by Freya Barker
“Fuck, I hope not. Rosie and I have taken to sleeping in separate rooms, taking turns with Tessa, so the other can sleep a little. That better fucking not last forever.”
I grunt sympathetically, clap him on the shoulder, and head to my office.
I feel bad for him. He went from an uncomplicated, independent single life a couple of years ago to this. I’m not saying his wife and daughter aren’t worth it, but it’s got to be a hard adjustment.
Or is it? I mean, look at Dimas, a consummate bachelor, who barely seemed to notice the loss of that status the moment Willa hit his radar not that long ago. Makes you wonder if it isn’t so much about giving up the single life but has more to do with meeting the right person.
An image of Hillary floats to the surface and I shake my head trying to clear it. Too soon for thoughts like that. Although, I should probably remind myself of that next time I stand at my kitchen window, waiting for a glimpse of her.
I boot up my computers and dive into the high security network I’m setting up for a software company in Salt Lake City. We promised them the framework by the end of this week and if they approve, I’ll have to head out there to install and instruct. It’s my least favorite part of jobs like this since it requires dealing with people but has to be done.
My little side investigation of Jeremy Loman will have to wait. Despite Hillary’s positive identification of the boy, and what little circumstantial evidence I brought to the table, the DA didn’t feel there was enough there to charge him. Underwood reluctantly had to let him go yesterday.
The morning is almost gone by the time the boss sticks his head into my office. I’d been buried so deep in what I’m doing, I didn’t even hear them come back.
“Conference room. Lena is ordering lunch.”
He doesn’t wait for an acknowledgment and I quickly finish what I’m doing, before picking up my laptop, and following him down the hall.
“What’s up?” Jake asks when he walks in right behind me.
“I’ll get to that,” Yanis says, turning to me. “How far are you with the MadTex account?”
“Should be done with the design for the framework today. It’ll take me another day or two to build it.”
“How long to install?”
“At least a day on site, maybe two. Why?”
Yanis nods at Bree who takes over.
“Underwood asked us to come in to discuss our report. He’s planning to clean house but anticipates blowback. Timing sucks, given he’s dealing with two murders that look to be connected, so he’s—”
“That’s confirmed?” I interrupt. “They have evidence they’re connected?”
“Nothing concrete,” Yanis responds, “but other than the murder weapon, the cases seem eerily similar. Both women attacked—what appears to be randomly—late at night in front of their homes, two suspects seen running from the scene.”
“So there are witnesses for this latest one?”
“One. An elderly man with insomnia, living around the corner, spotted two people running down the sidewalk and getting into a light-colored pickup truck around the time of the attack. Wasn’t able to make out model or license plate.”
My fingers are already flying over my keyboard, searching through social media posts of some of Jeremy Loman’s friends whose profiles I saved.
“What are you looking for?” Bree wants to know, coming around the table to stand at my back.
“Looking for connections,” I mumble, as I discard the first kid and move onto the next one. “We know it wasn’t Loman, he was in custody, but we never found the second guy. Jeremy posted a selfie with the baseball bat, if the cases are connected, maybe some other kid did something equally stupid.”
“Bit of a stretch,” Jake comments, but he still leans over to peer at my screen.
“Maybe, maybe not. Loman is an avid gamer and so are some of his buddies. It’s all about the competition with those kids. Some of these violent games can make them feel invincible.”
“He’s got a point,” Bree agrees with me. “Plenty of recorded cases of violence that would support that.”
“Where’s the fire?” Dimas walks into the conference room, shooting his older brother a fiery look. “I was having a fan-fucking-tastic and well-deserved—if I may add—day off with my wife when you called.”
“Underwood needs some backup,” Yanis says unapologetically before explaining the situation to Dimi. “I need Radar to finish the MadTex contract, so we need you on the computers in the meantime.”
I’d rather be working on this instead of a boring security network, but it’s a big contract bringing in a nice chunk of change for PASS, so we can’t exactly blow it off. Besides, next to me, Dimas is the most at home with technology—that doesn’t mean I have to like giving this case out of hand. I’m into it up to my neck already.
“Show me what you’ve got,” Dimi says, crowding out Bree behind me.
Twenty minutes later I’m in my office, the door closed, determined to crank this system out in record time. There’s no way to avoid the trip to Salt Lake City, but if I can get the system built as soon as tomorrow, head up there on Thursday, at least I can have this off my plate by the weekend.
I don’t mind working around the clock if I have to—wouldn’t be the first time I missed some sleep—but it means I won’t have time to watch out for Hillary.
And I really like keeping an eye on her.
Hillary
“Rather you than me.”
I throw Linda a dirty look as she slips through the curtain, before looking back at my patient.
“I’m going to need you to slip out of those track pants, Mr. Thompson.”
Mark Thompson—a thirty-three-year-old construction worker—shoots me a pained expression. The poor guy walked into the ER ten minutes ago with complaints of groin pain. He’d been cupping his junk and was walking bow-legged when I showed him to the cubicle.
“When did you first experience discomfort?” I ask him, as he gingerly slips his pants down.
I try not to get distracted by the fact he’s going commando and is packing or react to the clearly distended and deep purple testicle.
“When I got out of the shower after work,” he grinds out through clenched teeth.
“What time was that?”
I don a pair of gloves and gently palpate his scrotum, but still his whole body clenches. His left ball is rock hard. Mr. Thompson may well have a testicular torsion, which means time is of the essence before irreparable damage is done.
“A little before seven. I was getting ready for a date.”
I’ll leave it to the surgeon to explain there likely will be no ‘dating’ for the upcoming few weeks at least. This guy will likely need surgery and fast. It’s a quarter past ten now. After six or so hours the testicle starts dying off and he stands a good chance of losing it.
I pull the sheet up to cover him and remove my gloves.
“I’m going to call in a doctor to have a quick look at you. Hang in there, okay?”
He grunts, sweat beading his forehead from the pain.
Slipping through the curtain I rush to the nurses’ station.
“Who is the urologist on call?” I ask Linda, who is working on one of the computers.
“Your favorite guy; Bill Shearer.”
Of course. Isn’t that just my luck.
“Can I have the phone?” Linda lifts the phone on the counter, a smirk playing on her lips. “You’re enjoying this a little too much,” I accuse her.
“Been a slow week, I can do with some action around here,” she teases with a shrug.
Over her shoulder, in the small office behind the nurses’ station, I catch Karla eyeing me.
Just wonderful.
In the twenty minutes it takes Bill to get here I have a Doppler and the portable ultrasound ready outside the cubicle.
“Couldn’t do without me after all?” he smarms, as he walks up with a smile I’m sure he thinks is far more effective than it really is.<
br />
I slide the notes I made in Mr. Thompson’s chart to him without a word. Luckily he’s enough of a professional to give it his full attention until Karla, who must’ve spotted him, comes rushing out of her office.
“Hey, Bill, what brings you in so late?”
He looks up from my report. “Hillary called me.”
Her eyes immediately swing my way, her dislike evident.
“Patient with a testicular torsion,” I explain what Bill failed to clarify. For some reason he seems to enjoy fueling the flame. Bastard.
“I see,” she responds sourly. “Well, if you need a hand.”
The last is directed at Bill, who raises an eyebrow as Linda—who’s been listening with rapt interest—chuckles softly.
“Thanks,” he says, “but I’m sure the patient’s…care is safe in Hillary’s hands.”
The comment is dripping with double entendre and I almost feel sorry for Karla, whose lips pinch in a tight line. If I wasn’t sure it would cost me my job, I’d have slapped that arrogant smirk off his handsome face.
Ten minutes later Mark Thompson is on his way to the OR, looking a little shell-shocked. Men don’t always handle the idea of anything sharp that close to their prized possession well. Wait until he hears he’ll have to abstain from sex for the next four to six weeks.
Poor guy.
The final hour or so of my shift is filled with the usual late-night emergencies: a twenty-two-year-old drunk driver hitting a tree, a dehydrated cancer patient after a night of vomiting, and a child with a persistent nosebleed.
By the time I pull the car into my parking spot, I’m bone-tired. Luckily tomorrow is Thursday, my day off. Other than some laundry and a quick trip to the grocery store to replenish my food supply, I have nothing on the schedule. Maybe I’ll cook something nice.
I glance up at Radar’s apartment, which is as dark as it was last night. I haven’t talked to him since Sunday night and the only time I saw him was yesterday morning.
I wonder if he’d appreciate a home-cooked meal.
Chapter Eight
Radar
“Go home.”
I blink my eyes open to find Bree glaring at me in the doorway, Phil peeking in between her legs.
It takes me a second to get my bearings. I’m lying on the cot in the locker room at the office. It’s there in case one of us works late. On some contracts our hours don’t exactly run eight-to-five and in the past days I’ve become intimately acquainted with the all-too-thin mattress.
I glance at my watch and see it’s already after four.
Shit.
Today is Sunday.
Since Tuesday, this past week has gone by in a blur. Bree was kind enough to take care of my dog while I put my nose to the grindstone to finalize the system for MadTex. I put the final touches on it Thursday morning, grabbed a change of clothes I keep in my locker, and drove to the airport to catch a flight to Salt Lake City. Of course, what should’ve been a one-day thing turned into almost three due to a few glitches streamlining my system to their network, and I didn’t get back until last night.
Instead of going home, I came straight to the office when I heard from Dimas he’d come across something that might be of interest. He’s a good tech, but not a hacker. That’s my specialty.
He’d been looking at my gaming angle and came across the name of a game he hadn’t heard of before; Lock&Load - Revenge. I’d never heard of it either and was no more successful than Dimi had been trying to find more information. Usually, when a new game hits the market it’ll get written up in gaming blogs, but no one even mentions this one.
What I did find were a few references to it on social media posts, and I spent most of the night and this morning taking down names of anyone who made mention of it, until I got so tired I couldn’t see straight. I tried a shower to wake up but that didn’t work, so laid down for what was supposed to be a catnap, one hour tops, but turned into four.
I swing my legs over the side and plant my feet on the floor, raking my fingers through my hair.
“I’ve got work to do.” Even my voice sounds rough as I lift my head to look up at Bree, but my eyes get stuck on my dog’s big, pleading ones. Her body is almost gyrating as she strains against the leash. “Come here, girl.” I pat my leg and Bree reluctantly lets go of her.
“You don’t deserve her,” she grumbles, and I don’t disagree as Phil’s compact body circles around my legs, her entire back end wagging.
I don’t deserve her, but I’m not going to admit that to Bree.
“You’re just saying that because you want her.”
“So? At least I’m around to look after her.”
I snort, because more often than not it’s her gone for days, sometimes weeks, at a time on a contract.
“Until your next case takes you out of town.” I pick up my dog, who insists on giving me a tongue bath, and get to my feet. “Besides, she loves me best,” I tease her.
“Only because you spoil her.”
I grin and lift Phil away from my face but that doesn’t stop her from trying to lick me.
“No more than you,” I fire back. “Tell me you didn’t let her sleep in your bed?” Bree doesn’t answer and is suddenly very interested in the toes of her boots. I start laughing. “See?”
“Whatever. You need to go, Boss’s orders. You’ve been burning the candle at both ends all week. How long since you’ve been home?”
It shouldn’t surprise me Yanis keeps close tabs on who’s in the office at any given time. I installed the monitoring system myself.
Fuck, it’s been five days. I have food I’m sure is growing legs in my fridge and I really need to wash a load. I can grab some groceries on the way, cook a meal, get my laundry started, and do some work from home.
“Fine,” I grudgingly concede and with my dog under my arm, head to my office to grab my laptop.
My arms are full of groceries when I spot the note stuck under my front door. I dump the bags on the doorstep, grab the note, and unlock my door. Phil pushes the door open and makes a beeline for the kitchen to her empty food bowl. A quick glance at the note reveals tidy feminine handwriting and Hillary’s signature. An invitation to dinner for six. I take a quick glance at my watch. Five thirty. The day is looking up after all. After feeding Phil, putting the groceries away, and starting a load of laundry, I quickly hop in the shower.
My brother and I were raised never to show up empty-handed, so in lieu of a bottle of nice wine or something, I grab the apple pie I just picked up at the grocery store. I only feel a small pang of guilt when I spot my laptop discarded on the coffee table as I walk out of the apartment.
There’s a decent breeze blowing and with the sun sinking lower in the sky, it’s pretty chilly. I pull my beanie down to cover my ears when I cross the parking lot to the other building. A hint of nerves builds as I approach her front door. I haven’t seen her in a week—or rather, she hasn’t seen me—and the last time we didn’t exactly part on the best of terms. I distinctly recall chewing her out and I haven’t contacted her since.
If I ever had any game at all, it seems to have gone out the window in my dealings with Hillary. Maybe the fact she’s a friend of Rosie’s has me fumbling; if I fuck up I’ll piss off a lot of people. I could still head home, dive into my work, and pretend I never saw the note.
I almost turn around when the door suddenly swings open, revealing a surprised Hillary, a garbage bag in her hands. Backlit, her untamed hair is like a halo around her shocked face and I’m so busy taking her in—the extra large T-shirt revealing one silky-skinned shoulder, and gray leggings hugging her bottom half—it takes me a second to clue in to the fact she was clearly not expecting me.
“Radar? What are you doing here?”
She sounds less than pleased I’m here.
“I, uh, got your note?”
Her forehead crinkles when she pulls her eyebrows together.
“Note?”
“About dinner? Look,” I
add quickly, trying to divert from the awkward moment, “I may have misunderstood…”
“The note? I left that on Thursday.”
Definitely not happy.
Shit.
I lift an apologetic hand. “My bad. I’ve been out of town for work. I just—” Maybe this wasn’t a good idea after all. The potential for complications is all too real.
I start turning away, feeling like the moron I am when she grabs my arm.
“I was going to have leftover beef stew. There’s plenty for two,” she offers with a tentative smile.
Fuck. How am I supposed say no to that?
“I brought dessert.”
The grin widens.
Hillary
I have to drag my eyes from his retreating back as he takes my trash down to the dumpster.
I’d been so sure I’d made a mistake inviting him when I didn’t see or hear from him these past days. In fact, I thought maybe I’d misinterpreted his interest and he was doing his best to avoid me. I was pissed, disappointed in him and myself. If I’d just bit the bullet and asked Rosie for his number, I might’ve known he wasn’t even around.
Leaving the door open, I rush to the kitchen, drop the pie on the counter, and pull the large container of stew I made last night out of the fridge. I quickly dump the contents in my casserole dish and shove it in the oven, turning it on high.
Truth is, I was going to make a tuna salad for dinner but got carried away cleaning and lost track of time. I hear the front door click shut as I dive into the freezer to grab a French loaf. Suddenly nervous, I busy myself wrapping the bread in tin foil, keeping my back turned. I hear his footsteps closing in and my hands shake a little as I try to focus on tearing off a piece.
“Hillary…”
A shiver runs down my spine when I feel his breath brushing my skin.
“Hmm.”
The rough pad of a single finger strokes along my skin from the base of my neck down my exposed shoulder. My hands still and my body instantly responds with a shiver.
“Look at me?”
