“I need to get out of here.” She blinked away the tears.
“Baby,” he whispered and she steeled her spine against him. If she didn't, she was going to melt into a puddle of goo right then and there.
“They keep asking me questions,” she said. “I don't want to talk to them.”
“Okay,” he said, resting his elbows on his knees. He raised his green eyes to meet hers. He looked just as tired as she felt. She wondered if he'd been at home in bed when he got the call about her father. At the thought of his bed, her muscles cried out, wanting to be in the middle of his big bed so badly it ached. Her whole body ached, in fact. The grief hurt like getting burned in a fire.
“Tate,” she whispered, leaning forward, wanting to touch him. She threw her arms around him and buried her face in his neck, the urge to sob rising up so fast it was almost impossible to stop the tears from flowing. Her throat ached as she choked down the sadness, wanting to hold out for as long as possible. He was steady against her, like a rock. She wanted to be able to trust him. She wanted it so badly.
“Did you see anything?” he asked, his voice pushing through the haze of grief in her brain. “Did you hear anything?” She shook her head miserably because she couldn't open her mouth. If she opened her mouth, a scream would escape. “Alright, baby. Alright,” he said, his voice stronger. She wanted to trust in him so badly. She wanted to hold him tight and never let go. But mostly, she wanted him to take her far away from the harshly lit, windowless room that made her remember too many bad times.
“Take me home,” she whispered in his ear, her voice thick. “Please.”
***
Tate saw it in her eyes the second he walked in the room. She was beautiful, but on the brink. She was dressed like she was had come from party, he could tell. Her eyes were smudged black with mascara and her lips were stained bright red. She was wearing a tight black dress and sequined red heels. She was absolutely stunning. He hadn't seen her in a few days, but it could have been a lifetime. Her eyes were wide and she was shaking and he knew she was in shock and traumatized. He also had no idea what she'd seen or what she knew. He had no idea if Sam Spears's death would come back on Shay. At that moment, as much as he wanted her to cooperate with the detectives, her safety was first and foremost in his mind. He had no idea if her father's death was due to an old conflict or a recent one. He had no idea if the conflict had died with Sam Spears. He wanted her safe, and the only way to keep her safe was for her to be with him. He had her and he wasn't going to let her go. When she asked him to take her home, he didn't hesitate.
“Can you stand up, baby?” he asked. She nodded, and he put his hand against the table and pushed himself up to standing. She followed him up, not loosening her arms from around his neck. He put his arm around her waist, holding her against him to steady her. He could hear her breathing was jagged and uneven in his ear. He wondered how long it would take before she exploded. He could sense the emotion in her was going to reach its boiling point soon. He just wanted her to be far away from the precinct and somewhere comfortable and safe when it happened.
A light knock on the door was all the warning they got before Ramirez and Holder entered the small interrogation room. Shay pulled away from him and turned her face toward the back wall, doing her best to avoid the eyes of the two detectives. He gritted his teeth against the pang of anger that shot through his chest. He didn't like seeing her scared and hurt and anxious. In fact, he fucking hated it. Tate wished he could shield her from it. He'd fucked things up before, but he wasn't going to let her get hurt anymore.
“She's in bad shape. I'm going to take her home,” he said.
“We have more questions,” Holder said, putting his hands on his hips and puffing out his chest. Tate shrugged, putting a blank expression on his face.
“And she'll answer them,” Tate said, and he heard Shay make a strangled sound behind him. “Not tonight, though,” he finished, reaching behind him to take her hand and squeezing.
“Can she speak for herself?” Ramirez said softly, but with steel beneath her words. She didn't want to let Shay go without questioning her, and Tate could understand that. But the fact of the matter was that Shay wasn't under arrest and they had no right to hold her. He was taking her out of there no matter what. Tate glanced over his shoulder at her. She was no longer staring at the ground. She was staring at the two detectives, her gaze unwavering.
“I don't know anything,” she said, her voice low.
“And what exactly is, uh, your relationship?” Holder asked, eyeing them suspiciously. Tate didn't blame him for being suspicious; it was his job. Unfortunately, Tate had just about the same feeling Shay had about answering questions. He wasn't in the mood.
“We're friends,” he said simply.
“Yeah well, we got a dead guy shot in the middle of the street and no witnesses,” Holder said, dropping his hands heavily to his belt. “We need your friend to tell us everything she knows.” Tate felt Shay stiffen beside him and he felt his annoyance grow.
“Some dead guy?” Shay said and he could hear the hysteria rising in her voice. “He's not just some dead guy!”
“Whoa—” Holder cut her off, holding up his hands. Ramirez gave him a look of warning.
“Have some respect,” Tate said. “It's her father.”
“And we're trying to find out what happened to him,” Ramirez said, her voice calm.
“And even his own kid won't talk,” Holder said, his eyes on Shay. “You think you're helping your father out by keeping quiet?”
“Don't talk to her,” Tate said, stepping in front of Shay and blocking Holder's view of her.
“You her lawyer now? You lawyering up?” Holder said, trying his best to look over Tate's shoulder and see Shay. But Tate had about five inches on the other man and towered over him.
“Okay, alright,” Ramirez said, her calm words not hiding the fact that she was the one in charge. Holder crossed his arms over his chest and sulked, but he shut his mouth. Ramirez took a step to the side, clearing a path for their exit. “You're free to go.” Tate nodded at Ramirez and put his hand on the small of Shay's back. She looked up at him and he could see the hint of relief on her guarded face. Then she walked ahead and out of the room, her eyes straight ahead and not looking at the cops. Tate leaned over and grabbed her coat off the chair beside the table.
“You know, before you showed up, she was just starting to talk,” Holder said. “And now we're back to square one.”
“So go find an actual witness,” Tate said. Holder squinted his eyes, not liking Tate's answer.
“We still need to talk to her,” Ramirez said.
“And you will,” Tate said. “In a day or two.”
“After she's already forgotten all the pertinent details?” Ramirez raised a dark eyebrow. “We're all on the same side here, Sergeant.”
“A day or two,” Tate said. “He's not going to get any deader.” Tate clicked his tongue and made his exit, relieved to get out of the stiflingly small room. Shay was leaning against the concrete wall of the hallway, her eyes on the floor. He slid his arm around her waist and pulled her to him. He knew she probably wanted space, but he couldn't stop himself. She was in a bad place and he had to fix it, somehow. He needed her to know he would be there for her. It was selfish, really, but he didn't give a shit. He was going to be there for her whether she wanted him or not. Nothing would bring her father back, but he wasn't going to let her be in agony alone. As soon as he heard Sam Spears was dead, he just wanted to be there for her. That's all he wanted, he was beginning to realize.
To be close to her. To take care of her. To love her.
If she would let him.
“I need to get out of here,” she said, her big brown eyes looking up at him. He nodded and she leaned on him as he lead her out of the station. The station was busy and loud despite the fact that it was late at night. He checked his watch. It was 1:00 a.m and it was officially New Year's Eve. The city was busie
r than usual, with the influx of tourists for the famous festivities. Crime didn't stop, even for the holidays. She followed him through the station, silently. He didn't say anything either, because he didn't really have any words to comfort her or describe what she must be going through. He'd barely known his biological parents. He'd never felt true pain over losing them. But he did know the pain of abandonment. He knew what it felt like to be tossed away and unloved.
He had a feeling that, deep down, she knew exactly how that felt. She'd always had blinders on when it came to her father. Now he was dead, which meant she would probably only build him up higher in her memory. Tate didn't know why that pissed him off so much. He couldn't quite explain it. But then again, he'd never loved anyone as much as he loved her. He loved his family and he loved House of Pain, but Shay had his heart.
As he lead her out into the cold night, he knew it was true.
He was in love with her, but he had absolutely no idea how she felt about him.
Chapter Twenty-One
Shay never wanted to see another detective again for the rest of her life. Unfortunately, she had a feeling that wish wasn't going to be granted anytime soon. Tate pushed open the big wood door of the station and Shay almost moaned in pure relief when she felt frigid air on her face. The city was quiet around her compared to the tension of the police station. She didn't know what time it was, but the sky was still inky black. She stopped on the sidewalk and stared up at it, unable to look away. She didn't know if she believed in heaven, or that her father would even be there if there was such a place. But she stared up anyway and studied the stars that were barely visible under the glare from the city lights.
It was oddly comforting.
Life would go on. The sun would still rise that day and the day after. With every new day, the pain would fade more and more. She knew that in her mind, but at that moment, she couldn't imagine a life without her father. She couldn't imagine a life where she was an orphan. A life where she was completely alone in the world. She shuddered as a light breeze picked up, breaking her concentration. She realized she was still standing in front of the police station, surrounded by cops on all sides.
Tate slid her coat around her shoulders and she moved without thinking, pulling it on and buttoning it up. He stood silently beside her, his presence alone a comfort. With him beside her, she wasn't scared anymore. He'd saved her from the detectives, he was going to take her home, he was going to take care of her. She wanted to throw her arms around him and never let go.
But she didn't.
“How is this happening?” she whispered. “This morning, everything was fine. Now it's all shit.”
“It wasn't fine this morning,” he said and she glanced up at him sharply. He stared down at her but it was dark and she couldn't see the look on his face. She wanted to scream at him, to remind him that her father was dead, shot down in the street like he was nothing, a nobody. But the desire to throw her arms around his neck and cling to him was just as strong as the desire to scream at him, so she didn't. She just buttoned up her jacket to keep her cold hands busy. Tate rolled his shoulders and she knew was out of things to say. She wondered what he meant by the morning not being better. He dug in his pockets for his keys but offered no clues.
“Shay Spears?” A female voice cut through the night and Shay sighed, knowing that whoever it was, she didn't want to talk to them. She didn't want to talk to anyone. She threw a glance over her shoulder and sighed deeper. Detective Ramirez was jogging down the stairs of the precinct, heading right for her. Ramirez was definitely a new addition to her growing 'do not want to talk to' list. “Can I have another minute?”
“They said I was free to go,” Shay said.
“And you are,” Ramirez replied, slowing to a stop in front of Shay. “I thought you might need this.” She held up Shay's sequined clutch purse and glanced at Tate. “You left it behind in the room.”
“Thanks,” Shay muttered, taking the purse.
“No problem.” Ramirez nodded, the bags under her eyes especially prevalent under the orange light of the nearby street lamp. Shay realized the detective was probably just as tired as she was. She was working late going through the motions of investigating Shay's father's death. Still, Shay couldn't stop herself from opening the bag and glancing inside, taking note that nothing seemed to be missing or rifled through. “I didn't go through your bag, if that's what you're thinking,” Ramirez said, glancing at Tate again. He nodded and raised his hand to the small of Shay's back.
“I'll get the car,” Tate said, his voice low. “You good?”
“Mm-hmm,” Shay murmured and nodded, tucking the bag under her arm. Tate took his hand away and stepped off into the darkness. Shay watched him go, wanting him back almost immediately. However, she could deal with the female detective. It was the man, Holder, whom she would absolutely refuse to talk to. Shay turned back to Ramirez and stared at her expectantly.
“Sergeant Grayson is a good friend, I take it?” Ramirez said, cocking her head and studying her like she was trying to read Shay. Shay kept her face as blank as she could, not wanting to give an inch. She still didn't trust cops, no matter what. She may be standing outside of a police station, but one wrong move, one wrong word, and she could just as easily be back inside. After a moment, Ramirez shrugged lightly and gave up. She reached around into her back pocket and extended a white business card.
“Call me,” she said. “When you feel like talking. But don't wait too long, or I'll have to come find you. I have a hunch that you wouldn't like it if I did that.”
“You'd be right,” Shay said.
“We're going to find whoever killed your father,” Ramirez said. “Because that's what we do. You can help or hinder that process. I suggest you think about that.” She stepped forward and held up the card between two fingers. “Sleep on it.” Shay stared at the card, knowing that whether she took it or not, she'd still have to talk to the detective again. It was inevitable and inescapable. So she took it, begrudgingly, and tucked it in her pocket. Ramirez nodded and turned and walked away. “Sorry for your loss,” she called over her shoulder. Shay watched her until she disappeared into the station. Only then could she feel the muscles in her jaw relax.
She closed her eyes as the sudden weight hit her again. She just wanted to go home and pull the blankets over her head and sleep until the pain went away. She told herself not to cry in the middle of the sidewalk in Manhattan. It was a cliché and, besides, it would accomplish nothing. But it was hard to keep her wits around her when Tate wasn't there. Without him to lean on, she wanted to crawl into a ball on the dirty ground.
Luckily, he pulled alongside her and rolled to a stop beside a fire hydrant. He got out of the driver's side and walked around to open her door for her. He didn't say anything and he didn't have to. She knew exactly what it meant. If she got in the car, he would drive her home and put her to bed and take care of her. He would be quiet and he would give her space, but he wouldn't leave her. He would be Tate.
And she wanted it. All of it. But mostly, she wanted him.
So she got in the car.
He closed the door behind her and she felt her body relax into the soft seat. The radio was playing softly, an old 2pac song that she recognized from her youth. The warmth blasting from the heaters immediately seeped under her skin and it suddenly felt impossible to keep her eyes open. He got in after her and shut his door lightly, like he didn't want to bother her.
“Seatbelt,” he said and she latched it obediently. She could feel his eyes on her for a long moment and she rolled her head around to look at him. He didn't say anything, but his eyes said a lot. He was cautious around her, she guessed. He didn't want to say or do the wrong thing. He didn't want her to cut and run. But he was also happy to have her with him. He'd come there for her, after all. He'd gone out on his night off to be at her side. She raised her hand and ran her fingertips down his cheek. His stubble was rough under her touch, just like she liked. He leaned in
to her touch and she didn't dare drop her hand. He felt warm and alive and immovable. Stalwart. Dependable. Touching him was a relief, plain and simple. Knowing he was there meant more than anything else she could think of.
“I'm sorry,” he said, finally. “For all of it. For anything I said and anything I will say in the future to piss you off.” He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, like he was nervous. But that was silly. He could've said nothing and she would still want him. Being so close to him was adding more emotion on top of an already emotional night and her body couldn't seem to handle it. Her throat squeezed painfully, preventing her from telling him that she didn't need him to be sorry. She didn't need anything more than what he was giving her, right then. But she couldn't answer him, so she didn't. She just nodded and let her hand drop to the console that separated them. He put the car in drive and pulled into traffic. She closed her eyes, letting the vibrations of the moving car lull her into dark unconsciousness. But before she fell asleep, she felt his hand take hers, his fingers sliding between hers as she finally let herself go.
***
The car ride back to Washington Heights was quiet. The city was a ghost town; the early morning streets were empty, so he took the long way. Shay was asleep beside him and he knew she needed rest. He just hoped she wouldn't be pissed when she woke up to find herself at his apartment. In all honesty, he didn't know if she would still be angry at him or not. At that point, she was so exhausted that she didn't seem to care that she'd been freezing him out for two weeks. Two weeks- twelve days to be more exact - without her had been torture. She deserved time to mourn, though, and he was willing to give her that. He was willing to give her anything she wanted, as long as it meant that in the end, he would have her. He was tired of not having her.
Spitfire Suckerpunch (House of Pain Book 2) Page 34
