“What!?” My voice is a mixture of irritation and consternation. And at my question, most of the guys just chuckle or shake their heads and go back to whatever they were doing. Someone slaps my left shoulder and I whip around to see Lee Parson standing at my side.
“You feeling okay, son?” He has a mock concerned look on his face but his voice tells me he’s slightly amused.
“I’m fine,” I frown at him.
“Yeah,” he smiles at me. “Is she as fine as you are this morning?” He chuckles and walks away, leaving me standing by my desk completely dumbfounded. What the hell is he talking about? I sit and glance over at Conner, who’s smirking at me.
“What the heck is everybody’s problem today?” I ask cautiously.
He shrugs. “You can’t blame us for being confused, Guy,” he says. “It’s not really like you to come in here whistling.”
Whistling? “I don’t whistle,” I say gruffly.
“Oh? Well, what would you call it?” he smiles, looking at me as if I’m from Mars. Was I really whistling? Fuck. This girl is turning me into a pussy. “All right, so let’s have it,” he continues. “What did she look like, what bar did you pick her up at, and what sleazy place did you nail her in?”
I shake my head with a small fading grin. “I didn’t pick up a girl in a bar, Conner.”
“No? Where did you pick her up?” he asks turning his attention to the report on his desk. I say nothing and just shake my head again, ignoring him and turning to my own work. After a long couple of minutes, he looks up at me. “Guy?”
Still mute, I look up at him as if I’ve got no clue what he’s talking about.
“Clamming up on me?” he asks. “You usually give me all the gory details, so … let’s hear it.”
He’s looking at me very expectantly and for some reason I really don’t understand, I want to tell him what’s going on. Not the usual slightly embellished, anecdotes I feed him about my random, sexual exploits but, what’s really going on. With Samantha. I want to tell him how twisted up I feel and ask him if it’s normal. But at the same time, I don’t want him to know how far things have gone with her. Not that I think he would rat me out to the brass. I know that Conner wouldn’t do that. He and I have been partners for over four years, ever since I became a detective, and I know that he always has my back in any situation. But I don’t want him to worry about me possibly compromising this case. I don’t want to put him in that position. Plus, I know his response would be to try and fix me up with someone suitable. Someone who’s not involved in a case we’re working. And I can’t say that I blame him. He’d be right to try and steer me away from pending disaster.
But is that really what I think about this thing with Samantha? Pending disaster? Am I setting us both up for a potentially huge catastrophe here? I don’t know; maybe I am. Or maybe I’m just trying my best to talk myself out of wanting more. Maybe I’m scared shitless at the thought of wanting more. Of actually reaching out for it. Of even admitting to myself that I’m interested in more.
Conner is still looking at me with that expectant expression on his face and I take a deep breath and shake my head. I can do this.
“It’s not what you think, Dave,” I say quietly. “I didn’t pick up a girl last night.”
“No?” He looks puzzled.
“No.” I glance nervously around the bull pen and look back at him. “Last night wasn’t my usual random encounter.” Now I have his full undivided attention and he is looking at me with raised eyebrows. “I met someone,” I say uncertainly, giving him a small shrug. “I’m seeing her again tonight.”
“Are you shitting me?” His voice is surprised and his grin is gigantic. “Who is she? Where did you meet her?”
I shake my head and smile slightly. “I’ll keep those details to myself for a while, if you don’t mind,” I joke.
“You know what, I don’t even care,” he says with a smile. “I’m just glad that you’re finally taking a chance, man.” I shake my head at him with a smirk and say nothing. “So, tell me about her.”
I shrug. “There’s not much to tell at this point.” My voice is quiet and hesitant. I know that I have to be careful not to say too much. “I’m just getting to know her. But there’s something about her that …,”
“That what?” he asks after a small pause.
I shrug again, feeling foolish. “That makes me … question my lifestyle. Think about … the possibilities. The future.”
“Oh, my God,” he smiles. “I can’t believe I just heard those words come out of your mouth.”
I nod, looking him in the eye. “Neither can I.” My voice is low and uncertain.
“You really like this mystery girl.” He smiles, pointing his index finger at me.
I shake my head, as if I just can’t believe it. Because frankly, I can’t. “You could say she’s gotten under my skin,” I mumble with a sigh.
“This news has made my day. I want you to know that,” he says, with that same stupid grin on his face. “I’m gonna tell Lindy. And she’s gonna want to have you both over for dinner. Be warned!”
I roll my eyes at him, knowing that it’ll be a cold day in hell before I ever take Samantha to his place for dinner. Or, at least, not until after we’ve caught the son of a bitch who’s been terrorizing her and this case is over. “You know, Dave, you might want to hold off on the dinner invites for a while and let us decide if we even want to date. Just a thought,” I shrug and he laughs at me.
I roll my eyes at him again and get to work on the photo lineup for a home invasion case we’ve been working on. As I work, my mind drifts back over our conversation and Conner’s words: “You really like this mystery girl.” Yes, I do. Against my better judgment, I know that I really like this girl. I find myself wanting to spend time with her; wanting to get to know her. I want … to be with her. To make love to her and protect her. To take care of her and make her happy. I want more than just a one-night stand with her. God help me, I want … a relationship with her.
But I am terrified at the prospect. How do I do this? I don’t know the first thing about being in a relationship and I sure as hell don’t know anything about making a woman happy. Unless, of course, it’s in the bedroom. And Samantha Colby isn’t just any woman. She has more money in her multi-million dollar trust fund than I will ever make in my lifetime. How can I ever expect to make a woman with her means happy on my salary? And yeah, maybe she’s not the typical high-maintenance rich girl with demanding expectations, but she’s definitely used to living in a certain manner. A manner that I could never hope to keep her in. Nobody goes into police work for the money.
And money issues aside, there is still the small matter of Danny Pierce’s blood flowing through my veins. The nature vs. nurture debate is as old as time and still unresolved. Just how much of my quick temper and violent tendencies is due to my father’s DNA, and how much did growing up in that volatile atmosphere shape who I’ve become? Did my mother’s affection and her struggle to teach me good morals and respectfulness, despite the hell we were living in, pay off by softening the blow of all the fucked up shit I watched her go through in that house? Can I have a healthy, loving relationship with a woman and treat her like a human being or am I pre-programed to become an abuser? I don’t know. And not having the answer to that last question scares the shit out of me. It’s the reason I live my life the way I do. The way I did. Until Samantha Colby.
I am completely lost in thought, absentmindedly working away on the photo lineup, when I hear Conner say, “So where you taking her tonight, Guy?”
I look up, distracted. “What?” I ask with a puzzled frown.
“You said you’re seeing her again tonight,” he repeats eagerly. “Where you taking her?”
“Oh. I’m not taking her anywhere,” I reply hesitantly. “I’m going to her place for dinner.”
“She’s cooking you dinner?” There’s an air of astonishment to his voice and he’s looking at me with a really goo
fy grin. “Nice! That’s a good sign. You should take her something.”
My puzzled frown returns. “Take her something?” What the hell is he talking about?
“Yeah, you know. Flowers or something,” he responds as if I really should know this already. But I’m guessing my puzzled frown remains firmly in place because he continues slowly, as if I’m a foreigner who doesn’t speak any English. “When a woman invites you to her home for a meal, it’s a nice gesture to take her a small token of thanks. Like flowers. Women love flowers.”
I stare at him in silence for several seconds and I feel a scowl cross my face. Fuck. Flowers? Really? I roll my eyes and he chuckles at my obvious discomfort. “Women really like that shit?” I ask quietly, my voice laced with apprehension. I really know nothing about the protocols of dating.
“Women love that shit,” he answers. “Take her a nice bouquet of roses. Or better yet,” he says, finger in the air as if he’s just come up with some great idea, “take her a single rose.”
“A single rose?” I repeat questioningly.
“Yes.” His voice is definitive. “One perfect, long-stemmed rose. What’s her favorite color?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I frown at him. What’s he getting at? “Why?”
“Well, roses come in all sorts of colors, Guy. And the different colors mean different things,” he says. “What’s she like?”
“What’s she like?”
“Yeah. Tell me what her personality is like and I’ll tell you what color rose to get her.” He is looking at me so excitedly, like a kid at Christmas or something, and part of me wonders if he’s setting me up somehow. Should I be worried? “Tell me, what’s she like, man?” he urges.
I sigh at him. “She’s … sweet,” I say, feeling like a fool. “Innocent … smart. Sexy.” My voice is quiet and hesitant.
“Sweet and innocent. Smart and sexy,” he repeats. And I can see his mind working. “Okay. Get her a white rose. Or a pale pink one.”
“White or pale pink?” I say, looking at him like I think he’s full of shit. “Why?”
“Because a white rose means innocence and purity,” he explains. “A pink rose symbolizes femininity and elegance and romance.” He looks quite pleased with himself and I stare at him for a beat, waiting for the punchline. But he seems totally serious and I can’t help my next smart ass comment.
“So what color rose symbolizes hot sex?”
He thinks for a second and says, “I think it’s orange.”
“Now I know you’re bullshitting me,” I snicker.
“No, I’m serious,” he insists. “An orange rose symbolizes passion and desire. It’s not exactly ‘hot sex’ but, it gets the message across.”
“And how do you know all this shit, Conner?” I ask, my voice clearly skeptical.
“Uh, hello,” he answers sarcastically, and then it dawns on me. Oh, yeah. I nod in understanding as he says, “Lindy works in a florist shop. And she loves roses; she’s always going on and on about them.”
Okay. So maybe he’s not bullshitting me after all. “One long-stemmed rose?” I mutter.
“Yep.”
“White or pale pink?” I add.
“Yep,” he repeats. “Either one.”
I sigh. Am I really taking dating advice from Dave Conner? Well, it’s not as if you have a whole lot of experience of your own to draw from, Pierce. I nod slowly, resigned. “I’ll think about it,” I mumble.
“Don’t think about it, Guy. Do it!” His voice is stern and he gives me a look that tells me he thinks I’m hopeless. Maybe I am.
*****
As soon as my shift ends, I am out the door and sliding into my truck. I had to endure the rest of the afternoon with Conner either trying to extract information out of me about my mystery girl, or giving me unsolicited advice on women and dating. At ten minutes to five he demanded to know what I was going to wear on my date and I had to tell him to leave me alone or I was going to knock the shit out of him. He laughed and finally let it go. He drove me nuts all day long!
But I decided that I am going to test his rose knowledge though. I pull into the parking lot of the nearest florist and get out of my truck and go inside. The little bell on the door alerts the clerk to my arrival and she looks up from behind the counter with a smile.
“Hello.” Her voice is friendly and businesslike.
“Hi,” I respond distractedly, looking around in bewilderment. My cluelessness must be obvious because she comes out from behind the counter and walks toward me.
“What can I help you find?” she asks with a smile.
“I guess I’m looking for roses.”
“Roses are right over here,” she says, leading the way to the wall of glass coolers in the back corner. I stand staring at a rainbow of roses and I know that the look of bewilderment is back. Conner was right. Roses come in all sorts of bright, vibrant colors. “Did you have a particular color in mind?” the clerk asks me with a knowing smile.
“White or pink, I think,” I mumble.
“Oh, right over here.” She turns to the right and presents me with a second wall of glass coolers where I see roses in lighter hues. Another rainbow of colors, this one in pastels, and I am dismayed to find there are what seems to be a million different shades of both white and pink. I sigh in frustration.
I decide to go for total honesty. “Look, I have a date,” I say looking her in the eye. “A first date. And a buddy of mine told me that different colors of roses mean different things. Is that true?”
“Yes, that’s true,” she answers.
“Okay,” I mutter, glancing back at the glass coolers. “Well, he suggested a long-stemmed single rose in either white or pink. What do you recommend?” I think she can see the desperation in my eyes and she smiles and takes pity on me.
“Well, I’m guessing that your friend suggested white or pink because you want to convey a sense of innocence and romance, am I right?” she asks. I shrug and mutely nod my agreement. “And you said this is a first date,” she continues, “so you also want to convey hope for the future, right? I mean, you want it to lead to a second date.”
Hope for the future? A single rose can say all that? “Yeah, I suppose so,” I mutter, answering her question.
“I have just the rose for you,” she says with a smile. She turns and opens one of the doors on the glass cooler and pulls out one perfect bloom. The bud is just beginning to open and it’s a white rose with a pale pink center and the outer petals have the slightest hint of green to them. It instantly makes me think of Samantha’s eyes. “This is the Esperance rose,” she says. “That’s the French word for hope.”
She hands it to me and I am mesmerized for a second as I study it, taking in the colors. I’ve never seen another rose like it. Granted, I don’t know much about flowers – never even gave them a second thought really. But, this one is unusual and captivating. Sort of like Samantha herself. “I’ll take it,” I say with a smile. A few moments later I have paid for the rose and thanked the clerk for her assistance, and I stroll out of the shop and to my truck … whistling.
Chapter Eleven
Samantha
I sit in the waiting area of the Vous Salon and Day Spa, absentmindedly watching the activity around me and still humming to myself as I wait for Megan. Since the museum is closed on Mondays, she and I have a standing weekly appointment here and we almost never miss it. Most of the time we simply get our nails and feet done – or have a ‘mani-pedi,’ as Meg likes to say. And once a month we get facials as well. But every so often, we’ll splurge and have a full body massage or even a seaweed wrap. Just depends on our mood and our time constraints. We used to go to the same salon that our mothers frequent, but somewhere during our teenage years we decided that it would be much cooler to find our own hang out. We’ve been meeting here once a week since we were juniors in high school.
As I wait, I can’t help but think about last night and the feeling of being with Joshua Pierce. He is so �
� oh! I don’t even have the words! I always knew that sex would be wonderful but, I had no idea that it could be so … amazing. Is it always like that for everyone or is Josh just the most incredible lover in the world? Like you could answer that question. My subconscious snickers at me and she’s right. I have absolutely nothing to compare last night – and this morning – to. Maybe I’m just being silly and naïve and Josh is just an average, mediocre lover. I roll my eyes and giggle to myself. There is nothing average or mediocre about that man! Am I blushing?
“Sorry I’m late,” Meg says as she comes rushing in and sits down next to me in one of the plush, beige leather chairs in the waiting area. One of the waiting area attendants approaches and asks if we’d like a drink while we wait. We both order a white wine spritzer. Once the attendant leaves, Meg immediately launches into a diatribe about how her wedding planner and her mother are ganging up on her in an attempt to steer Meg away from the all seafood menu she wants for the reception. I roll my eyes and smile, shaking my head slightly. Meg’s love of seafood is legendary and sometimes over the top. She could eat it every single day with no problem. As the attendant brings us our drinks, I try to be the voice of reason.
“Megan,” I begin diplomatically, “you know, some people might be allergic to shellfish. And some people simply don’t care for lobster. You really should have at least one other selection.”
She looks at me incredulously. “How can anyone not like lobster?”
“Meg,” I sigh with a roll of my eyes.
“You sound just like Mom,” she huffs.
“Well, I happen to agree with Aunt Jenny on this one. Sorry,” I frown at her.
“Fine,” she caves with a pout. “I guess it’ll be surf and turf then.” She makes a face to indicate her displeasure with the idea.
Pierced: Pierced Trilogy Boxed Set Page 15
