CHAPTER FIVE
Shane
Back up at my place, I motion Jake toward the galley style kitchen on the left side of the room and start toward what used to be Aunt Tansy’s bedroom.
“You can take your shirt off by the island. I’ll examine you there.” I deliberately keep my eyes on the bookshelves and the art on the walls as I cross the wide, open-concept space, looking anywhere but at the drop dead gorgeous hockey player about to be half naked in my kitchen.
Leaving him behind, I dart into my bathroom to gather my survival bag.
A side effect of having so many people die on me, I like to be prepared with something more badass than the average first aid kit. My survival bag is packed with everything I would need to perform minor surgery and clean up the mess after, in addition to an assortment of pharmaceutical products obtained by less than legal means. I could get in trouble with the authorities for a number of the items in my bag of tricks, but at least I don’t have to worry about Jake going to the police if my doctoring does more harm than good.
If the man will let people stab him and keep quiet, for God’s sake, he’s not going to turn in someone who’s trying to help him.
It makes me wonder what led to his cop phobia in the first place. I’ve had a few unpleasant experiences with the NYPD—verbal sexual harassment, that one time I got roughed up at a peaceful protest, and the unfortunate sighting of a penis when a drunk cop wandered by my private school in eighth grade with his, ahem, nightstick poking out of his unzipped fly—but I’ve been grateful for the police more often than I’ve been less than thrilled with their presence. Without our police force, the city would degenerate into a dangerous state of chaos. By and large, the cops are the good guys, men and women who put their lives on the line to keep our city safe.
Do they handle every case perfectly? Of course not, they’re only human, but there’s no logical reason for Jake to be so anti-boys-and-girls-in-blue.
So what happened to get his stubborn mind set against police intervention? Did he have a run in with one of the bad eggs that scarred him for life? Or did he do something worth the police coming down hard on him?
Bash did an extensive background check on Falcone—revealing nothing more damning than a couple of speeding tickets and a citation for disorderly conduct after a bar brawl got out of hand in college—but Bash’s records only go back to the day that Jake turned eighteen. If he committed a crime as a younger person, those records would have been sealed.
I hadn’t thought about the possibility of a juvenile record before, but I’m considering it now, and considering urging Bash to do some shadier poking around into Jake’s past. Bash isn’t just another pretty face; he’s also an accomplished hacker, skilled at getting the dirt on just about anyone. Even if Jake’s juvenile record is sealed, Bash could still find his way into it.
Pulling my cell from my back pocket, I type out a quick text—Can you get me Jake Falcone’s juvenile arrest records if there are any? Preferably ASAP?—only hesitating a moment before hitting send.
Sure, Jake seems like a good, albeit intense, person, but I’ve only known him about an hour. And in that time I’ve realized that the chances of him answering personal questions he would rather not answer are slim to none. He clearly doesn’t want to share why he’s anti-po-po, but if I’m going to be able to help him while also protecting myself, I need to know what’s behind his resistance.
I only have to wait a few seconds before Bash texts back—On it. Are you okay? If you need backup, Aidan is in Central Park training Nate, the new guy. They can be there in five minutes. Ten tops.
I’m fine, I respond. Jake seems nice. I’m just curious as to why he’s so reluctant to go to the police for help. Judging by the intake paperwork, I assume you weren’t aware that his ex stabbed him with a kitchen knife before he kicked her out of his apartment?
WTF? Bash texts. No! He said she broke into his apartment, got violent, and that he had to use force to get her out, but I had no idea. Shit! Why do people think it’s okay to lie to me? Do I have a face that says “lie to me” Shane? Is that it? Do I have “sucker” tattooed on my damn forehead?
I throw a clean towel on top of my bag, knowing I need to get back to the kitchen. Relax! He was probably just hesitant to put anything in writing. He’s a very private person. And that might be the only reason he doesn’t want to go to the authorities about Keri. I just want to make sure. But look, I have to go. He’s waiting for me to look at his stab wound because he won’t go to a doctor, either.
My phone rings a second later, Bash’s name flashing on the screen.
I bite my lip, torn, but in the end, I silence the ringer. I don’t have time to talk to Bash right now, and I don’t want to risk Jake overhearing what should be a private conversation. I’m having a hard enough time earning his trust even without his knowing I’m poking into his past.
But I don’t feel bad about my choice.
This is about personal safety. I’m on my own in the world, and I have to watch my own back, especially when wading into deeper waters than I anticipated. I agreed to play someone’s fake girlfriend for a few weeks, after all.
Nowhere did I sign off on getting hurt—or worse…