridge. Maybe that was her secret.

  He checked his phone as he walked out of the break room. He had to call in a few favors, but Brook’s locks were changed and the outside cameras were being installed. Not bad for a few hours’ work.

  “Banker’s hours, Stitches?”

  Stitches. He hated that nick-name, and hated what it stood for.

  “Suck it, Lopez.” Joe walked past the cackle of detectives, including pretty-boy Marco Lopez. The female cops were throwing themselves at the baby-faced horn-dog, and he was catching them left and right. If he kept it up, he’d catch a lot more than women, but discussing diseases with the man was not Joe’s idea of fun.

  Joe went further and further into the large open-spaced room. The musty scent of sweaty cops, sweaty perps—hell, just sweat— permeated the stale air. The walls of the precinct had yellowed from time and stench. They seriously needed to redecorate, or fumigate. Something.

  His partner, Shay Washington, sat at her paper-covered desk, phone stuck to her ear. Her hand was sliding through her short black hair, never a good sign. She never put her hand in her hair—something about messing it up and product getting on her hand.

  “…Yeah, Shawn, I should be there… I told you I will try to take her. I will… Fine.” She dropped the phone into the cradle and dropped her head onto the desk.

  “Problem?” “Home.” “Brother?”

  “Yeah,” came muffled from her desk. She lifted her head. “Gran had so many doctor appointments and I can’t always take her.”

  “Why? Take the time off from work.” “You need me here.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Sometimes.” She turned her light brown eyes to him and must have seen the look of annoyance. “What? Do I walk away from a crime scene to have Gran’s bunions removed?”

  “Yes. We got this under control. You can take an hour or two to take care of your family.”

  “Why can’t he do it? So he’ll miss one practice. They’re watching videos or something.”