Lie in the Moment

by Nicole Camden

  He moved faster. She churned her hips, trying to keep up with the rapid motion, unaware that she’d grabbed his arm with her left hand and had dug her nails into his flesh. Pounding. Deeper. She clenched her teeth as the tension rose higher and higher, drawing her body into herself and gripping the invading length of him. With a sharp cry, she came, clamping down on him in a series of rough shudders that he rode with short, deep nudges, the muscles of his forearm tensing as he came, his hips pressing against her backside.

  He seemed to slump over her for a moment, his weight heavy on her back, but he steadied himself on his arm, holding himself against her while they both caught their breath.

  Maura’s temples were damp and a bead of sweat ran down her cheek to her chin. They’d gone at each other like animals, and she’d loved it. He was still inside her, nearly soft now, but Maura knew she would feel his possession for a while. Glancing to her left, she saw the marks she’d left on his arm, and was pleased to know that she’d left an impression as well.

  WHAT THE HELL was that? Roland shook his head, trying to clear it. He’d mounted her like an animal, taking her delicate body with no subtlety or grace. He’d hammered inside her like he owned her.

  But she’d thrust herself back against him as well, and he was certain there were teeth marks on his arm.

  With a deep breath, he slowly straightened and eased out of her, sliding wetly from her pink flesh. He removed the condom and disposed of it in a nearby trash can before returning to help her off the table. She appeared to be locked in place, her hair hanging down over her head.

  “Maura,” he said, gently gripping her hip and upper body, easing her up and back on her feet.

  She sighed and her head lolled back onto his shoulder as he stood with her against him, her body supported by his. The table was littered with playing cards, the condom wrapper, and a hazy outline of her body that was already fading as the heat dissipated.

  “That was . . .” she murmured, and stopped.

  He looked down at her, at her swollen lips—she must have bitten them—and the slumberous quality to her gray-eyed gaze.

  “Insane,” he provided.

  Tilting her head back farther, she nodded. “Exactly.”

  “I’m not sure we accomplished anything.” He enjoyed standing with her, just holding her naked, sweat-dampened body in the cool air of his office.

  Shrugging, she eased herself around and separated herself from his embrace. “Maybe. Maybe not. I know more about you and Keenan than I did before.”

  Roland ignored the twinge of guilt that nagged at him. He’d told her that so she’d let her guard down, and she’d fallen for it, taken it as a sign that he was starting to trust her. Of course, he hadn’t meant to tell her quite so much, so perhaps she had a point.

  “Yes,” he agreed, and she’d given her body to him. She’d let him take her.

  While he stood, indecisive, she pulled her shirt on over her naked body, her head turning to the windows. “I can’t believe I did that.”

  Roland couldn’t quite believe it either. He hesitated, wondering if he should just ask to see the letters, but she seemed slightly unnerved.

  Walking over to the couch where she’d thrown her clothes, she yanked on her pants, her movements jerky. “I have to go. I’m on duty tomorrow morning.”

  “All right,” Roland agreed. Perhaps now was not the time to start asking her for favors. “Perhaps we could meet again soon.”

  She looked faintly amused, but her gaze kept returning to his naked body. “Yeah. Let’s meet again.”

  He couldn’t quite nail down her tone. Matter-of-fact, cynical, with just a hint of wistfulness. She was a complicated woman. “You don’t sound like you mean that.”

  She nodded, smiling wryly. “I get it. I have no illusions. You still want something from me. You should just ask for it. No point in making this out to be more than it really is.”

  Roland nodded, keeping the cynicism out of his expression. He wasn’t going to argue with her, but in his experience, everyone had illusions. People clung to illusions—love, security, fame—like they would drown in too much reality without them. They clung to them in the face of solid evidence to the contrary. He never made that mistake. He protected the people around him, even protected their illusions, but he didn’t fool himself into believing any of them.

  “I need the letters,” he said flatly, and watched her expression change.

  After a moment, she picked up her boots and stomped her feet into them. “Blake told you about those, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  She looked annoyed, her gaze focused on her boots. “They’re ugly. And they’re not going to be any help. I promise you that.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  She made a dismissive noise and stood, putting on her belt and gun with ease that said how often she wore them. “I’ve had those things examined by the FBI, cryptologists, and a profiler. With the exception of last year, when he kidnapped her, he’s written every year for the past eleven years. Ten letters. Nothing in them except promises to hurt her in all manner of creative ways, comments on what he’s going to do to you, to Nick, and to Milton. Threats. Empty ones so far.”

  “Then there shouldn’t be any harm in letting me look at them, should there?”

  She blew a frustrated breath out of her nostrils. “I don’t even know why I’m arguing. I don’t give them to you, you call up my captain and make sure you get them, right?”

  “Yes,” he admitted.

  She grabbed her jacket and jammed her arms into the sleeves. “Thought so.”

  “I’ll give you what I have on Keenan,” he offered. “And I’ll have a word with your captain.”

  “Have a word with him,” she repeated, her jacket hanging open.

  Roland nodded, his arms loose and easy at his sides. He was comfortable naked, and his nakedness distracted her, put her off balance.

  “You can get him to let me keep working on the case. Is that what you mean?” She tilted her head and wrapped her scarf deftly around her neck.

  “That’s what I mean.”

  She laughed, but not like she thought anything was particularly funny. “All right, Roland Chandler. I’ll send the scanned copies of the letters, but you have to send me everything you know about Keenan and his possible whereabouts.”

  “Can’t do that.”

  She went still, her eyes frosty and unpleasantly cool. “I’m sorry?”

  “I’m pretty sure your computer is bugged.”

  “Really?” she repeated skeptically.

  He walked toward her until he was standing mere inches away, forcing her to look up at him. He ran his fingers through her hair, pulling it out from under her scarf. “Really,” he repeated firmly. “We’ll meet again. You can bring your files.” He dropped a kiss on her open mouth. “Now, I’ll call a car to take you home.”

  “I can get myself home.”

  “I know it.” He wasn’t going to argue with her. He was going to see that she got home.

  “What about the bug in my office?”

  “I can take care of it if you want,” he offered, guessing what she would say.

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “I’ll check in with IT. I’m sure they can handle it.”

  Roland doubted it, but he knew that having him messing around with the computer systems would be an even bigger violation of police protocol than just sharing files with him, so he didn’t push it.

  He dressed quickly while she waited, chewing on her lower lip and looking at her phone. With one call to the car service, he had the promise of a driver at Accendo within ten minutes.

  “Come on,” he said. “I’ll walk you down to the car.”

  “How are you getting home?” she asked testily as they left his office, the door shutting quietly behind her. “Helicopter?”

  “Not tonight,” he said smoothly, ignoring the snark. “I’m staying in the city this weekend.”

  She was quiet
after that as they walked to the elevator, but curiosity seemed to overcome her as they stepped into its confines. “Where do you go when you don’t stay in the city?”

  He looked down at her, glad of the distraction, and inhaled the sultry scent of her—sweat and pizza and perfume. “Wherever I want.”

  AN INSISTENT RINGING woke Maura the next morning. She groaned, regretting the wine that she’d drunk, feeling the ache of enthusiastic sex in every fiber of her being. She swatted at her alarm clock, knocking if off the nightstand, before she realized that the noise was her cell phone, dropped on the floor with her clothes when she’d finally gotten in last night. She reached out one arm to grab it, but it stopped mid-ring. It was probably Bert. Calling to ask her what she wanted for breakfast. His wife cooked breakfast on Saturday mornings, so he snagged some for her before he left for the station every other weekend when they had to work.

  She shifted the blankets aside and felt something furry and warm in her hair; she reached up to find Hannibal—Maddie’s ferret—sleeping in a ball on her head. She shifted her legs and felt another warm body—Porkchop the pug—nuzzling in the crook of her legs.

  “Maddie,” she shouted, dropping her arm back down to her side. “Come get your animals.”

  There was a loud bang and running feet, the old house carrying every squeak and footfall. The hinges on the door squealed as it was thrown open wide.

  “That’s where they are,” Maddie exclaimed, jumping on the bed. “You left your door open.”

  “Hand me my phone.” Maura pointed to the floor.

  Maddie hopped back down and dug the phone out of the pocket of the blazer Maura had worn the day before. The girl checked the screen. “It says Blake Webster.”

  Frowning, Maura held her hand out for the phone. Why would Blake be calling her on a Saturday morning? Something to do with Keenan? She started to call Blake back, but Maddie climbed up on the bed again. If it was about Keenan, she didn’t want her niece to overhear.

  “You know they like you best,” Maddie said as she settled onto the bed.

  The phone dinged. A text message from Blake. Call me when you get a chance.

  “Who?” Maura shifted to give her niece more room.

  “Hannibal and Porkchop.”

  “They don’t like me. They know I hate them. Perverse little turds.”

  Maddie giggled and laid her head on the pillow next to Maura’s. With a sigh, Maura set the phone on the nightstand and gathered her closer.

  “I think I’m too old to snuggle,” Maddie informed her.

  Maura nodded against the girl’s silky brown hair. “Ancient. How was skating?” Maddie had started taking ice-skating lessons with a couple of her friends this winter. It was expensive. More expensive than Maura would have imagined. She thought about Roland, about the opulence of his office. His utter pleasure in telling her that he could go wherever he wanted on the weekends. Bastard.

  “I fell twice,” Maddie said with no detectable upset, bringing Maura back into the conversation.

  “Congratulations?”

  “But I didn’t quit.”

  “Of course you didn’t.” Maura sighed. O’Hallorans never quit. “How was Grandpa?”

  “He said Sally’s mom looked like a transvestite.”

  “Of course he did.”

  The ferret, Hannibal, chose that moment to stretch and roll backward, draping himself over Maura’s forehead.

  Maddie laughed again. “I don’t care what you say. You like them.”

  Rolling her eyes, Maura sat up, removing the smelly creature from her hair at the same time and handing him to Maddie. “What time is it?”

  “You just looked at your phone.”

  “Smart-ass.” Maura scooted her niece over and got out of bed, feeling with her feet for her slippers. Almost absently, she checked to make sure that her gun was safely locked in the biometric safe secured on her nightstand.

  “Grandpa’s mad at you.”

  “Is he?” He was usually irritated with her about something. Maura could hear the water running in the room on the other side of her bedroom wall. Her father had probably been up for hours. He said he couldn’t sleep. A gunshot on the job had injured his spine just before he’d been set to retire, leaving him paralyzed from the waist down. “Why’s that?”

  “He said you came home late and weren’t at the office like you said you’d be.”

  Damn her father and every one of the gossipy old women who worked at her station. She trusted Bert not to say anything, but any one of her father’s cronies would rat her out in a second.

  “I went to visit a friend.”

  “Who?”

  Desperate to change the subject, Maura asked, “What have you been doing this morning?”

  Maddie lifted herself up on her elbow, the ferret hanging limply in her grip. “I was looking for Hannibal and Porkchop.”

  The pug, who’d been snoring contentedly, stopped abruptly and lifted his fat head at the sound of his name.

  “You should have just put food in their bowls. They’d have come running. Or waddling,” she amended. What the pug did couldn’t be classified as running.

  “Will you make me pancakes? Grandpa says it’s too hard in his chair.”

  Maura sighed. She wanted nothing more than to hang out with her niece and make pancakes and take the ugly dog on a walk, but she had work to do. Why had Blake called? Had she heard from Keenan?

  “I can’t this morning, but I’ll be home this evening and we’ll do something fun, okay?”

  “Can’t,” Maddie said glumly. “Geometry homework.”

  “I love geometry. Besides, you can do it tomorrow.”

  “I have a history assignment to do then. And you hate geometry.”

  “But I love you.”

  “I know,” Maddie said, but she shook her head in a disappointed sigh.

  Belting her robe, Maura tweaked the girl’s nose. “Don’t be a drama queen. Seriously. I have bad guys to catch.”

  Pressing her lips together primly, Maddie picked up the pug with her free arm and scooted off the bed. “You always have bad guys to catch. Doesn’t it ever end?”

  She left the room before Maura could answer, leaving the distinct perfume of preteen superiority in her wake.

  “I ask myself the same question,” Maura said to the empty room and went to take a shower.

  She called Blake while standing in a ridiculously long line at Dunkin’ Donuts. It felt like everyone in South Boston needed a caffeine fix this morning.

  “Blake, it’s Maura.”

  “Maura, good morning. It was good seeing you last night.”

  Not yet. She hadn’t had coffee and the mention of last night made her think of Roland. Roland half naked. Roland behind her while he slid his dick inside her. Roland. Roland. Roland.

  “You, too.” She cleared her throat. “What’s up? Has Keenan contacted you?” Maura winced slightly at the hopeful sound of her voice. Keenan had systematically worked to destroy Blake; Maura probably shouldn’t sound so excited at the idea that he might have contacted her.

  “No, nothing like that. Actually, I have a favor to ask.”

  “Sure.” Maura moved forward in line, mean-mugging a guy in a tracksuit who looked like he was going to horn in on her space. Dude needed to head on back to the eighties where he and his velour belonged.

  “You’re not going to like this, but I told Roland about the letters.”

  “Yeah, he mentioned that last night. Why?”

  “I thought he should know. I’m not ashamed anymore.”

  “That’s good.” Blake had no reason to be ashamed. Keenan had abused her, not the other way around.

  “So, did he ask you to see them?”

  Maura flashed on an image of his hands dealing the cards. Where’s the lady? Find the lady. “Yes, he did,” she answered absently. Damn, she had to get that man out of her head.

  “Oh. Okay.”

  “You sound surprised.” Maura took a s
tep forward in line. “What did he tell you?”

  “Nothing,” Blake said immediately. “About you two, I mean. Last night before you got there, he asked me to talk to you. Convince you to show him the letters. That’s it.”

  Maura had known Blake Webster for a long time. Maura had been a uniformed officer, fresh out of the academy, when she’d found out that her brother Robert had been killed by Keenan Shy. She’d gone to Blake’s hospital room to question her about what happened, but Roland had interceded after just a few minutes, swearing at her that Blake was recovering from being nearly strangled to death and that his friend wasn’t answering any fucking questions. He’d been younger then, not quite as controlled. Over the years she’d kept in touch with Blake in the hopes that Blake could help lead Maura to Keenan, but they weren’t exactly friends. Friendly, but not friends. Still, Maura liked her, liked her resilience.

  “There’s nothing going on between me and Roland,” she announced, just to make it clear. It was true—it had just been sex. Nothing more. “I need his help finding Keenan. That’s it.”

  “Oh-kay,” Blake replied, her voice muffled with humor. “But I think it’s about time you two worked together. He wants to find Keenan as much as you do.”

  Maura doubted it. No one wanted to find Keenan as much as she did. “Yeah, listen, I have to go, but tell me something.”

  “If I can.” Blake’s voice had turned wary.

  “Will he really help me? Find Keenan, I mean. Or is he just playing me?”

  Blake sighed. “Honestly, Maura, I have no idea. He’s my friend, but sometimes he’s as much a mystery to me as he is to everyone else.”

  Maura thought as much. “Did you tell him that the letters didn’t contain any hidden secrets?”

  “I tried, but he wouldn’t listen. He says that Keenan liked to play games. He’s certain that there’s a code to his intentions in those letters somewhere.”

  “He’s wrong.”

  Snorting, Blake said, “Yeah, well, that’d be a first.”