Greer

Wings are flapping in my ears. Loud. Sounds that I normally find soothing—tapping keys, filing cabinets sliding open—are attacking my eardrums like needles, turning them into pincushions. On a regular day, people seem to move interminably slow when I’m trying to get shit done. Right now, though, while I’m waiting to be taken to a back room at Central Booking, such lethargy is fucking unacceptable.

“I don’t need an escort,” I say though my teeth at the pencil dick manning the front desk. Upon arriving, I showed him my lieutenant’s badge and he almost pissed himself, calling for a superior to act as my tour guide, as if I need one. I’ve made it my business to know every nuance of protocol, and I can walk through any door I choose, if I deem it necessary.

And that’s exactly what I need to do right now. Get through the door to the place where Silva is being held. So I can demand an explanation, then shout at her no matter how reasonable it turns out to be.

“Call again. I’m in a hurry.”

He fumbles with the intercom. “Yes, sir.”

Half an hour ago, I was sitting at my desk completing case paperwork when my phone buzzed. A courtesy call from another precinct informing me that one cocky, beautiful—damn me for noticing—recruit is in custody requesting my presence as soon as possible. That’s when the flapping in my ears started and it hasn’t stopped, merely growing more deafening during my drive downtown. God, as soon as I see her, I’m going to . . .

Make sure she’s okay.

Yeah, man. That ought to teach her a lesson.

A vision of my hands roaming over her back is interrupted when a stiff-lipped officer arrives, putting his hand out for a shake. “Lieutenant Burns. Sorry for the wait. Follow me.”

We move through a series of hallways, each one dimmer and smellier than the last. The farther we get into the bowels of Central, the more anxious I get for the sight of Silva. She better be pissed off or flippant about this whole situation, because I’m not sure I can handle anything but her usual cocky attitude. Not when she’s spent the last couple hours caged inside these walls.

A growl builds in my throat. “Fill me in.”

“Yes, sir.” The officer takes another turn, leading to another hallway, and now I’m starting to get really irritated. “Couple of teenagers in Hell’s Kitchen had plans to hold up a yogurt shop. Might have pulled it off if they hadn’t alluded to their plans on Facebook. Posted pictures of themselves in masks, like a couple of Grade-A jackasses.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“You said it. One of their mothers called the closest precinct and tipped them off. Officers followed the perps to the location. They probably wouldn’t have called in backup and made any arrests if they hadn’t seen one of the kids with a weapon. Confiscated a twenty-two pistol. Belongs to the kid’s father, but it’s not registered.”

If the officer notices the hitch in my step, he doesn’t comment. How the hell did Silva end up in a situation where her safety was in jeopardy? I need answers now, or I’m going to start breathing actual fire. But I want those answers from her.

“Same mother who called in the tip is now complaining about how long it’s taking to bail out Heckle and Jeckle, if you’re a fan of irony.” He pushed out a sigh. “Meanwhile, the girl seemed like an innocent bystander. Probably would have been questioned and released at the scene, but she wouldn’t leave her cousin.”

“Cousin?”

“Yeah. Kid worked behind the counter at the shop. She kicked up kind of a fuss when we arrived at The Tombs and separated them.”

“Funny, that doesn’t sound like her,” I mutter. We stop outside a locked door, and I bite the inside of my cheek while the officer moves in slow motion, unlocking it with a loaded down key chain. “I’ll sign the paperwork for their immediate release. Have it ready for me as soon as possible.”

“Yes, sir.”

He pushes the door open and there’s Silva, swallowed up by the cold, gray room. As soon as she sees me, she shoots to attention at her feet, then hates herself for it. But not as much as she usually would, because she’s . . . upset. Her bottom lip is red from being worried by her teeth, there’s a crumpled tissue in her hand. Goddammit. Just like that, I’m transported to no-man’s-land. A land populated by sad girls who speak a different language.

Realizing I’ve been quiet too long, I clear my throat. “Thank you. I’ll take it from here.”

That almost sounded convincing.

The silence that reigns in the wake of the door closing is solid. Brutally so. I expect Silva to launch into an explanation, but she doesn’t. Just stands there, across the room, balancing on the balls of her feet, mutilating that tissue. This could have been so much worse. I know that lesson well. It’s inked on my insides in permanent marker. I want to shout it at her until my voice gets hoarse, but instead, I find myself moving toward her cautiously. Maybe I’ll get that coveted chance to yell later, but that image of my hands stroking her back won’t leave me.

I get within a couple feet, and she turns her face away, giving me the quiet dignity of her profile, a front row seat to the little hairs curling behind her ear. Which unfortunately brings me another step closer. Another. Until her body heat is mingling with mine. We’re not touching, but her breath fans my neck, our fingertips come dangerously close to brushing.

“You’re . . . unhurt?”

“Yes,” she whispers. “Thanks. For coming.”

My gaze drops to her mouth, the lift of her upper lip, the dip in the center of the lower one. I have this insane urge to run my palm over that mouth, curve my fingers around her chin. Trail them down her neck. Then snag her elbow and yank her up against me with all my might.

I’ve never been a man given to dominating women, although being the aggressor is a given. It’s in my blood to lead. And ever since I dropped Silva to the mat and heard that goddamn moan, felt that spike of awareness that she somehow needs that intensity, my fantasies of her have changed shape, texture. They were indecent and filthy before, but now I’m . . . consuming her. The hunger to bring those fantasies to life forces me to step back, but the loss of her heat is too sudden. Horrible. “You better have a good explanation for being at the scene of an attempted armed robbery, Silva.”

“I do, Lieutenant.” She faces me, all traces of her upset going up in smoke. “It was hard enough calling you for help. Please don’t make it worse by talking down to me. Just this once.”

It was hard for her to call me for help? I don’t like that shit. At all. “Why was it hard?”

“I—” Her mouth opens and snaps shut. “Because you’ve arrived to rescue the damsel in distress, and now you’re going to lord it over me.” She scrutinizes me for a beat. “Aren’t you?”

“No.”

“Really?”

My nasty grunt is nothing short of elegant, but I’m feeling very . . . perturbed. Not like my usual irritable condition, either. This is hitting me lower, like I ran full force into a stuck turnstile. “There might be some form of consequences for what happened today, but after you give me an explanation, we’ll never speak about it again. Does that meet with your approval, recruit?”

Maybe I’m the one speaking a foreign language. That’s how she’s staring at me. “Why would you do that?”

Because somewhere underneath the panic I’ve been experiencing since I got the phone call . . . there’s satisfaction that she requested me. That she chose to depend on me in a time of need. “Why? So you don’t do something else stupid and allow your pride to keep you locked in a dungeon, instead of calling me. That’s why.”

Her eyes fire off twin flares. “I don’t make a habit of being stupid. But either way, you’re not my designated get-out-of-jail-free card.”

“I don’t see anyone else here.”

“Well . . .” Her chin wobbles, firms. “Lucky me, huh?”

She almost apologizes for the sarcastic comment, but I shake my head to let her know it isn’t necessary. Not when her chin is wobbling. “What were you doing in the yogurt shop?” I’d supervised drills that morning, but left the recruits in another instructor’s hands for the afternoon. “You couldn’t have been dismissed for twenty minutes when shit hit the fan.”

“I took a cab across town.” She leans back against the metal table. “My cousin Robbie works at the yogurt shop. He told me what was going down. He was scared.”

“Was he in on the robbery?”

“No. Not intentionally. These kids pestered him for the information they needed. Before he knew it, he was aiding them, but Greer—” We both freeze at her use of my first name, for the first time ever. God help my cock tonight. I’m going to stroke myself blind to the memory of her saying it. When Silva . . . when Danika continues, her tone has quieted some. “I mean, Lieutenant. He’s a great kid. Good grades. A future.”

“One of the perps’ mothers called the police. Did you?”

“Not at first.” Her eyes slam shut. “I thought I could handle some stupid neighborhood kids. I didn’t want them to lie and drag my cousin down with them.”

My blood heats to a boiling point, fast and furious. Every muscle in my body is screaming to gather her up, push my mouth against her ear and list the potential consequences of her actions. Every grisly detail, until she never tries to brave a dangerous situation alone ever again. God help me, my hands ache to connect with her backside. Rough, no nonsense slaps, five times on each side. Not only to punish her for being reckless, but to . . . soothe her afterward. Both of us. Her body is tense, as is mine, and some new intuition is whispering the fix in my ear. But I’m not sure I can trust it. Not when Danika makes me question every rule I’ve lived by for so long. Have I completely overinflated what happened during that takedown exercise? Am I insane to think she could be turned on by the images in my head?

“You don’t have to lecture me. I know I made a really dangerous decision.” Lecture her? I almost have to laugh at how tame she assumes my thoughts to be. I’ve been masturbating to her for months. “If I need to take the blame for this, on Robbie’s behalf, so be it.”

“You’re not taking the blame for anything,” I snap. Out of sexual frustration. Over the fact that she’s being noble, which makes me like her even more. Or maybe I’m still ticked she was in danger, especially when she didn’t need to be. All of the above. “They’re getting the paperwork ready now. You’ll both be released within the hour. I’ll make sure this doesn’t end up blackening either of your records.”

“Really?” Danika straightens, gratitude blooming on her face. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

I could leave the situation as is and bask in the fact that she’s grateful to me. I could. But I won’t. It’s not how I’m built. “Don’t thank me yet.”

“Uh-oh.”

A hum vibrates in my throat as I pace to the opposite end of the room. “There’s a reason the recruits call me Lieutenant Hard-Ass when they think I can’t hear.” I wait for her to deny it, but only get a slight coloring of her cheeks. “The nickname fits.”

She cocks a hip. “Are you going to punish me?”

A growl rumbles in my chest, my fingers flexing of their own accord. God, this interest in swatting her ass builds by the second into a sharp longing. A need to . . . assert myself. Make her aware of how insane she makes me. It doesn’t seem to conflict with this overwhelming need to make her pleased with me, though. No, these two desires intersect right in the middle. “You might consider it a punishment, but I suggest you view it as a learning experience.”

“Definitely a punishment.”

I sigh. “I have the power to sweep this all under the rug. Favors are traded in this department more than I care to admit. No one would question me. But I don’t do favors. Not without consequences. If everyone faced real consequences for every decision, they’d think twice before acting. And as your instructor, I’m doubly responsible for making sure you make a better call next time. Same goes for your cousin.”

Her lips move as she processes that. “What are you going to do?”

“Your cousin is going to do some community service in my precinct.” Taking out my notepad, I jot a quick note to hook Danika’s cousin up with our community liaison. “Graffiti removal, helping little old ladies cross the street. We’ll think of something. The goal is to make him understand cause and effect. That’s my condition for making this go away.”

“Fine. I agree with you,” she surprises me by saying. “I would have settled for nagging him on the phone every day until he leaves for college, but your plan is better.”

My mouth twitches at the word nagging. What would it be like to get a phone call from this girl? Nice. Reassuring. Provoking. All of the above. “As for you, Silva . . .” I flip my notebook shut. “Until graduation, you’re on probation.”

Her chin drops. “Probation?” She searches the room for answers. “How will that work?”

“You’ll continue training. Nothing will change. But on days when I’m not instructing at the academy, you’ll report to me. In person, if I’m available. Over the phone, if I’m tied up with work.” Thoughts stream behind her eyes. Is she wondering what it’ll be like to call me, too? “I’ll arrange for a couple ride alongs. With me.”

It hits me that I’m forcing us into constant interaction. Am I out of my mind? My mouth is apparently making decisions without consulting my brain. Is the ache in my pants in control? Or even the knocking organ in my chest? Unacceptable. No, probation is the only way I can justify swinging my weight around to keep their records clean. That’s all it is.

“That kid today could have opened fire at the police. The police might have fired back. You or your cousin could have been a casualty.” It takes me a moment to loosen my constricted throat muscles and continue. “I want to be confident when I pin that badge on you. I want you to be confident in the department you’re joining, too, so that next time, you don’t strike out on your own and take unnecessary risks. Checking in with me will keep what happened today fresh. And maybe you’ll learn a thing or two when I take you out on duty.” Again, I question my sanity. I’ll never get the scent or memory of her in my passenger seat out of my head. Where will that leave me when probation is over and she graduates? “Are we in agreement?”

She’s looking for a way out, and I don’t blame her. I’m an asshole in small doses, and now I’m going to be a fixture in her life. After a moment, though, she nods, and the knots in my chest untie themselves. “Yes, but . . .”

“But what?”

Her eyes flash at my sharp tone. “I don’t have your number.”

“Oh. Right.” I take my notebook out again, scrawling my number and handing over the ripped sheet. “We’ll start tomorrow.” She stares down at the piece of paper, making me . . . self-conscious? Is that what this is? Fuck. I head for the door and yank it open. “I’ll go check on your release.”

“Lieutenant.”

Setting my features to bored, I turn back around. “Yeah?”

She seems about to say one thing, but settles on another. Sliding the slip of paper into her back pocket, she gives me a cocky shrug. “Lieutenant Hard-Ass isn’t your only nickname at the academy.” A touch of a smile, before she turns away. “Personally, I prefer the Grim Reaper.”

It takes a conscious effort not to smile as I return to the front desk.

Until I remember the torture I’ve just signed on to endure.