“Fester, Kallie. Kallie, Fester. I’m cat sitting until my partner, Jordan, gets back. We need to grab the food and cat litter. I have a box at my apartment.”
The cat meowed and clawed Brock’s coat, pulling himself up and settling his gnarly-haired body over one shoulder. The poor thing looked like someone had given it a home perm and let it over-process. Its forelegs hung limply over Brock’s shoulder, and the cat purred like a motorboat. Brock chuckled, supporting the animal by holding a hand under its rear legs as he headed further into the apartment.
“You know, I have to ask. How the fuck is it that Samuel Treyson is screwing three lovers and a wife, and people like you and me end up cat sitting?” She was tired, but it was a good tired, and damn it, she liked Brock. The man didn’t take any shit, and his methods, so far, had been above board.
That… and Brock King was sexy as fuck. With a mental shrug she dismissed the self-inflicted reprimand that usually followed those types of thoughts. He was a temporary partner. They had only this case together. She’d memorized the code of ethics for the organization. Fraternization wasn’t illegal in the HCPD. It had to be declared, and the couple couldn’t work together, but… she watched the man put the cat on the floor and stretch to pick up a bag of cat food and a bag of cat litter. Oh, yeah, he ticked most of the boxes on her sex-with-this-guy-might-not-be-a-mistake list. He was tall, handsome, sexy, had a great personality, and damned if he wasn’t proving to be a nice person and one hell of a cop.
"A billion dollars?" Brock smirked.
“Say what?”
“You asked how Treyson had three lovers.”
Oh, shit, she had, hadn’t she? “There is that. I don’t know about you, but I have given up trying to find the one.”
He straightened and stared at the ground for a moment. “I can’t do that. If I give up hope, then what’s left?” He sent her a quick glance almost like he was embarrassed to have spoken so honestly.
Wow. Okay, so time to be real. “I had hope once.”
“Sounds like a long story.” He lifted a plastic cat carrier off the shelf and turned to look at her.
She shrugged. No sense in lying. “I married someone I thought was ‘the one.’ He and I were on the force together in Houston. We moved-up from patrol. I worked robbery then homicide. Rich, my former husband, took longer to test up but finally, he passed his exam and worked Vice. He went undercover for–” she blew a lungful of air and leaned against the door, “—hell, just over a year. His assignment ended in a massive takedown, and several of the gang members were killed. My partner and I were there as backup because we were in the vicinity, and it was an all-hands-on-deck-type of take down. I saw him across the warehouse. He wasn’t being debriefed, so I headed over to him. My partner tagged along. As we approached, my husband shot and killed a woman in cold blood. I testified against him. My career was tanked, and I was forced to leave. I’ve been working for Guardian Security, but I missed this. I missed it so damn much.”
“Guardian, huh? Okay, now it makes sense.” Brock had leaned against the dryer and crossed his arms.
“What makes sense?”
“My father said he had someone he was going to send over who was highly recommended. He has ties to Guardian.”
“Wait, your father?”
“Yup.”
“Who is your father, and why would he have input into my placement?”
“My father is Chauncey King.”
She blinked at him and waited but he just stared at her. “And what does that mean to me?”
“He’s the Hope City Police Commissioner.”
She dropped her hip against the counter. “Well, fuck.”
“Yep.”
“That’s…” Well, that was fucking scary if she was honest, but she said, “interesting.”
“Look, I work for Davidson. My old man is a stickler for following rules and protocol, so I don’t get any benefit from him being my dad… at work at least.” A smile spread across his face. “He’s one hell of a guy, and I respect the fuck out of my old man.”
“I can see that. So, that accounts for the fishing about nepotism. I wondered.” Well, okay. All in all, the revelation changed nothing.
“Yeah, damn bottom-feeders. What happened to your husband?”
“Sorry, what?” Did she miss some portion of the conversation?
“Your husband, what happened to him after you testified?”
“Oh. He was sentenced to fifteen. Served five. Got out two days ago and has already called to threaten me.”
“Threatened you, how? The texts you keep getting?”
“That and a phone call. You know, the usual shit.” She channeled Liam Neilson and said in her best Taken voice, “I will hunt you down, and I will find you. You’re working with me. You deserve to know the baggage that comes with me. What about you? Any baggage?”
He drew a breath and stared at the ceiling before he said, “My father is the police commissioner. He’s put his career in my hands by leaving this case with me. What else? I grew up here in Hope City. One brother works J-DET, one is a fireman. I have two sisters, both too good to be related to me, a mother who could guilt trip a corpse, and I have a caffeine addiction.”
“Wow. Not sure I can handle all that. Might have to request a new partner. What about a wife?”
He shook his head.
“Girlfriend?”
He let his head drop back again and stared at the ceiling. “I’ve been looking.”
“No finding?”
“Nibbles, but sometimes women look at who they are dating.”
Kallie made a point of closing one eye to examine him. “Kinda fucking hard to miss you.” There wasn’t a single woman on the planet who wouldn’t want a chance with the detective.
“Yeah, all this is hard to miss, huh? But…” He chuckled and dropped his eyes before he shrugged.
“But what? You really need to finish that statement.” He picked up the cat. The orange hairball patted his face with his paw, and the giant of the man in front of her smiled down at the feline. He pet the cat, and it rubbed its head against Brock’s cheek. Her heart melted just a little bit. Okay, more than a little bit.
“I’m not a monk by any stretch of the imagination, but the women I’ve dated lately wanted to be on the arm of the big, bad cop. They got off on my badge, you know, the image and the thrill of dating a cop. Not that I didn’t take what they’re giving away, which kinda makes me a fucking dog, doesn’t it? But I want more than a random piece of ass or a chick with a badge fetish.” He lowered the cat and carefully tucked him into the cat carrier.
“Yeah? And what do you want, Mr. King?” She grabbed the bag of kitty kibble. He grabbed the bag of litter.
“What everyone else wants. I want the family thing, and I’m definitely looking for someone who isn’t chasing a badge.”
Kallie let him exit the utility room first and turned off the light before she followed him. “I get that. God knows I get that, but it’s kinda hard to meet that type of person doing the job. Unless you’re going to start dating witnesses or another cop.”
“Yeah, and wouldn’t that be a fucking mess? No, I want what my folks have. I want somebody who is willing to put up with the shit the job dishes out.”
She took that comment on the chin. Hell yeah, her relationship turned into a disaster. Dating a cop should be taboo. Should be. “You want a fucking unicorn.”
He laughed; the low rumble filled the small apartment. “Yeah, I guess I do.”
“They're out there, man. They're real, a leprechaun told me.” She wanted to believe it, but it was easier to joke about it.
“Yeah, did you find the pot of gold?” Brock set the cat carrier down as he opened the front door for her and grabbed the keys from the ceramic bowl.
“Nah. I think I’d have better luck looking for that unicorn.”
“Let me know when you find one, until then I'll roll with the punches and keep hoping there is a woman for me.
BTW, I’m taking you home and picking you up. You didn’t ask about parking, and I saw the keys you slid into your pocket. No car key on them.” He locked the door behind them.
“Damn detectives,” Kallie grumbled behind him as they walked down the stairs they’d just climbed not five minutes ago.
He grunted in response; fuck, he’d spewed more personal information to the woman behind him in five minutes than he had to Jordan over the course of their entire partnership. Yeah, from here on out, he was keeping it caveman. Grunts and single word responses. Why the fuck had he word-vomited that drivel? Probably because he hadn’t slept more than a couple hours in the last year or so. Maybe someone could just give him a lobotomy and then he wouldn’t have to worry about his new partner thinking he was fucking mental. Or God, worse, that he was emotional. Fuck, paint his nails black, because whatever had just gushed from his mouth in Jordan’s apartment reeked of Emo-itis. Keep your fucking mouth shut, King.
He’d never admit it to anyone, but part of the reason he worked so damn much was that he didn’t want to go back to his empty apartment. Making meals for one sucked. The walls didn’t ask him how his day went, and the drapes sure as fuck wouldn’t talk to him when the gore of murder scenes was all he could see. Pathetic, but true.
They settled Fester in the back seat and plopped the food and litter down on the floorboard. “Where do you live?”
“I have an apartment on South Martingale.”
“Well, welcome to the neighborhood. I live over on Hemmingway.” The two roads ran parallel to each other two blocks apart. “You found everything you need?” So much for caveman.
She turned and put her elbow up on the back of the seat. “I’ve been here for a couple of months. I’ve gotten the lay of the land. I use the supermarket over on Halverson, and I found a gym.”
He chuckled. “Please don’t tell me you use the Golden Ticket.”
She slapped his arm. “Hell no! I found this little place around the corner–”
“Vito’s?”
“Yes! I don’t need fancy equipment. Give me a jump rope, a heavy bag and a sparring partner, and I’m good to go.”
He could see her excitement in flashes as they drove under streetlights. Fuck. He focused his attention on the road ahead of him. He needed to snip his budding attraction to his partner right now. Thou shall not ogle the woman who has your six. He was pretty sure that was a commandment. If it wasn’t before, it was now. Fuck him. The idea of this woman sparing with him sent all kinds of un-partner like thoughts to his now completely overactive imagination. Somehow, he had to shove Kallie onto that 'do not mack' list. Still, he couldn’t leave it alone. He cleared his throat. “Spar?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah, my bosses at Guardian gave a demo when I first got there. The woman, Jade DeMarco, man, she literally kicked ass. I mean, I had self-defense in the academy, and I can take down a perp, but she picked four of the biggest, baddest mothers in the group and told them to take her to the mat. The woman destroyed them. Since then, everyone in the division had mandatory training. She’s trained in a blend of martial arts, which we were taught. I fucking love taking down someone bigger and stronger than me.”
And that was probably one of the hottest things he’d ever heard. Change of topic. Change it right now. “Ahhh… I’ve always thought Jade was kinda crazy. I haven’t seen her in, damn, it’s been years.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Say what now?”
He glanced over at her. Clearing his throat again, he asked, “Did you like working at Guardian?”
“Yes. The organization is phenomenal. Integrity is really their hallmark. I’ve never experienced a total buy-in like that before, but stop diverting. How do you know Jade DeMarco?”
“Her maiden name is King.”
“Fuck me. Your sister?”
“Hell no. First cousin. Her dad and my dad were brothers.”
“Were?”
“Yeah, her dad died a long time ago. So, you left Guardian and the best of everything because you missed working twenty-three hours a day, bad food, worse coffee, and grumpy partners.”
“You’re not grumpy.”
He laughed and hit the turn indicator as he slowed for a red light. “I’m not talking about me. Grant is your official full-time partner. He’s a cranky motherfucker.” He wasn’t, but hey it was fun to poke at her.
“Yeah? Well, I’ve dealt with those types before.” She smiled at him. “Tell me, Detective, are you hungry?”
“Fuck yeah.” He glanced at the neighborhood. “Not much open right now, though.”
“Ummm…”
“Ummm?” He taunted her with her own unfinished statement.
“Okay, I don’t want to get any shit about this, so if you say anything to anyone about it, I’ll cut your balls off, but I’m a damn good cook. In the past month I’ve loaded my freezer. How does a bowl of chili and some homemade cornbread sound?”
He turned his eyes toward her and stared at the woman. Fuck him. God was testing him. Yep, or there was a hidden camera somewhere in the car. Someone had set him up. No woman was this perfect. Nope, she was a plant. Had to be. The vehicle behind them blasted its horn, startling them both. Her full-on laugh rolled through the car. She laughed with abandon, a full body release that was… enchanting.
“I didn’t ask for your first born, detective. Do you want some food or not?”
He kept his eyes on the road and nodded. “I would. Thank you.”
“Awesome. You can bring Fester up; we don’t want him to turn into a block of ice while we eat. I’m three blocks up on the left.”
He changed lanes and parked in front of a nice-looking building. It wasn’t new, but it had been kept up, and it had locks on the lobby. He followed her up the stairs and into a decent-sized apartment decorated with pictures, pillows and plants. The three ‘P’s’ that his mother insisted made a house a home.
“Take your coat off. It will take just a moment to warm everything up. You can let the cat out. He can’t hurt anything.”
Brock shouldered out of his coat and opened the cat cage. A streak of orange darted from the carrier and bolted toward the back of the apartment. “I think you might have an overnight guest.” Brock shoved his hands into his pockets and leaned against the kitchen door.
“Why’s that?” She turned to him as she scooped cold chili into a saucepan.
“Fester is loose and hiding.”
“Oh, that’s not a problem. If we can’t get him to come out from wherever he’s camping, we can set up his box here. I like animals.” She handed him a wooden spoon. “Stir this. I’ll be right back.”
Brock blinked at the spoon and watched her leave the kitchen. He stuck the damn thing in the pot and gave it a stir. The smell of chili and beef made his stomach growl. Hell, he hadn’t eaten since that damn cinnamon bun.
The chili was bubbling nicely when she returned. Brock did a double take. She’d changed into an old pair of blue jeans and a long t-shirt. Her hair was down, and holy hell, did she have a lot of hair. It fell to the small of her back, and flirted with her slim waist. He'd bet next month's paycheck that his hands would fit perfectly on her hips. Fuck him. He even noticed the way she smelled. Vanilla and cinnamon with a deeper note of something he couldn't describe. He filled his lungs hoping to catch another waft of scent. Hell, he even noticed the little bumps that ran through her hair caused by the braid she’d wound up in a bun at the back of her head.
“Thanks. The corn bread is in the fridge, bottom shelf. Could you put it in the microwave for a minute?”
“Sure.” He did as she asked, then unbuttoned his shirt sleeves and rolled them up his forearms.
She had the chili on the table along with a dish of soft butter by the time the microwave chimed. “So, tomorrow we work the phone and take a look at whatever else Samuel's left us.”
“Right. But we also need to drop by Treyson Enterprises and talk to the people on the Board.”
She nodded. “What time d
o you think those executive types get to work?”
He took a bite of chili. A glorious combination of spices, meat, and sauce exploded in his mouth. He closed his eyes and moaned. The low guttural sound filled the kitchen. He opened his eyes and looked straight at the woman he’d known for less than twelve hours. “Woman, you’re going to marry me.”
She threw back her head and laughed. “The chili is that good, huh?”
“Marriage proposal good.” Fuck him, the taste was damn near orgasmic.
“Name the place and time, big boy, but be warned, I’m high maintenance. I demand a lot from the men I ensnare with my cooking.”
He pointed a finger at her. “You accepted. It’s a done deal. Set the date.” He was laughing, but the idea wasn’t all that fucking funny.
“Shut up and eat.” She sectioned the loaf of cornbread and gave him a thick warm slice before she took one. He slathered it in butter and ate. He downed three bowls, and between them, they finished the loaf of cornbread. Conversation centered on the safe topic of the neighborhood and prevented him from acting like a fucking moron—again. Ask a woman you barely know to marry you… yeah, that fell straight into the you-don’t-have-a-fucking-brain-left-in-your-head column.
“Shit, I’m stuffed.” She groaned and picked up her bowl.
Brock picked up his bowl and took hers from her hands, before he snagged the now empty cornbread plate. “You cooked; I’ll clean.” That was his mother’s voice in his head.
“You don’t have to do that. It’s late. I’ll rinse them and throw them in the dishwasher. It’ll take me two minutes.”
Brock put his dirty dishes in the sink and turned, leaning against the counter. He knew he should get going so she could get some sleep, but he didn’t want to leave. He caught sight of the empty cat carrier. “Fester is still MIA.”
“He’s fine. You’ll have to bring up the litter and the food. I’ll make a temporary box until he comes out.”
He shoved his hands into his pockets. God, he felt like a teenager. “Thanks for dinner. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a home cooked meal.”
A Hope City Duet Page 8