by Jackie May
He wipes both my cheeks, his lips curving with a devastating smile. “I can’t do that to this city, Shayne. Without you, Detroit wouldn’t just burn, it would lose its soul.”
Geez, for a guy with “no voice,” he sure does all right. I don’t deserve any of these words, of course, but I’m too emotionally wiped to argue. All I can do is grab him by the lapels and give a little shake, like, What did I do to deserve you?
That’s when I see Russo peering in at us through the window. He gives Brenner a thumbs-up and says, “Loving that.”
I unwrap my legs from Brenner’s waist. “What the hell? Did Russo coach you on all this?”
Brenner smirks. “No, but I might have practiced a little on him.”
“Oh, really?” I glance at his arms around my neck. “You practiced this on him?”
Russo barges in. “That’s what I’m talking about, y’all. The spark. Electric! Give me some of that.” After bumping knuckles with Brenner, he makes a sizzling sound and shakes out his hand, as though in pain from a shock. He slings a thick arm around each of us and smashes us against his sides. “So, we’re on for tonight, or what?”
I shoot a look at Brenner beneath Russo’s square jaw. “Tonight? What’s tonight?”
Russo’s voice rumbles against my ribs. “It’s a surprise.”
I quirk a brow at Brenner. “Obviously.”
“It’s a surprise,” Brenner repeats lamely.
“Okay, but does this amazing surprise happen to be a location?”
Brenner sags, defeated. He knows it’s impossible to surprise me by taking me anywhere secret. Even with a blindfold on, earplugs in, and my nose pinched shut, I would still know exactly where I was, anywhere in Detroit, simply by using my foxy sense of direction. He caves immediately. “It’s Comerica Park.”
“And it’s still a surprise,” Russo insists.
Brenner adds, “It’s the Tigers preseason kickoff game.”
“It’s no longer a surprise,” Russo officially declares.
My jaw drops. “We’re going?”
Brenner opens his mouth to answer, but Russo steals his thunder. “Four of the best VIP seats in the house, front row over the dugout. Brenner set it all up through his connections with the stadium security team.”
Front row! I feel my heart trying to leap out of my throat. I’ve been to Tigers games before, but always from the cheapest nosebleed seats, or, one time, from the outfield scoreboard, after I snuck in the night before and climbed the scaffolding. I once saw half a game as a cotton candy vendor, before getting fired for charging double the price to fans of the opposing team.
The only words I can get out are the same as before. “We’re going?”
“Hell yes, we’re going,” Brenner says.
“Four tickets.” I bump Russo with my hip. “A double date, Russo? Got a little spark of your own?”
He throws his hands up. “That depends. Do you know any Amy’s?”
As Brenner pulls into a space in the Comerica parking garage, I experience one of those thrilling, transcendent moments in which you suddenly realize your life has leveled up—you’ve arrived at a new phase; you’ve “joined the club.” It happens when I pull the visor down to straighten my Tigers hat in the mirror. I look myself in the eyes, and all at once, a series of thoughts hits me. Here I am, having date night with the man of my dreams, after a full day’s hard work. We each have a steady paycheck. We pay bills on a house. Our plans for the future involve each other…
Ohmigosh, I’m an adult.
It only took twenty-seven years, a handful of months at the FUA, and one Jay Brenner.
He holds my hand for the walk to the stadium. While his eyes take in the sights—the street entertainer break dancing to a human beat box; the statues of ferocious Tigers prowling the roof above the main gates—my eyes take in the glances of people passing by. I feel like their gazes linger on us. Look at the happy couple, they must be thinking. Young, good-looking, together. I catch a few women checking Brenner out. He’s dressed down in chunky sneakers, gray jeans, and a tight-fitting raglan shirt that shows off his athletic build. The golden stubble on his jaw is just long enough to look soft, begging to be touched.
The stadium is packed, thrumming with the clamor of forty thousand Tigers fans—my people. It’s my favorite time of day, when the lowering sun casts gold across the glittering undersides of storm clouds. Even though there’s still an hour of dusk left, the stadium lights are on, creating an otherworldly glow on the field. Walking down to our seats is surreal. I’ve never been this close to the field. I can practically reach out and touch the players as they do their warm-up stretches. By the time we get to our seats, I’m absolutely giddy.
“There they are!” Russo bellows at us. From the looks of it, he’s been here a while. The beer in his hand is nearly empty, and all the people around our seats are turned toward him, as though he’s the center of tonight’s entertainment. I’m not surprised. Wherever he goes, it only takes .02 seconds for Russo to completely own a crowd of perfect strangers. “Look at these two. Doesn’t it make you sick? I love it.” Murmurs of assent from his crowd.
Hanging from Russo’s arm is a petite blonde wearing a trendy Tigers jersey. She smiles and waves. “Oh, I love your red hair. I so wish I could get that color. You must be Shayne.”
“And you must be Amy,” I say.
Russo nearly spits out his beer with a laugh. “Noooo, not an Amy. Definitely a Kirsten. Kirsten, this is Shayne, and you know Brenner, of course.”
Kirsten gasps. “Yes, but wow. I had to look twice. I hardly recognize him without a tie on. Oh Shayne, honey, you look good on him.”
“You work at the station?” I ask.
“No, I’m a waitress. I know all the guys on the force. And their lunch orders.” She pokes Russo in the stomach. “Steak and eggs, extra steak, extra eggs, with a side of my phone number.” That gets a chuckle from the audience. Kirsten grabs my hand. “Sit with me; let’s talk.” She’s about to seat us both in the middle two seats, but I pull back, letting Brenner take the middle seat, while Russo edges past Kirsten to take the other middle seat next to him. They immediately launch into a conversation about work. “Oh,” she says, confused.
I take my seat on the outside of Brenner. “Yeah, it’s better if you just let them be together, trust me.”
She recovers quickly, sitting on the other side of Russo and hugging his arm. “So cute,” she calls across them to me. “Like little boys.”
The crowd cheers when the Jumbotron screen flashes with the Kiss Cam logo. The stadium cameras zoom in on couples from the crowd, and we all applaud when they kiss on the giant screen. Russo says something to Kirsten about practicing, in case they get on-screen. As she plants a loud, exaggerated smooch on his lips, I make eyes at Brenner, silently expressing my appreciation for his more subdued persona. He may never command the attention of large crowds, but those few of us who get to be close to him know how strong his presence can be. He gives my hand a squeeze.
“How’d you score these seats?” I ask him. “They’re incredible.”
“I know a guy who knows a guy.”
Russo butts in. “High people in high places. Law enforcement is the ultimate network. Everybody owes favors to everybody else. Your boy Brenner must have cashed in big for this one.”
Brenner deflects. “Nah. It’s a preseason promotional game, not the Super Bowl.”
A vague uneasiness flickers like a red flag in my mind. Why is Brenner so quick to downplay this? And why doesn’t his own partner know who Brenner hit up for these tickets? Feels cagey.
I have to admit, I’m a teensy bit paranoid about Brenner keeping things from me. C’mon, he was undercover for years, so he’s a trained professional at keeping to himself, playing both sides with a hidden agenda. And let’s not forget those couple of months when he secretly met with Agent Hillerman and Oliver Harrington to work the revenants case behind my back. Look, I’m not worried that he’s not who he
says he is. I’m worried that because he is who he is, Brenner might jump into something without me there to help. The boy better know by now that he doesn’t have to go it alone anymore.
A buzz fills the stadium when several celebrities run out onto the field. This game not only kicks off the Tigers’ training season, but also raises money for charity. Most ticket holders are here to see famous TV stars who can’t throw a baseball to save their lives. The stadium announcer’s voice introduces various B and D-list celebrities, from a reality show contestant to a daytime soap opera star to a local news anchor. When an intro is made for the host of a totally fake ghost hunter show, Russo sits forward in his seat and exclaims, “Now that guy, I’d love to have a sit-down with. A true believer. Ghouls and ghosts, werewolves and vampires, the supernatural realm. All of it’s real.”
I notice Brenner’s knee starts bouncing.
Kirsten sucks in a breath, fascinated by the subject. “Ohhh, I stayed in a haunted hotel once, out in Arizona. I took a bunch of pictures with my sister, and when we looked at them later, I swear there was a floating orb behind us.”
With a flourish of his overactive hands, Russo ticks off items on his fingers. “Floating orbs, demon possession, occult crimes. Forget about Arizona—it’s all right here in Detroit.”
Brenner’s knee, bouncing.
“Those gangbangers from the East Side who tried to blow up the chief last year,” Russo continues, “their van was marked with an occult symbol. And just yesterday, the bloodbath that went down with the Monolith Casino family? That’s not just organized crime, that’s secret society cover-up, full-on Illuminati shit, excuse my language. And another thing, I’ll tell you where this all points to—Underworld club.”
I clamp my hand down on Brenner’s bouncing knee and dig my nails into his skin. He bolts upright in his seat, wincing as he muffles a painful grunt, while Kirsten rattles on about how she once tried to get into Underworld club but an enormous, scary bouncer denied her at the door. Russo turns to her with warnings to avoid the place, and that’s when I hiss to Brenner, “Did you tell him anything?”
“No, are you kidding?” I pinch his knee harder. He grabs my hand, but can’t budge it. “No,” he insists through clenched teeth. “I haven’t said anything about anything. He’s always been a nut for this stuff. Hell, most people are.”
I relax my grip. Sagging with relief, he says, “But sometimes I think I should tell him.” I try to pinch him again, but he jerks his knee away. “I don’t like keeping him in the dark, Shayne. He’s practically figured it out on his own, and he’s only lived here a month. You guys think you’re so sly, but people notice stuff. How much longer before the whole world figures it out?”
I don’t like having this discussion in the middle of a crowd. Leaning in, I try to sound threatening. “You’re not going to tell him, Jay.”
Locking eyes with me, he leans to within inches of my face. “Is that an order, Agent Davies?”
I’m melting. His eyes skip back and forth between mine. “It’s…I’m asking you”—his lips are right there—“to promise me.”
Russo breaks up the moment. “Look at these two. Are you not loving this?”
Kirsten giggles. “Geez, guys, get a room.” She jumps to her feet and offers me her hand. “We should go to the powder room before the game starts. Come with me?”
Leaning back in my seat, I cross one foot over the other on the roof of the Tigers’ dugout. “Nah, I’m good.” It’s a little harsh, but I have no desire for girl talk in front of the mirror. Not when the entire Tigers lineup is about to go running out of the dugout in their glorious tight-assed uniforms, all a mere ten feet from me.
Two women from the row behind us volunteer happily to accompany Kirsten to the bathroom, and off they go, arm in arm, whispering like schoolgirls. As soon as they’re gone, I lay into Russo. “Your waitress? Are you brain-dead? What happens when you’re done with her? You’ll have to change cafés.”
Brenner wags a finger at Russo. “If that happens, you’re on your own. I love that café.”
“10-4, buddy,” Russo says. “And Shayne, I hear you. Respect. Watching out for us.”
“Watching out for Jay’s breakfast,” I correct.
Jay mimics his partner’s cadence. “Breakfast. Gotta love it. Gotta have it.”
Russo claps his hands together with an explosive laugh. “Solidarity! You two putting me under the lights?” He jabs his fists like a boxer. “One-two! Loving that. But let’s pump the brakes a second. This ain’t my first rodeo with a badge bunny.”
I bite the hook. “A what?”
“Badge bunny,” Brenner answers. “A cop chaser.”
“That’s a thing?”
Russo chuckles. “Big time. The badge, the authority, the uniform. She digs it, I dig it. We’re gonna do our thing for a couple weeks, and then she’ll move on to another badge, and I’ll have some lively memories to go with my steak and eggs.”
“Oh, I see. So all that talk about ‘the spark’ is bullshit. You’re not waiting for the right one to come along. You’re waiting for the next one to come along. Some pretty young thing to worship your…badge.”
“Hey, ‘the spark’ is still a thing, and it’s sacred, but we can’t all be Brenners, can we?” He slaps Brenner’s knee, then pinches the back of his neck like an obnoxious older brother. “I pegged him as a ‘one-and-done’ from the start.”
I swat his hand away. “Until Kirsten goes after his badge next.”
“You think she hasn’t tried?” Russo teases.
I pretend to be miffed. “Oh, really.”
Russo’s voice takes on a nostalgic air, as though he’s regaling me with a tall tale. “Hear this, Shayne Davies. Many a fine young thing has thrown herself at Detective Brenner over the years. But all—I repeat, all—attempts were met with crushing failure, until you came along.”
Unconvinced, I narrow my eyes at Brenner, as if to demand confirmation.
“Well…” Brenner tilts his head, and he makes an uncertain gesture with his hand. “Maybe not all.”
I make crazy eyes. “Wrong answer.”
Brenner winks at Russo, who throws his hands up and blurts, “I don’t know you.”
Before I can take another stab at Brenner’s knee, an uproar rises from the crowd. One of the Tigers players is hauling himself up on top of the dugout right in front of me. When he stands to his full height, I nearly die with shock to see that it’s Ardee Todd. In full uniform. My pick for nine-out-of-ten on the scale of hottest guys. My not-so-secret celebrity crush for the last five years.
After waving to the crowd, he locks eyes with me, smiles, and says, “Shayne Davies?”
And then…
And then…since I have a spotty recollection of the next few moments, I’m going to get another POV to help fill in the blanks. Be right back…
RUSSO
I remember everything about that moment perfectly and accurately, so prepare yourself for the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, directly from the mouth of an officer of the law, sworn to the duty of upholding life, liberty, and the mother-loving American way. With one hand on the Bible, I solemnly swear that when this Ardee Todd fella appeared, a divine glow shone from his face, every set of panties in that stadium immediately burst into flames, and I was struck down by the undeniable fact that we had underestimated how much better-looking he is than Brenner. Lowball estimate, at least ten times better-looking than—
SHAYNE
You know what, forget it. That’s the last time I try dual POV.
Anyways.
After convincing myself that this is no dream sequence or fake prologue, I stand up to face Ardee Todd. He steps down into the aisle, ignoring all the other women shrieking for his attention. He shakes my hand. “Hey there, good to meet you. I’m told you’re a super fan. That’s awesome. I always tell everybody we got the best fans in the world.”
He stops talking, because by now I should have said someth
ing, or done something—anything—in response. But I’m just standing there, frozen, so he nods hello to Brenner. “Hey man, you must be Detective Brenner?” He leans past me to shake Brenner’s hand.
“Thanks for stopping by,” Brenner says. “Means a lot.”
“No worries. Happy to. You guys are the real heroes. Be safe out there, yeah?” After getting a hardy shake of the hand from Russo, Ardee Todd returns his attention to me, producing a black marker from his pocket. “Can I sign something for you?”
Gathering the hem of my Tigers jersey in both hands, I lift my shirt up to my armpits, exposing my black bra on the Jumbotron. Whistles and catcalls fill the stadium. I angle my ribs toward him, showing off the tattoo of the Tigers’ letter D logo just beneath my left Pointer Sister.
Todd stammers, “Oh…right.”
As he dives down there to sign his name across my ribcage, I crane my neck toward Brenner. I’m practically breathless. “You set this up? You did this for me?”
He smiles. “Cross it off your bucket list.”
“Oh my gosh, you did this for me?” I repeat.
Now the crowd is cheering again. I look at the enormous Jumbotron, where the Kiss Cam logo has reappeared next to my grinning face. Hell, you don’t have to tell me twice. Dropping my shirt, I turn and throw myself at Jay, kissing him long and hard. The crowd’s cheering becomes a deafening roar.
Jay pulls back, chuckling. “Shayne, not me. Him.” He gestures to Ardee Todd, who, totally left hanging, throws his hands out in a big question mark to the audience.
I’m in a daze. “Him?”
“Your bucket list,” Brenner urges. “To kiss Ardee Todd. It’s now or never, babe.”
“You…” I point to Brenner, then to Ardee Todd. “Him?”
It’s too late. Women are already lining up to do what I didn’t. Ardee Todd gives each a kiss on the cheek. The whole stadium goes wild.
“You did this for me?” I ask Brenner one more time, before snatching his hand. “Boy, I need you to come with me. Now.”
I can tell he’s trying to conceal his eagerness when he says, with mock surprise, “Now?”
