by Teagan Kade
Grace turns with her hands on her hips. She exhales, taking out her cell and bringing it to her ear.
I’m watching her.
She’s attractive, as is the desk sergeant… or her ass, more specifically. She is attractive no doubt, but it’s more than that. Ball-stompin’ attitude aside, she’s beautiful, from her honeycomb eyes to her raven hair sheeting down her back. There weren’t girls like this in Wrightworth. They’d fall into traditional roles, happy to gossip over whatever tabloid tidbit was doing the rounds. I can’t picture any of them as a cop, let alone a detective. And the girls in LA? Empty human husks with the depth of a paddle pool. I don’t imagine there are many female detectives even in the Big Apple, at least none that could bring a city block to a stop with a swish of their hair and smile.
Grace takes the cell away from her ear, quietly cursing. “Nothing. It rings out.”
“What now?” I ask.
And suddenly that smile is right in front of me. “How do you feel about house calls?”
*
“Where are we?” I ask, the lights and towering walls of the city replaced with the quiet hum of suburbia.
Grace sniggers from the passenger seat—a miracle in and of itself. She only decided to let me drive under the proviso I didn’t “go all Dukes of Hazzard” on her. “Just be thankful it’s dark,” she replies. “You wouldn’t want to see this place during the day.”
“And the Captain lives out here?”
The way she’s sitting in the passenger seat, legs spread, has turned my cock to lead. It’s hard enough driving around this maze of a road network as it is without your pants steadily turning into the Pyramid of Giza. “It’s a family home or something,” says Grace, “passed down,” she adds, brushing a renegade strand of hair over her ear. “You’d think with a brother for a councilman and all he’d level up, but no. He says he likes to live ‘amongst the people,’” she air-quotes, “whatever the fuck that means.”
“You don’t like him much, do you?”
“Does a dog bite the hand that feeds it? I know who butters my bread.”
I look at her with confusion. “You’re calling yourself a dog?”
“Why, you calling me a bitch?”
I put up a hand in defense. “Shit, I didn’t mean…”
That crushingly beautiful smile breaks over her face. “I’m fucking with you, Beckett… emphasis on the ‘with’ before you go getting any ideas.”
I lift my hands from the wheel. “Hey, no ideas here.”
She looks down. “So what’s with the pocket rocket you’re packing in your pants there? I mean, Jesus, are you ever not packing wood?”
Only when you’re not around, I want to add.
“You should see a doctor.”
I shift in my seat, about to argue against it, when I notice she’s looking into the rear-view. “What is it?”
“That car, one back. It’s been following us since we left the island.”
I check it myself. “You sure?”
She nods slowly. “Not really,” pointing. “Take this left.”
I pull sharply left down a narrow street.
Grace’s eyes remained trained on the rear-view, her welcome musk lingering. Sure enough, the car pulls down the same street.
“Right.”
I take the right, the car following. It’s gaining.
“Fuck,” barks Grace, squinting. “It’s Doyle.”
“The dealer?”
“I’d know that piece of shit Navigator anywhere.”
“What do you think he wants?”
Grace looks at me with her eyebrows knitted together. “Oh, I’m sure he wants to invite us to the nearest IHOP, order a stack of pancakes, cup of joe… You know, to say thanks to you for near breaking his fucking arm.”
“Hey, I had no choice.”
There’s a gunshot, the rear windscreen shattering and fragments of glass blasting around the cabin.
Grace takes out Chewie, flicking off the safety. “Punch it!”
I slam my foot down on the accelerator and take the next left, tires screeching. But this is a patrol car, not a Lamborghini.
The shots keep coming, pinging off the panels, the side mirror blown to pieces beside me.
I keep my head low, foot on the gas, trying to work my way back to the main road. Grace’s putting her window down and turning in her seat. “Call it in.”
I shout over the drone of the engine, calling it in and asking for immediate backup.
The operator chirps back in response.
The air outside whips her hair behind Grace’s head. She jerks back as another shot hits the B-pillar, sparks darting off into the night like fireflies.
She starts to fire back towards the Navigator, loading up another clip when she runs out.
I check the rear-view. The Navigator’s right behind us. I’m giving this thing all it’s got and it’s like we’re stuck in molasses.
The Navigator strikes us on the right rear, enough to drive us into the curb. Metal crunching against concrete fills the cabin with sound, but I manage to pull ahead and keep driving.
My heart’s pounding, but I’m calm. Los Angeles taught me that much—to channel the fear, to use it. Before that it was the football field, because god knows you need to keep your cool when two-fifty pounds of pure muscle is barreling towards you.
I hear a pop and see the Navigator shift to the right.
“I got one of the tires,” shouts Grace. “That’ll stop the fuckers.”
I flick my eyes back to the road and slam on the brakes.
We’re at an intersection, the lights red, cars banked up in front of us and no way to get around them.
Shit.
I check the rear-view again. The Navigator is blocking the road behind us, the doors opening and the same tweakers we ran into earlier jumping out.
I reach for the radio again, scanning for street signs and relaying our position.
“Out, now!” yells Grace, opening her door and getting out low. I follow her lead, drawing my weapon and meeting her around the front of the patrol car behind the engine.
A guy’s getting out of his car behind us. “Hey, what’s going o—”
A gunshot answers his question.
“Go!” Grace shouts at him, waving her gun to the houses to the right. “Fucking move!”
The guy goes running off.
I look down the side of the car and see the tweakers lifting their weapons—automatics, by the look of it.
Grace stands and fires, calculated. A shout, another, and two of them go down.
I turn, can’t hear any sirens. Where the fuck is our back-up?
What has to be Doyle is staggering forward with another crony.
Grace ducks as they open fire.
I stand and pop off a few rounds, but they’re still coming.
A spurt from his chest and the guy beside Doyle is done, but still Doyle approaches.
“Throw down your fucking weapon!” shouts Grace, training her weapon on him.
“Fuck you, bitch!” Doyle yells.
“See?” she says to me.
I stand and fire a single shot, manage to clip Doyle in the arm, his weapon clattering to the ground.
Grace runs forward and kicks it away, a foot against his shoulder, pinning him to the ground. He grunts in agony. “Come on!”
“You’re fucking shooting at us now?” Grace shouts, furious. “You serious?”
I quickly check the others, but they’re gone. I hate to think what the Captain’s going to make of this.
I move back to Grace and keep my gun on Doyle, looking back to the patrol car where a group of people are starting to gather, drawn by the commotion.
“Did you call it in?” says Grace, breathing hard.
“I did.”
She looks back irritated. “Where’s our god-damn backup then?”
It’s a good question.
Someone shouts something, another throwing a bottle in our direct
ion. It shatters beside Grace, but she keeps her foot on Doyle’s shoulder. From the look of the buildings and general decline in the area, this doesn’t seem like the kind of neighborhood that lays out the welcome mat for law enforcement.
“What are you doing, Doyle?” Grace continues, huffing. “Your friends are dead and you’re hella lucky my friend here’s a good shot, because I sure as hell would have put that round through your ugly fucking head.”
He starts to cry, breaking down there on the ground.
Grace looks at me in surprise. “What’s he doing?”
“Crying, it looks like.”
The mob is growing down the end of the street. “We can’t stay here,” I suggest.
Grace turns around, taking her foot off Doyle’s shoulder and crouching down beside him. “Do you know something, Doyle? Now is the time to fess up.”
“He’ll kill me,” he cries.
“Who?” Her voice is calmer now, an adult trying to calm a child.
Doyle shakes his head. “I can’t…”
He reaches to his pocket with his free hand and pulls a blade.
I fire once, right into his chest, and the blade falls.
Grace checks his pulse, punching him in his lifeless chest, her knuckles returning red. “Fuck!”
“I had to.”
She nods. “I know.”
“Fucking pigs!” comes the shout.
“We’ve got to go,” I warn.
The mob starts to approach, but Grace fires her weapon in the air before aiming it at them. “Get. The. Fuck. Back.” She spots the guy who owned the car in front of us. “You. Move your vehicle, now!” He puts his hands up and runs over to his car, starting it up and reversing.
Grace gets into the patrol car still holding her weapon out the window, the crowd growing almost by the second. “Back!” she shouts.
“’Gun it,” she commands.
I plant my foot, the crowd separating as we drive past.
I check the rear-view one last time, but we’re good—as good as you can be given the situation.
“Where to?” I ask, the adrenaline beginning to soak away and a cold realization forming in its wake. “We’re not going to wait for the backup? We just shot, what? Four guys?”
“Call it in, but let the local boys deal with it. We? We go to the Captain,” says Grace, still gripping her gun. “We go to him and sort this shit out once and for all.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
GRACE
We loop around and arrive at the Captain’s house a little after 10pm. His wife answers the door wearing a scowl and neon pink dressing gown. After promptly being informed “he’s still at the office,” we make once again for the precinct, the city starting to thrum and build under the cover of nightfall.
I’m shaking my head, my cell in her lap listing a string of unanswered calls. “I’m not imagining things, am I?”
“You’re not,” confirms Hunter. “He wasn’t at the precinct, at least not when we were there. You’re still sure this worth following up on?”
I stifle a yawn. “Honestly, I’m not so sure, but we’re halfway there, right? May as well take it all the way.”
We enter the precinct and Bobby spots us immediately, running out into the foyer. “Hey, what the hell’s going on? It’s raining bodies out there and word is you two forget to pack an umbrella.”
I stop and place a hand on Hunter’s chest, aware in my periphery of how incredibly hard and flat it is.
Later. Business first.
“We ran into some trouble, had to shoot our way out.”
Bobby stands there shaking his head, hands on his hips. “And you didn’t think to call it in? Ever heard of fucking backup?”
“We did call it in,” says Hunter.
“And no one fucking showed up.” I step up to Bobby. I’m probably half his height, but it didn’t stop me in grade school and it’s sure as hell not going to stop me now. “We were being chased down and shot at in one of the shittiest parts of the entire state. I didn’t exactly have time to keep phoning home or hang around.”
Bobby’s not buying it. “Bullshit.”
Hunter steps past me. “She’s right. We didn’t have a choice.”
Bobby rolls his eyes. “Oh, fuck off, MacGyver. You think I’ve forgotten about that shit at the bar? And now, bam, you’re here barely a day and already screwing things up.”
Hunter moves forward until they’re chest to chest. “You better watch your tone.”
As much as I’d like to grab a bowl of popcorn and settle in for a testosterone-fueled slug-fest between these two, we’ve got bigger problems.
I push between them. “Pack your dicks away, will you?”
Bobby’s got a real temper. He’s already under review for knocking a perp unconscious during interrogation. This can’t escalate. Not now.
I decide on distraction. “So, who showed up in the end.”
“Mendez,” Bobby replies, voice drum-tight.
“He’s there, on the scene?”
“With Hallifax.”
“Forensics?”
“On their way.”
“Good,” I nod, slowly pushing Hunter back and not oblivious to the fact it’s like trying to shift a slab of concrete.
Bobby’s simmering down, but he’s not done. “Care to enlighten us who these guys were?”
“That Doyle dip-shit and his entourage.”
Bobby exhales. “The Cap’s going to hit the fucking roof, you know.”
I exchange a brief glance with Hunter before bringing my attention back to Bobby. “Is he here? We need to talk to him, urgently.”
Bobby looks behind himself. “Haven’t seen him since this morning.”
I start to walk on.
Bobby throws his arms out. “Where are you two going?”
“To start typing this shitshow up,” I reply.
Bobby shoves Hunter as he walks past.
Fuck me.
If it was any more alpha in here I’d grow a dick myself.
I see Hunter tense, but he doesn’t take the bait.
“I’m watching you, asshole!” Bobby shouts.
I close to the door to my office and swing behind my computer, Hunter leaning against the wall. “You’re really going to write this up now?”
“Fuck no,” I laugh, punching away at the keyboard, searching for ‘The Baxter,’ the girls—any kind of connection I can find in the database.
Nothing.
The cursor blinks mockingly.
I try another search term. Damn system’s like trying to navigate a census form.
I pause and look up. “You okay? I mean, you have shot someone before, haven’t you?”
“I have.”
Good, I think to myself, because the last thing I need is a partner about to crumble—again.
But Hunter here? Something tells me he’s more dependable than I originally thought, and loyal—an important trait to have around here.
A lump rises in my throat as I consider the past. I manage to push it back down again to the deep pit of my stomach where it belongs.
It wasn’t your fault and don’t for a fucking second believe it was.
A green tag indicates a match. I open the file, reading aloud as Hunter comes behind me, the heat and weight of his body like the sun itself is standing there. I detect a hint of sandalwood, the briny bark of cedar. I press my legs together tightly to stave off the growing need there.
It’s just the adrenaline. It will simmer down, I tell myself.
Funny thing is, I don’t want it to. I want to explore it, to explore Hunter Beckett and his fine fucking body.
“Say hello to The Baxter’s local pimp, Maurice Miller,” I announce, nodding at the screen.
I scroll past his ugly mug to his rap sheet. “Get a load of the sewerage this guy’s been swimming in. If being a criminal was a profession, this guy’s practically Michael Corleone. Fuck,” I stammer, reading on. “No address, no known numbers or associates… Hasn
’t been seen for weeks.”
“Back to The Baxter then?”
I shake my head. “No, he’ll know we’ve been there asking questions. He’ll be back eventually, but it will have to wait. What I really need is a drink.”
“Bar?” suggests Hunter.
I’m conscious of my growing arousal. It’s late, it’s been a big day and my willpower is weakening by the second, but maybe that’s a good thing. “I was thinking my place, actually. In fact, I’m not asking, I’m telling. You in?”
“What about Doyle and the others?”
“They’re not going anywhere,” I laugh. “We talk to the Captain first thing in the morning, and then, if we’re still alive, then we write it up.”
*
There’s clear surprise on Hunter’s face when he enters my apartment. I can understand why. It would be sensory overload for most people, with bric-a-brac stacked to the roof, random furniture and knick-knacks, stuff my father collected from around the world. It’s a big contrast to my office, but they’re two completely different spaces. I like that separation, need it to survive and compartmentalize, but it’s my wall-to-wall vinyl collection that really has him interested.
He stands before it mesmerized. “That’s a lot of music.”
I’m not really sure why I’ve invited him here. It’s not my usual MO, but there’s a pull to Hunter Beckett I can’t seem to escape or deny. A magnetism so strong it’s overwhelming my better senses and going straight to that slippery spot between my thighs.
He’s proved himself fast, had my back out there with Doyle. I’ve seen cops freeze up when the first bullet flies, standing there like a statue completely paralyzed.
Not Hunter.
I pull my hair up into a bun, tying it off. I select a record and move to the player in the corner, a vintage Garrard 301, handing Hunter the sleeve.
He examines the woman on the front as smoky jazz fills the room. “Maki Asakawa?”
I join him, conscious of the way he smells—clean and soapy and somehow masculine at the same time, that woody scent lingering from earlier. “A rather cherished Japanese jazz artist.”
“You’re into jazz?”
“Don’t sound so surprised. This is New York City.”
He looks up, his oceanic gaze unhitching something inside me. “And all these records are yours?”
