Dirty Blue

by N. E. Henderson

  Does he want me to take it? Why?

  This small yet gentlemanly gesture throws me off my game a bit. Not only does this man know I’m a cop, but I’m the cop that’s looking for anything and everything to slap a pair of handcuffs on him and haul him down to the police station. This man is offering me his hand to take.

  “Are you planning on getting out or are you going to stare at me a bit longer?”

  I shake my head. Turning, I slip my leg outside the car. I haven’t taken the offered hand and I don’t plan on it. But he hasn’t withdrawn it either.

  “I’m very capable of climbing out myself.”

  “Well, pardon me for trying to be a gentleman.” He grins, but his eyes glare. “You gonna take my hand? Today?”

  I glare right back but reach out, placing my hand into his warm one. Heat radiates up, but I ignore the sensation and focus on not falling as he yanks me up out of the car.

  “Ugh.” I can’t help the whine that slips from my lips as my thighs clench together. “What the hell size cock do you have?” He raises an eyebrow. “Never mind.”

  He releases my hand but doesn’t step back.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” His question partially comes out as a confused laugh.

  “It’s nothing.” Again, I shake my head. “I’m just a little sore. Just because I can’t remember partaking in extracurricular activities with you last night, I can definitely feel it.”

  His face drops like it did forty-five minutes ago when we had this same conversation.

  “I’m fine,” I tell him. “Just like I told you back at your house.” I pause, letting out a breath. “Now can you move so I can go up to my condo, please?”

  “No.” He sounds frazzled. Who knew he could get frazzled like this. He really doesn’t look the type. “If you’re hurt then you are obviously not fine.”

  Was that a mock? It sounded like a mock.

  “I didn’t say I was hurt. Sore, Drago, just sore. It’s not the same thing.”

  He breaks into a big smile, his frown vanishing as if it were never there. That damn smile is something I shouldn’t like, but for whatever reason I do.

  “So, my junk is big, huh?”

  “Fuck if I know,” I blurt. “I don’t remember it. But when I can feel the aftermath the next day, I’m guessing you’re not packing normal sized sausage.” Definitely wish I had remembered it.

  “I wouldn’t know. I don’t make it a habit of looking at other men’s dick sizes.”

  At this, I raise my own eyebrow. “Like you’ve never compared it. Yeah, right.” I push him back a step so I can leave. “See ya, Acerbi.” I chuckle without looking back, but God do I want to. I can feel his eyes on me.

  * * *

  It’s not even thirty-seconds after I shut the door, leaving Drago standing in the hallway of my complex, alone, that there’s a light knock on the door.

  Probably Stephanie. Hopefully Stephanie. Because if it’s Acerbi, I’m going to forget I’m a police officer and choke him to death. Insisting on walking me up like I’m not capable of doing it myself.

  Seriously, what the hell was I thinking? Sleeping with him . . . Really, Brianna?

  I’m greeted with Steph’s cheery smile when I swing the door open.

  I really hope she didn’t see Drago leaving. Rat bastard and his “I’m a gentleman” having to escort me to my door.

  As if men like that still exist.

  “Mornin’,” she offers.

  “Hey.” I step back, allowing her to enter. “I’ll take him from you.” Reaching out, I take Gabe’s car seat from her. “Thank you so much for keeping him. I don’t know how I’m ever going to repay you for that.”

  “It wasn’t a problem at all. Good baby, remember.” She laughs. “He was a joy. And I don’t mind keeping him anytime for you.”

  She’s beaming, and it makes me wonder if she wishes she had more than her one.

  “Well, I do appreciate it.”

  “You still haven’t heard back from the unit you’re supposed to hand him over to?”

  Hmmm. I should probably make another call. Or send an email since calls clearly aren’t working.

  “Nah. I’ll have to see what I can do this coming week to get him secured with someone else. It’s been a week and he really needs someone that knows what they’re doing.” Which isn’t me, my mind reminds me. “And maybe someone who makes more money than me,” I add.

  “Seems like you’re doing a good job. Can’t he stay with you instead of a stranger?”

  “Ha,” I break out. “I think I classify as a stranger too.”

  “I don’t know,” she tells me as I unbuckle Gabe from the carrier. “Seems to have taken to you just fine.” I pull him out then stand with the sleeping little fellow.

  “Are you saying I’m not sucking this fostering thing up?” I half laugh.

  “Guess so.” Her eyes cut to the side as if she’s in thought for a brief second before they cut over to Gabe, her expression somewhat somber. “I didn’t think I could afford Carson when I had him either, but we’ve managed just fine. Even without his dad.” She smiles and then lets out a small sigh, squeezing her son’s hand. “Before I drove over, this one was begging me to take him to see a movie so . . .” she trails off, looking down at her son in that resigned, I have to go now. I have to do kid stuff, look. But I can tell she loves every minute of it

  “Well good luck with that then.” I laugh. “See ya, Monday.”

  “Yeah, see ya,” she mumbles as they head out the door, closing it behind her.

  I turn but then stop dead in my tracks when I’m hit in the face with the most God-awful smell I’ve ever experienced.

  I glance down.

  Ewww. Yeah, I had forgotten just how bad a dirty diaper could get.

  “How do you smell that nasty, little one?”

  Glancing down at my chest, I think, I don’t know if I’m cut out for this. Surely there is someone with much more experience than me.

  I head toward the back to clean him up.

  “Once we get you some clean clothes on, I think we’re going to go spend some of Uncle Jackson’s hard-earned money.”

  My brother is going to learn if he’s going to deposit money I didn’t ask for, then I’m going to blow it on whatever the hell I want.

  And even though I still want that lingerie I keep eyeing, I suddenly want to spend it all on this little guy.

  8

  Pulling out my cell phone as I make my way toward my desk, I pull up the contact number the chief supplied me with one week ago today. If it weren’t for the fact that all law enforcement cellular devices issued by the state department start with the same prefix, I’d think Chief made a mistake and gave me the wrong number. But it’s definitely police issued. It still could be the wrong number and an explanation why I’m not getting an answer or a call back.

  There’s a small ache in the center of my chest as I stare at the ten-digit number. I don’t want to admit it to myself, but I am growing too comfortable with Gabriel in my life.

  What’s not to like after all? Steph is right, he’s a good baby. And now that I’ve figured out the right formula to feed him, he’s had a lot fewer spit-ups. He’s more content and doesn’t cry as often. Hell, other than the middle of the night feedings and diaper changes, I can’t recall any little frets or cries in days.

  Irritation and disgust settle in my stomach. I swear to God his mother needs to be strangled for abandoning him. Who the fuck does that? In all of my father’s faults—and there are a lot—he never left me or my brother. He worked a lot, still works a lot, and even though he wasn’t around for most of the important things, I never felt abandoned. Unloved? Sure, but never alone. Of course, I had Jackson.

  I finally sigh, resolved. I don’t want to call this number. A part of me hopes I don’t get an answer. Gabe has already been abandoned by one person, I don’t want to give him over to just anyone.

  “Hey, Andrews.”

  I pau
se before pressing the call button, dropping my hand with my phone in it to my side. When I look up, Ronnie pushes back from his desk and stands. A smile graces his lips as he snatches something up and heads toward me.

  “Whatcha got?” I ask.

  Ronnie is a veteran detective that has been on the force nearly as long as Mike. And like Mike, age and the stress of the job is starting to mar his face. Where Mike is only just now starting to gray at his temples, Ronnie’s former head of golden-brown hair is nearly covered in salt.

  He smiles, flashing his white teeth. For an older man, he isn’t bad looking. He’s still in shape. He came in second at the 10k run last month. I’d say that’s pretty good for a man in his forties. I came in tenth after all, but I don’t run daily like he does.

  “Candy!” he beams. “Jess’s yearly school fundraiser.”

  “Ah. I should’ve guessed,” I laugh.

  He and his wife started their family late and Jessica is the only child they have. I know they both wanted another one, but after years of trying they finally gave up, and so they pour every moment of their free time into their daughter. Ronnie is a good dad. He spoils his kid too much, but then who am I to judge? Jessica is lucky to have warm, loving parents that want to give her the world.

  “I can count on you to buy one, right?” He turns a set of brown puppy dog eyes on me for good measure. If I didn’t know him like I do, if I hadn’t been in countless rooms when he’s interrogated criminals and pulled out confession after confession with sheer intimidation, I’d never think he was the same man selling his daughter’s chocolate-covered almonds.

  “I’ll pay you for two, just let me grab my wallet from my desk.” Side-stepping him, I set my smartphone on top of my desk then retrieve five bucks from my purse that’s tucked into the bottom drawer of my desk.

  “Here,” I say outstretching my hand. “But you keep the chocolate. I don’t need it.”

  “I don’t eat that fucking junk.” He laughs.

  “No, you just peddle it on the rest of us.”

  “Well, yeah.” He grins then turns serious. “Thanks, Bri.” Ronnie tips his chin.

  “Anytime.”

  When I plop down into my chair, I sign in on my computer and come face-to-face with the same photograph I was staring at earlier today; the one I had Miss Carlisle email to me last week. I’ve looked at this shot more times than it would be considered necessary. Not that any of my colleagues would know. I have a corner desk, so someone would have to be behind me or next to me looking over my shoulder to know what was on the screen of my computer.

  There’s something about Drago that I haven’t quite put my finger on. And I’m not sure if it’s a good something or a bad something.

  My eyes slide over to Brandon. He most definitely rubs me the wrong way. It’s not because of all the things I know he’s done or had a hand in at Sebastian Diaz’s command. It’s his eyes. They’re flat and the darkest of dark, like tar. And like Diaz, Brandon looks the part of someone capable of evil.

  Maybe that’s my problem with Drago; he doesn’t. Before I can ponder that thought, my cell phone chimes with an incoming text message. Looking down, I let out an annoyed groan. Fucking Houston. Great.

  Lance: What do you have on Acerbi?

  Me: It’s only been a little over a week and I’ve had other cases to wrap up. I’ll let you know when I get something substantial.

  Lance: Fuck that! Get on it. Have Connie finish whatever it is you’re slacking on. Acerbi is priority 1, 2, and 3.

  Me: Piss off.

  Tell me to fucking get on it. I haven’t seen him do shit and we’re supposed to be working the case together.

  Honestly, though, I shouldn’t complain too much. After all he’s the last person I want to partner up with. I’m happy to get all the intel myself and write up the report to the chief.

  My eyes land back on Acerbi.

  You like it like that. His voice punches hard into my ear, hot and like he’s trying too hard to sound mean. You like me dirtying you up.

  A flash freezes me, making my eyes lose focus on the screen in front of me.

  There’s water, a shower maybe, and the unmistakable feeling of being connected to someone else.

  Jesus. Heat creeps up my neck while a tickle inside my ear makes me shiver from head to toe. And just like that, it’s gone. Lost, making me question if it was even real.

  When I woke up four days ago in his bed, my hair was damp so . . .

  Another text message comes in and I blow out a huff of air.

  I look down just as my phone sounds off again.

  Dad: The Champagne Ball is tomorrow night. Go with me.

  Dad: Please, Brianna.

  I stare at his request, unsure if I should reply.

  The Champagne Ball is an annual fundraiser the mayor puts on to raise money to fund his efforts to get drugs off the streets of Los Angeles. The rich come out, bid on outrageously priced junk, and well, the streets are still as drug-ridden as they were the night before. So, I’m not sure what good any of it really does.

  Why my father is asking me to go with him is a better question?

  It’s not as though I hate the man. I don’t. There will always be something inside of me that loves him because he is my father. He may be a shitty person and an even shittier dad, but that’s just it, he’s still and will always be my dad; the only one I have. Doesn’t mean I have to like him. Doesn’t mean I have to hang out with him.

  So why does he want me to accompany him? Who the hell knows? And I won’t know unless I go.

  I could wonder this all day and I’d still come up with the same answer each time, and I’m just too curious. Deep down I know I’ll probably regret doing it and even knowing that is likely, I still concede and text him back.

  Me: Sure.

  Me: I need a dress though.

  If anything, I’ll get a nice dress out of the deal.

  * * *

  When I was a little girl, I loved playing dress up, pretending to be a princess. It was a tireless game I did almost every day from the moment I got home from school until I was tucked into bed at night. I’d put on big dresses, adorn my arms with play-jewelry and daydream about being captured by the big, bad beast that was secretly a prince.

  Standing in front of the mirror now though, I haven’t a clue what I saw so appealing about fancy dresses, and I certainly don’t need a prince—or a beast to save me. Back then fairy tales were my way of escaping the endless hours of yelling that often came from my father’s mouth that was always directed toward my mother.

  All my pretending came to an end the day my mom died, and although it’s not his fault, technically, I’ve blamed my father for her death ever since. And I’m not sure I’ll ever get over it or stop feeling that way.

  Removing the cap from my lipstick, I lean forward closer to the mirror, reapplying a layer of crimson. Finishing, I pull back, smacking my lips and recapping the tube before shoving it into my small clutch purse.

  I stare at my reflection a beat longer, taking in the chiffon evening gown I nabbed on my extended lunch break. From my waist up, the dress is fitted with an overlay of rhinestones that wraps around my torso with the zipper ending at the middle of my back and the top of the dress clasps together at the nape of my neck in a halter-top style, leaving my slender but defined shoulders and back naked. The navy chiffon bottom flows free and easy to the floor covering my navy Jimmy Choo sandals.

  I smile when my blue eyes pause on my chest highlighted by the style of the dress. Amusement tickles me at my father’s unmasked expression when he picked me up from my condo earlier tonight. He wasn’t exactly thrilled at how much cleavage is on display. I didn’t plan it, not really, when I selected the dress and accessories.

  I have to admit though, my boobs sure do look nice. A laugh bubbles out of me because of course, my breasts should look fabulous in the five-hundred-dollar designer PENELOPE Lingerie bra I’m wearing underneath.

  My dad was already
buying me a dress and shoes, adding lingerie wasn’t going to make a difference. And I’ve dreamed of owning a matching PENELOPE Lingerie set for a while now. I’d never be able to splurge on it for myself; Penelope Burke’s shit costs a fortune.

  I sigh, taking a step away from the mirror. I’ve lingered in the ladies’ room long enough, so I make my way back out to find my father talking with the mayor of Los Angeles, Samuel García.

  Walking up behind my father, I slide my hand between his body and arm, wrapping my palm loosely around his arm.

  “Sam, this is my daughter, Brianna.” My father takes a sip from the champagne flute in his hand, draining the remains.

  “Samuel García.” The mayor nods down at me as he extends his free hand.

  Meeting him halfway, I take his offered hand in a quick clasp. “Yes, sir,” I confirm knowing who is. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Brianna is in the detective bureau.”

  “Really?” Mayor García’s voice is full of surprise, but that’s not what I find so shocking. It’s the, dare I say, pride in my father’s voice when he tells the mayor I’m a cop. My dad has never shied away from telling me he doesn’t approve of my career choice. He’s offered me multiple high paying jobs within his own company that I’ve turned down. He has tried to get my brother and even my sister-in-law to hire me, which Jackson has offered. Alana knows better.

  “Yes,” I confirm, squeezing my father’s arm, silently asking him what the fuck.

  “Which division?” Mayor García asks, giving me his full attention.

  “GND,” I respond, using acronyms all LEO’s use, knowing he’ll know what I’m talking about.

  “Ah,” he nods, “our Gangs and Narcotics enforcement.”

  “Sam,” my father cuts into the conversation. “It was good seeing you tonight. I’m going to go park this tired, old body of mine in a chair.” His head turns my way where he peers down. “Come, daughter.”

  I raise my eyebrow at his order, releasing my hold on his arm.

  “Please, Brianna,” he forces the nicety out that I know is hard for him to do. “I’ve been standing all damn day. I’d like to enjoy the rest of the night from the comfort of a cushioned seat.”