Greer

Gridlock on 23rd Street made me late. And fuck, she’s going to make it sting.

When I pull my police vehicle into the fire hydrant space outside the building, I expect Danika to be waiting at the curb with a smirk on her face, but she’s not. This is going to be my penance, huh? Going upstairs and picking her up like this is some kind of date?

Fine. I throw the car into Park and hesitate a second before reaching for the glove compartment and removing a tin of Altoids. I’m only popping a breath mint because I had tuna fish for lunch. No other reason. If I check out my mug in the rearview and grimace over three days’ worth of five o’clock shadow, it doesn’t mean anything. So why am I still sitting here?

There’s absolutely no way a fishing hook should be tugging on my gut right now. Since when do I care about making a good impression on a girl’s parents? I bought the Elvis stamps so I wouldn’t have to rely on words to make up for being an asshole to Danika. And I accomplished the mission—end of story. The sparkle was back in her eye when she spoke to me in the gym this afternoon. But nothing is going to come from what happened in her bedroom Saturday evening. Nothing except a lot of inappropriate fantasizing about it happening again, day and fucking night. Enough that my dick is rubbed raw and I’ve had to change my bed sheets twice.

Throwing myself into work Sunday through Tuesday helped occupy my mind, but seeing her today at the academy brought it all back with interest. The taste of her mouth, her pussy, her voice in the dark. The half-fascinated, half-ferocious way she frowned at me when I cleaned off her makeup. That stubborn tilt of her chin, teamed up with vulnerable eyes. Her invitation to stay, followed by her quiet embarrassment when I turned her down.

The fishing hook in my gut pulls hard.

Enough. My brother might be young, but he made a lot of sense. If you can’t offer her anything, leave her alone. That’s what I have to do.

My eyes are drawn to the small photo taped to the right of my two-way radio. Griffin used to hate that picture. Which is obviously why I taped it up in the first place—to torture him. That was how my partner and I rolled. In the snapshot, he’s posed in his uniform with a mean expression. Since I’m the one who took the picture, I know Griffin laughed immediately afterward. He wasn’t a serious person, except when it came to the badge. That was the only thing he and I had in common. We just took it seriously in different ways. I did everything by the book, while Griffin rode his impulses like a wild horse. He didn’t want to be a quiet hero, he’d wanted to be a loud one.

When we went through the academy together, everyone called him “Cowboy,” and the nickname had stuck. He’d been paired with me, his exact opposite, in an attempt to rein him in. After a rocky feeling-out period, though, we’d become best friends. We remained that way right up until his pressing need to be the big hero had gotten him killed.

My attention swings from Griffin’s photograph to the building where I’ll be meeting Danika. And for the first time, something occurs to me. Danika has a little cowboy inside her, too. Or cowgirl, as the case may be. The way she flouts the rules by breezing into the men’s locker room, her cockiness, her fierce need for independence, that stunt she’d pulled at the yogurt shop by not calling the police. Cowgirl. Getting involved with someone who’s twice as likely to find trouble or tragedy would be mental suicide. Even if this job wasn’t my life, I’m not leaving myself open again to being the last one standing.

What am I thinking even doing this ride along? Every second I spend close to her, the harder it is to stay away.

If you can’t offer her anything, leave her alone.

And I don’t have anything. Right? Besides sex, my protection, the respectability of my career and a few candy bars, what would I offer? The occasional booklet of stamps? She deserves more than that. No, I can’t be anything more than her instructor. Her friend’s brother.

Before I climb out of the car, my gaze strays back to Griffin. When I met him, I didn’t know how to have a friend. I didn’t want a friend. My youth was all about preparing for the job, and I’d already seen firsthand how easily someone who claimed to love you could leave you in the dust. What it was like to eat breakfast with a parent—the person who should be the most committed to you in the world—and find their closet empty that same afternoon. If a mother wouldn’t stick around for me, what hope did I have making friends? Someone who had other options? But Griffin had been relentless, hammering away at my shell bit by bit.

I will not allow myself to forget the days, months, years following Griffin’s death. How much I regret letting my guard down around him, only to be left with no exterior and a shitload of guilt and pain. That’s why I leave the photo taped up. It’ll be a good reminder while Danika—a cowgirl in the making if I ever met one—is in the car with me. Maybe I should include a picture of my mother beside it for good measure.

I’m the fucking picture of resolute walking into the building. One ride along. A couple of hours, then I’m dropping her off and going about my night. No mooning over the light brown shade of her eyes or complimenting her on the impressive effort she put into drills today. Nothing that might give her the impression that I’m interested in a repeat of Saturday.

My chafed dick mocks me from inside my briefs.

Someone has left the building door propped open with a phone book, but I kick it back into the foyer, making a mental note to speak with Danika about the safety of her parents’ building. I check the buzzers for the name Silva and head to the second floor. Outside the apartment door, I pause, my hand poised to knock.

Danika is laughing on the other side, these great big, gulping laughs.

I’ve never heard her let loose with that kind of sound before. It hits my chest like a brick. She’s usually smirking or concentrating. Never this happy. What’s making her that way? There are other people in the apartment . . . men yelling at a televised game, it sounds like. The smell of meat sails through the door and reminds me I haven’t eaten dinner. It’s a home inside that apartment, and I suddenly feel like a mannequin compared to the life happening over the threshold.

I’m turning to leave when the door opens.

“You crazy people are making me late for my meeting with the—”

Danika cuts herself off when she sees me standing in the hallway.

“Devil?” I supply. “Grim Reaper.”

To her credit, she recovers fast. “I was going to say lieutenant.”

“You’re a bad liar.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Thank you.”

Already, the resolve I walked into the building with is losing steam. She’s still dressed in those tight pants she had on at the academy, but she’s wearing a fresh white T-shirt that lets me see the outline of her bra. It’s not a sports one, either. It pushes her tits up into a V, which might as well be a fucking arrow pointing right at her rack.

An older woman’s voice comes through the doorway. “Danika, who’s there?”

We must have been quietly staring for a while, because we both seem to shake ourselves. “Uh, it’s Lieutenant Burns, Ma.”

“The devil?”

Danika winces, making a laugh build in my belly. But I don’t let it out. “Are you ready to go? I’ve been waiting outside since six-thirty. You’re late.”

“Now who’s the bad liar? I can see the curb from the kitchen window.”

Shit. If that slip isn’t proof this girl throws me off my game, nothing is. “Then why didn’t you come down when I pulled up?”

“I was fixing the leaky faucet, then my mother made me eat—”

“Made you eat?” A woman comes up behind Danika and pokes her in the rib with a manicured finger. “You had two helpings.”

While Danika groans and shrugs on a light denim jacket, I greet the woman with a nod. “Mrs. Silva. Is the door of your building always propped open with a phone book?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

She smiles up at me. “Because I put it there, so I don’t have to dig for my keys.”

“That’s why your bike got stolen,” calls a man from the living room.

“Just watch your damn game,” she shouts back before grabbing me by the elbow. “Come inside and have something to eat. We have plenty.”

“That won’t be necessary—”

“Don’t fight it,” Danika says, taking her jacket back off. “It’s hopeless, even for you.”

I’ve been inside plenty of New York City apartments. Being that we’re in a pre-war in Hell’s Kitchen, I think I know what to expect. Worn, wooden floors. Basic white Sheetrock and maybe one or two exposed brick walls. Lots of belongings crammed into limited space, which is the hallmark of the city. But it’s . . . amazing. Every wall seems to be a different color and theme. Family pictures cover one wall, while a bookshelf takes up another. The furniture is dark-colored and plush, but the kitchen is the reverse. It’s bright, open. Dried flowers hang down from strings, held there by clothespins. Some sort of raspberry smell drifts in the air, like maybe there’s a cheesecake in the oven.

“Nice, right?” Danika catches my attention beside me. “Makes you wonder why I choose to live with two smelly boys.”

“Danika is the one who makes it nice,” calls her mother from the kitchen. “Always coming to fix things or paint. Bringing me stuff she finds at stoop sales.”

“There’s a lot of stoops on my weekend walks crosstown.” She seems self-conscious, shoulders up around her ears. “Makes it easy.”

“Hear that?” She winks at her daughter. “So humble, my Danika.”

I can’t help but choke a little at that. “Are we talking about the same girl?”

“How would you describe her?”

That question comes from a man who has just joined us from the living room. I know with one glance he’s Danika’s father. They have the same stubborn chin. A handshake is in order here—I think—but he doesn’t seem inclined. And it doesn’t surprise me one bit that it only took me thirty seconds to fuck up this introduction with her parents. When they see me again at graduation, Danika’s mother will lean in and whisper to her husband, That’s the asshole that came to our apartment once. Remember?

My stomach lines itself with lead thinking about it.

“Yes,” the mother chimes in with a sniff, the skillet in her hand suddenly taking on the dimensions of a weapon. “How would you describe our girl?”

Danika might have looked self-conscious before, but she now appears to be enjoying herself quite a bit. She takes her time sitting down and crossing her legs. “Be careful how you answer, Grim Reaper.” Her voice drops to a dramatic whisper that makes me think things I shouldn’t be thinking in front of her mommy and daddy. “The best fried chicken of your life hangs in the balance.”

If I’m being honest, I want that goddamn fried chicken. Charlie brought me leftovers a week ago; some concoction from Ever. But apart from that, I haven’t eaten a home-cooked meal in years. Unless you count the slop I throw together in fifteen seconds and label dinner. Even more than the chicken, though, I want to be better than some asshole that spent a few uncomfortable minutes in their apartment. When they see me at graduation presenting their daughter with her diploma, I want them to know she isn’t just a face in the sea of uniforms.

“She stands out.” The compliment emerges rusty, so I clear my throat. Danika’s head comes up, too, her brown eyes flashing up at me from beneath dark lashes. “When I implied she wasn’t humble, I didn’t mean it as a bad thing. Someday when she makes detective, she’ll be one people want assigned to their case, because she’ll annoy everyone until it gets solved. If she can learn to be cautious and trust her fellow officers, she’ll be important to the department.” Silence. “She’s important.”

No one says anything. Are they waiting for me to say more? That’s the most I’ve spoken without a break outside of a lecture in a long damn while. That’s all they’re going to get. I’m seconds from excusing myself and going back down to wait in the car, but Danika’s parents converge on her so fast, I’m forced to step back. They throw their arms around her in a hug, one that is brief, but fierce. Danika is frowning at me over her father’s shoulder, but there’s a smile playing around her lips. It starts my pulse thrumming heavy in my ears.

Her mother steps back, swiping at her eyes. “He gets dessert, too.”