Maddie reached up and buttoned another button on his starched white dressed shirt. “Three buttons is too many, Apollo. You look like a lounge lizard. And you’re distracting the girls. You’re not on the menu tonight.”

Apollo shrugged, trying to find a way for his shoulders to be. He was always uncomfortable when he worked this detail, wearing a fucking suit and a starched shirt.

Maddie was having one of what she called her ‘salons’ at Signet Models—a big, ostensibly legitimate party with very elite customers and their invited guests. It was a classy way to expand her client list, but it meant strangers in her house, and since last year, when Signet had been attacked twice and nearly destroyed in one of the fires that the Street Hounds had set, everybody was leery of strangers in the house. Now that she’d rebuilt, the Bulls worked security during her bigger events, augmenting her in-house security staff.

Under the constant aroma of the mingled expensive colognes and liquors in Signet’s posh rooms, the scent of sawdust and construction still pulsed.

“Stop squirming! Jesus, you guys all act like little boys in church.”

“Which is it, Maddie?” he asked, irritated. “Lounge lizard, manwhore, or little boy?”

Her sleek eyebrows lowered over narrowed eyes. “Careful with your tone. There’s no need to qualify the word ‘whore,’ sweetheart. If you fuck to get something more out of it than an orgasm, then you’re a whore, whether what you get is money or information.” She smoothed the lapels of his black jacket and winked an eye trimmed with long, black false lashes. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

Apollo sucked his teeth and said nothing. He loved Maddie, but he hated this job, standing around like trussed penguin, watching spoiled rich bastards play, and he didn’t appreciate being reminded that he wasn’t much different from her ‘models.’ But she was Ox’s old lady, and he was already in enough shit with the VP right now. So he fought off the desire to spar with her.

But then she poked him harder, lifting a sardonic smirk at him and adding, “If you want to be on the menu, we could make a lot of money together. You know I’ve got my guys, too, for the widows and divorcées. Among other clients.”

Okay, she was just being a shit now. He needed to get at least one jab in. “Be careful twisting your mouth up like that, Maddie. Makes you look old.”

He’d meant it to be teasing, like her jab about turning him out, but he guessed his poor mood had sharpened his tone. A frown twitched over her forehead, making him think he’d really hit his target, but then she laughed and poked him in the chest with an oval, vamp-red fingernail. “Good thing you’re pretty, sweet cheeks. Be nice, or next time, I’ll make you wear a tie.”

––––––––

~oOo~

––––––––

There wasn’t much to this work except standing on the edges of one of the main rooms, effecting a stance that drew notice while resisting attention. His job was to make sure all the guests knew he was there and had taken stock of his size, but weren’t so distracted by a looming male threat that they’d lose focus on the women on offer. Just enough notice to deter any shenanigans. The main point of security was not to rough up assholes causing problems but to prevent the problem from happening at all. A security man who had to scrape up his knuckles had already failed at his job.

In addition to Maddie’s six men on the doors, Apollo, Simon, Wally, and Fitz worked the rooms. They were the same four who always worked Signet when Maddie needed extra muscle. She’d handpicked them as the Bulls who, in her mind, went best with her décor and had the ‘skills’ for the work. In other words, they were pretty, looked good in suits, were big but not so scary-looking they’d chill the mood of her party, and weren’t likely to throw the first punch.

Under those criteria, her own old man would never get a job working her security. He was a craggy, intense motherfucker.

Apollo stood near the bar, a common epicenter for trouble, and surveyed the room. He knew a lot of the women working this party; they did their own partying at the Bulls’ clubhouse. He knew them in the biblical sense.

He’d always liked fucking Maddie’s girls off duty. They knew what they were doing, they tended not to get sloppy drunk, and they didn’t have any soft-focus dreams about what sex was or what they’d get out of fucking a Bull. They were in it for a good time, and they didn’t mess around about getting it.

Maddie’s girls had it good. She was a retired pro herself, and she treated her employees the way she’d wanted to be treated. None of them was doing a job they hated because they were trapped. They fucked for money because they wanted to, and they were paid well for their service.

Hell, they had it better than he did.

Lately, he’d been thinking about that a lot—how many women he fucked, and why he fucked them. He’d always thought of himself as working his magic, turning on his charm, playing the ladies like a piano, thinking he was running the show and making the women give it up, but really he was just the club’s hired cock. Other than recreational fucking at the clubhouse, almost every damn woman he’d banged for years, he’d been trying to get something out of her that the club needed, or at least trying to keep her happy so that she’d give him something when the club needed it.

He was absolutely a whore.

Until recently, that had hardly ever scraped at his conscience or self-concept. Who cared why he was fucking cute chicks? He was fucking cute chicks. He was belly up to the all-you-can-fuck smorgasbord.

But now, with Jacinda standing on the threshold of his life, he needed to take a good look at what that life was.

He hadn’t fucked anybody but her since he’d met her at Donovan’s, just about two weeks ago. That was a streak with one woman he hadn’t matched since before he’d worn a Bulls patch. They were trying to take things slow, and his work and her work kept them apart about every other day and night, but they were getting serious. Shit, after that first night at her apartment, what she’d told him, they couldn’t be anything but serious.

He’d done some digging on the Alamo sons of bitches who’d hurt her. Arlo Cartwright was dead, but Toby Tyrell was still kicking, running out his clock on the lifer block at McAlester. He hadn’t been able to find out more than that yet; the Oklahoma DOC wasn’t exactly using cutting-edge technology, and no amount of hacking skill would make paper files accessible online. It was almost the twenty-first century, and they still kept most of their inmate details on fucking paper, or, at best, on off-network computers.

He had a way to get the information he wanted, but it meant being a whore, and now there was a new wrinkle to the question of his conscience and self-concept. If he and Jacinda were serious, was it cheating if he fucked somebody else so that he could do something for her?

Gee, how would Jacinda answer that question?

So he had to figure out a way to get the information he wanted without fucking for it, and without closing off his conduit to information the club might need at some later point.

Shit, he wished government agencies weren’t so fucking slow to adapt to technology.

Lost in those thoughts, he almost forgot the job he was on, and he very nearly missed the drunk shithead in the thousand-dollar suit. The guy bobbled his glass on the bar, splashing scotch on the glossy wood, and Apollo focused just in time to see Kendra twist her arm from his grip.

Apollo strode from his unobtrusive corner down the length of the bar, squaring his shoulders to the limit of the wool-blend jacket.

“Maddie’s asking to see you, Kendra.” That was code. Her answer would tell him if she had the situation handled or she needed some help. If Kendra asked him to tell Maddie she’d talk to her as soon as she could, that meant she didn’t need help. He could trust that answer; Maddie was firm with her staff that they err on the side of caution.

She gave him a pretty, and obviously relieved, smile. “Okay, thanks.” To the tailored asshole, she said, “Sorry, Miles. You should have a cup of coffee.” She moved away, quickly but smoothly.

Miles the Tailored Asshole spun his barstool and looked like he meant to give chase, but Apollo was right there. He slammed his hand on the man’s shoulder and gripped hard, until the guy folded under the pressure.

“Here’s how your night is going from here on out, Miles.” He nodded at the bartender, who stood at the ready, carafe of coffee in hand. “Cathy here is going to pour you a cup of coffee. I am going to call you a cab. You’re going to say goodnight to Ms. Donne and thank her for her great party, and you’re going to find somewhere to sleep this off before you get yourself in trouble.”

“I paid good money to be here. I’m supposed to get a girl.” A lot of scotch had lubricated that complaint; his words practically sloshed. Cathy should have started pouring him light a while ago.

Apollo closed his fist tighter around Miles’ shoulder, until the guy grunted. “What are you going to do, Miles?”

“Have coffee,” he muttered. “Take a cab. Sleep it off.”

A little tighter. The guy whimpered; he’d wear the marks of Apollo’s fingers for a few days. “You forgot something.”

“Thank Maddie for the invitation. But I was supposed to get a girl.” Now he was whining.

“Mind your manners, Miles, and maybe Maddie won’t blacklist your ass.”

––––––––

~oOo~

––––––––

Deirdre smiled as Apollo strode toward her desk. “Hi there. Haven’t seen you in a while.” She crossed her arms and leaned forward, showing the swells of her tits in the V of the open buttons of her blouse, and a hint of dark blue lace edging her bra.

Normally, he would have felt smug at her display, but now it made him tense. He wasn’t sure he could walk the tightrope he needed to walk. He knew women, and he’d been fucking Deirdre casually for years. If he asked for something and then ducked out on what she wanted in return, it was going to cause trouble somewhere. Still, he put on his charmer grin and set his hands on her desk, leaning into them. “Hi, darlin.’ How you doin’?”

“I’m okay. Are you here to see a detective?”

“No. You.”

She grinned and puffed her tits up a little more. There was a white hair trapped in the lace of her bra. That damn fluffy white cat of hers. One of three.

Jacinda had a cat, too, but he’d caught only quick glimpses of her. Her apartment didn’t smell of litter box, either. She had a covered thing with a filter in it, and the opening faced the wall, apparently because Zoë preferred it that way.

“Business or pleasure?” Deirdre simpered.

“It’s always a pleasure to see you, sweet thing.” Jesus, did he always sound like such a douchebag? “But it’s business.”

She checked her watch. “Take me to lunch. Tell me all about it.”

Nooners were a thing with them, so she’d already picked up her handbag before he could answer. Without any graceful way he could think of to deny her, he set his hand on her back and ushered her to the door of the Detective Division.

Lunch. He could do lunch. No harm there. And he’d figure out how to get what he needed and get her back to her desk without getting under her clothes.

They had the elevator to themselves. The green light above the security camera in the corner beamed steadily, but Deirdre stepped before him anyway and slid her hands up his chest. “We could just grab some fast food and go to my place.”

Shifting his eyes rhetorically up to the corner and the camera, he wrapped his hands around hers to disengage her. She resisted his pull, a saucy grin sliding up her face.

The car settled, and the doors opened.

Jacinda stood waiting, her messenger bag slung across her chest, her Oakleys pushed up on her head. Leather pants and boots and a loose white cotton shirt, tucked into her pants in a sexy slouch. She wore a man’s watch, big silver dial with a thick black leather band, and, as usual, his eyes landed there and lingered on it. He found that heavy thing inexpressibly alluring. She wore the same jewelry every day: the watch, a silver cuff bracelet with imbedded stones on her other wrist, a single, heavy silver ring on her right hand, small diamond studs in her ears. It was all perfect on her, but that big watch—it was the contrast of its heft on her slender, sun-kissed wrist, or the way it was just loose enough that it slid a few inches up and down her arm with her movements, or something, but whatever it was, it made him hard. Even in this moment of guilty panic.

Her mind clearly on something else, probably whatever had brought her to TPD headquarters, Jacinda took a step toward the car before she realized who was in it.

She froze, and her dark eyes flared wide.

Two weeks since they’d gotten back from Nebraska. Two weeks of talking every day, seeing each other every chance they could. More than two weeks since he’d fucked anyone else. He hadn’t brought her to his house yet, because he’d never had a woman in his house, and he had to get his head around that. But he’d been thinking about it.

They were serious. He knew it, and she knew it. They hadn’t even been taking it all that slowly.

Goddammit.

Clueless, Deirdre let go of him, turned, and stepped out of the elevator, wiggling her ass for him as she went. When Apollo didn’t follow right away, she turned and popped her hip. “Well, come on, slowpoke. I only got an hour.”

Without a word, and without taking her eyes off of him, Jacinda took one step to the side, out of his path. Those eyes were no longer big with surprise. Now they were entirely empty.

He didn’t know what to do. So he did what he’d come here to do. He stepped out of the elevator and followed Deirdre, walking past Jacinda.

When he heard the elevator doors closing, he swung a glance over his shoulder, but he could only see her high-heeled boots. She’d tucked herself against the side of the car.

Goddammit.

––––––––

~oOo~

––––––––

“I can see you looking through the peephole.” Apollo pounded again on the door. “Come on, Jacinda. Let me in so we can talk.”

“Fuck off, fuck boy!” The door muffled her snarl but didn’t take the edge off it. Then a heavy thud and the door rattled; she’d kicked it.

“What you saw isn’t what you think!”

“What? You weren’t taking that woman out for a nooner?”

Her powers of observation were fucking preternatural. “Let me in, and I’ll explain!”

“That’s not a no, asshole! Fuck you! Go to hell!” The door thudded and rattled again. “Piece of shit!” Thud. Rattle. “Bastard!” Thud. Thud. Thud. “Cocksucker!”

He drove his fists at her door. “I didn’t fuck her! Let me in, you crazy little shit!”

The next door opened, and a round-faced young blonde peered out over the security chain. She stuck her cordless phone through the narrow gap. “I’m gonna call the cops if you don’t leave her alone.” She changed her tone and shouted through the gap, “Jacinda! You okay?”

Finally, Jacinda’s door opened, and her chain wasn’t engaged. “I’m okay, Frannie. Thanks, though.”

Frannie glared at Apollo. “You sure?”

“Yeah. I’m mad, not hurt.”

“Okay. You yell if you need me. I hear my name, and I’m dialing 911.”

“You’re a star, Fran.” Jacinda grabbed Apollo by the kutte and dragged him into her apartment.

She slammed her door. “You are a piece of shit.”

“You’re repeating yourself. And you’re making assumptions about what you saw. If you shut up and let me talk, I’ll tell you what happened.”

She stalked past him and spun on her heel. “Oh, please. She was so obviously going out to get laid. You think we can’t tell? We can tell.”

“I didn’t fuck her. I am telling you that I didn’t.”

She crossed her arms and glared at him. “But she thought you were going to.”

“Yeah.” He knew lying now, or even hedging, would get him nowhere.

“Because you do fuck her.”

“Did. I did fuck her. Past tense.” Unless this thing with Jacinda was over before it had gotten up to speed. “I’m only fucking you.”

She scoffed. “Since when?”

“Since Donovan’s.”

Ah. That dulled the blade of her rage a little. “Then why were you taking her out?”

“She works—”

“—in the Detective Division. I know. She’s an assistant up there.”

“Then you know she’s got access to useful information.”

“You fuck her for intel?”

Damn, she’d gotten there fast.

It was different for him. He wasn’t a beautiful woman who could bat her eyes and push out her tits and put on the helpless chick routine. For him, he had to convince them he wanted them, that they were worth his notice. She could exploit men’s confidence; he had to quell women’s insecurities. The reason she’d recognized Deirdre but apparently didn’t know her name was the same reason he didn’t know most of the male assistants and clerks in the offices where he had contacts. She played the exact same game he did; she was just a different piece on the board.

“I know you have people you work to get special consideration. Relationships you cultivate for that purpose. You have to, or you couldn’t do your job.”

“Yeah. I bring them doughnuts or scotch. I don’t fuck them.”

He’d been feeling weird enough lately about how he lived his life and how he’d been using his dick. The last thing he needed was this particular woman, for whom he had feelings deeper than he was ready to deal with, to be one of the growing line of women calling him a whore.

The sneer in her tone, and on her face, lanced him, and he spoke in reaction to that sting, without thinking.

“No, you pick up strangers at bars and fuck them.”

Shit. Fucking moron. She’d told him why she’d preferred one-night stands. He understood—and he also understood what it meant that she was pursuing more with him. He understood how elusive her trust was, and he understood why she was so fucking pissed now. He’d known the trouble in the scene while he was still in the elevator.

He could not have said anything shittier.

He opened his mouth to take it back, but she leapt at him with an inarticulate shout, her face distorted with outrage. He steeled himself for the slap he deserved.

But she didn’t slap him. Instead, she dealt him a palm strike to the solar plexus that pushed the air out of his lungs with such force they seemed to collapse. The unexpected blow nearly took him off his feet. He scrambled backward, trying not to end up on his ass, and slammed into the door. That thing was taking a hell of a beating.

As he slumped against the door, hands on his knees, filling his lungs back up. She stepped back and crossed her arms. Standing there in her leather pants and high-heeled boots, her legs spread and her arms crossed, her hair over her shoulders, her color high with feminine fury, she looked like a comic book superhero.

“You lying asshole. Get out of my apartment.” Her voice had picked up a tremor; she was more than angry. He’d sworn he wouldn’t hurt her, and now she was badly hurt. If he left, they were finished.

He stood up straight. “I’m sorry I said that shitty thing, but I am not leaving until you hear me, Jacinda, or until cops drag my belligerent ass out of here.”

She uncrossed her arms and balled up her dominant hand, the one with that big ring on the middle finger. She clearly had some skills, and surprising strength, but he was a whole lot bigger and stronger than she was, and he also had some skills. There was zero chance he’d be brawling with her, in her living room or anywhere else.

“If you need to use me as a punching bag, I’m gonna let you. I’m not leaving, and I’m not fighting you. What I want is to talk. I haven’t betrayed your trust. I told you I wouldn’t hurt you. I swore on my patch, and I meant it.”

He sensed her soften, fractionally, and he took a step toward her. “Hear me, J. I. Did. Not. Fuck her. Look into my eyes and tell me I’m lying.”

She looked. When she saw, she blew out a slow breath, and her body relaxed—not entirely, but visibly. “I don’t like this. How I feel right now.”

Apollo relaxed, too. “Neither do I. It feels like crap.” He rubbed his chest. “Ow.”

A tic that might have been an involuntary smile—or threatening tears—fluttered at one corner of her mouth. “I’m not good with you fucking anybody else. I don’t do fuck buddies.”

“I’m only fucking you. Since Donovan’s.” He’d said that already, but it bore repeating.

“If you fuck her for information, how are you going to work that out if you stop fucking her?”

That bald way of saying it still stung, until lately he’d never thought of it as ‘fucking for information,’ but this time he was smart enough to let it slide. But he didn’t know the answer yet. He’d slid out of the problem that afternoon by pretending that his cell had buzzed and he was needed at the clubhouse. He’d left Deirdre disappointed but unaware that things had changed between them.

“I don’t know yet. I’ll figure it out.” He took another couple of steps and was close enough to put his hands on her arms. She didn’t shrug him off. “Can we sit down and talk this out?”

The longer she looked up at him with those keen, dark eyes, the more hope Apollo had that she’d see the truth and understand.

But when he smoothed his hands down her bare arms, she pulled from his touch and took a step back. “I need you to go, Apollo.”

“I don’t want to go until we understand each other.” He reached out to her again, but she wrenched her arm back with what looked like disgust, and he gave up. He couldn’t force himself on her. “Okay, I’ll go. But I don’t want to. I like what’s been going on with us.”

“So did I.”

“Not past tense, Jacinda. Come on. You’ve got me tried and convicted before I had a chance to plead my case. What you saw is not what is true.”

“I can’t talk about it now,” she said, in a quieter, less assertive, more defeated voice. “I’m telling you that I need you to go.”

If he pushed any harder, he’d only make things worse. Hanging onto that one word, ‘now,’ he hoped to live to fight another day. He stepped up and took hold of her arm. Ignoring the way her body tensed, and the way she tried to duck away, he kissed her cheek, lingering there for a second, leaning his forehead on hers. “I don’t want this to be over.”

Then he turned and walked out of her apartment.

He headed to the clubhouse. He needed to get very drunk.