CHAPTER ELEVEN
GRACE
We loop around and arrive at the Captain’s house a little after 10pm. His wife answers the door wearing a scowl and neon pink dressing gown. After promptly being informed “he’s still at the office,” we make once again for the precinct, the city starting to thrum and build under the cover of nightfall.
I’m shaking my head, my cell in her lap listing a string of unanswered calls. “I’m not imagining things, am I?”
“You’re not,” confirms Hunter. “He wasn’t at the precinct, at least not when we were there. You’re still sure this worth following up on?”
I stifle a yawn. “Honestly, I’m not so sure, but we’re halfway there, right? May as well take it all the way.”
We enter the precinct and Bobby spots us immediately, running out into the foyer. “Hey, what the hell’s going on? It’s raining bodies out there and word is you two forget to pack an umbrella.”
I stop and place a hand on Hunter’s chest, aware in my periphery of how incredibly hard and flat it is.
Later. Business first.
“We ran into some trouble, had to shoot our way out.”
Bobby stands there shaking his head, hands on his hips. “And you didn’t think to call it in? Ever heard of fucking backup?”
“We did call it in,” says Hunter.
“And no one fucking showed up.” I step up to Bobby. I’m probably half his height, but it didn’t stop me in grade school and it’s sure as hell not going to stop me now. “We were being chased down and shot at in one of the shittiest parts of the entire state. I didn’t exactly have time to keep phoning home or hang around.”
Bobby’s not buying it. “Bullshit.”
Hunter steps past me. “She’s right. We didn’t have a choice.”
Bobby rolls his eyes. “Oh, fuck off, MacGyver. You think I’ve forgotten about that shit at the bar? And now, bam, you’re here barely a day and already screwing things up.”
Hunter moves forward until they’re chest to chest. “You better watch your tone.”
As much as I’d like to grab a bowl of popcorn and settle in for a testosterone-fueled slug-fest between these two, we’ve got bigger problems.
I push between them. “Pack your dicks away, will you?”
Bobby’s got a real temper. He’s already under review for knocking a perp unconscious during interrogation. This can’t escalate. Not now.
I decide on distraction. “So, who showed up in the end.”
“Mendez,” Bobby replies, voice drum-tight.
“He’s there, on the scene?”
“With Hallifax.”
“Forensics?”
“On their way.”
“Good,” I nod, slowly pushing Hunter back and not oblivious to the fact it’s like trying to shift a slab of concrete.
Bobby’s simmering down, but he’s not done. “Care to enlighten us who these guys were?”
“That Doyle dip-shit and his entourage.”
Bobby exhales. “The Cap’s going to hit the fucking roof, you know.”
I exchange a brief glance with Hunter before bringing my attention back to Bobby. “Is he here? We need to talk to him, urgently.”
Bobby looks behind himself. “Haven’t seen him since this morning.”
I start to walk on.
Bobby throws his arms out. “Where are you two going?”
“To start typing this shitshow up,” I reply.
Bobby shoves Hunter as he walks past.
Fuck me.
If it was any more alpha in here I’d grow a dick myself.
I see Hunter tense, but he doesn’t take the bait.
“I’m watching you, asshole!” Bobby shouts.
I close to the door to my office and swing behind my computer, Hunter leaning against the wall. “You’re really going to write this up now?”
“Fuck no,” I laugh, punching away at the keyboard, searching for ‘The Baxter,’ the girls—any kind of connection I can find in the database.
Nothing.
The cursor blinks mockingly.
I try another search term. Damn system’s like trying to navigate a census form.
I pause and look up. “You okay? I mean, you have shot someone before, haven’t you?”
“I have.”
Good, I think to myself, because the last thing I need is a partner about to crumble—again.
But Hunter here? Something tells me he’s more dependable than I originally thought, and loyal—an important trait to have around here.
A lump rises in my throat as I consider the past. I manage to push it back down again to the deep pit of my stomach where it belongs.
It wasn’t your fault and don’t for a fucking second believe it was.
A green tag indicates a match. I open the file, reading aloud as Hunter comes behind me, the heat and weight of his body like the sun itself is standing there. I detect a hint of sandalwood, the briny bark of cedar. I press my legs together tightly to stave off the growing need there.
It’s just the adrenaline. It will simmer down, I tell myself.
Funny thing is, I don’t want it to. I want to explore it, to explore Hunter Beckett and his fine fucking body.
“Say hello to The Baxter’s local pimp, Maurice Miller,” I announce, nodding at the screen.
I scroll past his ugly mug to his rap sheet. “Get a load of the sewerage this guy’s been swimming in. If being a criminal was a profession, this guy’s practically Michael Corleone. Fuck,” I stammer, reading on. “No address, no known numbers or associates… Hasn’t been seen for weeks.”
“Back to The Baxter then?”
I shake my head. “No, he’ll know we’ve been there asking questions. He’ll be back eventually, but it will have to wait. What I really need is a drink.”
“Bar?” suggests Hunter.
I’m conscious of my growing arousal. It’s late, it’s been a big day and my willpower is weakening by the second, but maybe that’s a good thing. “I was thinking my place, actually. In fact, I’m not asking, I’m telling. You in?”
“What about Doyle and the others?”
“They’re not going anywhere,” I laugh. “We talk to the Captain first thing in the morning, and then, if we’re still alive, then we write it up.”
*
There’s clear surprise on Hunter’s face when he enters my apartment. I can understand why. It would be sensory overload for most people, with bric-a-brac stacked to the roof, random furniture and knick-knacks, stuff my father collected from around the world. It’s a big contrast to my office, but they’re two completely different spaces. I like that separation, need it to survive and compartmentalize, but it’s my wall-to-wall vinyl collection that really has him interested.
He stands before it mesmerized. “That’s a lot of music.”
I’m not really sure why I’ve invited him here. It’s not my usual MO, but there’s a pull to Hunter Beckett I can’t seem to escape or deny. A magnetism so strong it’s overwhelming my better senses and going straight to that slippery spot between my thighs.
He’s proved himself fast, had my back out there with Doyle. I’ve seen cops freeze up when the first bullet flies, standing there like a statue completely paralyzed.
Not Hunter.
I pull my hair up into a bun, tying it off. I select a record and move to the player in the corner, a vintage Garrard 301, handing Hunter the sleeve.
He examines the woman on the front as smoky jazz fills the room. “Maki Asakawa?”
I join him, conscious of the way he smells—clean and soapy and somehow masculine at the same time, that woody scent lingering from earlier. “A rather cherished Japanese jazz artist.”
“You’re into jazz?”
“Don’t sound so surprised. This is New York City.”
He looks up, his oceanic gaze unhitching something inside me. “And all these records are yours?”
“Well, most were my father’s, actually. He was stationed in Tokyo after the Vietnam War, fell into the music scene there… and love.”
“Your mother…?”
“Did a runner as soon as she popped me out, which I’m fine with.”
“You’ve never tried to contact her, get in touch?”
“Dad tried, for years, but no dice. These days, given his condition, I’d be lucky if he even remembers my name.”
“I’m sorry.”
I select another record before slipping it back into position unconsciously, my thoughts on my father. “What about your family? Your brothers?”
Hunter still has the Maki Asakawa album in his hands, staring through it. “Three, actually, each as wild as the next, though I don’t see them as much as I’d like these days.”
“You’re not jealous of your brother, what was his name? The big football star?” I ask lightly.
I see his face register ‘Yes’ immediately, but I can also see he’s moved on, made his peace with his current lot in life. Perhaps he had to.
“I’m proud of him, truly, but I’m proud of what I do too.”
I move to the kitchen and take a bottle of whiskey from the shelf and two tumblers, pouring a finger each. “And what’s that?” I enquire, handing him a glass. I’m close to him, close enough to fall under the spell of those opal eyes, that masculine draw that has the space between my legs heating like a forge.
You don’t want this, do you?
And I sure as hell surprise myself when I find the answer firmly in the affirmative.
I shift forward closer still and sip at the whiskey. It’s warm against the back of my throat.
His eyes move to my lips, glazed over with desire. He wants this as much as I do. Is a good idea? Fuck no. In the hall of the World’s Worst this is probably front and center, but I want him, desperately, urgently, with every tingling nerve in my body.
“Protect,” he finally replies. “That’s what I’m doing,” he adds, his head starting to fall forward.
“And?” I whisper, my lips parting to meet his, my heart trying to beat itself free of my body.
“To serve,” he finishes, his voice cracking.
We move, our lips so close I can feel the heat of him as a physical force, the welcoming warmth of his body.
The fire alarm starts to ring, deafening.
We jerk apart as if a bolt of lightning was sent from the sky above.
My instincts kick in, my spidey senses on full alert.
“What’s going on?” says Hunter, placing down the record. I shrug, simultaneously disappointed and relieved. “Hell if I know.”
We join the other occupants making their way down the fire exit. I can’t smell smoke.
Everyone’s gathering out the front of the building where an engine’s parked. I find who appears to the person in charge and walk over, flashing my badge. “What’s going on here?”
The alarm continues to sound out shrill and abrasive in the background.
“Gas leak,” he says, opening a short door on the side of the truck.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously,” he repeats.
“How long until we can get back in?”
He shrugs with the practiced finesse of someone in his position. “Hard to say—couple of hours, at least.”
Hunter’s hand falls lightly on my lower back, easing me away. “Why don’t you crash at my place? It’s only a couple of blocks away.”
I’ve had worse offers.
I nod, stepping to the street to hail down a cab.