by Kim Linwood
Payne
A Bad Boy Romance
Kim Linwood
Kim Linwood
Contents
Copyright
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About the Author
Copyright © 2016 by Kim Linwood
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
Payne: A Bad Boy Romance
May 29th, 2016
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Payne
A Bad Boy Romance
1
Payne
The last lines of Burn by The Cure peal out of the speakers as I slam the brakes. Skidding in the loose slush covering the street, I stop several feet past the parking space.
Fucking winter.
Fucking Chicago.
A few twists of the wheel, and my car backs smoothly up to the curb between a couple of salt and dirt covered lumps of metal masquerading as vehicles. It won’t take many days of driving in this mess before my baby looks just as bad.
It pains me, but blending in is more important than my paint job.
My eyes close as the last notes of the song trail off. Their melancholy intensity suits my mood and the weather perfectly. Every moment has its song, each note chaining to the next, playing the symphony of my life. A majorly fucked up symphony nobody else wants a ticket to, but still, there’s a raw sort of beauty to it and it’s mine.
Stepping out into a puddle of icy slop, I wince at the bitter wind coming off the lake and eye my Camaro sadly. Having nothing but on-street parking should be illegal, but the location is good and the job won’t last long. With the money coming in from this hit, I can buy ten more cars, but it doesn’t make treating this one like shit feel any better.
An older lady walks by on the sidewalk, giving me a suspicious look over the roof of my car. She shuffles as far away as she can without actually tripping into the snow piles along the sidewalk. I give her a smile and she speeds up, pretending not to notice.
I’ve gotten used to it, but would it kill people to be a little neighborly?
It’s not like I’m going to suddenly snap. That’s not my style. The only people who need to fear me won’t know until it’s too late.
The air reeks of dirt and exhaust. I look up at the building I’ll be calling home for the next month or so. It looms over me and my car, a brick and stone monstrosity just waiting for the right moment to crush us under its weight. I cinch my black coat tighter, already missing the comfort of my heated driver's seat.
Cheery thoughts on a cheery day.
After trudging through the slush to the passenger side, I kick lumps of nearly black snow out from behind the front tire before opening the door. It takes a rough tug to unseat my worn, army-green duffel bag from where it’s jammed into the footwell. Inside is everything I need to live comfortably pretty much anywhere, for any length of time. At least so long as there're some power sockets and a laundry facility.
I lie. There are two other vital pieces of who I am.
My sound system, and my sniper rifle.
One keeps me sane, the other keeps me grounded. Honestly, from day to day I’m not always sure which is which.
I flip the hinge hidden under the back seat and pull out a black leather case. It took me a while to acquire a gun that was the perfect match to the beauty I used back in active duty, but for the right price and with a couple of customizations, anything is possible.
We’re still getting to know each other, but she’s kept me fed, housed and driving kick-ass cars for a few years now. I see a long and profitable future together.
Which is more than I can say for any flesh and blood woman.
The Camaro's trunk is tiny, but what's there is filled with music gear. My receiver, a couple speakers, and a deceptively small bundle of drives packed with hundreds of thousands of tunes.
Bag slung over my shoulder, and case in hand, I eye the rest of the hardware. The sensible thing to do would be to make a second trip, but screw it. It’s cold, and I can feel icy tendrils of melting snow already soaking into my shoes.
I must look like a fucking idiot with everything stacked up in my arms like an expensive house of cards. Doesn’t matter. Who am I trying to impress? I just have to get this shit upstairs.
My right foot slips as I’m nearly to the door. With a twist, I manage to keep from falling on my ass, but the instability wobbles through my precious cargo. Up top, the tweeters slip, and I’m helpless to stop them without losing everything.
“Fuck!”
“I've got it!” An overly cheerful, feminine voice surprises me from behind. The wet crash of expensive hardware hitting the sidewalk never comes. “Phew! Got ‘em both. Must be your lucky day.”
I shift my hold to get a look at the angel who just saved my day.
A sweet, round face with a cute as fuck smile beams up at me like she’s just won the lottery. Wide brown eyes with specks of gold, and a sensible brown ponytail that brushes her shoulders completes the girl next door look. If she’s taller than five feet, I’m a shaved gorilla, but the Chicago Police Department uniform makes her seem bigger somehow.
Or at least more off-limits.
“Thanks.” I bend my knees so she can reach. “Just toss’em back on top.”
“Are you moving in? I live here too. I can help you carry t—”
“On. Top.”
Her face scrunches up at my annoyed tone. It just makes her cuter.
Do they let anyone be a cop these days? I can’t imagine this ball of fluff and curves out on the street fighting anything more sinister than jaywalkers.
Old jaywalkers.
I can imagine her doing all sorts of other things, though. If she wanted to play cops and robbers, for example, I could show her a few things to do with her handcuffs.
A hint of what I’m thinking must be peeking through, because her eyes go wide and her lips part slightly.
She schools her expression quickly, but it’s too late. I’ve seen the interest and she can’t take it back. Little Miss Lawful isn’t above taking a walk on the wild side.
“The speakers?”
Lips pressed together in annoyance, she carefully puts them back on top of the pile. “I was just trying to help.”
I know this is where I should apologize and say something nice, but there’s neighborly, and then there’s friendly. If this job called for making friends, I’d do it, but it doesn’t. Something tells me if I give her an in, she’ll be in my kitchen baking cookies by the weekend.
Unexpectedly, the idea doesn’t seem as unpleasant as it should. My eyes slip towards her chest. Breasts good, cop bad.
Focus, Payne. Focus.
I raise an eyebrow and tilt my head towards the door.
With a huff, she unlocks it and cocks a nicely rounded hip to keep it open. “Jackass,” she mutters as I walk by.
“What was that?”
She smiles sweetly. “Sorry, did I mumble? I called you a jackass.”
In spite of myself, I laugh. Definitely a little wild side hidden under there. I upg
rade her danger rating to include parking tickets and jaywalkers. Cute little bunny doesn’t have the sense to stay out of the wolf’s jaws, though.
I head for the stairs and she moves to the elevator, her perfect, heart-shaped ass turning a pair of ugly polyester pants into something way sexier than they were ever designed for.
Holy shit, my mind's on a single track today.
Spending a few more minutes teasing the mini cop is almost tempting enough to make it worth braving a ride in the death-box, but not quite. I’ll use elevators when I have to, but you’ll never see me volunteer for it.
Five minutes and four floors of careful climbing later, I'm in my temporary home, stowing my shit away. My mind should be on preparation, but I’m having a bitch of a time forgetting about the sweet little officer from downstairs.
We talked for all of a couple minutes, but I’m already wondering where she lives. Is there a Mr. Lawful in the picture? Or is she in there alone slipping into something more comfortable? If I hadn’t been such a prick, I could be finding out right now if her rack is as nice as it looked under the jacket.
Shit, no good will come of going down that road. It’s just been too long since I took some personal time, that’s all. When this job is done I can go screw my way across the country and scratch this itch.
I hit play, and Jet, Are You Gonna Be My Girl blasts out of my newly plugged-in speakers.
Fucking hell.
2
Nora
I shove a pillow over my face and scream.
Either sweet old Mrs. Weitzenhoffer is back early from Florida and a sudden fan of music that makes my ears bleed, or the new guy moved in right above me.
Isn’t it bad enough that the only hot guy in the building is a jerk? I can ignore him in the halls. I can’t ignore the hardcore metal screamo shit that’s coming through loud and clear from the vents.
It's freaking 1:00 AM. How am I supposed to sleep when he's shaking the building like he's out to demolish it? I swear to God the glass in my windows is rattling. Isn't someone going to go complain?
He probably won't even hear them at his door.
The apartment building has clear rules on this. No loud music after 9:00 PM. Either he didn't read the contract for his sublet, or he doesn't give a shit.
Alright.
Fine.
Obviously, this is up to me.
I try to get up, but my nice warm blankets pull me back down and I sigh in defeat. Big, wet flakes of snow plop against my window and glisten under the streetlights as they fall. Not exactly the kind of weather that encourages leaving my snuggly cocoon for anything other than the most dire of circumstances. The timer on my thermostat makes economic sense, but doesn’t make me want to put my feet on the floor.
He’s got to turn it off soon, right?
Wait, did it just get louder?
That’s it.
Gritting my teeth, I throw the covers aside. Immediately, a shiver runs down my spine, making my whole body break out in goosebumps. I do my best to ignore it.
Justice doesn’t keep regular business hours, and I’ve got a complaint to file.
Pulling my fluffy bathrobe off the hook behind the door, I wrap it tightly around my waist and cinch it hard. Not wanting to ruin my slippers on the nasty hall floor, I shove my feet into my clunky, black work boots.
I catch myself in the mirror on my way out and wince.
God, I look like hell. My usually wavy hair has that weird ponytail thing going on, half flat, half oddly swoopy, and 100% mess. It’s the middle of winter, and my complexion has long since lost the last traces of color from six months ago. If it wasn’t already clear that he’s not interested, this should seal the deal.
With any luck, I'll scare him quiet.
I give myself a pep talk as I stomp up the stairs to the fourth floor. I’m a mature adult, an officer of the law and a concerned resident. Jerkface McSexybutt has no right to disturb my sleep.
Even if I didn’t already know it was the apartment right over mine, it wouldn’t be hard to figure out where the noise is coming from. Every step towards his door jacks up the noise level. The pathetic peep of his doorbell seems unlikely to cut through the wall of sound, but I press it and wait. Plenty of chunky guitars, bass drum thuds like machine gun fire and something that’s either vocals or an angry bear, but no response.
I bang the door as hard as I can.
The longer I stand there, the angrier I get.
Mr. Rodriguez pokes his head out the door across the hall. “Oh, good. You’re here. I was just about to call.”
My lips clench into a thin imitation of a smile and I nod. Am I building security? Maintenance? Nope, but you can bet your booty that if there’s an officer in the neighborhood, they get treated like on-call unpleasant situation management.
Maybe the guy had a heart attack and fell onto his volume knob. He could be lying dead in there and not know that he's keeping the whole neighborhood awake. I hope not. I want to go back to bed, not fill out paperwork.
Or he might just be an asshole who doesn't give a fuck.
I alternately pound and kick his door, making it rattle on its hinges. It’s not going to knock it open, but it does make me feel a little better.
The first sign of intelligent life behind the door is the music getting turned down. Not off, mind you, but to a level that probably wouldn’t have sent me upstairs in the middle of the night.
The second is the door swinging open and a large, annoyed man filling the frame. Without anything between me and the speakers, it’s obvious he didn’t turn it down that much.
“What?” he growls at me.
I had this whole speech ready. It was really good. There was stuff about common decency, the late hour, his choice of music, his mother and what a disappointment he must be to her, all sorts of good, solid, guilt-ridden points.
But when I open my mouth, all that comes out is a little squeak as my eyes widen to take him in.
I knew he was built. Nobody fills out winter clothes like he did this afternoon without having something nice to hang them on, but our earlier run-in didn’t prepare me for this. Like, at all.
Shirtless. Did I mention he's shirtless? In fact, all he's wearing is a pair of faded green sweatpants slung low from his narrow hips. They bulge suggestively just south of where his happy trail disappears under the elastic waistband. I must've caught him mid-workout, since a glistening sheen of sweat covers a torso that’s all hard lines and smooth, corded muscle. Just looking at him makes my mouth water.
I try to focus. I am not thinking about licking that off him. Absolutely not.
He raises an eyebrow. “Did you forget your casserole? Or is this not a house warming visit?”
“Uh…” My eyes reluctantly make the journey back up his chest, pausing at the SEAL insignia tattooed over his heart. He wouldn’t be the first guy I’d seen get military tats just to impress people, but something tells me his isn’t fake.
He glares down at me like he’s the one who should be angry at being disturbed.
Okay, spell broken. Mostly.
I pull myself up to my full height—what there is of it—and glare right back. “I’m not sure you’re aware of the time, but it’s way past—”
“Quarter after one.”
My mouth hangs, still forming the last word as he cuts me off. What an ass. I refuse to let him stop me. “Way past the time where music has to be kept to polite levels. It’s a weekday, and many of the residents need to be up early tomorrow, um, today.”
He looks down at me with a pair of startlingly green eyes over a slightly crooked nose. His lips quirk into a lopsided grin. A day or two of stubble dusts his jaw. The whole look is annoyingly attractive. While he manages to pull off a kind of middle of the night messy sex appeal, I’m just a mess.
He’s older than me, but I doubt he’s much above thirty. Still, he looks… rough. Like he's seen some shit, and it’s left its scars, in slashes across his cut torso but also deep
er down. If the tattoo is any indication, I'd believe it. I’ve seen that look on some of the guys on the force who’ve been around too long. He’s too young for that though, and a soft, girly part of me wants to smooth it away.
The sensible part of me knows that if he really was a SEAL, he probably knows more ways to kill me than I know ice cream flavors. And I really like ice cream. I lick my lips and back up a step. “So… um… keep it down. Okay?”
“Is that it? Aren’t you going to try to coerce me into sex in exchange for not reporting my infraction?”
I don't even know what to say to that, so I plop out an eloquent, “Wh—what?”
He grins. “Why, officer, you didn’t think I missed the way you were looking at me, did you? Let’s not pretend it’s about the music, alright?”
“You… you!” I stutter, pointing a finger at his chest. “I was not looking at you!”
“Why, yes, Ma’am. You were.” His voice is smooth and deep, appreciative yet mocking at the same time. “But I never said I minded.”
Ignoring his obvious attempt to rile me up, I take a breath and put on my best the-customer-is-an-idiot smile. “If you don’t have a copy of the building rules, I’d be more than happy to get one for you.”
He shrugs and tucks a thumb into the waistband of his pants. “I never was much of a reader. I'm a man of action, if you know what I mean.”
Oh, I know what he means, and he can take that line somewhere else. “Excellent! So it shouldn’t be a problem to go turn your music down. That’s not even a very hard action. If you know what I mean.”
“If it isn’t hard, it isn’t worth doing, Officer.” His hand puts enough stress on the loose elastic that I get an even better view of the dusting of hair pointing—
