by J. M. Madden
She couldn’t get away from Key West fast enough after the trial of Stan Laszlo. Attending the Miami Police College gave her time away from her hometown—away from the stares and whispers, from the pity and the people who thought she’d probably done something to bring it on herself. It also gave her a chance to get on her feet again, to find purpose to her life and some meaning in what happened to her.
But when she envisioned a future in which she helped catch other predators before they could hurt other women, she’d seen herself doing it from a safe distance, behind a desk at the Key West Precinct. Not dressing up in the kind of skimpy outfit she hasn’t worn since before the trial, and hitting the Miami nightspots trying to catch the attention of a serial rapist.
Yet that’s exactly what Detective Will Murphy offers. A chance to help catch a sexual predator, and to prove—to Will and herself—that when she took the oath to serve and protect, she wasn’t just mouthing words.
But can Carmen handle another encounter with a rapist? Can she trust Will to have her back? And can she put the past behind her and move toward the future, a future that might include Will?
ONE
The tip of Bianca’s shoe connected with my ankle under the table, not for the first time tonight. “Hottie at two o’clock,” she hissed out of the corner of her mouth. “Don’t look now!”
I shook my head. I wasn’t planning to look at all. Bianca had been pointing out men she thought were hot for the past hour, and so far, I’d avoided looking at all of them.
“He’s gorgeous,” Bianca sighed. “You know, I think I’ve seen him before. He probably works at Central.”
Central, as in the Central Precinct of the Miami PD.
“I’m sure he does.” Everyone else here did.
We were sitting in a bar a couple of blocks from police headquarters, from the City of Miami Police College, and from the building where we’d both been housed while attending the latter. Now that we were full-fledged, certified police officers, we’d be going back to our respective jurisdictions, me in Key West and Bianca in Port St. Lucie. But that was for tomorrow. For tonight, we were celebrating graduation, and being the only two female recruits—out of five in our class—left standing at the end of the six months we’d spent here.
The bar was called Murphy’s Law. The owner was a retired cop named Murphy, who’d put in his twenty years on the streets, and left to open a bar. Every cop in the Central Precinct spent time here at least once every week, even the ones who didn’t drink.
I wasn’t drinking. Alcohol, I mean. Bianca had a banana daiquiri in front of her, but my rum and Coke was all Coke and no rum. Since that was how I had ordered it—rum and Coke, minus the rum—it came with a swizzle stick and a slice of lime hanging on the glass. I didn’t think anyone could tell the difference. I just had to pace myself, and drink like it was actually alcohol, instead of slurping it down like the soft drink it was.
“He’s talking to Murphy,” Bianca said, back on the hot guy again.
Everyone talked to Murphy. “He’s probably ordering a drink.”
Bianca shook her head. “It looks like they know each other.”
So? “Every cop in the city knows Murphy.” And beyond the city, too. My brother Enrique, a detective with the Key West PD, had told me I had to visit Murphy’s at least once while I was in Miami. This was the first time I’d dared set foot in the place, since it was only now that I felt I had the right to mingle with real cops.
“This looks like more,” Bianca said. “Murphy’s hugging the guy and slapping him on the back.”
“Maybe he got a promotion. Or solved a case. Or put someone important in jail. Or got married.”
“Don’t say that!” Bianca flapped her hands as if warding off evil. “You know I don’t mess with married men.”
Actually, I knew no such thing. We’d only been friends for the time we’d been attending the Police College together, and it wasn’t like we’d had a lot of time to talk about personal things while learning hand-to-hand combat and hostage negotiation. I had no idea whether she drew the line at married men or not.
“He’s not wearing a ring,” she informed me.
“How can you tell that from over here?”
“I just can,” Bianca said and drained her drink. “I think I’ll go get another. You want a refill?”
“No, thank you.” I still had half a glass, and besides, I needed to order my own. Even Bianca didn’t know that my rum and Coke was all Coke. When you tell someone you’re not drinking, they always ask why, and I didn’t want to have to explain. We were friends, but there are some things you don’t even talk to your friends about.
“I’ll be back in a minute. Or not.”
I nodded. “Good luck.”
“Just stay over here,” Bianca told me. “If he gets a look at you, I won’t stand a chance.”
She moved away before I had the chance to respond. I shook my head as I watched her make her way across the floor toward the bar.
That might have been true in the old days. Two years ago, in Key West, I’d been the life of the party. Carmen Fuentes, good-time girl, whose only concerns were the cute college boys coming to town for spring break, and—that particular year—the even cuter FBI agent who was in Key West to help Enrique nab a rapist who was preying on drunk co-eds.
There’d been a lot of water over the breakers since then.
And the last thing I wanted these days was to attract anyone’s attention. So I kept my hair scraped back and my makeup light, my personality quiet and my body decently covered. I’d left all my Save a Virgin – Do Me Instead tank tops and high heeled shoes in Key West, and although it didn’t come naturally, I was doing my best to blend in with the background.
If Bianca’s guy saw me, I doubted it would make any difference at all.
While I’d been thinking, Bianca had reached the bar, and since I was watching anyway, I slid my eyes sideways for a glimpse of the guy she thought was hot.
It was probably the one standing next to her, with his elbows on the bar and his back to the room. Murphy was talking to him.
And if you put me on the spot, I might even admit that I agreed with Bianca. At least a little.
From the back, he looked a bit like Ty Conner, that FBI agent I mentioned. His hair was a shade or two closer to light than dark, and rumpled. Ty had a habit of running his hand through his; maybe this guy did, too. Or maybe he’d been driving with the top down, and had come by the ruffles honestly.
He had good shoulders under a plain, white shirt, tucked into a pair of dress slacks that fit his butt nicely. Long legs and narrow hips. An inch or two taller than Ty, at a guess, and a little less compact.
As Bianca turned to him with a smile, I focused my own attention back on my glass. The last thing she needed, was me critiquing her performance when she came back to the table.
If she came back to the table. If she got lucky, maybe the hot guy would whisk her off to his convertible and his apartment, and I wouldn’t see her again tonight.
I’d have to walk home alone.
The thought brought an immediate clutch of panic in my stomach, and an automatic glance at the windows at the front of the bar. It was dark outside.
There was a time when walking anywhere in the dark hadn’t been a cause for concern. Key West was home; I’d always felt safe there. I wouldn’t have thought twice about walking around Miami after dark, either. Nothing bad had ever happened to me, so I didn’t have sense enough to be afraid.
But that, too, was long ago. These days, I didn’t go anywhere by myself, even in broad daylight. Footsteps behind me, or just the sensation that someone was watching, was enough to trigger my fight-or-flight response, with flight usually gaining the upper hand. I ran away from a lot of things these days.
Including Key West.
It seemed hypocritical to hope that my friend struck out, but part of me did. Desperately.
I lifted my glass for another sip, just as a voice said, �
��Hi, gorgeous.”
I looked up, to see a guy put a hand on the back of Bianca’s chair. “Mind if I join you?”
“Actually,” I told him, “my friend just went to the bar for a refill. She’ll be right back.”
He glanced at the bar. “The black girl talking to Will?”
“She’s Latina,” I said, “not black.”
Although Latinas do come in a lot of shades and colors, from Sofia Vergara to Penelope Cruz to Zoe Saldana.
Bianca is a more of a Zoe, while I’m more of a Penelope. Bianca’s Puerto-Rican, I’m Cuban. Not that any of that matters. We’re both Latina.
“And anyway,” I added, “I don’t know who Will is.”
He stared at me for a moment before he grinned. “What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”
It’s the oldest cliché in the book, but I managed to refrain from rolling my eyes. “We just came in for a drink.” It wasn’t his fault that he couldn’t come up with a better pick-up line, was it?
Or maybe it was, but it was hard to blame him. He probably hadn’t had much opportunity to find a line that worked.
Not that he was ugly, or anything. I don’t mean that. He was just... average. Light brown hair, average features, eyes of... it was a little hard to see in the low light, but maybe hazel?
Good physique, though. He obviously worked out a lot, because he had the gym-rat’s overdeveloped shoulders and thick upper arms.
And he must have noticed me notice, because he grinned. “I’m Duane.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said politely, even though I wished he’d go away and leave me alone.
“Maybe I’ll just keep you company until your friend comes back.” He pulled out Bianca’s chair, turned it around, and straddled it, folding his arms along the back.
I wish you wouldn’t, I thought, but I didn’t say it. I’m a different person than I used to be, and I’ve learned that some men don’t take that kind of thing well.
And really, he wasn’t doing anything wrong. He couldn’t know that I was off men for the time being, and that he was wasting his time trying to chat me up.
And anyway, no sooner had he planted himself on the chair, than Bianca came back. “You’re in my seat,” she informed him.
He grinned, but got up. “Sorry. I’m Duane.”
“Nice to meet you.” Bianca dismissed him with a glance, turning her chair around again and plopping back down, refill in hand. “His name is Will.”
“I know,” I said. “Duane told me.” The relief that she was back, that I wouldn’t have to walk home alone in the dark—or have to fend off Duane—was so strong that my whole body slumped, and I had to concentrate on pulling myself straight.
Bianca looked up at Duane. “You know Will?”
He grinned. “Sure. We work together.”
“Will just got a promotion,” Bianca told me. “That’s what was going on.”
I nodded. I hadn’t really cared what was going on, but she’d obviously been curious enough to ask.
“I told him if he’d like to join us later, I’d buy him a drink.” She smiled.
“Murphy’s his uncle,” Duane said, sounding envious. “Will gets free drinks for life.”
“So are you a cop, too?” Bianca asked Duane, who nodded. “For how long?”
Duane looked like he might be thirty, maybe a year or two below. “Six years,” he said.
“That’s cool.” Bianca beamed. “Have you ever shot anyone?”
Duane grabbed a chair from another table. He pulled it over to ours, straddled it, and began telling Bianca stories about his adventures in law enforcement. I had no idea how much of what he was saying was true, but it sounded good, and Duane sounded like a hero.
Bianca looked like she was having a good time, and my glass was empty, so I excused myself to get a refill. They both glanced up, and then went right back to talking.
Bianca’s hot guy was gone from his place at the bar, so I bellied up and waited for Murphy to notice me. It took a minute, and then he sauntered over. “What can I get you, sugar?”
“Rum and Coke,” I said, “minus the rum.”
He grinned. “Right. I remember now.”
He told me the price and turned away to fill my glass while I dug in my bag for money. By the time he turned back, I was ready. We exchanged drink for money, and I turned away from the bar. Only to walk straight into someone’s chest. My Coke splashed onto his white shirt and my T-shirt before I could steady the glass.
“Shit,” a voice said.
“Sorry.” It was a very nice white shirt, too. Very good quality.
“Don’t worry about it.” He plucked the wet fabric away from his chest and flapped it. “Good thing it isn’t cold out there.”
“This is Miami,” I said. “It’s always hot.”
I didn’t mean it flirtatiously. Or at least I wasn’t conscious of flirting. It was more like the words just slipped out without thought. And I guess it might have been something the old me would have said. The new me might not have said it, had I taken the time to think.
At any rate, he grinned. Nice, white, straight teeth. His parents must have spent a mint on orthodontics. And the rest of him wasn’t bad, either.
Up close, he didn’t look much like Ty at all. The hair color was similar, but that’s where it ended. Ty looked several years younger than his twenty-five—or maybe twenty-six by now—years. This guy—Will Murphy—was probably a year or two older than that, and male model gorgeous, with chiseled features, high cheekbones, and midnight blue eyes.
Something about him was vaguely familiar, but I put it down to that faint resemblance to Ty, and stepped to the side. “I’m really sorry about your shirt. I’ll pay for it to be dry cleaned, if you want.”
He shook his head, a faint wrinkle between his brows. “Do I know you?”
“I don’t think so,” I said politely. “I’m not from around here.”
The wrinkle didn’t go away. “Tourist?”
“Student.” It was easier to leave it at that than to explain about the Police College.
“Where are you from?”
“Key West,” I said.
“Your name is Carmen.”
It was my turn to blink. “How do you know that?” It’s a common Hispanic name, but not so common that every Latina you meet has that name.
He tilted his head. “You don’t remember me, do you?”
I didn’t. As I mentioned, there was that faint familiarity, that I had chalked up to his reminding me of Ty. But I didn’t recognize the face, nor the name.
“I’m Will.”
I nodded.
“I was in Key West for spring break... must be four years ago now.”
Two years before Ty. I’d been twenty-one that year.
“We met at a place called Captain Crow’s on Duval.”
Very possible. I’d met Ty at Captain Crow’s, too. And a lot of other guys up through the years.
“We had sex,” Will said. “Are you telling me you can’t even remember my face?”
TWO
I thought about telling him that if we’d had sex, it probably wasn’t his face I’d been focused on.
Then I decided not to.
“I’m sorry,” I said instead, politely, and took a step to the side, “but I think you must have me confused with someone else. Carmen isn’t an uncommon name, especially in South Florida, and I’m sure there were a lot of girls in Key West the week you were there.”
He stepped to the side, too, and ended up in front of me again. “I remember you.”
“I don’t remember you,” I told him, my heart beating a little faster. “If we’d had sex, don’t you think I’d remember?”
He hesitated. I took advantage of it to drive the point home. “I’m sorry. But my friend’s over there, and I should get back to her.”
I ducked past him. He didn’t follow, or try to stop me, but I could feel his eyes at my back as I threaded my way through the tables
over to Bianca and Duane.
Bianca looked up with a frown. “What was that about?”
“What?... Oh.” I glanced over my shoulder at Will. He was still standing at the bar, watching. “He thought he recognized me. Said he’d been in Key West for spring break four years ago. But I don’t remember him.”
“Probably trying to pick you up,” Duane said with a grin. “Good for you, shutting him down like that. Most women wouldn’t.”
I thought about telling him I’m not most women. But that would be a cliché, too. And anyway, I hadn’t gotten the impression that Will had been trying to pick me up. It seemed like he genuinely thought we’d met before. And not only that, but that we’d had sex. And that was the scary part, since I had no recollection of getting naked with him.
If I couldn’t remember Will, how many others had I forgotten?
Bianca turned down Duane’s offer of an escort home, but took his phone number and told him she’d call.
“Are you going to?” I asked when we were outside on the sidewalk, making our way back to our apartment building.
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably not. He’s not really my type. And I’m going home tomorrow.”
So was I. Or if not tomorrow, the next day. Bianca was eager to get home to Port St. Lucie and her family and friends, and to start her new job with the PSLPD on Monday.
I was putting off my departure as long as I could.
I missed my family, but there was really no part of me that wanted to go home. I had hoped that six months away would make a difference, but now that the time was up, I wasn’t ready. It was home... but it’s a small place. Only twenty-five thousand people live in Key West year round, so while we don’t all know each other, a lot of us know enough of the others to make for very close quarters. And the trial and crimes of Stan Laszlo had been front page news in the Key West Citizen more than once over the past two years. Everyone in Key West knew who I was and what had happened to me. And while some people were sympathetic, some thought that maybe I’d gotten what I deserved instead.
It had been nice to be anonymous in Miami.
But there would be no anonymity in Key West, and I wasn’t ready to face it.
