by Kerri Ann
Letting out a sinister laugh, Riggs starts to strip his uniform off as we walk toward the lockers.
“Ignore his ass,” Trevor says as I muse over the idea of beating Riggs to a pulp. I want to say something, but it’s neither the time nor the place. He’ll get his at some point. “Wonder what’s going on at the Pete tonight.”
“I’m not sure, but I’m not fucking it up.”
“Yeah, me neither.”
“Meet you there?”
Trev winks and grabs me by the shoulders. “Sounds like a date, anaconda.” Slapping my ass and jumping away quickly, before I can strike, I hear him laughing down the hall as he scampers away.
That anaconda shit’s gonna get old fast. “Fucker,” I mutter, shaking my head at his newest nickname.
Yanking out my phone, I research the Petersen’s schedule for tonight. The main page shows the various installations, the current ones, and an icon of an anchor situated inside a crown. Clicking it, it opens into a separate page with the sounds of revving cars and squealing tires as smoke streams across the page. As it clears, the invitation is a crisp and clear, black and white page with the price per seating, the time, and the campaign where the funds are going.
The seventh annual Anchor and Crown Foundation Fundraiser for the under-privileged inner city race competitors. Awards to follow after dinner service. Doors open at six. Silent auction draws at nine pm.
I was totally fucking wrong if I thought my day was looking up. Yeah, I figured I was being given a nice cushy position. I’d hoped that possibly there was a light at the end of the proverbial fucked-up tunnel. Fuck no.
The Captain just screwed me further.
Fuck.
CHINA
After eating the delicious meal left by Cassidy, a relaxing steam-filled hour in the sauna, and a cascading shower that made me feel like I’d had a heat peel, I’ve almost found my zen in the bottom of a bottle of red. The previous bottle of white wasn’t cutting it. The red was needed to cut the edges off my raw emotions that slowly crept to the surface. Every time I’m given a moment of solitude in this mansion, I slip into an alternate reality where I would rather become a hermit. There are days I wish I wasn’t the sweetheart Doll of Crown Industries that everyone envisions. I want to have company, but I despise the act of conversation. It’s forced and unnecessary. It’s all fake in so many ways.
The dress I selected for tonight fits like a glove and meshes with my shoes perfectly. It’s not too tight or too showy, yet it gives the hint of a girl who’s just figured out she’s not the Ugly Duckling anymore. At all these social events in the past, I’ve been dressed as my mother envisioned I should be: pristine, prim, and properly packaged. I want none of that. I want to be me. No more charades, no more smiling for the cameras—even when I feel like telling them to fuck off—and definitely no more dresses meant for Princess Diana. I will be me.
Shit. I said that already. The wine must be getting to me. Oh, well. Fuck it.
After I finished perfecting my hair and makeup, I spritzed a bit of my favorite perfume and applied my favorite ‘sexy me’ killer red lipstick. I’ve probably gone through three tubes of in the past few months. With all these events, meetings, and press releases, I’ve dwindled my supply. It totally sucks, as I can’t get it anymore.
Checking my reflection in the mirror one last time, I exit the house and walk toward the limo that awaits. I’ve made the poor guy wait longer than I should have, but fuck it. I’m out of fucks. I’ve been so out of fucks that I don’t care about anything anymore. Hopping in and sliding as gracefully as I can across the slick leather with a short, tight dress, I pull it down a touch as I close the door.
Bringing down the privacy screen between myself and the driver, who I’m expecting is Gregory, my dad’s favorite, I’m surprised to see someone different.
“Uh, who are you?”
He doesn’t even venture a look toward me in the mirror. “Tristan, ma’am.”
“Where’s Gregory? I thought he was taking me.”
“Flu,” Tristan states rather stiffly, brokering no room for further conversation about it.
I decide to bypass his gruffness and act just as short. “I assume you know where we’re going? Drop me at a side door. I don’t want to deal with paparazzi.”
“Ma’am,” is all he says as we turn down the freeway, away from the house.
If I’m being honest with myself, I’ve had a few too many glasses of wine. I don’t feel like a confrontation, least of all, starting one with an unknown limo driver about his lacking personality. I doubt I’ll ever see him again, so why put effort into it?
The liquid courage coursing through my system will make my tongue loose enough with the ensuing bad company. There’s no use in beginning a horrible night before I’ve even reached my destination.
By the time I arrive at the Petersen, it’s almost nine thirty. The party looks to be in full swing. There’s an extended line of limousines, Hummers, high-end buses, as well as the brightly polished Ferrari's, Bentley’s, Lambo’s and Maserati’s. Some I know belong to friends or enemies on the track. Tonight is an affair when we come together as a community to offer kids an opportunity to race. It’s something that enables them another outlet beyond drugs and gangs.
These are the kids that have parents who work two or more deadbeat jobs, just to put food on the table. It may not be the safest outlet, but they will get training and medical that would rival anything they’d receive in the gutter. I may not always agree with the Crown Foundation on everything they support, but this one is something I wholeheartedly do. Tonight, I’m hoping I can convince them to add a few more dollars to the roster. I want to help more kids like Charlie.
“Ma’am, the door you requested,” Tristan indicates as he parks the car. Walking around and knocking on the side door, Tristan reappears to open mine. Assisting me out of the limo, I step forth, taking his hand to stand, pushing my dress down neatly.
“Thank you,” I say curtly. Waiting for the door of the venue to open, a middle-aged man opens the door with a bang against the outer wall.
“Ms. Crown.”
Nodding, I step toward him.
Tristan stands nervously, scanning the area. “Would you like that I wait for you here or at the front? Either would suit me fine, though I would feel safer to gather you there.”
“The front will be fine.” Walking away, my heels click across the cobblestone entrance. As the door is closing, the last thing I hear is “Ma’am” from Tristan as I enter the soiree.
For the first time, I’m alone at one of these. Feeling completely deserted in a room that will be filled with strangers, teammates, competitors and blowhards, I’ll have to prove I can handle this.
RISEN
Trevor and I both pulled up around three this afternoon, dressed polished and perfected. The building’s security was horrendous, to say the least. It hadn’t been roped off at the front entrance, and the side doors were wide open, giving easy access like between a hooker’s legs. There was no one on-site to check the credentials of workers. After forcing others into action, we set ourselves up for a very long evening of fuck ups.
Riggs arrived late, as expected, leaving myself and Trev to figure out the logistics. Did I assume it would have lax security? No. I’d expected it to have a very visible presence of both private and single event security. But this? It was a tabloid sniper’s playground.
What a fucking disgrace.
When Riggs decided to saunter in around seven, with his arms draped lazily around two obviously stunning women that were way above his pay grade, he smirked. Kissing both on the cheeks, they strolled over to where we both stood, shaking our heads at his audacity. He’s so fucking poor, the stink of it rolls off him like a perfume. The girls know it, he knows it, and everyone around knows that he can’t afford their haircuts, never mind any other part of what those prissy girls would require in a boyfriend. And don’t get me started on the idea that they don’t go looking for any
thing more than a ‘you won’t believe what this guy let us do’ moment. He’ll be the brunt of all the jokes they tell for the next twenty years. Guys like him don’t get those girls for long.
“I miss anything?” he asks. “You both look fuckin’ exhausted. It’s not even five hours in.”
Trevor clips off, grinding his teeth. “Nothin’ you need to worry about. We’ve got it, bro.” Trev scans the crowd with his eyes. He’s been extra alert since he let Ken Donavan in by mistake.
Being from Minnesota and sequestered at Michigan All-State for all his formidable years, Trevor didn’t have a good handle on the who’s who of scuff mag, trash talking, ambulance chasing scumbags like Ken. Ken’s the cream of the crop in asshole reporting. I think he has the equivalent of a junk mag Pulitzer for pics of China and her friends at a beach party two years ago. Nude dancing under the rising sun on a private beach will do that. Even if it is your stretch of beach, China should’ve known better. Anyway, now Trevor’s extra vigilant. There he is, checking purses, men’s suit pockets, and if the person looks out of place, they’re interrogated. I’ve actually had to slow him up a bit.
Grinning sideways at Trevor, Riggs sneers before turning his attention to the car we’re standing beside. “Holy fuck! You guys know what car this is? This is that fucking Bond car. I’d give my left testicle to plow that down the Intercoastal.” Leaning over the rope that keeps dirty fucks like him away, he runs his fingers along the Aston symbol on the hood. “Feels like fuckin’ money, I tell ya.”
Ignoring his ignoramus ass, I continue to watch the crowd as they mill between the exhibits. The awards part of the evening will take place within the next hour if they stick to schedule. The issue, one of the Crown’s are expected, and supposedly, the guest of honor hasn’t arrived. I doubt it’s Wyatt or China. More than likely, it’ll be the older brother, Jamieson.
“Trev, I’m going for a walk.” We watch as Riggs pulls the rope low so he can step inside the barrier. “He’s going to get us arrested,” I snort.
Trev nods and pats my shoulder with an understanding smirk.
Walking away and into the designer fashion show of Ferragamo, Balenciaga, Dolce, Versace, and a slew of other designers on display, patrons vie for double cheek air kisses, handshakes, and quiet conversations. Flowing through, ignoring their stares, I’m neither wearing a prestigious designer or an outfit that would allow me to blend in. My attire creates a certain amount of nervousness. In general, my height and size—not unlike a Green Bay linebacker—makes me hard to ignore. With my perfectly pressed dress blues, they part like the Red Sea. Some nod, some smile a friendly greeting, and the odd ones call me by name.
Figuring it’s been a few hours since we checked the kitchen, I find myself drawn to it. Every hour, either Trevor or I have swung through. Twice I was lucky enough to find a reporter paying off a busboy, and once I was able to find one on the return trip, sauntering toward the front. The caterers have now adjusted to us passing through. Keeping Trevor’s fingers out of the food was another issue.
Wandering around, my thoughts drift. With my head still on the guillotine block, I can’t fuck this up.
“Excuse me,” someone says from behind me. “Are you going to move or block the way all night, Viking?”
Figuring it’s a reporter, I turn around to harass the speaker. I’m in utter shock. Seafoam after a massive storm, an angry green, filled with flecks of turquoise leaves me speechless. Thick, full lashes caption her face like a painting. Chocolate and midnight black hair lying pin straight, except for a slight portion flicked away attached to a petite sun freckled nose and full pouty lips that are more than hard to ignore. China Crown.
Gaping like a big mouth bass, staring at the one woman that makes my body react like a horny teenager the first time you see a porno mag, my dick reacts before I can even think to close my mouth.
“You!” she says tightly, placing her hands on her hips. “You are the very last motherfucker I wanted to see in the next twenty-four hours.”
Wow, cuss much?
I’d love to admonish her for it, but I actually find it extremely attractive on such a beautiful package.
“Miss Crown, why are you back here? They’ve been waiting for you to start the awards ceremony.”
Standing there looking pissed at me for blocking her quiet entrance, China pushes against my chest with both hands. “Why are you even here? This isn’t really your scene, Officer. Or are you giving out fines for wearing Oxford’s?” Swaying a bit on her feet, China giggles, then hiccups as she leans to the side.
Putting her hand down on the nearest counter to balance herself, I see the disaster in slow motion. As her fingers land in an entire tray of raspberry panna cottas, upending it with a crash, China squeals loudly. Coating her dress, it sticks to her sexy-as-fuck legs, melding into the soft leather heels, covering my dress slacks and the floor around us. She looks like a heavenly mess.
“Really!” China cries out. She screams so loud, she draws the attention of every single person within a fifty-foot radius. Snatching up a soft white cloth off the counter, she attempts to remove the detritus from her dress. “Come on, universe, throw me a fucking bone!” Smucking it about, only smearing it further, her once cream, off the shoulder low cut dress is now tie-dyed with crushed raspberry and caramelized sugar.
Grabbing a clean towel, flicking off some of the harder chunks of the dessert, I swipe down my pants. It doesn’t make a fucking lick of difference.
I hand China the towel. “Don’t touch me. The last thing I need is for you all of a sudden becoming noble.” Slurring her words, she wipes at the dress hastily, smudging it further. “Fuck me! I look like a Muppets Show mistake! And don’t get all high and mighty, and definitely don’t start being a…a…” Turning to me, stumbling on her words, she pauses. “Prick!”
“A high and mighty prick? Woe is me. How will I survive without you approving my noble intentions, Miss Crown.”
“Good thing you didn’t help me out two weeks ago. Oh, wait, you did! Otherwise, I would have ridden here in my leathers on my specially tuned road bike. But that will never happen again because it’s now a jigsaw puzzle for thugs and assholes.”
“Yeah, I get it. I did my job...” I huff when I think of apologizing to her. She’s become all uppity and doesn’t deserve any apologies. “You know what, Miss Crown? I did my job, and you know nothing about me.”
Tossing the slime-covered towel on the counter, I bend down and retrieve the upended tray, wondering how the hell I got into this mess with China, again.
Standing back up, I find my eyes venturing up the length of her satiny soft legs. They go on forever before stopping at the slit in her dress that shows enough to interest you, and enough to be slightly conservative.
“Look here, where my eyes are,” she sneers. Pulling up to my full height, I look down on her and smirk. Man, I love her attempt at being evil. She’s pissed, and man, it looks good on her.
“Look, Officer...” she prompts.
“Mason.”
“Officer Mason. We’ve been unfortunate enough to run into each other twice, and even though I believe you are possibly the sexiest guy I’ve ever seen, you are a fucking walking disaster. I mean, honestly. Look at my dress!”
“What the hell do you think I’ve been doing?”
“Never seen a woman in a dress this nice before?” China wipes a bit of the raspberry cream mix off her hands and mixes it into the already covered towel before tossing it to the side. She peers down at her goo-covered hands and asks, “Is this above the Kmart nine-ninety-nine priced girls you go for?” She pokes me in the chest, right at a button, pushing it in tightly against me. That fucking hurts.
She thinks I’m a piece of shit, a trailer trash asswipe that doesn’t care about the packaging. She’s in for a shocking surprise, but I’m not about to promote myself in her eyes.
“Isn’t that a bit skewed? I may not have met you in the best of circumstances every time we’ve ra
n into each other, but I’m…” I pause again, thinking better of my response before getting into another heated argument with her. “Princess, I’m not the one wearing a made to fit Alexander McQueen with raspberry everywhere.”
China’s eyes bug out, fully amazed that I, the police officer, and what she considers gutter trash, knows what an Alexander McQueen looks like.
“How could I possibly know who a high fashion designer is, right?”
She nods, dropping the towel on the counter.
“I’m more than what you see, sweetheart.”
She covers her mouth in mock shock. “Oh, I get it. You’re a closet gay with a fetish for haute couture.” China giggles. It’s awfully attractive.
Smiling at her, I take in the happy mess she is. “You have a bit of cream right here.” I touch the corner of her nose, “And there.” I motion to the edge of her mouth.
Noticing the muck covering her, China licks it, smiling up at me.
“Fucking perfect,” I mutter aloud.
Taking a moment to collect herself, China smooths down the mess on her dress. “Officer Mason, would you mind assisting me toward the hall?” Tossing her hair back, the stiff mask she wears on the track is back. The soft giggle is gone, and the harsh lines are back. “At least with you having the same ghastly attire, it might make the story plausible. I could say you stopped a rogue reporter, giving him his just desserts.” She waivers on her feet as she transfers her weight from foot to foot, trying to stay upright in the sticky mess.
“Have you been drinking, Miss Crown?”
“A bit of wine.” Her smile is fake; just another mask. It’s heart-wrenching, how she looks so sad and broken. “And it’s your problem how, Officer Mason?”
“Are you sure you should be going out on stage? I have the feeling you might fall on the way up to the podium. Possibly, someone—”
“Not a fucking chance.”
“China—”
She places a slim finger against my mouth. “You don’t get a choice in this. And it’s Miss Crown, Officer. I need you to get me to that podium so I can deliver the speech without being further humiliated.” Staring up at me, pleading with her gorgeous green eyes, I can’t deny her.
