by Tracy Wolff
“Not really. And as long as I’m not under arrest, it’s my understanding that you don’t have any business asking what I’m doing.”
He raises a brow. “Are you trying to taunt me into arresting you?”
“And here I thought the law says you actually need a reason to arrest me…”
“Where’s your car?”
I freeze. “Excuse me?”
“According to my records, you bought a 2014 370Z from the Otay police auction a couple weeks ago. You registered it in your name, insured it the same way. But it’s not at your place of employment and it’s not in your apartment parking lot, so I’m curious. Where is it?”
“Seriously? That’s what this is about? I didn’t realize the crime rate in San Diego was so low that the cops have started monitoring where people park their personal vehicles.”
“That’s not an answer.” Heat simmers in those sharp eyes and I know I’m starting to piss him off. Good. I’ve been way past pissed off for hours now.
“I’m pretty sure I don’t owe you an answer,” I counter, just as another text from Jace comes in. This one has four more faces on it and I’m just about to text another No, when there’s a knock on the door.
A cop with a familiar face opens the door and I freeze. Because he looks familiar. Really, really familiar. As in, I just stared at a picture of him familiar.
Oh, God.
Jacobs gets up to talk to him, the two of them stepping outside of the room and closing the door behind them so I can’t hear what they’re talking about.
Which is fine—I don’t need to know what they’re saying. In fact, all I really need to know is how to get the hell out of here. Fast.
I check my phone again, just to be sure I’m not projecting. But nope. That cop is definitely in the second group of photos Jace sent me.
I start to freak out, my earlier calmness completely deserting me now that there’s a definite connection between Anderson and Jacobs. I mean, yeah, that cop could be talking to him about something completely different…but what are the odds? And do I really want to stick around and find out if I’m right or wrong?
I text Jace to let him know what’s going on, my fingers flying over the letters as I try to get the message out before Jacobs gets back in the room. Maybe he’ll think I’m overreacting, that I’m fine just sitting here letting things play out.
But about a second after I hit send, I get a text message back.
JS: Get the fuck out of there. Now!
Great. Awesome. That makes me feel super safe.
JB: How the hell am I supposed to do that?
JS: Get up and walk out!!!!
JB: I’m in an interrogation room.
JS: You’re not under arrest. Get out! NOW.
For a moment, just a moment, I think longingly of my life of two days ago. Work, school, hanging with Vi. No danger. No being pulled down to a police station. No worry that a cop is trying to kill me. It wasn’t an exciting life, but at least I had a good chance of surviving every day. There’s something to be said for that.
Then again, there was no Nic in that life, either. And while I might be regretting the string of events that has gotten me right here, right now, I don’t regret Nic. I don’t think I ever could.
Another text message comes through and I glance down, expecting it to be Jace telling me again to get the hell out.
But this time it’s Nic and though his message is calm, I can read his fear through the words. It does nothing to calm my galloping heart.
NM: As soon as he comes back in the room, tell him you have a personal emergency and ask to reschedule.
JB: What if he won’t let me go?
NM: Throw a hissy fit. Attract as much attention as you can. If he’s got you there on the DL, he’s not going to want anyone paying attention to you.
I start to answer, but another text comes through before I can so much as type a word.
NM: I’m on my way, baby. I’ll be there in less than ten minutes. It’s going to be okay.
I’m not sure I agree with him, but it’s not like I have a lot of other options. I do know, though, that Nic should stay as far away from this as possible. Just because this guy is suspicious of me, doesn’t mean he knows about Nic yet. And if he doesn’t, the last thing I want to do is drag Nic into this. He has enough problems as it is.
JB: I’ll try to get out.
JB: I’m fine. Don’t come here.
NM: Don’t try, do it!
NM: I’m already getting off the freeway. Be there in 5.
Shit. I don’t want him coming in here, don’t want him getting any more involved in this than he already is. He did steal a car two days ago—the last thing I want is Anderson and his cronies to turn on him and turn him in.
I watch through the glass as the other guy hands Jacobs the folder in his hand, then turns and starts walking away. Shit. I scramble to drop my phone in my purse as Jacobs walks back into the room. I’m not fast enough, though, and can tell by his raised brow that he caught the motion. Damn it. Now I look like I’ve got something to hide.
“I need to go,” I tell him before he’s even got the door closed behind him. “I’m having a family emergency—”
“You don’t have any family,” he tells me with a raised brow. “I checked.”
“It’s a friend who’s almost like family.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, but this friend is going to have to wait a little while longer.”
“He can’t.” I clutch my purse tightly in my hands as I push back from the table. “I have to go.”
“Sit down, Jordan.”
The note of authority in his voice gets my hackles up. Who the hell is this dirty cop to tell me what to do? I haven’t done anything wrong, sure as hell haven’t done anything illegal. He has no right to speak to me like that—or to keep me here.
I tell him as much, my voice shaking with rage and with a fear that I refuse to acknowledge, at least while Jacobs is trying to stare me down.
He pulls a photo out of the folder in his hand, tosses it down on the table between us. “How do you know Gabe Martinez?”
I stare in shock at the picture of Gabe and me standing in the middle of my apartment.
“How did you get this?” I demand, my voice shrill.
“That’s not the point.”
“That’s exactly the point! Do you have cameras in my apartment?” I feel sick. Really, really sick.
“Tell me how you know Martinez.”
“Go to hell.” I snatch the picture off the table, wave it in his face. “I don’t care who you are. This is illegal. You don’t get to go into private citizens’ homes and take pictures of them when they’ve done nothing wrong.”
“You’re hanging with known criminals, Jordan.” He pulls out another photo, this time of Nic walking into my apartment alone. “You don’t get to be outraged about attracting police attention. Martinez has been in and out of prison half a dozen times since he was sixteen. And so has the rest of Medina’s crew. Nic Medina himself spent seven years in prison. You can’t expect us not to pay attention when someone with your history starts hanging out with guys like this.”
“My history?” I demand, my whole body going cold.
He looks me straight in the eye as he reaches into his folder and pulls out a couple more pictures. As he tosses them on the table between us.
But this time, they aren’t photos of Nic or his crew. Aren’t photos of my apartment.
No, they’re pictures of me from the hospital three years ago. Pictures the nurses took to document what was done to me.
For long seconds, I just stare at the pictures in horror. I’ve never seen these.
Oh, I knew they were taken. I knew they existed—they were thrown in my face enough times during the ensuing investigation. But I’ve never actually seen them until now.
He doesn’t stop there, though. He pulls out a bunch of newspaper and online articles, tosses them on the table next to the photos. Articles
that call me a whore and a liar and demand to know why I want to ruin so many lives with my lies.
The last is what I’ve always found so ironic. The idea that I was ruining their lives. What about my life? I’d wanted to ask then. Why does nobody care that they ruined my life? Sometimes, late at night when I can’t sleep, I still wonder about the answer to that question.
“You can see now why we’re curious about your association with Medina, right? A girl with your past and anti-police sentiments hooking up with a bunch of known criminals right when a lot of shit is going down on the streets? Just when a couple of cops get killed only a block or so from Medina’s garage? Maybe you’ve finally convinced your boyfriend to get revenge for what you perceive happened to you three years ago. For how you think your case wasn’t given proper attention—”
“You bastard.” I’m literally shaking with rage. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
He takes out a few more photos from three years ago, tosses them carelessly on the table. “Then why don’t you forget about whatever ‘personal emergency’ you’re having and tell me what I want to know.”
“I’m not telling you—”
I break off as Nic bursts through the door, looking wild and desperate and like he’s about to rip Jacobs apart.
Jacobs doesn’t seem fazed, though. “Thanks for saving me a trip, Medina. But you can wait in the hall. Your girlfriend and I aren’t quite done here.”
“Oh, you’re done,” he says, circling the table and grabbing on to my hand. “She’s not under arrest which means she doesn’t have to be here. Which means she’s leaving. Now.” He starts moving us toward the door, but not before he glances down at the table and sees the pictures Jacobs has spread across the fake wood.
I know the moment he sees the ones of me from three years ago because he stumbles just a little. He draws a sharp breath in through his teeth, makes a wounded sound in the back of his throat as his hand tightens on mine.
“You’re going to want to be careful, Medina.” Jacobs looks furious now that he knows he’s lost control of the whole situation. “Or it’s going to be you in this interrogation room.”
“You got a warrant for my arrest?” Nic asks, voice raw and husky. When Jacobs doesn’t answer, he snorts. “Yeah, I didn’t think so. You want me in this interrogation room again? You better come at me with more than your bullshit attitude ’cuz that’s the only way you’re going to get me here.”
And then he’s striding out the door, dragging me behind him like a rag doll. Because now that I’m safe, now that Nic has come to rescue me, all I can think about are those pictures. And the look on his face when he saw them.
Chapter 24
Nic
As I get Jordan to the car it takes all my willpower not to go back and smash my fist into Jacobs’s face. Only the knowledge that I won’t be able to protect her while I’m in jail keeps me from beating the shit out of that son of a bitch.
Those pictures…those fucking pictures…I’ve never been so angry in my life, nor felt so ineffectual. I knew her past was bad, knew she’d been through a lot. But that…and to have him throw it in her face like that? To just use it like it’s one more weapon against her? He’s lucky I didn’t kill him, lucky he was standing in the middle of a police station when I saw what he’d done to her. And that I wanted to get Jordan away from him, wanted her to feel safe, more than I wanted to hurt him. Because otherwise I don’t know how this whole confrontation thing would have ended up.
What I do know is that the next time I see the bastard, he’s going to pay for what he’s done to Jordan. That much I can guarantee.
For her part, Jordan’s not saying much of anything—which is totally not like my girl. That more than anything else convinces me of how much he’s managed to fuck with her in the short time he had her. Usually Jordan’s full of opinions and ideas whether I want to hear them or not.
My car’s still outside the precinct—a fact I’m grateful for, considering I was in such a rush to get to Jordan that I didn’t bother to do much more than pull over in the fire lane in front of the precinct.
I’m still so glad I was close, still so glad Jace let me know about her recognizing the dirty cop’s face from the pictures he sent. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have been here and God knows how long she would have been at that bastard’s mercy.
It’s killing me that I got her into this, killing me that she’s suffering because I couldn’t protect her well enough.
I get Jordan into the car, then rush around and get in the driver’s seat. She’s still quiet which means so am I, since I don’t know what to say to her right now. Don’t know what to do that won’t make things worse.
Images of those fucking pictures keep running through my head. I knew she’d been hurt, had even made a few guesses as to what I thought happened to her. But nothing could have prepared me for those photos. I spent seven years in prison and still I don’t get how a human being can do that to another human being. How anyone could enjoy hurting another person like that—especially a woman.
After a quick glance in the mirror to make sure no one is coming, I pull into traffic. Then, once I’ve shifted gears, I take her hand in mine. I’m not sure if she wants me to touch her right now, but I’m going to go crazy if I don’t. If she pulls away, I’ll deal with it. But if she doesn’t, maybe we can both draw a little comfort from the contact. God knows, I think we both need it right now.
My touch seems to startle her out of whatever nightmare she’s locked in. She doesn’t pull away, but her whole body goes even stiffer, something I wasn’t even sure was possible until I felt it happen.
“I’m sorry,” she says, looking out the window.
“Sorry? For what?” I demand.
“That you had to come down here and get me. That you had to see those photos without any—” Her voice breaks.
“Don’t!” I tell her, my voice sharper than I mean it to be. “This is the second time I’m going to tell you this today and I need you to understand it. I’m the one who dragged you into this mess. I’m the one who fucked your whole life up. You don’t owe me an apology for anything and you sure as fuck don’t owe me an apology for what some asshole cop does or what some depraved bastard did to you before you ever knew me.”
“I should have told you. You shouldn’t have been blindsided by it—”
“When, in the grand total of the fifty-four hours we’ve known each other, should you have told me?” I demand. “And what makes you think I give a shit about what happened to you in the past? I mean, beyond the fact that it kills me that someone hurt you like that.”
“You don’t know—”
“You’re right, I don’t. And if you want to tell me, I am totally up for listening. Whenever, wherever. But if you don’t—I’m okay with that, too. I get how painful the past can be. I get that it hurts and that revisiting it only makes it hurt worse. I’m sorry you had to go through that, I’m sorry that some bastard treated you like that. But it doesn’t make me care about you less and it sure as hell doesn’t make me think less of you as a person. You survived that. You put your life back together and did a damn good job of it. If you think anything else matters to me, then you’re wrong. You’re just wrong.”
She gives a small laugh and if it’s kinda watery, I’m sure as shit not going to be the one to call her on it. Instead, I lift her hand to my mouth. Press a kiss on her palm.
“I don’t get it,” she tells me.
“Don’t get what?”
“Whatever I did to deserve a guy like you. You didn’t fuck up my life when you stole my car, Nic. I think you might have saved it.”
Suddenly she’s not the only one with tears in her eyes. And I’m not a crier.
I glance her way and our eyes lock for just a second. Then I’m reaching out, stroking her cheek, trying to figure out how the fuck she became so indispensable to me so quickly. Then again, I guess it doesn’t matter how, only that it’s happened.
&nbs
p; I go to change lanes, checking my rearview mirror as I do. And that’s when I spot the black Ford Interceptor a few cars back. It’s probably nothing, but with the day we’ve been having, I’m not taking any chances. Especially not when Jordan’s in the car with me.
I speed up a little, weave in and out of traffic, keeping a careful eye on the Interceptor. It stays a few cars behind me, but it totally keeps up.
Not nothing, then.
Shit.
Normally, I’d be more than willing to have a confrontation with Anderson or Jacobs or whoever the fuck is in that cop car. But Jordan’s been through enough today without having to deal with this shit, too.
I’m in the right lane, but when we get to the next corner, I make a left turn across traffic. Horns blare as cars slam on their brakes to avoid us. There’s one close call, but I gun the engine and we slide through without incident.
The Interceptor doesn’t follow us, but down here the streets are basically a grid, so it’s only a matter of time before whoever’s tailing us catches up. The street in front of me is clear, so I floor it. The Hemi ’Cuda jumps forward, hitting ninety in seconds.
“Hold on,” I tell Jordan as I make another left turn without warning. This street’s a little more crowded, so I weave a few times before taking yet another left.
Only problem is now we’re on a one-way street—going in the wrong direction.
Fuck.
I think about throwing the car in reverse, but it’s too late. Cars are coming toward us and I’m sure to cause a massive pileup if I try to stop here. Especially since it’s a narrow street with no room to pull over.
Fuck it. I gun the engine, and keep going straight. I’m playing chicken with a massive SUV right now, but it’s not like I’ve got a choice. I have to get Jordan to safety.
Horns are blaring all over the place, but I block them out. Instead I concentrate on playing a real-life game of Frogger, weaving between the two lanes as I dodge SUV after sedan after sports car.
If they were all moving normally, I think it might be easier. Instead, everyone’s slowing down—as they do when faced with a crazy guy speeding in the wrong direction—and so I’m forced to figure out not just an escape route, but how to get there when everyone is traveling different speeds.
