Payne: A Bad Boy Romance: (With bonus book Mine)

by Kim Linwood

Gah! Focus.

  Snapping my gaze back up to his face, I rally. “Turn your music down. I have to be at work in the morning, and that's not going to happen if your music is rattling my apartment. I'll call the police if I have to.”

  “I thought you were the police.” His green eyes sparkle. “Or wait… C’mon, make my day and admit you’re really a strip-o-gram girl.”

  “Not a chance, buddy.” I point a finger at him, so flustered it vibrates. “One last chance, or I swear, I'll be back with a freaking SWAT team.”

  He laughs while holding his hands in the air like I've got a gun pointed at him. “Fine. No fucking sense of humor.” He backs up and picks up a small remote from the counter.

  While he’s away from the door, I get a flash of Mrs. Weitzenhoffer’s apartment, lace doilies, figurines and all. It suits her, but he looks ridiculous in it.

  “Are you staying here long?”

  He makes a show of pressing the volume button on the remote. The grinding music—and I use the term loosely—quiets from a roar to more normal levels, and finally down to a whisper. He looks at me, the intensity in his green eyes drilling into me. “A while. I hope you’re happy. It's a crime playing this so low.”

  “Well, if it is, I’ll turn myself in tomorrow morning, because if that… music wakes me up again, I'm bringing in the big guns.” Narrowing my eyes at him, I do my best to look intimidating. To be honest, it feels a little ridiculous with the way I have to crane my neck to keep eye contact, but it's a fair try. I think.

  For several long moments, he meets my gaze, unfazed and with an amused smiled playing over his lips. Then he lets his eyes drop to my chest meaningfully. “Looks like you already did.” Then, before I can say anything else, he shuts the door in my face.

  He… I… I glare at the door, hoping he’s looking out the peephole and seeing the fury in my eyes. I almost wish he’d turn the music back up so I could yell at him again, but he doesn’t.

  Shit, work is only a few hours away.

  The clomp of my boots echoes in the stairwell as I make my way back to my apartment. There’s something off about the new guy upstairs, but aside from the obvious attitude and questionable taste in music, I’m not sure what.

  I’m keeping my eye on him, and my hands off. Unless I have to cuff him or something, obviously. But I won’t enjoy it.

  Much.

  3

  Nora

  “You look like hell, Keaton.” Captain Palmieri looks at me like he’s not sure why there’s a stray dog in the office, but it should really be put back outside.

  Good morning, Nora. Did you sleep well? You look like you could use a break.

  Why thank you, sir! I would indeed love a nice long nap.

  Physically I smile, mentally I’m blasting him with a double barreled one finger salute. Wait, that makes two fingers. Whatever. I’m tired.

  I have no fucks to give today. I’m running—just barely—on a cup of nasty station coffee that’s probably been warming since sometime last night, and a cup of yogurt I grabbed out of the fridge on my way out. Together, they’re dancing a rather unfortunate jig in my gut.

  “Good morning to you too, sir. Is there something up, or are you just here to tell me how bad I look?”

  The captain twitches his mustache, a nervous tic I've learned to recognize as irritation, even after only a few of months of his delightful company. Ninety-eight days to be exact, and every single one of them has been spent driving a desk. I know it takes time, but I was kind of hoping I'd be out hitting the streets by now. Ticketing jaywalkers, taking statements, something.

  He grunts, and fingers the papers he’s holding. “I've got work for you. In the field, no less, but if you're not interested in talking with me, I'm sure I can find someone else.” His accent is classic Italian-American, straight out of one of the last bastions of the authentic Little Italy. His hair's receding and he's carrying an extra fifteen-to-twenty around the middle, but he’s still a powerful man and runs his department with an iron fist.

  “In the field? Like real work?” Showing excitement is like asking to get shot down, but I can’t help it.

  He crosses his arms over his chest. “Are you saying I'm not giving you real work, officer?” His voice is calm, but the implied threat has me straightening immediately.

  “No, sir!” No way do I want to mess up my first chance at a real assignment.

  “Good.” He throws a folder on my desk. “You’re on babysitting duty, but it’s an alderman, so don’t fuck it up.”

  I pick it up and glance at the cover. Alderman James Trabucco. Some days I wonder if life would be easier around here if I was Italian. It feels like everyone else is. I already know his basic details, after all the hoopla on the news about him angling to be the next mayor of Chicago, but I flip through the folder anyway.

  There's a picture of a man in his late fifties, graying hair slicked back. His eagle-sharp eyes look up at me over a Roman nose like he's already judging me from his folio. He’s known to be a bit of a blowhard, but I’ve never met him personally.

  Captain Palmieri waits while I examine the dossier. Not much there.

  I look back up. “Alright. Why? Is he in danger? Does he have a stalker? Threats?”

  “He's an important person, and elections are coming up.” His eyebrows furrow. “He requested an escort, and you’ve got nothing better to do.”

  Nice of him to rub it in.

  “So you’re upgrading me from filling out paperwork to guarding an alderman?” Does that seem suspicious to anyone else?

  “Guard is overstating it, Keaton. Your job is to stand around and be visible.”

  Right. I skim through some of the included documents. “And this has nothing to do with him catching heat for wanting to crack down on organized crime?”

  Palmieri looks like he wants to spit out whatever’s left a rancid taste in his mouth. Maybe it was the break room coffee. “Look, your choices are to take the gig and get out of my hair, or refuse and you’re still out of my hair, but nobody will want to work with you because you’re a difficult bitch.”

  I flinch slightly at his crude—but not inaccurate—assessment. I knew I’d be working in a boy’s club from the day I set my sights on following in my father’s footsteps, but nothing really prepares you for having it thrown in your face.

  “Fine. Will I have a partner?”

  “If I had someone more qualified that I could spare, I’d be talking to them. You’ll be fine. Just stay close and look tough.”

  I can't tell if he's serious. I mean, has he looked at me? I work my ass off at the gym to make sure I pack as much power into my five feet as possible, but looking tough has never exactly been my thing.

  Captain Palmieri smirks. “You got a problem with that, rookie? Are you saying you can’t hack it?”

  “No,” I bite out.

  “Good. You’re expected at his office at eight sharp tomorrow morning. Try to… I don’t know…”—he wiggles his fingers in my direction—“look better.” And with that, he turns and heads towards his office.

  “Yes, sir,” I say sarcastically to his back. “I’ll get right on that looking better thing.”

  Leaning back, I close my eyes for a moment. I just need to rest them a little while I decide what to do. At least that's my plan.

  I'm woken suddenly and brutally, my head snapping up and my arms flailing. It takes me a foggy second to realize I’m at work and not tucked into bed. That horrible ringing noise is my phone, not my alarm.

  The vague memory of a broad, shirtless man fades before I can remember what he looked like. All I know is it was a dream I’d be more than happy to fall back into.

  I snatch my phone off the desk and swipe to answer. It’s Dad. “Hey.”

  “Hey, Pumpkin. It's your father.” No matter how many times I tell him I can see who’s calling, he always says that.

  “Hi Dad. What's up?”

  “Am I interrupting? I imagine you're busy over at the station.
I know in my day, we hardly had a moment to sit still.” Back in his day? He’s barely past fifty. Not being able to work after the shooting has aged him well beyond his years.

  I let my gaze sweep over the nearly empty office. Unless you count Sergeant Collins launching paper airplanes over in the corner, there isn't much to interrupt. “No, it's good.”

  “Great. Your mother and I just wanted to know if you’d come over tonight. She's making pot roast, and it'll be way too much for the two of us to finish.” He hesitates. “We could catch up, and I’d love to hear how work's going.”

  That sounds good, but what he really means is that he’d love to tell me how I’d be better off putting my education to work somewhere else. I know he wants to be proud of my choice, but he’s never gotten past his fear after the shooting that ended his own career.

  It’s more than just the worry of a father for his little girl. It’s the fear of an ex-officer who took a bullet to the spine and has spent the last six years in a wheelchair while the investigation into how he ended up with a shot in his back has gone nowhere.

  I slide my finger along the edge of the folder Palmieri gave me. “Sorry, but I’m going to have to take a rain check. I just got a new assignment from the captain, and it starts tomorrow. I've got all sorts of stuff to sort out tonight before it starts.” The half-truth makes me feel guilty, but I can’t deal with my parents tonight.

  “In the field?” His voice is guarded.

  “Yeah.” I know he won’t like it, so I try to downplay how much it means to me. “It’s not a big deal. I’m going to be babysitting Alderman Trabucco.”

  Dad’s voice catches. “Trabucco?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  He sighs. “He’s trouble, Pumpkin. I don’t want you doing this.”

  Everyone’s trouble, if you ask my dad. At least if it they’re remotely related to police work. “Dad, it’s my job.”

  He sighs deeply, then remains silent for several long seconds. “Nora—”

  “Please don't start.” I close my eyes and lean back again, this time not even close to sleeping.

  “That's dangerous work.”

  “The captain doesn't expect any trouble. It’s just going to be a lot of standing around and being visible.”

  “But a bodyguard? For your first real assignment?”

  I have the same doubts, but I can’t let them rob me of this chance. “I can do this, Dad. I swear, I can. This is what I signed up for. Protect and serve.”

  “All right.” The words come slowly, reluctantly. “But you'd better be careful. Really careful.” He’s not happy, but he knows me well enough to recognize when I won’t budge.

  “I know. And I will.” I’ll take grudging acceptance over condemnation.

  “Your mother is going to be disappointed you can’t make it.”

  “But not you?” I tease.

  “You know me. I’ve never met a pot roast I didn’t like.”

  “I'll come visit soon. I promise.” It’s been too long, and it’s not like they don’t just live across town.

  “I'm proud of you. You know that, right?”

  I smile despite myself. “I know, Dad. I'll be careful. Love you.”

  “Love you too, Officer Keaton.”

  4

  Payne

  The well-oiled precision locks on my suitcase open with satisfying clicks. Lifting the lid slowly, I check the contents while Edward Grieg's Peer Gynt symphony plays on my stereo, not so loud as to shake the walls and irritate the pocket policewoman, but loud enough to preserve its majesty.

  A place for everything, and everything in its place. The foam interior cradles every piece perfectly. I run my hand lightly over the body of my sniper rifle, my gloves leaving no telltale smudges on the glossy surface.

  Son, what am I going to do with you?

  Petty Officer Harper’s words echo through my mind as I go over each part of my weapon like my life depends on it. Because it does, and not just mine.

  You think good aim and a few muscles will let you skate through forever? There are a hundred guys waiting to take your place. Unless you can show me you give a fuck about more than being a pain in my ass, you can kiss any chance of being a SEAL goodbye.

  A grin flashes across my face. Maybe it would have been better for everyone if I had dropped out. Leaving after my six years were up wasn’t an easy decision, but I knew if I didn’t, I’d never get out. Even now, I know there are parts of me I’ll never get back. Parts that should bother me more than they do.

  They’d bother her.

  Nora Keaton. It wasn’t hard to figure out who she is. Her name’s on her mailbox, and Google knows everything. Usually the soft hiss of the cleaning brush passing through the barrel is enough to help me focus, but not today. Her cute face, scrunched up in anger under a halo of messy brown hair, keeps intruding. Did she even know how fucking sexy she was, standing there looking like she’d just rolled out of bed?

  I grin at the memory. She laid down the law in a way not even P.O. Harper could’ve. Her big doe eyes furrowed in a nuclear strike of a chew-out. And me, struggling to keep my eyes off the luscious fucking curves fighting to burst out of her robe. I could’ve dragged her in right there, but the last thing I need is to be noticed.

  Hell, she's a neighbor and a goddamn cop. A perfect storm of shit I should stay away from if I know what’s good for me. Nora’s trouble, something I’ve never been much good at staying out of, but I’ve got a fucking job to do.

  I muse on this while I polish. Would it really be so bad to indulge a little? I haven't gotten laid in forever. Random hookups lost their luster a long time ago, and my job isn't exactly conducive to dating.

  What do you do for a living?

  Oh, you know, the usual. Shoot people in the face.

  My hands move in practiced motions, not stopping until I'm done and the rifle rests heavily in my grip, fully assembled and ready to go. For a moment I heft it, feeling the familiar weight and perfect balance. The longest rapier, every part designed for pinpoint accuracy.

  A deep breath, then I reverse the process, putting each piece carefully back into its slot in the suitcase.

  Soon. But not today.

  I pull my target's folder out of the reinforced bottom of my traveling bag. Bringing it with me to an old couch with a hideous floral pattern, I fan out its contents across the glass coffee table. Someone remind me to check out the furniture first the next time I sublet.

  Mafia. Hard to believe it, but I actually miss the good old days of dictators and terrorists. The travel was free and the girls were friendly. Sure, it was almost always to some shithole, but if you put aside the abject poverty and corruption, there are some fucking gorgeous places out there, mostly just full of humans trying to live their lives and raise their families.

  The doorbell rings and I shove everything back into the envelope. God damned neighbors. Didn’t they get the memo that city dwellers are supposed to mind their own fucking business? Outside the peephole, I see nothing but big, dark brown hair until a round face peers up.

  She rings again. “I know you’re in there! I hear your music!”

  Rolling my eyes with a sigh, I open the door to glare down at a tiny middle-aged Mexican woman glaring right back up at me. “Can I help you?”

  “If you cause trouble, you’ll be gone! I’ll call Mrs. Weitzenhoffer and she’ll kick you right out!” She puts her hands on her hips, completely unperturbed by my angry stare. “I have three sons, so don’t even try it! My husband told me about last night. Our Nora is a nice girl. She works hard and doesn’t need you to make life harder.”

  The urge to laugh bubbles up but I stomp it down. My little policewoman has backup, hm? Awkward for me, but I’m oddly glad to see there’s someone looking out for her. “We had a bit of a miscommunication last night, but we cleared it up. There will be no trouble.”

  “That’s right! Because I’ll be watching!” First pointing to her cold, frowning eyes with two fingers, she r
everses them and points at me with an unmistakable gesture. Then, with a huff, she picks up her grocery bags and carries them down the hall, throwing me one last suspicious look over her shoulder.

  I wave.

  Her eyebrows furrow, unamused, before she disappears into her apartment.

  Phew. Tough neighborhood.

  Going back in and grabbing a glass of water, I get back to work. Pictures, schedules, personal information. It’s all here. A slightly overweight man in his fifties looks up at me. Nothing about him that would make him stand out from a thousand others, except for one thing.

  They don’t have a hit out on them.

  He’s Mafia. Not big time, but deep enough to get the wrong people pissed off at him. Apparently they weren’t thrilled when, instead of making things easier for the people who financed his campaign, he cracked down on organized crime.

  An alderman, too. I had to fucking Google it, but basically king of his own little section of Chicago. Apparently that’s not enough for this guy, though, and now he’s some hot shot aiming for mayor in the next election.

  And my employers don’t want that.

  I don’t like it. The whole thing feels off, but I can’t put my finger on why. Or come up with a good enough reason to tell my employers to find someone else to solve their problem.

  It’s not that he’s an alderman—he’s got a dirty track record and he wouldn’t be the first politician to meet an untimely end—but I dislike these sorts of high-profile, domestic targets. There’s a lot of risk.

  And a lot more reward.

  I analyze every detail. His aquiline nose, the license plate of his car, even the guys he plays cards with on Thursdays. They’ll have an opening at their table soon.

  Closing my eyes, I wait for the guilt that never comes. One day I expect to feel it, and I’ll put down my gun and walk away. I both dread and long for that moment.

  Right and wrong are so subjective. Kill or be killed is simple, but we never stop there, do we? If it’s right to kill the wolf attacking your sheep, is it right to eliminate the threat before the damage is done? Is killing a wolf on this side of the world so different from killing one across the ocean?