by Jules Court
Moments later she emerged with a bottle of vanilla vodka wrapped in a brown paper bag. She unscrewed the cap and, after checking to make sure there weren’t any cops around, took a quick swig. Despite the vanilla flavor, she grimaced at the bite. It really needed something sweet to wash it down.
She didn’t even drink the correct alcohol. Smarmy Scotty knew how to order liquor the right way and he didn’t pull a face if it lacked a sugary mixer. She might not be chugging hard lemonade in the parking lot of the Star Market anymore, but she hadn’t really left Revere, home of big hair and small futures, behind. She might as well start chugging her mom’s favorite cocktail, the Pink Lady—Benadryl with a box of white zinfandel chaser.
The game was rigged. She took another drink. Her sister’s voice from one of their many arguments echoed in her head. “You think you’re better than me? With your fancy degree and expensive shoes.”
It triggered an older memory. One she didn’t want to relive.
It was her birthday, but she wouldn’t let her mother light the candles on her cake. It was a sheet cake from Stop & Shop with a border of pink frosted roses with “Happy 8th Birthday, Erin!” in shaky purple writing. She wanted a big piece with one of those roses so badly, but she was waiting because her mother had promised that he would come. Her dad.
She’d never met him, but last week her mother had come home smiling full of that manic energy she always had whenever a new man entered her life. She’d scooped Erin up and said, “Baby, how’d you like to meet your daddy?” Her eyes were glassy and her movements wild as she spun Erin around the kitchen. “He’s going to come to your birthday party. We’re going to be a family.”
Erin fell asleep with her head on the table next to her untouched cake waiting for her daddy, who never came. As an adult, she’d figured out that her mother ran into her deadbeat dad at a bar. He’d made a lot of bullshit promises to get back into her mother’s pants before taking off again. Never sparing a thought for the daughter who’d cried herself to sleep for weeks afterward.
She shook her head in an attempt to clear it. Time to go home to her empty apartment with its bare white walls. She couldn’t afford art and couldn’t pick it even if she could have afforded it. She could have gone to Target and bought the same prints everyone else had, but what was the point? She was empty. The apartment just reflected it. Just like her bed was empty. Just like the long nights where she wished someone would hold her. She craved contact, skin to skin touch.
The unbidden memory of Cruz’s lips on her throat surfaced in her mind. Heat blossomed in her stomach that had nothing to do with the booze.
Don’t think about that.
She took another swig. She was being slow tracked all right. She’d grind away on other people’s cases. Sometimes they’d throw her the ones no one else wanted. She’d serve on the committees and be trotted out for the Women in Law symposiums, all the while being shuffled off to a dead-end office. She was being mommy-tracked and she wasn’t even a mommy.
This was all his fault. He’d gotten under her skin and made her lose her control. If she hadn’t been so fixated on him then she would have realized her tactics would backfire sooner.
She wanted to make him lose control. To be the one to make him feel something. To affect him. She didn’t care how—anger, lust, it was all the same. Let him be the crazy one.
And she knew where he lived. An image of the witness list and subpoenas with the witnesses’ home addresses popped into her head. She’d always had the ability to visualize things she’d read—the pages in a textbook, the writing on a whiteboard, the papers in a court filing. It’d helped her graduate from high school with a high enough GPA to bag a scholarship despite missing enough school days to risk being picked up for truancy. But that little talent couldn’t tell her what to do with the information she remembered.
The part of her that was still reasonable whispered, “You’re verging on bunny-boiling stalker.”
She took another swig and wobbled down the street on uncomfortable shoes past the entrance to the T.
Cruz only lived a few blocks away. Maybe she just needed a little closure on this terrible day.
Chapter Five
Danny was wrist deep in dough when his buzzer sounded. He’d been too keyed up when he got home to do anything but take his frustrations out on some flour and yeast as he wrung and tossed and kneaded. The harder he worked it, the more pliable it would be. Like how Erin had melted into him.
He’d been rough with her and he didn’t treat women that way. At least he hadn’t. He’d been kind, respectful. The girlfriends he’d had prior to his time with the Latin Kings hadn’t had any complaints. As for the women while he’d been undercover, he didn’t want to think about what he’d done with them. He’d told himself it was just a persona—part of his cover. But what if it wasn’t?
He brushed his hands on his apron. He wasn’t expecting anyone. Even Brian would have texted or called first.
Whoever was on the other end of the buzzer laid on it again. He hit the intercom. “Yes?”
“Let me up,” came a female voice that couldn’t be who he thought it was.
“Who is this?”
“Erin Rafferty.”
What the hell was she doing here?
“Just open the door,” she said.
He didn’t want her in his apartment. While he was wrangling with the dough, he could pretend that today hadn’t happened. That it was some temporary aberration to be pushed into the recesses of his mind where all the other things he didn’t want to face lived. But if she crossed his threshold, she entered his real world. The one he kept tight control on. The type of control she’d already threatened. The best thing would be to completely avoid her as much as possible from here on out.
Instead, he hit the button to unlock the vestibule door. Seconds later footsteps sounded in his hall. He opened his front door at the same moment she lifted her hand to knock.
He waited for her to speak first. It wasn’t a long wait.
“What’s with the apron?”
“Pizza.”
“You wear an apron to eat pizza?”
“Make it.”
“From scratch? The dough and everything? Who does that?”
“Most people are too impatient. A good crust takes time. You need to work the dough, loosen it up until it’s moving with you, and then let it rest. Then you work it some more. You keep doing that until you get it just right.” He clamped his mouth before he spouted any more pizza as sex metaphors.
“Or you could just make a phone call.” She shifted her weight, which caused her to stagger and prop her hand against the door jam to steady herself.
He took a discreet sniff of the air to confirm his suspicions. Yep, she was plastered.
“Didn’t you just eat?” She gave him an up and down. “You don’t look like a second dinner guy.”
It wasn’t for now. He wasn’t hungry. He’d just wanted to make something. His pizza dough would be labeled with the date and placed in the freezer alongside all the other meals he’d made and hadn’t eaten. He didn’t waste food.
“You seem to think you know a lot about me.”
“I did my homework.” She put a hand on his chest and pushed. “Now let me in.”
He took an obedient step backward when he should have shut the door in her face.
“So I didn’t get the case I’d been working for and it’s your fault.”
“How’s that my fault?” He shut the door behind her even though she was on the wrong side of it. She was inside his apartment, standing too close, blinking up at him in a way that shouldn’t be cute. He took a step back.
“Not important. What is important is that you can make it up to me. You see, I’m filled with all this anger and I need an outlet. You’ll do nicely.”
Her face fell. “That’s not who I am anymore.”
The monster inside him egged her on. “Isn’t it?” His earlier reaction had been a fluke. He was still in control.
“You want me to hit you?”
“I want you to try.”
She swung her hand toward him and he grabbed it midflight. But instead of proving that she couldn’t provoke him, he used the motion to pull her in close to his body. She stumbled against him and looked up with glassy, unfocused eyes.
She was loaded. He dropped her hand and stepped back.
But she stepped forward. “Take your clothes off,” she said. She gave him a bad girl smile that made him instantly hard.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said, even though every cell in his body was screaming otherwise.
“It’s okay, you can leave on the apron.” She shook her head. “No, lose the apron. I want to see your penis.”
“What?”
“I want to see it. We don’t have to do anything. In fact, I’m not going to take my clothes off.”
“You’re not?” When had he lost control over this conversation? It was the moment he opened the door and let her in, he reminded himself.
“No. I’ll just sit right here—” she stumbled backward and lowered herself onto his sofa “—and you can give me a little Magic Mike action.”
“And what makes you think that I’m going to strip for you while you sit there and watch?”
“Because men have propagated the lie that women can’t be visually aroused. It’s the patriarchy keeping us down. Don’t you want to fight the patriarchy? And I really want to see your penis. Just a peek?”
“It’s a penis. I’m sure you’ve seen one before.”
“I’ve seen plenty. I just never get an opportunity to really look because the dude is always too busy trying to jam it in me.” She sat down on his sofa and relaxed back against the cushions. “Go ahead.” She made a little spinning motion with her finger as though commanding him to dance.
“You don’t like sex?”
“I didn’t say that.”
He clamped his jaw shut. He didn’t need to talk about sex with her. And as much as his cock was demanding he let it out to play, that wasn’t going to happen either. It would be a bad idea even if she were sober. And for the all the things he’d done, he’d never had sex with someone who couldn’t enthusiastically consent to it. He’d never be that guy. Because that guy was a rapist.
Her eyes drifted closed. “I’m just a little fucked up about it,” she mumbled. She leaned her head against the back of his sofa. “Can never turn my brain off and just enjoy...” Her head slumped to one side.
She wasn’t going to...yes, she was. She’d passed out. In his living room.
He had a drunk defense attorney on his couch. A drunk defense attorney who earlier had kissed him like she was drowning.
He could call Brian. Priya would be with him and they could come collect Erin. She could be their problem.
He sighed and walked over to the sofa. She gave a little half mumble snore, her lashes fluttered. She looked young and very vulnerable.
Carefully he eased her so she was lying down on the sofa, and swung her legs up before draping the blanket from the back of the sofa over her. After pouring a glass of water and leaving some aspirin with it on the coffee table, he turned off the light and went to bed. Where he tossed and turned before finally dropping off to sleep.
* * *
Erin woke to a skull-splitting headache and pried her eyes open. It was still dark, but enough light from the streetlamps shone in through the blinds for her to discover she wasn’t in her own bed.
It took a second for the humiliation to crash down on her. She was on Cruz’s couch. Because as if hitting him and then making out with him wasn’t bad enough, she’d barged into his apartment and demanded he show her his junk. So she could add harassment to her list of crimes. Fucking fantastic.
The sound of Cruz moving around in the next room made her slam her eyes shut. It was cowardly, but she wasn’t up to facing him yet. His bedroom door creaked. She felt rather than heard him move past her through the living room. For such a tall man, he was light on his feet. When she heard the front door open and then shut behind him, she let out the breath she’d been holding.
She sat up and swung her feet to the floor too fast. She had to pause and cradle her head in her hands for a moment. A frightening thought occurred and she patted herself down frantically. She sighed in relief to discover she was wearing all the clothes she’d come in with minus her shoes. Those were placed neatly next to the couch. As embarrassing as last night was, it could have been so much worse. In fact, she normally had a stronger sense of self-preservation, so her actions were completely baffling. But then it had been a shitty, shitty day.
And best to be getting out of here before he came back and just forget this whole thing had ever happened. Just stick it in the vault with all the other things she didn’t want to think about. It was getting crowded in there.
* * *
When Danny returned from his run, he knew Erin was gone before he even opened the door to his apartment. She’d been faking sleep when he left, but it was a fiction convenient for both of them, so he hadn’t challenged it.
After his shower, he wiped the condensation from the bathroom mirror. The face staring back at him was that of a stranger. Who was the dead-eyed man in the reflection? Was a man merely the sum of his actions? Because if that was true, then he was a very bad man indeed.
But maybe intentions mattered. He’d been so young and so stupid thinking that he could go undercover for so long and at the end emerge unchanged.
The truth was, he didn’t remember who he was. These days he shuffled through life like a zombie. It wasn’t too bad. At long as he could suppress the memories, there were no lows. But then the price was the highs. When was the last time he’d felt anything?
Last night. Provoking Erin into slapping him. That feeling of almost relief at the crack of her hand across his face. The single-minded need that blazed to life when she pressed her lips against his.
Last night was an anomaly, he told himself as he scraped the razor across his chin. He just needed to recommit to the routine and any of his darker impulses—well, that was what his job was for. Channeling that bad into something good.
* * *
Danny slid into a seat next to Brian with just minutes to spare before the a.m. briefing started.
“You look grimmer than usual,” Brian said. “Someone put decaf in your morning chocolate milk?”
“It’s called a mocha and it’s pretty ubiquitous.”
“Oooh, big words so early in the morning. Seriously though, what’s bugging you?”
“I was thinking about my grandmother.”
“You have a grandmother? I was beginning to believe you’d be bioengineered in a secret government lab or were a Terminator unit sent back from the future who got stuck here and decided to pass himself off as a human.” He broke off and a look of horror crossed his face. “Oh shit, she’s dead, isn’t she? I’m an asshole.”
It was easier not to say anything. Danny normally wouldn’t say anything. “Sometimes I wonder if she’d be proud of who I am.” He broke off and made a slashing motion with his hand. “Forget it. Forget I said anything.”
“This sounds like dark pub talk. Beer after work?”
“That depends. Are you going to try and set me up again?”
“Learned my lesson. Watching you was painful. Besides, it was Priya’s idea and she’s working tonight. Just you and me being bros, having beers.
Talking about our dead grandmothers.”
“Want to hit the gym first?” He had a lot of pent-up energy that needed to be worked out.
“Sure. I need to monopolize the squat rack. Have you seen this ass? God doesn’t bestow that sort of gift. Gotta work for it.”
Detective Sergeant O’Leary gave them the hairy eyeball. “Cruz. MacGregor. You two chowderheads done coffee klatching? Good. Because I want you to work the latest home invasion case with Nelson and Murphy.”
“No way, Sarge,” Murphy said. He jerked his thumb at Cruz. “We’re not working with this guy.”
Danny’s hands tightened into fists. He consciously unclenched them and schooled his face to blandness. Although he was used to being an outsider in this department, he’d thought it was getting better. They weren’t completely freezing him out anymore. Partially because the other detectives thought he’d jumped the line. He’d come in as a detective, unlike Brian, who’d started in the BPD on foot patrol. The fact that Cruz had also paid dues, just not in the city of Boston, was not relevant. This was Boston. And partially because they suspected the NYPD hadn’t wanted him back after his undercover assignment ended. He was tainted.
“He’s a Yankees fan,” Nelson said. “Who wants to work with a Yankees fan?”
His shoulders relaxed. They were only busting his chops like they did Brian’s.
Brian turned around in his seat. “Yeah, and so’s your mom,” he said to Nelson.
While O’Leary banged his podium in an attempt to refocus the briefing, Danny fought to keep the grin off his face. Needing acceptance from a group was a weakness. It could lead to doing terrible things to keep that approval.
Chapter Six
Erin walked into the police station with as much dread as if she were the one who’d been cuffed and booked, not her client. The desk sergeant directed her to an interview room on the third floor. Narcotics, thank God. Cruz didn’t work narcotics. There’s no way they’d cross paths. It’d been seventeen days, six hours and twenty-three minutes since she’d crept out of his apartment. And she’d been pushing it out of her mind ever since.
