Lust

by Lana Pecherczyk

The scowl from Parker at the home plate made her sit with a pout.

  It wasn’t fair.

  But she didn’t want to cause trouble. Mama had lectured them about trying to appear normal in front of the locals. If anyone found out she was stronger than most boys, she’d get in trouble. So she stared at the ground.

  The white ball rolled and hit her toes again.

  This time, the boy came trotting over. They both reached for the ball at the same time and knocked heads. She got the ball first and handed it to him.

  He grinned. He had a nice smile and a dimple on his chin.

  “How come you don’t play?” he asked, tossing and catching the ball like he was clever.

  “Um. My brothers won’t let me join their team.”

  “Oh. Well, you can join mine if you like.” He puffed his chest out. “I’m the captain.”

  She glanced over at her family. All of them were either on the diamond in the coach’s box, at the home plate, or standing behind a chain-link fence, waiting for the pitch.

  “You got a good arm,” the boy continued.

  “I know,” she replied.

  His lips curved in a way that captured Liza’s attention, and she wasn’t sure why.

  “My name’s Joey. What’s yours?”

  “Liza.”

  Someone shouted from the diamond. “We gonna play, or what?”

  “Sorry,” Liza murmured. “That’s my stupid brother, Wyatt. He gets a bit angry.”

  Joey shrugged. “My dad gets angry all the time. Angry doesn’t scare me. So, you wanna play?”

  Joey’s childhood voice echoed in her memory and she smiled. She’d played on his neighborhood baseball team the entire summer. Her younger brothers hadn’t cared, but the older ones? They’d been mad as hell about her betrayal. But Liza knew they wouldn’t tattle on her. Mama would just put them in their place and say a girl could do whatever a boy could do... as long as they were being careful with their strength.

  And Liza did. She’d become the team’s official pitcher, despite the game being heavily male-orientated. The sad part was, once summer was over, baseball was too. Joey had turned up at the last game with a split lip and said he wouldn’t be able to play for a while. He’d been distant and quiet, but in the end, he’d handed her the baseball and wrote her name on it.

  “If you ever need someone on your team, throw that into my yard, and no matter what, I’ll come. Codename: Baseball. Right?”

  She hadn’t understood what he’d meant at the time, but as the years went on, Liza had signed her name and thrown the baseball a few times. Joey had returned it too. If one of them needed help, no questions asked, the ball came out. Sometimes in lockers at school, a lunch box, or pockets. It was a secret code.

  Even after Liza’s years abroad, and they’d reconnected at the police academy, the baseball was still in play. That’s why it still mattered now.

  If Joey thought she’d forgotten all that, he had better get his affairs in order.

  She put on her jacket and scarf and then was across town at Joey’s apartment within thirty minutes. The super let her in with a flash of her CCPD badge, and then she made her way up three floors. She pounded on Joe’s door and stood back to wait with the baseball turning in her hand.

  Joey was her friend. The only person she’d ever felt at ease around. The only person she’d never sensed lust from, and that included her family. Every time a pretty girl walked past one of her brothers, she’d get a cramp. But never around Joey. She used to think he was broken, then she thought he was gay, but she knew deep down that was a lie too. She still would have sensed lust from him. But the last time she saw him, he claimed to have been in a relationship for the past two years. He was a mystery she needed to solve.

  He certainly wasn’t her mate, she knew that for sure.

  The mating bond triggered upon touch. Liza and Joey had touched numerous times throughout their lives, so it had to be something else, or she’d have powers by now.

  She pounded on his door again.

  It swung open.

  A tall and dripping wet FBI Special Agent scowled down at her, dimple in chin pronounced. He wore only a small white towel wrapped around his hips. A tiny white towel. Very narrow hips. Her eyes dragged upward over his naked torso to take in sculptured muscles, broad shoulders, and smooth Mediterranean skin she hadn’t seen since the police academy locker room.

  A droplet of water fell from his short, dark hair to run down his five o’clock shadow and then plopped onto one very defined pec that twitched under the weight of her attention. The dark hair on his chest had been clipped close to the skin. He manscaped.

  Heat surged up her neck to hit her cheeks.

  Liza blinked.

  Since when had he gotten so... not like Joey?

  3

  Liza Lazarus was the last person Joe Luciano expected to see outside his apartment, but there she was, staring up at him with big, perfect eyes. The sight of her was a hit to the sternum and, for a moment, his brain stopped communicating with the rest of his body. If he’d thought the impact of her beauty and presence would dim over time, he was wrong.

  “What do you want, Liza?” he growled, one hand gripping the doorknob, the other clutching the wet towel around his waist. “I’m kind of in the middle of something.”

  “What the hell, Joey?” Her brows slammed together. The sass that had chased him his entire life resurrected. She threw something at his chest. He caught it with one hand.

  Every excuse vaporized.

  Painful memories of hot summers, secret laughs, and unrequited love opened a gaping hole in his chest.

  Codename: Baseball. She remembered.

  Liza pushed through the door.

  Dazed, he pulled the door closed so his neighbors wouldn’t hear the argument he knew was coming. Then he crossed the small one-bedroom apartment, bypassed unpacked boxes, and went to the open sliding door facing the balcony. He closed that too, but remained and stared through the glass panes to the opposite building. They were three levels up, yet he felt the pull of gravity like he was falling.

  His fingers trembled around the ball.

  “It’s not Joey anymore. It’s Joe.” His voice was like gravel. “I told you that the last time we saw each other.”

  “The last time we saw each other? I’ve left you gazillions of messages since then. It’s been two months.”

  “Two months since you last insulted me.”

  Yeah, sure, Joe. That’s why you’re staying away from her. Keep telling yourself that, maybe one day it will stick.

  He strode to the kitchen and placed the ball on the counter. It glared back at him, so he turned his back.

  Liza’s eyes seemed to soften, and Joe could have sworn guilt flashed in those whiskey caramel depths. But as usual, she brushed off his pain as though he was an afterthought. He mentally shook his head. She hadn’t changed a bit.

  “What insults?” she scoffed.

  Every muscle in his body went rigid, and a familiar wash of pathetic capitulation urged him to ignore her until he squashed it down. Not this time. Never again.

  He didn’t know why he’d assumed she’d see him differently the last time they’d met. He’d spent years with the FBI, training to be... what was it her brothers had said all those years ago?

  “You’ll never be good enough for her.”

  He’d spent the past half-decade learning to match the high standards her family had set, to be good enough. But that was the thing. He’d never wanted to be good enough. He’d wanted to be better. And better was a fool’s dream, for the line was always shifting, and sometimes it was he who shifted it.

  “What insults?” he repeated incredulously and began a slow prowl toward her doubting, beautiful face. Maybe she saw the steely determination in his eyes, or maybe his new bulkier frame dwarfed her athletic physique, but she backed up until her rear hit the wall next to the door.

  Well, I’ll be damned. Liza-fucking-Lazarus, the woman who made her
own rules and bowed to no one, backed up. Because of him.

  Maybe this was the kind of man she’d needed all along. Forget the nice guy, she wanted an alpha-asshole, just like her dickhead brothers. Learning this may have filled the old Joey with naïve hopes, but Joe Luciano, FBI Special Agent in Violent Crimes, had no fucks to give.

  His lip curled as he placed a palm on the wall next to her face.

  “Let me refresh your memory. One. Last. Time.” He changed the tone of his voice to high-pitched, so it was clear who’d said the next words. “What does your boyfriend think of my dress? Joey’s saving himself for marriage. The only date Joey goes on is with his right hand.” He relaxed his tone. “You want me to go on?”

  She stared blankly for a moment before rallying with a sarcastic pout. “Aw. Poor baby Joey. I hurt your feelings. You want me to fetch your diary so you can write about it?”

  He slammed his other palm on the wall, caging her in. She didn’t startle. She never did. It was as though she lived in a constant state of awareness, that she was prepared for this kind of intimidation at every turn. Did the woman ever relax?

  She gave a small laugh. “Fuck off, Joey. I was only kidding. Jeez.”

  “Kidding?” He leaned in until his nose was an inch from hers. “Your jokes had the entire precinct thinking I was some pansy asexual robot.”

  She tried to laugh it off. “You know what the guys are like there. You have to be crude or you don’t fit in, especially for a woman. Besides, it was kind of true. You never went on dates. You never felt an iota of lust for anyone, and do you know what? I accept you no matter what sexual orientation. Don’t blame me for stating the truth.”

  His eyes narrowed. “And how, exactly, would you know what the truth is?”

  She blinked. “I mean. It was clear. Obviously.”

  His gaze dipped to her lips, to the soft, sensual pillow of her generous mouth. How he’d dreamed of those lips. How they’d kept him company for nights on end. How they’d given him wood, just from watching her take a sip from her Starbucks coffee using a straw so her teeth wouldn’t stain.

  He met her gaze with a challenge on his own. “Obviously, you never looked down.”

  The air between them crackled with tension. It snapped at his skin, skittered down his stomach, and wrapped its hot little fingers around his cock. The towel tightened around his hips. And through it all, he held her gaze, daring her to look down.

  For once in your fucking life, notice me, Liza.

  Her lashes lowered. Stopped at his crotch. A hissed intake of breath and then—

  Knock-knock-knock.

  “Come on, G-Man. We’re here!” someone shouted through the door. Sounded like Houlahan.

  He checked the clock on the kitchen wall and cursed. They must have flashed their badges to get into the building, much like Liza probably had.

  “They’re early,” he muttered.

  And he wasn’t dressed. The place wasn’t ready. Unopened boxes from storage still littered the room and stacked against the wall. As usual, Liza had waltzed into his life and turned his plans upside down. He’d wanted the night with just the old boys so he could drill them for information on his new case. This would ruin everything.

  He scrubbed a hand down his face and slid Liza a resigned look. “Make yourself useful for once and leave.”

  Her eyes were still glued to his crotch. The blood had drained from her face and it looked like she’d seen a ghost. He snapped his fingers. “Liza, I know it’s impressive, but you need to go. Capeesh?”

  “I’m not going anywhere, you turd. You can’t invite half the precinct to a poker night and not me.” The tremble in her voice betrayed the anger in her eyes. “So march yourself back to the shower, finish... what I obviously interrupted, and I’ll set everything up.”

  He stifled a smile as she blustered to his kitchen. He’d ruffled her feathers. Good. Wait—what was she doing? She opened the fridge and pulled out the antipasto plate he’d purchased. Sensing his attention, her shoulders tensed. Without looking up, she said, “Codename: Baseball.”

  Well, shit.

  He had to follow the rules. If he didn’t, then he was shitting all over their history, over what those simple two words had meant. And they had meant the world to a thirteen-year-old boy with a stinky arm cast who’d secretly left the signed baseball in a twelve-year-old girl’s lunch box so she’d sit with him when no one else would.

  With no other option, he returned to his bedroom, slid on some jeans, and slipped on a t-shirt. A quick check in the mirror saw to his hair. With it messy, he looked too much like his father, and that wouldn’t do.

  Joe flexed his fist, watching his fingers curl and then open, wanting to dispel the feeling of violence that always seemed beneath the surface. He’d only ever let it slip once.

  “You’re just like your father,” his mother shouted at him in their car, parked before his school. “You think you’re so different, but you’re not. You’re exactly the same.”

  “I am nothing like him,” Joe shot back, ignoring the way his heart crumbled inside. “I raised my fist in defense, not from some sick desire to dominate.”

  He’d started a fight, which resulted in suspension from high school. Three days was his penalty. But it was worth it. Those assholes had called Liza a slut behind her back.

  His mother had only laughed as she turned the ignition on and put the car into gear. “You keep telling yourself that, Joey, but you Luciano men are all the same. Any excuse to beat someone senseless will do. Today it’s a boy in the yard, but eventually, you’ll bruise the people closest to you, too.”

  Joe cracked his knuckles, then shook his hands out.

  He’d been proving his mother wrong his whole life. And he owed Liza, at least one last time before he pulled her life apart. He covered up the case files on his bed and hid them beneath the mattress. Then he covered the crime scene pictures on the wall with a large city map poster. The last thing he needed was for Liza to barge in and see what he was investigating. She’d blow the case.

  4

  Liza half expected Joe to boot her out of his apartment. There wasn’t room for her at the small round table with only two chairs. Houlahan and Briggs brought fold-up camping chairs. Tom from administration took the second chair.

  “Liza,” Houlahan said with a frown at the lack of table space. “I didn’t know you were invited. I would have brought another chair.”

  She cracked the cap off a beer and handed it to him with a wink. “My invite got lost in the mail.”

  With no television in the apartment, the couch faced the balcony’s sliding door windows. She studied the layout and, for a moment, almost turned tail and left, but decided she would not cave that easily. She wanted answers from Joey—ahem, Joe—and he was being a jerk about it. He was either going to give them to her now, or she would wait until the end of the night. Besides, she liked poker and was pissed she hadn’t been invited. She would not let this go.

  “Shift the table near the couch. I’ll lean against the back of it,” she said and gestured with her hand.

  The three detectives helped her move the furniture, and before they knew it, they were all settled down for their first round of poker, much to Joe’s chagrin and sideways glare as he finished setting up refreshments on the kitchen counter.

  He returned to the table without a drink for her, but made sure the guys were served.

  Ooh. So that’s how it’s going to be, huh? The old cold shoulder standoff.

  “You’re showing your colors, Luciano,” she murmured with a hint of tease in her voice.

  He raised a brow as he picked up his cards and sorted them. “How so, Lazarus?”

  As if he didn’t know.

  “Forgetting to serve the lady? If that’s how you screw, then no wonder you’re living alone in this one bedroom.”

  “Lady?” Joe snorted. “I don’t see a lady.”

  The men chuckled cheekily behind their cards. She stared coldly at he
r hand, letting her anger simmer beneath the surface. She’d received shit her entire life at the precinct for being a little more masculine than feminine. It wasn’t her body, she had curves in all the right places. It was the lack of makeup and girly fashion. Her potty mouth. Her practical, nail-polish free hands. If only they knew how deadly those hands could be. Bitterness lanced her tongue. Not a lady, huh?

  She placed her cards down, stretched her arms out wide, and removed her jacket, pushing out her chest seductively. Then she untwined her scarf and found a tie in her jeans pocket to secure her long brown hair in a top knot. With every movement she made, she took special care to play into her femininity. It was there… she usually preferred to ignore it. And admittedly, she ignored it more often than not since she’d started puking after sex.

  “Bit stifling in here with all these hot-headed assholes,” she joked, and fanned her face, and then trailed a lingering finger along her décolletage as she shifted an errant strand of escaped hair.

  The men snorted sarcastically. Except Joe. His expression remained stoic, as though he did his best to hold in any reaction. But she caught the flick of his gaze to her neck and then the slow drag to her breasts before he busied himself with sorting his cards again.

  It should have made her feel triumphant, but it didn’t. It made her unsettled, squirming, and a little flushed.

  She needed a drink. While the men started the round, she went to the kitchen and helped herself. It was a typical male spread, antipasto mixed with random things like nuts and raspberry licorice. A few cold beers sat unopened. She took one, popped the cap, and hesitated. She preferred to use a straw when drinking from a bottle. She might not be a prissy girl, but her teeth were the one thing she liked to keep nice. The acid in beer, coffee, and wine would eventually stain.

  Liza checked cupboards to see if she could find something else to drink, or even better, straws. She bent low and opened doors, but found nothing but plates and utensils.

  She felt him before she saw him—a lick of heat along her spine as she straightened.