Dirty Blue: Dirty Justice - Book One

by N. E. Henderson

  “Hell to the no,” falls out of my mouth as my head shakes from side to side. No San Francisco born and raised 49ers fan would be caught dead or alive in this.

  I’m nice though, I fold it back and set it down on the chair after picking up the other piece to evaluate. Booty shorts. Humph. I don’t think so. I’m almost thirty for Christ’s sake.

  A laugh bubbles from my lips. Oh, cute, he has spare women’s clothing . . . not.

  He doesn’t actually expect me to wear his girlfriend’s stuff, does he? Not happening. Nope. I don’t think so, Jack.

  I fold the booty shorts back up and place them on top of the sea chickens, I mean Seahawks shirt. Pivoting on my heels, I look around. There’s one door, wide open, that leads out of the bedroom, but there are two others that one can only assume would be a bathroom and closet.

  Walking to the closest one, I open a set of French doors and bingo, closet found. Holy bejesus this is a closet. My eyes roam in amazement.

  Makes sense if I think about it, the man does live in a house six times the size of my condo.

  It’s a lot to take in, even for me. My closet you just open the doors and bam, there my clothes are. I could get lost in here.

  Entering, I locate a regular men’s T-shirt hanging up, pull it off the hanger, and then search a tall chest of drawers in the back until I find a pair of basketball shorts.

  I have to roll the shorts four times so they don’t fall down and they’re still long on my short legs. The shirt hangs an inch or two from meeting the end of the shorts, making me recall how tall he is.

  Stupid weakness. No, I couldn’t possibly be into men that I can look straight in the eyes. I prefer the type I have to crane my neck to see.

  Exiting the closet, I see his dog has left—or at least I don’t see him on the bed anymore.

  Without thinking too hard, I nab his girlfriend’s flip-flops. My heels won’t do and I’m not going barefoot outside if I can help it.

  Opening the third door, I walk into the bathroom, quickly using the toilet to relieve myself, wash my hands and face, and then utilize his mouthwash that takes longer to locate than it should.

  His toothbrush catches my attention as I’m swishing the liquid around. It’s just sitting there in a cup . . .

  What I’ve determined in my ten minutes of being awake is Drago is way too neat for a man. It’s weird. It reminds me too much of Jackson—my brother. Men shouldn’t be this orderly. No one should be this orderly.

  His closet was color coordinated. That’s borderline freak right there.

  I leave the bedroom and search for the way to the front. I don’t recall much from last night. How embarrassing is that? I had sex for the first time in forever and I can’t even recall a small detail. I don’t know if I enjoyed it or if he sucked.

  Noise makes me pause at the top of the staircase. It’s coming from below. Descending, the racket gets louder. The living room is to my left. Drago isn’t in there, but I see another dog, the same type, a Bull Terrier, sleeping upside down on one of the couches.

  I turn right and immediately enter an open kitchen; that’s when I spot him. Drago’s naked back is facing me. And what a deliciously sexy back it is. Walking up to the kitchen island I pause and watch.

  As I stare, I notice how relaxed he is, but he’s loud. Whatever it is he’s doing is making too much noise for my hungover brain. That smell, though, is unmistakable and just might make up for the intrusion in my head. Bacon. And coffee too, I’m almost certain, but the bacon is a pretty prominent smell and like a beacon to my stomach, it growls, letting me know I’m hungry.

  A drawer opens, slamming shut only seconds later, but I’m too busy staring at the same glorious back that caught my eye when I walked in to see what he took out if anything.

  The dragon tattoo wrapped around most of his arm and shoulder is easier to see now in the light of the day than last night. I remember it though. My eyes flick as a flash from hours ago replays like a movie in my head of me running my hand down the length of the dragon and then back up. The scene is gone as quick as it came and wasn’t much at all.

  Drago’s tattoo I’m sure is meant to scare most people. It does have an eerie, almost devilish look. The dragon is mostly black ink with a lot of shading and the detail is beautiful. The way he’s standing now, you can’t see the large head of the dragon, but I remember it. It’s on his chest above his heart with blood red eyes. It twists, and the back and wings start at his shoulder and end above his elbow with its tail cording down and around his forearm with the point of the tail ending on the inside of his hand.

  Why is this sexy?

  Shouldn’t something demented be a turn off, not a turn on?

  Jeez, what is wrong with you, Brianna? Maybe he put something in my drink last night that’s making me think this way. Tattoos usually aren’t my thing. Given my line of work, I’m around shitbags who are covered in ink, which could be the reason they’ve never done anything for me. This though . . . sheesh. Put a shirt on, man.

  “Holy fuck.” My eyes snap up to the startled sound of his voice. Drago is facing me. How’d I miss that? “You just sneak up on motherfuckers?”

  I purse my lips.

  “I didn’t sneak up on you. I’ve been standing here almost five minutes now.”

  “Apparently molesting me with your eyes too.” He smirks, but I don’t give myself away. There’s no need to confirm or deny anything.

  He turns back around for a second, and when he turns toward me again, he has a coffee mug in his hand. Drago leans over, placing it on the counter in front of me.

  “I don’t know how you like yours. There’s cream in the fridge, sugar and even the shit that’s supposed to be sugar but isn’t, in the cabinet directly above the coffee maker.”

  My eyes glance over his shoulder to where he was standing when I walked in. Pushing off the counter, I walk around to get some sweetener.

  “I see you found your way into my closet.”

  He stops behind me. Not touching me but it’s impossible not to feel the power of his large body so close to my smaller one. He doesn’t intimidate me. Only one man in my life has ever managed to do that and I’ve worked damn hard to overcome it and make sure no other is allowed.

  “I have no desire to wear your girlfriend, or ex-girlfriend’s, skanky things, Acerbi.” I pull the door open, peering up into the cabinet, I see there’s a box with Splenda packets sitting on the third shelf. This is problematic for me. “Could you—” I’m cut off before I can ask him to get the box down.

  His lips press against the shell of my ear, making me shiver from head to toe—my coffee momentarily forgotten. “I don’t have a girlfriend”—his voice vibrates, sending electric currents down my spine—“and I haven’t had an ex-girlfriend in years. The clothes are my little sister’s. I’ll be sure to let her know you think her tastes are . . . skanky.”

  Foot right in mouth. Crap!

  Placing his hand on my hip, he leans into me, reaching over to grab the box without me asking for it and places it on the counter in front of me.

  I take the box and mug, then I head over to the fridge for some creamer.

  “Look I’m . . . sorry. It’s just—”

  “Don’t apologize for something you meant. Besides, you didn’t hurt my feelings. A twenty-year-old girl? Maybe. But she isn’t here to defend herself, or her attire.”

  What a dick, I mentally say to myself.

  Looking over my shoulder, I cut my eyes at him as I pull open one of the doors to the refrigerator. I pull out the carton of half and half, pouring a good amount into my mug, placing it back inside when I’m finished. Shutting the refrigerator door, I walk back over to the island, resting my forearms on the cold surface.

  “Your sister lives here?”

  I don’t recall that in my research earlier this week. How could I have missed that?

  “More or less.”

  Setting my coffee and the Splenda on the counter, I eye him as I ret
rieve two packs out of the box. He strides back over to the stove, reaches up, taking out a plate, and then proceeds to load it up with bacon.

  His sister’s place of residence is forgotten momentarily when he strides toward me, plate in hand.

  The plate makes a sharp clank as the porcelain meets the hard granite surface. The smell of fried pig wafts into my nose, pulling my eyes down. My mouth waters and my stomach growls once again. Without waiting for an invitation, I snatch a strip up, taking a bite of the warm piece. The salty goodness practically melts in my mouth, eliciting a soft moan from my lips.

  “Good?” he asks.

  Swallowing, I snap my eyes back to his. “It’s bacon,” I deadpan. “What’s not good?”

  He smirks.

  “Something funny?” I tear into another piece, barely chewing before I swallow it down. Jeez, I’m hungrier than I thought.

  “Funny? No. Remembering? Yes.”

  “Remembering what?” I ask, curiously.

  “The way you moaned last night in my bed.” His eyes light up with amusement, his smirk deepening.

  I pop the last piece of bacon into my mouth, buying myself time. Chewing slowly without taking my eyes off him, I simply arch an eyebrow.

  “You do remember last night, don’t you?” He braces his palms on the edge of the counter and it makes him appear larger than his already sizable frame. “You remember I fucked you, right, detective?”

  “No, actually.” I shake my head lightly, laughing internally. It’s an honest answer. Although I wish I did remember it. Not that I’m going to tell him that. “But no worries. If being naked in your bed hadn’t given that away, I would’ve come to that realization upon taking the first step out of it.”

  His boyish smile plummets and before I can process what he does next, he rounds to my side of the island. My coffee mug is plucked from my hand, and after Drago sets it down and away from me, he turns me around, facing him, and then picks me up, placing me on top of the cold granite surface.

  “What in the wor—”

  “Are you hurt?” He isn’t looking me in the eyes. No, he’s scanning me all over instead. “I was too rough with you, wasn’t I?” I’m speechless as he opens my arms then his warm hand glides down the length of both. Next, he runs his palms up my calves, which only makes my body tingle and heat. When he rounds my knees and starts for my inner thighs, I stop him as quick as my hands will move.

  “Okay, enough of that. What in the hell are you doing?” Dear God, I’ve got to get out of here.

  His head snaps up and dammit, his dark brown eyes are a complete contrast to the hard ones I know I saw last night. Now they’re warm, soft—concerned.

  “Where do you hurt?”

  “Did I say one thing about being hurt?” Where the hell is he getting that conclusion?

  “So you’re not?” He looks me in the eyes now and from where I’m sitting we’re eye level.

  “I haven’t had sex with anything more than my vibrator in quite a while. I’m sore, Drago. Not hurt.” His eyebrows are pulled in as he stares back at me. “Okay?”

  Finally, his head nods slowly, accepting my words.

  “Trust me, Acerbi, if you’d hurt me in any way, I’d have kicked your ass myself.”

  He breaks out into the biggest smile I’ve ever seen on a man. And lord have mercy, he has dimples. Who would have ever thought dimples were sexy?

  “That’s cute.”

  “What’s cute?” Now I’m confused.

  “That you think you could beat my ass.” He chuckles through each word I don’t find funny.

  “Oh, trust me, buddy, I can. I’m the last person you want to underestimate.” But then if he wants to see a woman put him on his ass, I’m glad to do it.

  “Bri,” he says, trying not to laugh. I already know I want to choke him before whatever else he says comes out. “I’m nearly a foot taller than you are, and I have at least a hundred pounds on you. C’mon, babe, be realistic.”

  “Do you want to puke up your balls this morning?” Realistic? He wants fucking realistic?

  “Threaten my junk again and I won’t think you’re so cute anymore.” Before I can do just that, warm lips with a tinge of coffee meet my own for the briefest of a second, maybe even two, and then he pulls back with a smile on his too sexy of a face. I’m about to comment when he places a finger to my mouth. “Don’t ruin the moment.”

  About that time, the sound of a door slamming from behind me makes us both turn our heads. I have to twist my body to the side to see what’s going on.

  There is a door off to the side of the kitchen that I’m now noticing, where an older woman has entered. She looks as though she might be the same age as my own mother if she were still alive. I’m guessing she is in her early fifties or maybe late forties.

  “What are you doing here?” Drago asks as she places an oversized purse on the counter. “It’s Saturday.”

  “Didn’t you get my note?” Drago and I both follow her finger as she points toward the fridge. Amongst the array of magnets, I do see a small note underneath one of them. “Of course you didn’t. You don’t see anything around here unless I point it out to you, D.” She walks over, lightly pats his cheek as she smiles warmly up at him, then she places the same palm on his shoulder to use as support to stand on her tiptoe to kiss his cheek.

  She then turns her head toward me and smiles even bigger.

  “I’m Mona, and you are?” she asks, her Italian accent thick.

  “This is—” His smile vanishes as her chocolate eyes cut toward Drago.

  “Did I ask you or her?”

  “Brianna, but most people call me, Bri,” I quickly inform her.

  “It’s a pleasure, Bri.” She looks back at me.

  “Why are you here, woman?” Drago exasperates.

  “It’s written on the note?” Again, she points toward it.

  “The note is over there. Can’t you just tell me?”

  “Qui per pulire.”

  “You know I don’t speak Italian.”

  “Then I guess you have to read the note.”

  “Lovely boy, isn’t he?” She doesn’t wait for a response and I get the feeling it was rhetorical. She turns, heading out of the kitchen.

  “Mona,” Drago calls out in a loud, irritated voice, causing her to stop and turn back to face him. “It’s Saturday. Don’t you have something better to do than clean my bathrooms?”

  She smiles, obviously not offended by his tone.

  “I didn’t finish yesterday. Natalie got sick and I had to pick her up from school early.”

  “They can wait until next week. If she’s sick, then you need to be at home taking care of her, not here cleaning.”

  “You don’t pay me not to finish my job, Drago. Now let me be so I can get done and out of here.”

  He huffs what sounds like defeat. “I’ll pay you to go home.”

  She scowls at him.

  “Do I look like a leach to you?” Drago scowls right back. “Say something like that to me again and I’ll bend you over my knee. Don’t think you’re too old, Drago Alexander.” She turns faster than a tornado, leaving before he says another word.

  “So, aren’t you Italian?” I question, already knowing the answer. But I’m curious. “How come you can’t speak Italian?”

  “I’m American, born and raised here. My father is the one from Italy, not me. I’m content with my one language, thank you.”

  “Mona seems nice. Feisty. I like her.”

  “Well, she is Italian, of course she’s feisty. It’s in her blood. If she weren’t, I’d be worried.”

  “I thought first and middle name calling was reserved for moms. You must be really close to your housekeeper if she gets that privilege.”

  “She isn’t my housekeeper.” His voice has more conviction than I would think it should. “Mona insists on taking care of things and I insist on paying her. Neither one of us will budge on it. I get a clean house and she gets to pick her grand
daughter up from school every day instead of working an eight to five job like most moms who have to work.”

  “Moms? But you said she’s the grandmother.”

  “Long story. But to answer you, Mona is family and she’s been part of my family for as long as I can remember. She was the housekeeper when I was a kid and she and my mother were close. Best friends. Mona yelled at me a hell of a lot more than my mother did—if she ever did.”

  His mother is dead. I read that as I researched as much as possible on Drago after meeting him the first time.

  He looks at me, pausing as if he’s thinking. “Why did you assume she wasn’t my mother?”

  “Because I already knew she passed away years ago.”

  “Passed away is a term used for people who die from natural causes not ones who are murdered, detective.” He looks at me as if I’m an enemy now—like he did last night. “Grab your things. I’ll take you home.” Drago pulls me off the island where my feet land on the stained concrete floor.

  Although he looks mad and even sounds mad, he’s gentle with me.

  My mind wanders as I walk away from him and replay his words. Murdered. My research was thorough. I read the report and looked at a copy of the death certificate. His mother died from a pulmonary embolism. Why does he believe she was murdered?

  I bottle that question for later. It seems too important to forget.

  * * *

  Drago slows, stopping next to the curb in front of my building. Peering out the window, it looks quiet. Only Ms. Lincoln is outside elbows deep in a flowerbed in front of the building next to ours.

  My attention snaps back when I hear the car shut off.

  “Thanks for the lift,” I tell him honestly. I still haven’t fully wrapped my head around the fact that not only did I get drunk and fuck someone, but also that someone is the same man I’ve been tasked with investigating on suspicion of drug smuggling into LA.

  How on Earth did I allow that the happen?

  Whiskey. That’s how. Definitely where I’m placing the blame.

  He nods but doesn’t say anything else before opening the driver’s side door, exiting the car. I watch in confusion as he rounds the vehicle to my side. I’m even more confused when the door opens, and he raises his hand toward me.