Conduct Unbecoming

by Sinclair, Georgia

  He slid them off while she watched, then watched her wrap her pretty fingers around him and squeeze. “Not yet,” he said through teeth so tightly clenched he thought his molars might crumble, pushing her hand away. The focus was going to be on her this time, even if it killed him. So he used his fingers to torment her, then spread her thighs with a hand on her knee and replaced them with his tongue. “Fucking incredible,” he whispered.

  At his limit, he reached over the side of the bed to retrieve a condom from his jeans, put it on. And then he kissed her like it mattered, like she mattered, and time seemed to stand still as he moved into her slowly. He had to pause more than once, he was that close to losing it. Two strokes, three, then four. She was right there with him, he knew, right at the edge. So with his heart pounding in sync with his throbbing cock, he brought a hand down between her legs and with a flick of his thumb sent them both flying.

  And there it was again, that odd loosening sensation in his chest. The feeling of burdens being set aside, of weight being lifted. He liked it. He liked it alot.

  “In case you’re wondering,” she said with a breathless voice when she could finally speak again. “Longevity is my new best friend.”

  “I’ll try to remember that.” He kissed her - her throat, the little divot where her pulse still scrambled, the crease between her neck and shoulder - then went to dispose of the condom.

  He climbed back into bed, wrapped an arm around her waist from behind to tug her back against him. He cupped his hand around her breast, pictured his dark, callused fingers against her pale, silky flesh with his eyes closed. Oh, yeah. Guy could get used to this.

  Her body was completely relaxed against his, soft and supple, pliable. He thought she’d drifted off until she whispered, “Why aren’t you a cop anymore?”

  He didn’t answer for a moment, but he could feel her waiting, so patient, so still. “It’s a long story.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  He was silent for several seconds before answering. “My partner died.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, rolled over to face him, brought her hand to his face. He closed his eyes, instinctively leaning into her palm.

  “It was almost eight years ago.” When he opened his eyes she was watching him with those luminous eyes, her face open, receptive. “His name was Patrick. Patrick Gallagher. We went through the Academy together.”

  “How does that work? Did they assign you to each other?”

  “As roommates. And then we ended up at the same precinct after graduation. We just... clicked.” He tried to smile, but couldn’t quite manage it. “He had this crazy, dry sense of humor. The kind of funny that could blindside you, you know?

  “You still miss him.”

  It wasn't meant as a question, but he answered it that way. “I do. Every day.”

  “What happened?” she asked gently.

  “Somebody shot him,” he said, when he could finally bring himself to answer. “In an alley behind a bar on the South Side.”

  “Was he on the job?”

  “No.” He rubbed his forehead. “His wife called, said he didn’t come home after his shift. Sent me to look for him.”

  “How’d you know where to find him?”

  “He was my partner. You ride with a guy forty hours a week you know where he goes to blow off steam.”

  “Is that what he was doing there? Blowing off steam?”

  This was the part where he always said yes, he was just unwinding, knocking back a few after a long shift, but for some reason the words wouldn't come. “No.” He let out a breath that was heavy with relief. “He was trying to get drunk enough to forget for a minute that he was selling his soul to save his family.”

  She put her hand on his face again, brushing her thumb over his cheekbone. Offering him absolution with her touch. “Tell me,” she said gently.

  “Patrick was one of those guys who always landed on his feet. It was like he was... charmed. He married his high school sweetheart, Fiona, bought a little house on the South Side two blocks over from his folks. They decided to start a family and bam, she’s pregnant.” He was quiet for a moment, remembering. “But then his luck seemed to run dry. Suddenly Fiona’s pregnancy was high risk and she couldn’t work, so that’s like... half their income, gone. And their perfect house? They found mold and asbestos, and it needed a new roof, all within the first four months.”

  “His first brush with reality.” She dragged one of those pretty red toenails along his calf.

  “Yeah, I guess it was.” He laughed, a short, disparaging burst of air. “And he had no fucking idea how to deal with it.”

  “No,” she said absently, “I don’t suppose he would.”

  He laid down, flat on his back, stared up at the ceiling. “He kept half the evidence from a drug bust, was trying to sell it the night he died.”

  “Oh, Dante.” She sighed, put her head on his shoulder.

  “I’m not trying to justify what he did, but...” he paused for a second or two. “He was desperate, you know? And being a cop? You have no idea how demoralizing it could be. You’ve got dealers, brutal, sadistic sociopaths who have more money than they can spend in a lifetime, and you can’t afford to feed your family. And you know, you fucking know, that the drugs are gonna be there, whether they come from you or somebody else. So why shouldn’t the good guy get a cut of the profits?”

  Harley sat up and leaned forward, drawing her knees up to her chest. “You wouldn’t have done it,” she said with a certainty that humbled him. “You would have found another way.”

  He turned to look at her, genuinely curious, trailed his fingertips down the bumps on her spine. “How do you know?

  She lifted her pretty shoulders, smiled down at him. “I just do.”

  Her faith in him was a little daunting. He had to look away. “Yeah, well,” he allowed, “I guess there’s some advantage to having life kick the shit out of you a couple times.”

  “You feel guilty,” Harley declared, putting into words what he couldn’t. “Like what happened to him was your fault.” She pushed her hair back out of her face. “Why?”

  “Because I knew how desperate he was. He told me, over and over again, but I didn’t listen. And he felt like he didn’t have any other choice.”

  “That’s just bullshit,” she blurted out. “You weren’t responsible for his choices.”

  He lifted his eyebrows, laughed his disagreement. “Well, I know Fiona, for one, would debate that. She even went so far as to slap me during his funeral, announcing to everyone within earshot that I’d killed him myself, left her unborn child fatherless.”

  “She was lashing out,” she consoled, gently, “and you just happened to be in her path. That’s what people do when their hearts are broken, you know?”

  “I know. And I know how much she regrets the incident at the funeral. But we were never the same afterwards. Guess I just reminded her too much of what she’d lost.”

  “She sent me a birth announcement,” Dante went on to say. “Owen Patrick Gallagher. I guess he would be... seven now? I imagine him looking like Patrick. The same red hair and freckles, that big, lop-sided grin.”

  Dante was quiet for several long seconds before he continued, “In the interest of full disclosure, there was a trial. It didn’t last long, charges were dropped for,” he hooked his fingers in the air, rolled his eyes, “lack of evidence. Long enough that I was called to testify, though. When I pleaded the fifth, the general consensus was - according to the press, anyway - that I was guilty, too. That we were..,” he raised his hand with a flourish, “partners in crime. The media crucified me. One even suggested I might have killed Patrick myself for his share of the money.”

  “Ahhh, thus your renowned love of reporters.”

  “Well, you gotta admit my experience with your profession so far has been... dismal, to say the least.”

  She slid a leg over his hips and slowly climbed on top of him, running her palms o
ver his chest while his hands gently kneaded her butt. “I know I can’t speak for the entire profession,” she said sweetly, “but I can’t help but wonder if there might be something I could do to make this better.”

  He moved his hands from her butt to her waist, let his fingertips dance along her spine, his thumbs stroke her ribs before he brought them up to cup her breasts. “Mmmm, I do like the way you think.”

  Chapter 22

  Harley woke to the crushing weight of a seventeen pound cat settling into the small of her back, and the stillness of an empty apartment. Rolling over was no easy feat - what with the cat and all - but she managed it with, if not ease, at least efficiency.

  She stopped to pee and brush her teeth, threw on the robe from the hook on the back of the bathroom door. So Dante left in the middle of the night, so what? She wasn’t surprised, and she certainly wasn’t disappointed. She was a big girl, and this wasn’t her first rodeo. Right.

  She shook her head and made her way to the kitchen. Coffee was first on the agenda, measuring water, grinding beans. She flipped the brewer on, was just filling Tolstoy’s dish when the front door opened.

  Dante stood in the doorway for a second, newspaper under his arm, bakery bag in his hand, before he slowly closed the door behind him. “I, uh... got you a muffin.” He lifted the bag. “Chocolate chip okay?”

  He must have taken a shower; his hair was damp, slicked back from his face. The T-shirt he’d been wearing yesterday was seriously wrinkled, the stubble on his chin even darker than usual. If she’d ever seen anyone look better, she couldn’t remember now.

  “My favorite.” She smiled, turned away before he could see the sudden shimmer of tears in her eyes. “Coffee?”

  “Sure,” he said. “Sounds good.”

  “Sit down.” She reached up to pull mugs out of the cupboard, filled them while he settled into the sofa across the room. By the time she joined him, her eyes were dry. She put the mugs on the table and sat down next to him, knees angled in his direction, feet neatly tucked beneath her.

  Dante cupped his hand around her neck, pulled her close. “Good morning,” he said, gently brushing his lips over hers.

  “Good morning yourself,” she whispered back. She ran her fingers through his wet hair. “I guess you already took a shower.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Too bad you didn’t wait,” she pouted, lifting her shoulders. “I’ve got a spot on my back I can never reach.”

  Dante ran his fingers along the gap in her robe, his pupils dilated slightly at the sight of all that pale, exposed flesh. “What’s that old saying?” he asked, sliding a hand through the opening to cup her breast, brushing the pad of his thumb over her nipple. “You can never be too rich or too clean?”

  She could barely breathe, but she managed to laugh. Choked out, “I think that’s too rich or too thin.”

  Dante pulled at one end of Harley’s belt and watched it come loose, her robe spilling open like water. “Hey,” he said, nostrils flared, jaw clenched, “you do your old sayings, I’ll do mine.”

  “Fair enough.” She stood up, let the robe slide off her shoulders to drop to the floor. “So are you coming?” she asked, tilting her head to smile at him.

  “Absolutely.”

  “What about your coffee?”

  “Coffee?” He scooped her up and tossed her over his shoulder in a classic fireman’s hold, swatting her lightly on the ass when she squealed. “We don’t need no stinkin’ coffee...” he said, making her giggle as they headed towards the bathroom.

  * * * *

  “I’ll be back in two hours, two and a half, tops,” Harley said. Watching her reflection in the mirror, she scooped her hair up and twisted it into a neat little roll, her fingers moving agilely as she pinned it into place. She plucked a pair of earrings out of a tray of tangled silver on her dresser, threaded them through her ears.

  Any other day, Harley would be going through this process fully clothed, and not nearly as... theatrically. Today it was for show, and she was determined to keep it interesting. Knowing the hot, naked man sprawled across her bed was watching her every move was downright inspiring.

  Wearing her sexiest bra and panties - clean, thank God, because she so seldom had a reason to wear them - Harley rocked up on her toes and leaned into the mirror, a move strategically executed to make her legs look longer, her butt curvier. And yes, she knew exactly how the lace shifted - thank you, thank you - exposing that little crescent-shaped sliver of cheek for anyone who happened to be watching to see.

  She slicked a layer of barely-there lipstick over her mouth. Still on her toes, she turned her head one way, then the other, her lips pressed into kiss-mode to check for smudges. Like she didn’t usually apply it on the fly on the way out the door.

  “You’re killing me here,” he ground out through gritted teeth. “You know that, don’t you?” When she glanced at his reflection, something she’d avoided doing during her performance - more out of reticence, than coyness - she nearly swallowed her tongue.

  Oh. My. God. There was a living, breathing, fully aroused version of a renaissance sculpture in her bed. In. Her. Bed.

  He was all dark, swarthy skin and hard muscle; hands down the most beautiful man she’d ever seen, let alone seen stretched out across her bed wearing nothing but a white sheet. Honest to God, she had to reach out to steady herself against the dresser, her knees were that wobbly.

  “What do you mean?” she asked breathlessly.

  “Why don’t you come back to bed and let me show you what I mean.”

  She stepped into the dress she’d laid out at the end of the bed before she turned back to face him, worked the tiny, pearly buttons with slightly shaky fingers. Scooped up a pair of strappy sandals, sat down next to him on the bed to slide them on.

  “If you can be patient,” she whispered, trailing a finger down the center of his chest, “I’ll try to shift things around and get back a little earlier. An hour, maybe an hour and a half. Would that be better?”

  “Better would be right now.” He tried to slide his hand up under her skirt but she scooted back out of reach.

  “Uh uh.” She laughed, walking backwards out of the room. “You can ridicule the Voice all you want, pal, but I need this job.”

  “Fine,” he called out, sitting at the edge of the bed as he listened to her make her way through the apartment. “Go, already. But if you don’t hurry up I may start without you.” He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he heard her laugh as the door closed behind her.

  “Shit.” He jumped out of bed when he heard his cell phone ring, grabbed his jeans from the floor and dug it out of his pocket.

  “Hello?” he said. “Yeah, this is Dante Giancana.” Jesus, his heart was pounding.

  “Wait. You mean he’s awake? Holy shit. Well, that’s good news, right?” He held the phone between his shoulder and his ear, pulled on his jeans, listened for a few moments. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be right there.”

  He hung up and stuffed the phone back into his pocket, picked his shirt up off the floor and tugged it on. He searched her dresser for a pen and paper - he didn’t even have her cell number to leave her a message - came up empty. Nothing in the nightstand, either.

  He grabbed his shoes and hurried to the living room, dropped them on the floor next to her desk. Jerked one drawer open to shuffle through it - nothing - before he found a stub of a pencil and an envelope in the other drawer. He was just about to scribble her a note when he bumped a thick manilla folder off the edge of the desk, spilling it’s content out onto the floor.

  “Shit.” He dropped to his knees, fully intending to scoop everything back into the folder, frowned. “What the...” There were printouts of new articles and notes - some handwritten, some typed - for something she was writing.

  And there were photos, black-and-white, grainy photos. Printed on regular paper, so the quality was worse than piss poor, but recognizable. Jesus, they were photos of him, or at least the him he used to
be. In uniform, in civvies, some from the trial, one with him and Enzo - God only knew where that one came from - even a still from the infamous video of Fiona slapping him at Patrick’s funeral.

  She was writing about him. He’d told her things he’d never told another human being. About what happened that night and the way he’d felt about it, the way he still felt about it. About the guilt. And she just... she just laid there in bed next to him and pretended she didn’t already know.

  He’d opened a vein and bled for her and all it was was research. He felt like he’d been suckerpunched.

  He was still on the floor with the folder in his hand when she walked back into the apartment. “I forgot my... phone.” She looked at him, frowned at the dark expression on his face. “What is it? What happened?”

  “What happened?” he parroted, lifting the folder in the air. “I don’t know, Harley. Why don’t you tell me what happened.” Huh. Somehow watching the color leach from her face wasn’t as satisfying as it ought to be.

  “I- I can explain that,” she stammered.

  “Don’t bother.” He tossed the folder back onto the desk, stepped into his shoes. “I get it. You wanted a story, I was a story.”

  “That’s not-”

  “Gotta say,” he cut her off, too pissed to listen to reason, “you really went above and beyond on this one. Seriously, I’ve known my share of sleazy reporters, but none of them were willing to fuck me for a bi-line.” He stomped past her, stopped for a second in the doorway.

  She gasped, whispered, “I didn’t-” in a shaky voice, but he bulldozed right over her. “And the fuck? I’ll give you an A for enthusiasm, but your technique could use some serious work.” Then he slammed the door behind him.

  Chapter 23

  Dante skidded to a stop at the nurse’s station, slapped his palms down on the counter. It wasn’t easy, but he waited for the nurse to finish her call before he blurted out, “My brother's awake.”