Knox (An Out of the Cage Novel Book 3)

by Lane Hart

  I nearly came right then and there when she slapped her handcuffs on me like she was getting ready to have her way with me.

  After the dreamy fog cleared and I realized me and my best friends, Cain and Ivan, were actually headed to the police department in the back of a cruiser, shit started getting real. Honestly, I have no clue why the hot detective is questioning us unless she’s trying to bring down Mario. And more power to her. I hate that sleazeball. But when Mario finds out we were here, being questioned, he’s gonna assume it’s about him. Then Ivan, Cain and I will all be screwed, with a capital S.

  Still, flirting with the stern woman will be worth whatever the consequences. After my first comment about the color of her bra that’s visible through her shirt, I expected her to reach across the table and slap me. When she didn’t, that only motivated me to try harder to get a reaction from her. And I eventually got one, just not the one I was expecting.

  Detective Horton is really fucking horny. Not only that, but she admitted that she plans to get herself off tonight.

  What I wouldn’t give to watch that show go down.

  No, watching wouldn’t be enough. I’d need to participate, starting with getting my mouth on her titties that are so big they’re trying to escape that lacy bra. And she admitted she might be able to come from just my licking and sucking on them. Not some other guy doing it, but me.

  It was easy to uncover the fact that the detective gets off on dominance, which is why she was so quick to slap her handcuffs on me when I was naked this morning. Sure, the metal is digging into the skin at my wrists, but it’s a small sacrifice to make knowing they have the beautiful woman thinking about fucking me. That much was obvious when she kneeled down on my bedroom floor to pull my pants up, unable to take her eyes off my cock. My cock that’s been hard ever since I first laid eyes on her and has only grown harder while sitting here questioning her with every naughty thought that pops into my head.

  But thoughts are all they will ever be.

  There’s no way a woman like her would go slumming with someone like me. Not to mention she’s an officer of the law, and I’m not exactly a law-abiding citizen.

  Still, a man can dream. Dream and jerk off to a woman so sexy that I’m pretty sure just being alone in an interrogation room with her fully clothed would be better than whatever sex I could have with any of the naked strippers at Escapades who are constantly trying to ride my cock.

  I push aside that depressing thought when a red light suddenly lights up on the camera mounted in the corner of the room.

  Fuck.

  Guess that means playtime is over. Shit is about to get real.

  A minute later, the detective strolls back into the room, shutting the door behind her before retaking her seat and placing a big envelope down on the table between us.

  “What’s that?” I ask her, figuring it must be heavy shit if she’s decided to start recording. Earlier, when I pointed out that the camera wasn’t on, she could’ve left and flipped the switch, but she didn’t, preferring to keep our conversation private.

  “A photo,” she answers simply before pulling out what’s inside. She stares at the image I can’t yet see with her lips pursed in disapproval before she spins it around and lays it down in front of me.

  My eyes sweep over the eight by ten picture several times trying to make sense of what I’m seeing. On the third pass, I start to get an inkling. A horrible, horrible, inkling.

  “Is that…” I start to ask before bile forces its way up my throat.

  “What’s left of Robert Kelly,” the detective tells me. She may have said more, but by that point I’m too busy looking for a trash bin before I spew all over myself. I glance quickly around the room and come up empty before a container magically thumps down beside me just in time for me to erupt.

  Once all the contents in my stomach have emptied, I don’t have any tissues or even a shirt to wipe my mouth on, so I have to settle with using the back of my cuffed hand.

  “Robbie’s…he’s dead?” I ask the detective, who is still standing on the other side of the trash can, even though the answer seems obvious. “I mean, that was…that was really him?” I clarify, keeping my gaze away from the image that’s likely seared into my soul.

  “Robert Kelly is definitely dead, had been for days before his decaying body washed up on the riverbank,” she answers then retakes her seat. “Luckily, he still had his fingers, and it just so happened we had his fingerprints on file from his previous offenses.”

  “Oh, God. Gabby…” I start, my heart breaking for her. “Does she know yet?” I ask. When we left the apartment earlier this morning with the police, Gabby had looked concerned but not distraught like she had been told yet.

  The detective lowers her eyes. “No. She doesn’t know.”

  “Fuck,” I mutter. “How did he…”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out,” she says simply and lets her statement hang in the air between us.

  “Holy fuck!” I exclaim when it finally hits me. I mean, I am in handcuffs… “You don’t think I…that I had anything to do with Robbie, do you? Or that Cain and Ivan did? Because we didn’t! I haven’t seen him in a week, but I didn’t think he was dead! You said you just wanted information!”

  “Like I told you, the three of you are just here to answer questions today. No one is under arrest. Yet.”

  Blowing out a breath of relief, I try to swallow down the acidic taste in my mouth. “I answered your questions. Now I want to leave.”

  “Is there anything else you can tell me that might help solve this case?” she asks. “If you’re hiding information and I find out, you can be charged with obstruction of justice.”

  “No,” I respond sternly through clenched teeth. “Let me go,” I demand, holding up my cuffed hands that no longer feel like a naughty kink but now feel like the suffocating shackles they’re meant to be.

  “I can uncuff you, but I need you to stay in this room until I finish questioning your friends,” the detective tells me as she gets up and comes around the table.

  I stand up too, towering a few inches above her and hold out my hands for her to unlock them. She bypasses my wrists and heads for the front of my jeans instead, slipping what feels like a business card into my right pocket.

  “My cell phone number is on here if you happen to remember something that will help me,” she says as she stuffs the card as deep as it will go, nearly brushing my deflated cock that momentarily forgets about the horrors my eyes just witnessed and twitches once again in interest at her words that sound like they have a double meaning.

  But that’s probably just wishful thinking.

  The detective played me like a fiddle, letting me think I was getting to her when really, she was just getting information out of me. And I gave it up too, more than I should have.

  Chapter Four

  Jade

  It’s been forty-eight hours since we cut the three fighters loose. I even tried to get answers from Robert Kelly’s sister about his dealings with the Italian mafia without any luck. Since then, I’ve had about three hours of sleep, two pots of coffee, and I’m no closer to arresting Mario Guerra and putting in for a transfer than I was days ago. The mob boss had to have not only known about Kelly’s death but likely played a part in it.

  Unfortunately, we don’t have any evidence to prove that, only the statements of three witnesses who showed up one right after another at the department bright and early yesterday morning, way too eager to give me the exact same, verbatim information that takes the heat off of Mario. I’m grasping at straws; and if I don’t find some answers for the Chief soon, I have a feeling that Cain Knight is going to have to take the brunt of the blame for Kelly’s murder.

  When my cell phone starts vibrating in my pocket, I almost ignore it, resolved to reading through the files on my desk one more time for a possible clue. But for whatever reason, I pull out the device, needing a temporary distraction even if it’s just my nagging mot
her wanting to know when I’m coming home for a visit.

  The caller ID shows unavailable, so it’s not anyone on my contact list.

  I press the button to accept the call and then hold the phone up to my ear, answering with a tired, “Horton.”

  The person on the other side doesn’t speak for at least five seconds. Finally, a deep, somewhat familiar, masculine voice asks, “How’s the investigation going?”

  “Who is this?” I demand.

  “Knox.”

  Well, I’ll be damned. I’m more than surprised that the fighter actually called me, but I have no expectations that he’ll provide additional information.

  So why exactly is he calling?

  “I take it you’re ready to come in and give your written statement to put Robert Kelly’s murderer behind bars?” I tease.

  “No, but we could meet and talk. You could tell me what you think you’ve figured out, and I can let you know if you’re right or wrong…”

  “Fine,” I answer with a sigh of exasperation, because he obviously knows more than he’s told me. Still, though, there’s a small smile on my face. It’s possible that I can convince Knox to give me something that could help me bust this case wide open. And even if he’s reluctant to spill, he still reached out to me. It shouldn’t take much flirting to get him talking like he did the other day. “Come on down to the station–” I start.

  “I can’t do that, and you know it,” Knox interrupts. “If I show up at the station again not under arrest, you’ll be investigating my murder.”

  He’s probably right. Mario would think the worst of him coming back to the station on his own free will, so I tell him, “What about Pullen Park? I can meet you there in ten minutes or so.”

  “No,” he shuts me down right away. “Nowhere public either.”

  “Are you kidding me?” I huff. When he doesn’t respond, I know that he’s not going to budge on the issue. At this point, though, he may be the only person in the whole city willing to talk to me and give me the information I need to bring down Mario Guerra so that I can get the fuck out of this town. In order to get a transfer without the Chief’s recommendation, I have to crack a huge case that attracts nationwide news coverage. Staying in this department is no longer an option.

  Not a day goes by that I don’t worry about the Chief demanding more from me and threatening to take back my detective badge. I gave in too easily the first time when he caught me off guard, so I don’t expect it to be the last. I’m so fucking exhausted, wondering when that time will come. But if or when it does, you can bet your ass I’ll be ready. I won’t ever allow him to lock us in his office again or touch even a single button on my clothing. I’ll speak up and say no before anything happens. Still, I try to avoid hanging out in the station as much as possible, especially at night, to lessen the possibility of the Chief asking for me. I also need to head home to finally get some much-needed sleep. Those are the two reasons why I cave for Knox. Or at least what I tell myself.

  “Final offer. Do you know where the old bottling plant is off of Fayetteville Street?”

  “The big, blue abandoned warehouse?” he asks, and I know for a fact that he’s likely able to see it from the front of his apartment building.

  “Yeah, that’s the one,” I agree. “I’ll meet you there in fifteen, but I will be armed and won’t hesitate to shoot you or your crew if you think you’re gonna take me out.”

  “Jeez, woman. I just want to talk without witnesses thinking I’m a fucking snitch,” he explains, sounding sincere.

  “See you there,” I say before the line disconnects.

  And for some reason, even after only meeting him once, I trust Knox to show up alone and unarmed. Do I trust him completely? God no. I don’t trust any of the men I work with on the force either, though, and they’re supposedly the good guys.

  That lack of trust is why I pull open my top desk drawer and grab my metal cuffs to slip them in my back pocket before I leave. Since I made detective, I’ve only used them once — on the man I’m going to meet. Even days later I still haven’t forgotten all the details of the morning I followed Cain into the bedroom to wake up Knox. And he was definitely up. It wasn’t the first time I had seen a man naked, but it was the first time I had helped a witness get dressed. Then, in the interrogation room while he sat in the chair shirtless with his smooth, muscular chest on display and rambled on about everything under the sun except answers to my questions, I was distracted, thinking things about him that I shouldn’t because they’re incredibly unprofessional.

  After having time to cool off my hormones, I realize that my interest in Knox had to have been my way of just trying to get certain, recent, and unpleasant memories out of my head by fantasizing about a much younger, more attractive man than the last one I was with. God, I would give anything to erase that particular night in October from my head, even if it meant smashing it open to forget. My fingertips drift down and run over the detective shield on my hip, making me wonder if what I sacrificed was worth it.

  There’s no time to dwell on that now, though. I need to get moving, telling myself that my urgency to meet with Knox has everything to do with my desperation to try and solve the murder, earning me the accolades that will get me out of this hellhole precinct, and nothing to do with being alone with him in a secluded location where his words could potentially turn into actions.

  “Webb,” I call out to the officer sitting at the desk across from me to get his attention. The man who I got detective over. “I need to go meet with a witness, but I’ll have my phone with me if anyone needs me,” I instruct.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he agrees with a smirk, getting a kick out of the feminist term. Whatever. The main reason I made detective was because I worked my ass off. The night I earned the title aside, I deserved the promotion for putting in more hours than anyone else and working my ass off. Now the men in the precinct hate having to take orders from a woman. They think I’m weak, and tiptoe around me like I’m a fragile little flower. The truth is, I would rather they run their mouths and talk shit to my face like all the guys do to each other rather than keep quiet because they don’t think I can take it.

  Outside in the parking lot, I crank my Altima and take a left out of the station, heading down to the center of the city that’s decaying faster than the core of a half-eaten apple. It’s where crime is the highest thanks to the Italian and Irish mafia constantly supplying drugs and guns to lowlifes. They’re the reason all the decent businesses have gone under or decided to close up shop and move to a safer neighborhood.

  I figured meeting Knox on his own turf would hopefully make him more comfortable so that he’ll spill all he knows with a little coercion on my part. Or I could be completely wrong about him and be setting myself up for a quick, yet painful, death by a thug…

  A lone man in a black hoodie is standing in the open doorway of the warehouse when I pull up. Before my car comes to a stop, he reaches over his shoulder and pulls up his sweatshirt, showing a brief glimpse of his lower abs before he removes it and tosses the garment to the ground. I take it he’s trying to show me that he’s not packing any heat, which I appreciate, but I have no way of knowing if anyone is waiting to jump me inside the building. Just to make sure I’m ready for anything, I pull my Ruger from the shoulder holster under my suit jacket to confirm it’s locked and loaded before I step out of the car with the gun in my hand but down by my thigh.

  “We’ll talk inside,” I tell Knox so that we won’t have to worry about anyone driving by and seeing us meeting. “But first, lift your shirt and turn around slowly in a circle. Then pull each of your pants legs up to show me your ankles.”

  Just because he removed the hoodie doesn’t mean there’s not a gun stuffed down the back of his pants or one in an ankle holster.

  “Fine, but I don’t even own a gun. Or a knife,” Knox says as he lifts his cotton tee and does a slow spin for me while I search the black waistband of his boxer briefs for weapons. As reque
sted, he shows me his socks that are in fact holster-free. “I’m a fighter, so the only weapons I need are my fists.”

  “Speaking of which,” I say as I walk past him and into the warehouse that’s dimly lit with only light coming in from the broken windows. A quick look around confirms that we’re alone in the hollowed-out building. Finding an old, aluminum folding chair tinged with rust on the edges, I drag it over near the door and say to Knox, “Sit down and put your hands behind the back of it so that I can cuff your weapons.”

  “Yes, ma’am, if you really think that’s necessary,” he agrees as he plops down in the seat and then wrenches his arms around the back of it.

  “I do. And don’t call me that,” I warn him as I holster my gun and then pull out my handcuffs to snap the metal around one of his wrists and then the other.

  “Okay, then what should I call you? Mistress?” he jokes, followed by a soft chuckle. “Restraining is your kink. I get it. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “In this instance, the cuffs are for my protection,” I tell him even though my cheeks begin to warm because what he said is actually true. Having him at my mercy is a big turn on, and one that I’ve been thinking about way too often since he left the station two days ago. Not that I’ll admit that to him.

  “Right. Sure. If you really wanted to feel safe, you would have checked my pockets,” he tells me as I walk around the chair to stand in front of him, the click clack of my heels on the cement floor the only sound in the giant open room.

  “Is there anything in your pockets I should be worried about?” I ask. “Not that you could reach into them now with your arms behind your back.”

  “Actually, I could reach my pockets if I really wanted to.”

  When I lift an eyebrow in question as to how he could do that, he grins and then explains. “I’m double jointed.”