by Mazzy King
She won’t.
I gently place my fingers beneath her chin and tilt her head up. Tears stream from her eyes, and the look on her face shatters me.
“You are a strong woman,” I tell her. “You’re amazing. And you don’t need a jerk like me to mansplain that to you. But from one human being to another—from someone who cares for you so fucking much—I need you to hear me. This was not your fault. Ever. Do you hear me?”
Her beautiful lips quiver, but she gives me a nod.
“Say it for me.” I smooth a lock of hair behind her ear.
“It—it’s not—”
“Louder.”
She takes a deep breath and gulps. Then she looks me square in the eye. “It’s not my fucking fault.”
My pride in her threatens to make that heat pricking my eyes spill forth. “That’s fucking right,” I whisper, cupping her face in my hands. I kiss her lips gently, once, twice.
She leans her head against my shoulder. “I—I got it all.”
“Good.” I lean forward to close out of the photo. I don’t want her to have to look at it any longer than necessary—the memory of that occurrence is already too much, I’m certain.
Her computer background pops up. She keeps her desktop pretty sterile, unlike my work computer, which has tons of random photos of evidence, reports, and notes. Every time I sit down at my desk, I tell myself I’m going to organize all that stuff, and then the sight of it depresses the shit out of me, so I ignore it.
But my attention isn’t on how clean her desktop is, but the image itself. It’s a really cool design of what looks like some kind of futuristic night market. Tons of neon-colored signs and what looks like a train system, based on someone’s interpretation of what that might look like fifty years into the future.
“That’s cool,” I murmur, and she lifts her head.
“Oh, thanks.”
I stare at her. “Wait, you made that?”
Lyra lifts a shoulder. “Yeah. Digital art. It was one of my most recent pieces. I saw a photo of a night market in Tokyo and was inspired to recreate it, but a futuristic version.”
“That’s…the dopest thing I’ve ever seen,” I say sincerely, leaning forward to examine it more closely. “Wow. You’re incredibly talented.”
“Thanks.” She blushes a little. “It’s the one thing in my life that makes me truly happy.”
I want to be the other thing in her life that makes her truly happy, but I also don’t want to stand in her way because of my own selfish desires. She’s had a hard few years, maybe a hard life overall, and she deserves to get out of this place if she wants and make a new life for herself.
It’d break my heart, but if it means she gets to be free…it’ll be worth it.
“I’m ready,” she says after a moment.
I won’t insult her by asking her if she’s sure. I stand up, offer my hand, and she takes it. There’s a slight tremor in her hand, but she lifts her head high.
We return to the car and head to Ridge City PD headquarters. Gunner’s waiting for us in the lobby. I’ve already forwarded him the files Lyra sent to me.
He gives me a bro-shake, complete with hard smack on the back, then turns to Lyra with a polite smile. She’s done wrong, but I explained to Gunner she was forced into it, and she has the evidence. He won’t treat her like a criminal.
“Ms. Michaels,” he says, extending his hand. “I’m Officer Hansen. I’m going to take you to a room where we can speak in private. Me, my sergeant, and the lawyer Saint contacted for you.”
Lyra swallows and shoots me a look. “Okay.”
“I’ll be waiting right outside,” I assure her.
Gunner gives me a nod and gestures toward the elevator bank. “We’ll head up to the seventh floor, all right?”
We pile into the elevator and head up. I walk with them to the interrogation room. While Gunner ducks off to get her a couple bottles of water, I turn to her. It kills me not to take her in my arms, but there’s a lot of cops here, and I don’t want to do anything to raise any suspicion.
“You’re going to be fine,” I tell her. “Just be totally honest about everything. Gunner’s my guy. He’ll take care of you.”
“Okay,” she whispers.
I catch a glimpse of Gunner striding toward us, whistling loudly as if to announce his presence.
“I love you,” I tell her quickly, then step away as Gunner reaches us.
Lyra gives me a small but sweet smile, then steps into the room as Gunner holds the door open for her. He glances at me and winks over his shoulder—his way of telling me not to sweat anything.
I head to my desk. I’m not going anywhere until her interview is done, so I may as well catch up on some paperwork. And, my location offers the perfect vantage point to keep an eye on the conference room.
One hour turns into two, two hours become four. The door opens occasionally, either Gunner retrieving more water and coffee, or someone needing to use the restroom. I spot Lyra a few times. She goes straight to the ladies’ room, then straight back. She never glances in my direction.
At five o’clock, the door opens, and all four people walk out—Lyra, Gunner, Gunner’s sergeant, and the lawyer. I shove back my rolling chair and stand. I can’t read anyone’s face.
Except Lyra. She looks tired, but totally calm.
Gunner leads her over to my desk. He claps a hand on my shoulder. “Went really well,” he says, glancing at her. “Don’t you think?”
She takes a deep breath. “I told the truth. I gave you all my evidence.”
Gunner nods and looks at me. “I can’t make any promises or guarantees, of course, but…if I had to bet on it, I’d say she’s in the clear. Looking good.”
“Trial?” I ask.
“Hopefully before Christmas,” Gunner says. “We’re getting a team assembled now to move on Hendricks. The two guys we got the other night aren’t talking yet, but once we hit them with the smoking-gun evidence Lyra gave us, I suspect they’ll be singing a different tune.” He nods toward her. “We’ve agreed not to detain her for her part in things…”
“In exchange for my testimony at the trial,” Lyra finishes.
“Saint, she’s going to need protection,” Gunner adds. “Until we apprehend Hendricks and the rest of his crew, it’s going to be dangerous for her.”
“Of course,” I say darkly. “These criminals operate on the assumption they’ll be ratted out. Hendricks won’t be any different. I’ll take her back to the safehouse tonight. I want a few teams in unmarkeds in a perimeter around the place. I want her protected twenty-four-seven until these fuckers are locked up for good.”
Gunner nods. “You got it. I’ll meet you guys downstairs in a minute, all right?”
I lead Lyra to the elevators. Inside, I finally pull her into my arms. “How are you?”
“Tired,” she admits, squeezing me. “But…I feel good. Light. Like a weight’s been lifted off me. I’m relieved I won’t face any criminal charges, but I have to tell you. The thought of testifying with Max sitting right there terrifies me.”
“You’ll be so well prepared, it won’t even matter,” I assure her.
She nods. “I wish I could just stay with you,” she murmurs. “I only feel safe with you around.”
“I know.” I stroke her hair. “But you just have to be patient. Once this is over…”
Then what? She said she wants to leave Ridge City.
“Yes?” Her gaze pins me.
“Things will be different,” I finish awkwardly. “You’ll feel even freer than you do right now.”
She looks crestfallen, but nods.
Outside, the late October chill fills the air. I can very faintly make out the scent of a bonfire, from someplace in the distance.
I turn to her to tell her I wish it was our bonfire we were enjoying together when someone approaches us from across the street—a woman.
She’s dressed like she lives on the streets—tattered clothes, face caked
in grime. I suspect she’s coming to ask me for a ride to the homeless shelter. I’ve even had some homeless people purposely commit small crimes, like having an open-container on the street, just to get arrested so they can spend a night in jail—under a roof.
“Officer,” she says to me, which is a little strange since I’m in plainclothes, but I assume she noticed the badge clipped to my belt peeking out from beneath my T-shirt. “I need some help. Somebody stole my money.”
I can hold down the fort until Gunner gets here, but I really need to get Lyra situated back at the safehouse, and we’ll need to stop by her place again to get more of her things. “When did it happen?” I ask patiently. “And did you get a good look at the suspect?”
The woman shifts, wrapping her arms around herself. It looks like she’s wearing about three bulky, holey sweaters, but she doesn’t have a coat. She shifts her weight. “It happened just about ten, fifteen minutes ago. The guy, he was—” She holds her hand out level with her own height.
“White? Black? Long hair, short hair? What was he wearing?”
“I wrote it down,” she says, digging in her pockets. “Give me a second.”
That’s a first. I’ve never met someone on the street who took the time to write down descriptors of the person who stole from them.
Just as this thought occurs to me, the woman pulls something shiny out of her pocket. Then she hisses, “Going to shut you up for good, bitch!”
She lunges toward Lyra, slicing.
My body reacts before my mind does, and I sling Lyra out of the way.
“Saint!” she cries.
The woman’s coming at me now. I shuffle back fast, reaching for my weapon and trying to shield Lyra.
“Freeze!”
Gunner races toward us, his service weapon drawn and trained on the woman. She sees him and drops the knife immediately. Then she lowers herself to her knees and interlocks her fingers, as if this is all no big deal.
I grab her and wrangle her arms behind her, then click on the metal bracelets.
“This isn’t over,” she says to Lyra. “You won’t be safe anywhere. Snitches don’t get stitches—they die.”
“And thanks for another felony,” I growl. “Attempted murder and now a terroristic threat.”
“It’s not a threat,” the woman snaps. “It’s a promise.”
Gunner and a couple more cops haul the woman inside. I turn to Lyra. “Are you all right?”
She’s breathing harshly. “I—yeah.”
“Do you know her?”
She shakes her head. “Never seen her before. She must be one of Max’s.”
“That means he’s watching,” I tell her. “He’s watching, and he knows you were here today. There’s no time to waste—I’ve got to hit the streets and find him.”
I take her into the building and meet with the undercover officers Gunner tapped to escort Lyra to the safehouse and explain what’s just happened.
One of the officers nods at me. “We’ll take care of her,” she promises.
I wish I could tell Lyra goodbye like I want to, but I settle for giving her a meaningful look. “I’ll be in touch,” I tell her.
She nods, then mouths, I love you.
Warmth blooms in my chest. I want to say it back so badly.
The officers lead her away, and I feel a small sense of relief in knowing she’ll be safe.
Then I link up with Gunner back on the seventh floor.
“It’s time to get this piece of shit off the streets,” I say between my teeth.
He smirks and nods, then inclines his head toward the interrogation room. “Our friend from outside is nice and cozy in there. Ready for a little chat?”
I’m already walking toward the room. “Let’s see if we can make her sing.”
It takes us only three days to locate Max Hendricks—and uncover the location of where the luxury cars went too.
Thanks to the woman we apprehended outside HQ, we find him inside another abandoned garage, but well away from downtown. He’s taken up in a location about ten miles outside the city in an industrial area. She gave us the intel after seventeen solid hours of interrogation. I went home to sleep for about two hours, then we organized our team and called for SWAT to assist.
Now, I snatch Max Hendricks by the crusty collar of his shirt and force him facedown on the ground. Rhys Hartley’s back on duty after getting wounded last month, and this is his first mission back. He practically has a smile on his face as he orders the other men in the garage onto their faces. Two of them are the two assholes who got away the night I went to the meeting.
And everywhere I look, there are foreign luxury vehicles. There’s easily ten million dollars’ worth of stolen cars inside this garage.
“I know you,” Max spits out. His cheek is pressed into the ground, his hands are cuffed behind his back, and I’m frisking him none too gently for weapons. “I saw you. With Lyra. The other day when you went to her apartment.”
“Figures you were watching,” I say in a clipped tone. “That’s how you knew to send your friend after us.”
“Had to make sure my girl didn’t snitch on me. And what a surprise, she did.”
I press the heel of my palm into the cheek that’s face up and lean down close to his ear. “Lyra is a lot of things—but let’s get one thing straight. She’s not your girl, and she never will be, ever again. Got that?”
“Whatever. You can have that stupid little bitch,” he grinds out.
I yank him hard to his feet and get in his face. “You’re a fucking cancer, Hendricks, and I want you to know I will use all my power to make sure you never get to feel freedom ever again.” I drag him over to a squad car, open the door, and thrust him inside. “As far as Lyra, you don’t get to say her name. You don’t get to think about her or talk about her. You’ll never see her again, and…” I give an evil chuckle. “Heaven help you if she ever encounters you.”
He sneers and leans toward me. “She was never good for anything but making me money. She was a shitty lay, too—on the rare occasions she gave it up. Have fun with that. Word to the wise, though—sometimes she needs a hard slap to the mouth to get her in line—”
I pull my Taser from my vest and fire into his thigh. The prongs dig into their mark and his entire body seizes as the volts course through him. He lets out a long groan of pain, eyes rolled back into his head, and then promptly pisses himself.
“Okay, then. Have a nice ride, buddy,” I say loudly, tucking my Taser back into its holster and shutting the door. I want to punch him in the face, but this was almost better.
The ugly things he said about Lyra float through my head, and I have to step outside to cool off. How dare he speak about her that way. But it goes to show he never really knew her. He never treated her in a way that let her flourish. He tried to snuff out her light, extinguish her brightness.
It feels good to know he never will.
I think of her and wonder how she’s doing. I know she’s safe and secure—I get updates from her security detail several times a day. They said all she asked for were the items she has at home to make her digital art—her lightbox screen, a special pen that goes with it, a big sketchpad, and pencils. They said she’s been making tons of art, listening to music, and seems tranquil.
It makes me so happy to know that, but I miss her terribly. I want to be with her. I want her in my arms, in my bed. I just want to be in her presence and listen to her talk about things and figure out every single one of the endless facets that make her up.
I want these things. Forever.
I can’t help but wonder if she wants these things, too…with me.
Chapter 8
Lyra
I walk into the courthouse, my heels clicking on the marble floor. Today’s the day—the day I’ve been looking forward to as the first step toward putting the past behind me, and the day I’ve been dreading, because it means I have to see Maximillian Hendricks again.
I’m wearing pl
ain gray slacks and a lavender long-sleeved shirt. Just a hint of makeup, and my hair is back in a nice twist. There’s no hint of the wild, tattooed artist today. I hate that I’m judged on my appearance, but I can’t afford for anything to go wrong.
I can’t afford for Max to somehow get off.
The past two weeks since I cooperated have been two of the most peaceful of my life. I had round-the-clock security who pretty much didn’t let me leave that safehouse but made sure I had everything I wanted. All I asked for were my art supplies and some books, and some groceries to cook, because cooking is something I enjoy. I made a lot of art, I cooked a lot of meals, I read some really good novels, and I listened to a lot of music. I meditated and stretched and did yoga.
And I’m not ashamed to admit that at night, lying in the bed I shared with Saint, I played with myself, imagining he was there with me. His scent still lingered on the sheets and the pillows, and I couldn’t help but remember all of our delicious moments—riding his mouth, him taking me hard from behind, and me tasting every last, thick inch of him.
I haven’t seen or heard from him in two weeks, but that’s because I wasn’t allowed to contact anyone but my contact on the security team. I miss him, and I want this all to be over so I can tell him how much I want to be with him.
Inside the courtroom, I do my best to ignore Max from where he sneers at me from beside his lawyer. I’m sworn in, and then…
Let the games begin.
The prosecutor approaches me and after a few rounds of basic questions, she asks me to elaborate on the abusive nature of my relationship with Max.
My voice fails me.
It’s like every horrific memory I shared with him pelts me in that instant. I can’t stop staring at Max. I can’t stop reliving each one of those nightmares. I can’t breathe.
I can’t breathe.
At the back of the room, movement catches my eye and I slowly shift my gaze toward it.
Saint Rivers walks in, and he’s looking right at me.
No suit for him today—he wears black utility pants, a hoodie, and his detective vest. The sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, revealing his heavily tattooed forearms.