by L. A. Witt
“So,” I said. “What’s it gonna be?”
I’d been raised by a man who’d eventually become the police commissioner, and who was notorious for being able to pull a confession from damn near anybody. Breaking curfew, cutting class, or stealing gas money from Mom’s purse had earned me the kind of interrogations most people only saw in the movies. All Vic had needed was a bright light and a dark room, and he could’ve made me admit I’d offed JFK and faked the moon landing.
And all that relentless scrutiny had nothing on the intense stare I was getting from across the console in Andreas’s car.
The question hung in the air. Did I turn him in for planting heroin on someone he wanted to interrogate, or did I trust that he knew what he was doing? Did I join the Rebellion or the Empire?
Andreas’s eyebrow rose slightly, and my pulse did the same thing. After a moment, he looked out the windshield, but being out of the interrogation-light intensity of his gaze didn’t let me release my breath. If anything, it made me more aware of an imaginary clock on the wall, marking time in gunshot-loud scritches as the silence stretched out.
Well, Darren? What is it gonna be?
Andreas opened his mouth to speak, and panic shot through me. Time was up.
Somehow, I gathered my thoughts and beat him to the punch: “The long haul.”
He faced me, brow pinched.
I swallowed. “I’m in it for the long haul.”
Goddamn. I’d thought his expression was intense before I’d answered. For a painfully long moment—probably as long or longer than the space between his question and my answer had been—he watched me. As I held his gaze and waited for him to speak, I was genuinely surprised that I didn’t have sweat trickling down my temples or the back of my neck.
Finally, he gave a slight nod, faced forward, and started the car again. “All right. Let’s get back to work.”
I exhaled. That was it? Apparently it was, because he was backing out of the space, and we were heading in the general direction of the precinct. So why did I still feel like this conversation wasn’t over?
Our investigation proceeded into the next few days as normally as any investigation like this could. Phone calls. Dead ends. Interviews. The odd interrogation. Two steps forward, ten steps back.
And mentally, the whole time, I was still in the passenger seat of Andreas’s car, parked outside that café with the scents of our sandwiches still lingering in the air. When we were working, when I was home alone, when I was trying to get some much-needed sleep . . . didn’t matter where I was or what I was doing. My brain wasn’t budging from that seemingly unfinished discussion.
Except how much more could there be? He’d asked me to make a decision. I’d made it. He’d accepted it. We’d moved on. Right?
Shit. No wonder Andreas’s previous partners hadn’t lasted. He was a lot of gray hair waiting to happen.
A few mornings after our talk, Andreas texted me to let me know he’d be in late. Something about an appointment. Whatever. Admittedly, I was relieved to have a couple of hours to myself.
I decided to spend it down at the gun range a few blocks from the precinct. I didn’t need to qualify anytime soon—I’d done my twice-yearly quals less than a month ago—but blowing some holes in an unsuspecting piece of paper was seriously appealing today. It was either that or pistol-whip Andreas just for breathing. Or stapler-whip him, given the amount of time we’d been spending at our desks.
A few other guys from the precinct were at the range. They didn’t bother with the ear muffs like I did; they preferred earplugs. Me, I wasn’t taking any chances with my hearing. Ditto with my eyes—the rented safety glasses were flimsy at best, so I had a pair of custom-made wraparound glasses that kept out powder, shell casings, or even dust. Kind of the gun range equivalent of a pocket protector, but we’d see who was laughing when an errant chunk of powder got under someone’s contact lens.
With my eyes and ears duly protected, I took my pistol out of its holster and laid it on the bench with its action open and the muzzle pointed down range. Then I started loading a couple of spare magazines.
And of course, my brain wandered right back to my partner.
My stomach turned to lead. He’d be finished with his appointment in an hour. We’d meet up. Work together. Continue with this case. Pretend like everything was resolved and there was nothing else to sort out, and maybe in his mind, everything was resolved.
I sighed and laid the freshly loaded magazines in a row. Maybe I needed to just put it out there and talk to him about all this. He didn’t strike me as the type who’d want to clear the air or talk about feelings, but if we were going to work together, a somewhat uncomfortable conversation might be necessary.
As I hung a target and then sent it downrange to fifteen yards, my spine tingled at the thought of having that conversation. Or any conversation, really. Even though he seemed to be adapting to my presence, and he hadn’t been outwardly hostile to me since that tense moment, I was constantly on edge around him. Not just nervous because I was being scrutinized at every turn by someone who was suspicious of my motives, but because I was being scrutinized at every turn by him. It was like I was sure I was going to do something to make him roll his eyes, or laugh, or think less of me as a cop . . .
Which made no sense. Why the fuck did I care what he thought of me? Wasn’t like I had a snowball’s chance in hell with him, so—
A what?
I shook myself, swearing under my breath at my own stupid train of thought. Andreas wasn’t some potential piece of ass. He was my partner. I didn’t need to impress him or charm him or do a goddamned thing except work with him and try not to kill him when he unleashed his version of charm. Which, oddly, was annoying me less and less. In its own way, it was almost endearing.
Especially when he coupled it with that slightly lopsided grin, or an upward flick of his eyebrow. Or when I’d say something and get a quiet laugh out of him, and my pulse would go crazy.
Wait, wait, wait.
Was that what was going on here? Was I . . . attracted to Andreas Ruffner?
Losing your mind, dude. That’s what’s going on here.
I shook myself again and put a magazine into the pistol. Time to focus on shooting, not on ogling Andreas. Because he was my partner. And kind of an asshole!
But . . . attractive. God, who was I kidding? He was smoking hot. Maybe I’d just spent too much time with younger guys, and guys with the intellectual capacity of a gnat. Now I was spending most of my waking hours with an older one. Someone with a little gray and a whole lot of brains and that hint of arrogance that shouldn’t have turned me on but kind of did.
Cocky son of a bitch like that would look amazing on his knees.
I shivered hard, nearly fumbling with the pistol. I shook my head, focused on the target, and leveled my weapon.
After I’d emptied the last magazine, I pushed the button to bring my target up, and as it came closer, I bit back a frustrated sound. My shots were well within the target, but there were a few too many holes in the rings surrounding the center.
Scowling, I put a sticker over the holes so I could try again. I couldn’t even blame Andreas for my slightly errant rounds—I’d been trying to tighten up my patterns for years, and this was as good as I’d ever been. There were rookies who could put an entire magazine through the same tiny hole while I was over here shooting like this. Awesome.
Well, practice made perfect, and I still had time, so I started loading magazines again.
I was halfway through loading the second mag when the pressure in the room changed. Without thinking about it, I glanced toward the door.
And lost just enough of my grip on the magazine to send a round flying onto the floor.
It rolled across the casing-littered concrete until Andreas stopped it under the toe of his shoe. As I held my breath—and held on to the magazine and the rest of the rounds—he leaned down to pick it up.
He straightened, raising th
e round between his thumb and forefinger so the brass gleamed in the fluorescent light. Behind his yellow-tinted safety glasses, his eyes glinted with amusement. “You dropped something.”
I gulped as he came closer, and I held out my hand. “Thanks.”
He smiled faintly and dropped the round into my palm. When he glanced past me, I cringed, thankful I’d covered the holes with a sticker before he’d walked in. Except did it matter? He’d probably come here to shoot—he had two boxes of ammo under his arm—which meant he’d be here to see my next pathetic attempt. Great.
I thumbed the round into the magazine. “Didn’t you have an appointment?”
He shrugged. “Wrapped up earlier than I thought.”
“Oh.” I paused as I pulled a couple more rounds from the box. “How’d you know I’d be here?”
“Lucky guess.”
I eyed him.
Andreas chuckled. “Your safety glasses.” He gestured at his own. “They weren’t on your desk and you didn’t answer your phone. I figured you were probably here.”
“Oh. Right. No hiding from you, is there?”
“They didn’t make me a detective because of my personality.”
I laughed. “No, I guess they didn’t.” I paused. “So, uh, you came to shoot?”
“Yeah.” He glanced down at the ammo as if he’d forgotten he had it. “Figured as long as I was here, might as well put some lead downrange.”
He took the booth next to mine—of course he did—and put down the ammo. I stepped back, still loading my magazine. My pulse didn’t calm down in the slightest as Andreas shrugged off his leather jacket, revealing the black straps of the shoulder holster crisscrossing his back. Okay, so it was starting to make more sense that I couldn’t help staring at him. He was pretty damn fit. And broad in the shoulders. And that ass . . .
I coughed and looked away, hoping like hell he didn’t turn around until the heat in my face had cooled a few degrees.
He didn’t, though. He was too busy setting everything up so he could shoot. To my surprise, the weapon he pulled from his shoulder holster was a basic Glock. The ammo box beside him was a .45.
I’d half expected him to be carrying some Dirty Harry beast of a gun. A .44 magnum or something. Or maybe something souped up with laser sights or an extended magazine. Andreas shooting an off-the-shelf Glock made sense like James Bond driving a Volvo.
But as he lifted the gun and aimed at the target, my body temperature rose too. Higher still when he squeezed off a few shots. He barely flinched. His hands weren’t completely still—the gun did have a moderate recoil, after all—but his stance was rock solid and his hands only moved as much as they absolutely had to in order to absorb the kick. I’d never ogled someone at the range, never really thought there was anything sexy about a man with a gun, but Andreas was disabusing me of that notion with every shot he fired. I couldn’t explain it. It just was.
What the hell? It’s Andreas!
A casing bounced off the divider between the lanes and landed in a crease in his sleeve. With a barely noticeable shrug, he knocked it free, and it dropped to his feet with a faint clink. Not that I watched it fall, because I was busy watching how his shirt held on to his shoulders and—
Dude. Dude. Eyes on your own lane.
I pulled my gaze away and returned to my lane. I didn’t even care if Andreas saw how badly I was shooting as long as I didn’t get an awkwardly timed hard-on right here at the range. Which, fortunately, I’d narrowly avoided, and concentrating on loading and aiming my pistol was enough to pull my focus away from him.
Sort of.
Three shots into my second magazine, I realized he wasn’t firing anymore. I couldn’t have seen or heard him loading his magazines—the divider between us prevented that—but somehow I knew he wasn’t. The hair on my neck prickled.
I glanced over my shoulder.
Yep.
Right there.
Watching.
Fuck.
Which part’s the trigger again?
I cleared my throat and adjusted my stance. I concentrated on the iron sights, letting the target blur in the background just like Vic had taught me back when I was eight. When I fired, the recoil smarted, which meant I was holding the gun way too tight and standing with way too much tension in my muscles. Eyes closed, I rolled my shoulders. I could do this.
Behind me, Andreas muffled a cough. “Hey, um . . .”
Equal parts annoyed and relieved, I looked over my shoulder. “Hmm?”
He stepped a little closer. “You mind some unsolicited advice?”
Well, now I was curious. I lowered the gun. “About?”
“Your index finger might be screwing you up a little.”
“My . . .” I looked down at my hands, which were still loosely holding the gun. “What am I doing wrong?”
He slid into the narrow confines of the booth with me. “Aim it again.”
Heart thumping and skin tingling from being this close to him—what the hell, Darren?—I did as I was told.
He reached for my hands, but hesitated. “May I?”
I nodded.
Gently, he nudged my left index finger downward. “You’ve got your finger around your trigger guard instead of below it.”
“I do?” I moved my fingers as he’d suggested. “Damn. I never even noticed that.”
A hint of a smile worked at his lips, and he shrugged. “I’ve seen people do it before. Everyone adapts their grip over time, and sometimes people do it this way because it feels more stable.”
“I’m guessing it’s not.”
He shook his head.
“Well. Now I feel like an idiot.” I adjusted my grip slightly. This new configuration was awkward as hell. “I’ve been doing it wrong for how many years?”
Another shrug. “Don’t sweat it.” He showed me his palm and gestured at some thin scars on the lower part of his ring finger. “I won’t tell you how many times the magazine bit me before I figured out how to keep my hand out of the way.”
“Really?”
He laughed. “Yeah. Word to the wise—don’t let it bite you. The blood blister is painful as fuck.”
I shuddered.
“Anyway.” He pointed down range. “Give it a try. Might take some time to get used to it, but you’ll probably have a better pattern once you do.”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
Then he stepped out of the booth and back to his own lane.
I aimed, fired one round, and then paused. Yeah, the new grip was awkward as hell, but not nearly as much as this off-balanced, jittery feeling.
What the hell is wrong with me?
As soon as I was back in my own lane, I closed my eyes and pushed out a long breath. In the moment, I’d only been concerned about helping Darren with his form. But suddenly we’d just . . . been there. Standing there, absolutely no breathing room whatsoever, with my hand touching his, if only for a few seconds. Now my damn head was spinning, and I couldn’t even blame it on the drugs. They were still fucking up my equilibrium, but that was a feeling I recognized from a mile away.
This was a whole different kind of dizzy, and it had been happening a lot lately. It sure as hell had never happened with a partner before, though. Mostly because my partners were more prone to pissing me off than turning me on, but trust Darren to show up and change that.
I scrubbed a hand over my face, ordered myself not to be stupid, and started loading another magazine. Yeah, I’d decided from day one that Darren was attractive, and he’d become considerably more so once I’d realized he was more ally than adversary. Funny what happened when two people were on the same wavelength about something.
But we could be on the same wavelength a million times over, and it still wouldn’t mean I had a shot with him. For all I knew, he was straight like the last three or four guys I’d checked out. Or he could be as gay as the day was long. Didn’t matter. I hadn’t shared a bed with anyone—male or female—since my daughter’s mother and
I had split, and that was damn near four years ago. I was an idiot if I thought that dry spell was going to end with Darren.
My stomach wound itself into a knot. Another familiar feeling set up shop behind my ribs. That same heavy, depressed feeling that had been my only company on a lot of long, miserable nights over the past few years. It had been a while since I’d felt it come on strong enough to make me want to taste the muzzle of my pistol, but God, it was awful.
I looked down at the pistol, which was lying on the bench, magazine dropped and action open, waiting for me to pick it up and keep shooting. Suddenly I wasn’t in the mood to shoot, though. Lifting the gun seemed like too much effort. Aiming it? Firing it? I was exhausted just thinking about it.
Sighing, I loaded a magazine and put it in the pistol, then holstered the gun.
Darren peered around the divider. “You done already?”
I thought quickly, then, “Captain just called. Better go see what he wants to yell about this time.”
His eyes widened. “He yelling at both of us?”
“Nope.” I picked up my ammo and extra magazines. “Just me. See you back at the precinct?”
Darren studied me, and I thought he might ask questions or see through my bluff, but he shrugged. Gesturing over his shoulder at his target, he said, “I want to finish off this box of ammo, and then I’ll meet you there.”
I forced a smile. “See you there.”
While he went back to shooting, I headed out of the range. In the gun shop, I took out my earplugs, signed out of my lane, and continued toward my car. As I tossed the ammo and my eye protection on the passenger seat, I swore again. There was a dark cloud over my head now, and it was going to be there for a while. Always happened when I let myself entertain thoughts of getting anywhere near somebody. And as a bonus, the somebody I wanted to get close to was someone I couldn’t get away from for the foreseeable future.
“I’m in it for the long haul.”
Great. Fucking fabulous.
Probably just as well I couldn’t drink much with the pills I was taking—I’d have been tempted to call it a day and dive headlong into a bottle.
