by L. A. Witt
“He was interested in you?”
“Sort of. We dated a few times. It was never serious.”
“Good.” Andreas took a drink. “He’s a fuck-head.”
Strong words. Andreas seemed bothered. I decided to poke the bear a bit. “Trent’s not so bad.”
“Clearly you’re wrong.”
“He’s fun to dance with at clubs.”
Andreas scoffed. “Anyone can dance in a club―just find the nearest leg and hump it in time to the music.”
“He drives a nice car. It’s a Camaro.”
“Then he’s probably compensating for something.”
“He’s good at pool.”
Andreas’s eyes gleamed in the low light. “I’m better.”
I grinned. “Prove it.”
The bar had an ancient pool table in the back room, with a wrinkled surface and two balls missing, both solids. “I’ll let you play those, then,” Andreas said as he picked out a cue stick. “You’ll need the handicap.”
“Lots of talk, but I’m not seeing any action so far.”
“I’ll give you action,” he muttered, bending over the table to line up his first shot. I openly admired his ass while he did.
It turned out Andreas really was good at pool. I was better, of course, but not by as much as I’d thought I would be.
“Bullshit,” he said when I sunk the eight ball. I did my customary victory dance, a little shimmy that was way easier to pull off when I was on my second beer, and started retrieving the balls.
“Once you’re done working through the stages of grief, feel free to try to redeem your honor,” I said as I set up for another game. “If you were being nice to me before, I suggest you play to win this time.”
Andreas shook his head. “You don’t know what you’re letting yourself in for.”
“Sounds like fun.”
What I was in for, apparently, was a fucking masterful series of distractions. It ranged from Andreas casually taking off his jacket just within view as I took a shot, to a stare-down from across the table, to him standing right behind me breathing down my neck as I set up for another shot. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear the guy was flirting with me, and it only got worse after I won the second game. The space between us became nonexistent, and when I scratched on my next shot, it was because Andreas’s long arms had bracketed me at the edge of the table, making me shiver.
“Too bad,” he said, his voice low and amused against my ear. His breath warmed the side of my face, his mouth was right there, and I couldn’t help it―I wanted to taste him. Only the knowledge that surprising Andreas would probably lead to him kicking my ass kept me from turning and kissing him right then. But I couldn’t be reading this completely wrong.
“I guess it’s your turn.” I pivoted to face him. He didn’t move his arms. He didn’t move at all. Our faces were barely an inch apart. When he licked his lips, I almost whimpered. “Or we could play a different game.”
Andreas’s eyes darkened, fastening on my mouth. Arousal flooded through me, making me ache. I leaned in, and he―
“No.” A second later he fell back like I’d shoved him. “We’re not doing this.”
I didn’t even have time to speak, to ask him to stay, to apologize. Andreas grabbed his jacket and left, not even stopping to put it on before he was gone.
Fuck my life, what had I just done?
That escalated fucking quickly.
In the cab on the way home—one too many beers to be driving myself—I stared out the window and swore under my breath for the millionth time. I wasn’t that drunk. The light-headedness was entirely from my pills—right?—and I’d only had . . . two beers? Three? Shit, I couldn’t even remember now. And I probably shouldn’t have been drinking at all when I could barely stand without blacking out.
Groaning, I rubbed my forehead. I could blame it on a lot of substances, but the fact was, I’d still been coherent enough that I shouldn’t have let things progress as far as they had. Of course he’d tried to kiss me. I’d all but painted I fucking want you on my forehead.
Was that all it took these days to let my dick take over where my brain belonged? Just a few beers and some pool-table shit-talking with my new partner? My new hot partner. Who was spying on me for IA’s behalf. But had taken the fall for me and, so far, hadn’t ratted me out for planting evidence on Jake Carter. But he was still a wild card who could just be saving up all this damning evidence to drop it on Thibedeau’s desk later. But who was so, so fucking hot . . .
Fuck.
Well, apparently I knew how many beers were too many, at least while I was taking these pills. God knew if it was actually the two interacting, or if I’d turned into a damn lightweight, but better not to take any chances. When I was around Darren—one beer. Maximum. Because things absolutely could not escalate like they almost had tonight.
And what happens tomorrow?
Tomorrow we discover a whole new circle of awkwardness hell.
Early the next morning, before I’d even finished shaving, my phone vibrated. I cringed, damn near nicking myself in the process. Who the fuck was texting me at six thirty?
So help me, if that’s Darren asking to meet up for coffee and talk about things . . .
I rinsed my razor and picked up my phone.
The message hadn’t come from Darren. My heart sped up—it was from an informant I’d been trying to reach for weeks.
Whse. 730.
I messaged back, I’ll be there.
Then I quickly finished shaving, not even caring if I cut myself. The warehouse was outside of town, and so was my apartment. Problem was, they were on opposite ends, and traffic was about to start getting hellish, so I had to leave now if I was going to make it by seven thirty. And this was not someone who would wait for me.
With a tiny square of toilet paper to staunch the bleeding on the side of my chin, I grabbed my jacket, ankle holster, wallet, and keys, and hurried out to the car. Fortunately I’d already put on my shoulder holster, so I didn’t have to fuck with that while I was trying to drive.
By the time I merged onto the freeway, I had turned into a poster child for road rage, and the freeway had turned into a parking lot. Teeth grinding, heart thumping, I inched along the endless strip of pavement, silently cursing out the road construction up ahead and the traffic reports that wouldn’t stop adding new accidents to the mix. If this shit kept up, I’d never make it to the warehouse in time, and it would probably be months before I connected with this informant again. It was one of the few times I wished I still drove a marked car—at least then I could put on a siren.
Every time the song changed on the radio, my stomach somersaulted. Another three and a half minutes had gone by, and I was still too far from the damn warehouse.
Finally, though, the congestion broke up enough for me to get into the left lane and gun the engine. I hovered a few miles above the speed limit—enough to buy me some time without getting me pulled over—and gripped the wheel like my life depended on it.
At five minutes past our designated meeting time, I pulled into the warehouse’s rundown parking lot. There were no other cars, but I tried not to read too much into that. Most informants were smart enough not to park their vehicles anywhere near a place they were meeting with a cop.
I got out and started to jog toward the warehouse. Five or six steps from my car, the dizziness caught up with me, so I slowed but didn’t stop. Blacking out was a risk I’d have to take. Should’ve grabbed something to eat on the way out and at least minimized the problem, but it was too late now.
At the entrance to the warehouse, my knees were too rubbery to continue, so I paused and grabbed the decrepit doorframe.
“Out of shape?” Her tone was sarcastic, but somehow carried an undercurrent of genuine concern.
“I’m good.” I blinked a few times, and when I was confident my head wouldn’t start spinning again and my legs would stay under me, I lifted my gaze.
She was
a few feet away, arms folded across an oversized green sweatshirt. The shirt made her seem smaller and thinner, not to mention quite a few years younger. A few strands of blonde hair fell out from her baseball cap, and she wasn’t wearing makeup, which made her look paler than normal. Between her job, an infant, and a toddler, she had dark circles under her tired eyes, and when she was dressed down like this, she could pull off the haggard street kid look.
By nine thirty, when she walked into the courthouse, she’d blend right in. Makeup, meticulously styled hair, high heels, a smart suit—typical attorney. If anyone saw her now, she was just another teenager hanging out where she didn’t belong.
I took my hand off the doorframe and stepped closer. “All right. I’m here. So what’s—”
“You’re late,” she snapped.
“You didn’t exactly give me much warning.” I glanced around, double-checking we were alone even though I knew damn well it was just us and a row of pigeons. “You want to meet on short notice, check the traffic reports first.”
She scowled.
“I’m here now,” I said. “So what’s this about?”
“One of Blake’s top dogs is appearing in court today.” She took a small folded piece of paper from her pocket. “Kenny Walker. Family court at eleven fifteen.”
“Family court?” As I unfolded the paper, I asked, “There a reason his name isn’t on the docket?”
“He’s just there as a character witness. But if you want to grab him and talk to him, he’ll be in courtroom six.”
I glanced at the paper she’d given me, which detailed information about a custody hearing. On the surface, it wasn’t exactly cloak-and-dagger stuff that required clandestine meetings, but neither of us could risk someone connecting her to me. She was one of several sets of eyes and ears I had around the courthouse and city hall, and if anyone so much as thought she was collecting data on people above her, she’d be dead.
“All right.” I tucked the paper into my wallet. “I’ll be there to catch him on his way out.”
Lips taut, she nodded. “And if anyone asks how you knew he was there?”
I inclined my head. “After all this time, you still don’t trust me not to throw you under the bus?”
She set her jaw. “I don’t think any of us can be too careful, can we?”
“Not at all. And yes, I’ll have a cover story. No one will know this came from you.”
“Thanks.” She looked at her phone. “I have a deposition at ten. I have to go.”
I nodded, and she hurried out of the warehouse. As always, I gave her some time to get gone before I left, even though there was no one else around. While I waited, I texted Darren.
On my way—will be late.
After the message had sent, I stared at the screen for a moment. This was going to be weird, wasn’t it? The best I could hope for was both of us mumbling that we’d been drunk and things had gotten out of hand. Grunted apologies. Blame the booze. Mutter that it wouldn’t happen again. Move the fuck on.
But Darren didn’t seem like that type. I had a feeling he was the “let’s sit down and talk about this over paninis and coffee” kind of guy, and if he was, I’d probably have to toss him off a bridge.
I didn’t want to talk about it. At all. Maybe acknowledge it and promise never to speak of it again, but beyond that, it only had the potential to make things really uncomfortable. I couldn’t tell him that I’d come on to him because of the alcohol, because then I’d be saying he was only attractive through beer goggles. I couldn’t admit that he was insanely attractive, because then I’d have to go into why we’d had to stop, and I was convinced he wouldn’t accept “because we’re coworkers, idiot” as an explanation.
I’d trusted him enough to tell him I’d planted evidence on Jake Carter. I’d trusted him enough to tip my hand about Blake’s organization reaching way, way above our pay grades. There were still some things I needed to keep to myself, though.
I rubbed a hand over my face. Yeah. This was going to be weird.
It was almost nine when I walked into the precinct. Darren was at his desk, balancing precariously on that broken chair. I couldn’t help wondering when he’d finally call downstairs and demand a decent one, but maybe he didn’t want to rock the boat. Or he was working on that six-pack while he combed through papers. None of my business, though I could sure as fuck fantasize about the results.
As I came toward the desks, he looked at me, but quickly dropped his gaze.
“Morning,” he said.
“Morning.” I put my coat over the back of my chair and sat down. As my laptop woke up, I surreptitiously watched him across our desks. His silence and lack of eye contact were promising, but he was also subtly pressing a thumb against his temples, and he looked like he was barely keeping his eyes open. The hangover was probably what was keeping him quiet. A few more cups of coffee, and he might want to . . . talk about this.
I logged into my computer, and while my emails took their sweet time downloading, I sipped my coffee. Darren still didn’t speak. He was poring over a file—probably one of the many I’d given him to review. That was the fucked-up thing with those files. You could read over all the reports and statements a million times, and on the million and first, something would jump out and there’d be a break in the case.
Good luck with that, dude. I’ve already been through those bastards two million times.
I glanced at the time. Still two hours before Kenny Walker would be on his way into family court, and probably another hour before he’d be on his way out. Which meant with traffic and parking . . .
I cleared my throat. “We’re meeting someone at the courthouse. Probably around noon.”
Darren lifted his head, and maybe it was the white papers reflecting on his skin, but between his sickly pallor, his bloodshot eyes, and his “you’re shitting me” raised eyebrow, he looked like he’d recently spent some time worshipping the porcelain god.
“Or,” I said, “I can go while you stay here and . . .” I gestured at the papers.
Slowly shaking his head, he sat up. “No. No, I’m good.” He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, then reached for his coffee. “Just, uh, let me wake up a bit more.” He paused, the cup stopping just shy of his lips. “When do we need to leave?”
“Probably in the next hour.”
“Okay.” He drained his coffee and stood, stumbling when the chair wobbled. When he was solid on his feet, he held up his empty cup. “I’m going to go get a refill.”
“Good idea.” I watched him leave, and when he was out of earshot, I called downstairs.
“Supply and maintenance, this is Bob.”
“Hey, Bob. It’s Detective Ruffner, third floor. I don’t suppose you could spare a swivel chair with functioning wheels, could you?”
“Pretty sure I’ve got one. I’ll send it up today.”
“Thanks.”
Darren was quiet most of the morning. The coffee did seem to bring some color back into his face and some life back into his eyes, but he didn’t say much.
At first, I was relieved. Maybe I wouldn’t have to toss him off a bridge after all. As the morning went on, though, and we drove down to the courthouse to deal with Kenny Walker, I started feeling guilty. Was he just hungover? Or was last night really bothering him? As much as I hated the idea, maybe we did need to talk about it.
The courthouse had about seventeen parking spaces that weren’t reserved for judges, so I parked a couple of blocks over. As we started up the road, Darren was still silent. Eyes down, shoulders pulled in, jaw tight, and I was pretty sure he wasn’t just trying to keep from puking.
This awkward silence was going to drive me insane, so halfway to the courthouse, I stopped. He did too, and turned to me, lifting his gaze.
“Okay.” I slid my hands into my pockets. “I get the feeling we should clear the air.”
His eyes darted away, and he exhaled. “Yeah. Probably.”
And . . . more silence
.
Great. I’d taken the initiative to start the conversation, but as per usual, couldn’t figure out the next step. It wasn’t for nothing that my ex-wife had used my name and “blood from a stone” in the same sentence during our divorce proceedings.
Darren threw up his hands. “Look. It happened. We can’t change it. Can we just forget it?”
I blinked. “I . . . Yeah. I was . . . thinking along those lines, actually.”
He pursed his lips and kept his gaze down. “For what it’s worth, I don’t usually drink like that.” Color deepened in his cheeks as he added, “And I never show up to work hungover, but I had a few more after you left and . . .” He shook his head. “Anyway. It’s done.”
“It is. So, um . . .” I swallowed. “We’ll just let it go? It never happened?”
“Yeah.” He backed it up with a shrug that was stiff enough to make me doubt this was really over. “We should . . .” He gestured up the road.
I nodded. Well, it was a start. Hopefully. In even less comfortable silence than before, we continued toward the courthouse.
Just before we reached it, I turned down a side street. “This way.”
“What?”
“Just follow me.”
Darren grumbled something, but he followed. At the other end of the street was a small park. There was playground equipment, but no kids in sight. Some gangbangers were sitting on a jungle gym, smoking cigarettes and talking on their phones. A small group of shady-looking guys were huddled near the swings.
Darren fidgeted nervously.
“Relax.”
“Right,” he grumbled. “So, what are we doing out here anyway?”
“Waiting.” I glanced at my watch. “He should be out in the next twenty minutes or so, and I have a feeling he’ll come through here.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Because I’m pretty sure he left something in the bushes.”
