Triggered by Love

by Rachelle Ayala

  A wolf whistle caught his attention, and he turned toward it, catching a flash of honey-blond hair, a lavender T-shirt, and pair of long, tanned legs, right before Avery skidded to a stop in front of him.

  “Jason, what happened?” She touched his partially soaked T-shirt.

  The guys who threw the ice water were still there, laughing and jeering. “Hey there, pretty lady. Stay away from the pig. Oink. Oink.”

  “You going out for a jog?” Jason asked Avery.

  Her eyes narrowed, and she lifted one corner of her lips. “Smart guy. Of course, I’m going for a run. It’s next on my schedule, which I’m sure you already knew.”

  Great. She’d no doubt caught on to his stalking, and the neighborhood toughs knew he was a cop. Nothing wrong with a little deterrence. It kept Avery safe, and as an off-duty cop, he packed his piece in the holster underneath his shirt.

  “Let’s go, then. I’ll race you, friend,” he said as they crossed the street and headed into the park.

  “You can cut the friend thing, Detective. I think we’re already coffee buddies.”

  “Coffee mates,” he countered and headed toward one of Central Park’s many hills.

  Neither talked much while they ran, and Jason found himself trying not to gasp for breath. He was carrying more weight than her, and his thigh muscles cried out for relief as they crested the hill.

  Avery slowed and turned to say something to him, but out of nowhere, someone shouted, “Fuck the police.”

  A mountain bike clipped Jason and sent him sprawling onto his hands and knees.

  “Are you okay?” Avery offered her hand.

  Jason had too much pride to take it. He bounced back up, brushing off the gravel, and gave chase to the mountain biker. It was a lost cause. The long-haired creep went underneath a bridge and disappeared.

  “Wow, you’re a walking accident or a magnet for cop haters,” Avery said. “What did you do? Rough someone up?”

  “Me? You think I’m the problem?” He slashed his hand across his sweaty face and glared at her. “I’m the guy busting my butt out here keeping the public safe. I’m all that stands in the way of violent criminals on a killing spree.”

  “I appreciate all you’re doing, but don’t you think you have a public image problem? Why are people so up in arms against the police?”

  “Because they want to commit crimes and not be held accountable.”

  “I didn’t mean the criminals,” Avery said, walking at his side. She was breathing harder than she had while running. “I meant ordinary citizens. They don’t seem to back the police anymore. They see you guys using excessive force.”

  “You don’t know if force is excessive until after the fact.” He bottled up his fury and tried to soften his voice. “I might have slammed you to the ground, but I didn’t want you to get shot, and I had to shoot first and take out the threat before asking questions.”

  “I’m not talking about you.” She quailed and turned white, gaping at him. “I’m sorry. I’m on your side. I didn’t mean what I said.”

  “But you did,” he muttered, turning away from her. “You side with the poor, oppressed criminals because you want to feel good about yourself. Feel charitable. Let them out of jail. No cash bail. No arrests. Let them go because they’re down on their luck. They’re misunderstood. But do you care about the victims? Do you see the victims?”

  He felt the punch on his back. “Dammit. Don’t talk to me about victims. I was meant to die, but Brando took my bullet. I know why you’re hanging around. You haven’t caught the real killer, and you’re bandaging up your guilt. If you’re so tough, leave me alone. Don’t come around unless you’ve caught the guy who wanted me dead.”

  He remained standing with his back turned. He refused to turn around and confront her. Every word she spoke was the damn truth. He was guilty. If he’d left the shooter alive, he might have found a lead. He might have gotten the guy to talk. A two-bit hired shooter had no loyalties, and if he was too scared to talk, that said a lot too about how high up the order to kill had come from.

  Avery was shaking and trembling like she was trapped in an ice storm instead of Manhattan’s sweltering mid-summer heat. She tore her way back from the park, pumping her arms and legs at a breakneck speed.

  Several runners whooped to encourage her, but she paid them no attention. She was way past exercising. She was exorcising the grief that gnawed on her heart, chewed through her bones, and corroded her bloodstream.

  Brando died because of her. She knew it. She could feel it, and the damn detective acknowledged it. He suspected something, had to. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be tailing her and stirring up trouble.

  He was shaking the box to see what would pop out.

  Except nothing had happened. Not even a crank phone call. She’d withdrawn from the party circuit. Stopped hanging out at Lushpuppies, the local bar where her brothers celebrated. She hadn’t gone on the annual Vegas trip her sorority sisters made, and she’d definitely not logged in to any of the dating apps she’d entertained herself with prior to meeting Brando. She didn’t have the energy, and Brando made all of her past dating life obsolete and dull. Not even tickets to a hilarious Broadway show could tempt her. Richie ought to know she’d be no fun at all.

  Whoever shot at her had shot the life out of her. It was like they wanted her to join a cloister, shut herself off, and exist in a cave. All work, no play. Exercise yes, gun range yes, dating no, charity balls no. Family visits yes. Singles bar no. Church yes. Amusement parks no.

  And he’d succeeded. Brando’s death had turned her temporary stage fright into a permanent disability. And yet, she could not let the killer win.

  There were no leads, as if a petty street thug would take a random shot at a fashion show for kicks.

  And Brando had died. The revered firefighter hero who the entire city had grieved. A real American hero who had no enemies.

  Avery dashed into the shower and let the hot water burn her skin. She stood underneath it, washing away the ever-present tears.

  Brando would hate to see her this way. So rattled and afraid of her own shadow. Brando gave his life for a big nothing if she were to give up now. She couldn’t live like this—on hold, waiting for the incompetent detective to find a reason.

  Perhaps there was none.

  She got out of the shower and paraded around her apartment, naked and dripping. She had to get her mojo back and strike forward with bold moves. When was the last time she sketched or even doodled?

  She wanted to make the most use of Matt Swanson’s chiseled face and be known as the first designer to go beast mode. The face of a predator over the understated heroism of a Cary Grant. What kind of animal was Matt?

  Feathers, scales, or fur?

  She pulled up photos of Matt Swanson on her laptop and studied the angles. He had well-defined cheekbones, a slight cleft in his chin, and a high forehead. While it was tempting to portray him as a reptile, possibly an iguana, he was on her team to make her look good.

  His brown hair was swept upwards in a quiff, and she could accentuate that upward flight with feathers. He was a professional quarterback, so the theme of air and flight worked. She wouldn’t turn his nose into a beak or anything Halloweenish, and she didn’t want to go overboard. The feathers would blend up to his hairline. She’d add makeup around his dark-blue eyes to sharpen them, and a few longer feathers to accentuate his eyebrows.

  Picking up her sketching pencils, she blocked in Matt’s face and dotted his temples with hawk feathers, laid flat. Enough to give him the bird of prey look without being garish and distracting from the tweed, cravat, and suit of clothes he’d be modeling.

  The phone rang. Even though she was okay with being naked while sketching, she pulled a towel over her body before answering. Strange, wasn’t she?

  It was her friend, Kerry Mills from Hawaii, a blond bombshell professional surfer and swimwear model. It didn’t seem so long ago when Kerry had taught her how to surf, and the
two of them were bonding over boyfriend gossip and cheating on their diets with dollops of vanilla ice cream over hot fudge brownies.

  “Hey, sweetie,” Kerry said. “Your summer hot enough?”

  “I’m wilting.” Avery put on a cheerful voice and laughed. “Took a shower after running through Central Park.”

  “At high noon? You know what they say about mad dogs.” Kerry chuckled.

  “Actually, I had a mad dog with me.” Avery wrapped the towel around her and slouched onto her sofa. The shades were drawn so she was in no danger of anyone spying on her from the high rise across the street.

  “Oh, and is it a he? A male dog?” Kerry picked up on the slight innuendo.

  “Yes, and no, I’m not in heat, despite the heat wave.”

  Even with the air conditioning blowing, Avery could feel the sheen of sweat slicking over her face. At least the hot shower had taken the chill of Brando’s death from her bones.

  “Tell me all,” Kerry said encouragingly.

  “Actually, I told him off, and no, he’s nothing interesting. Just that Detective Burnett with no news and no clue.”

  “I wouldn’t call the man who saved your life just anybody,” Kerry said. “So, he’s your training partner now? Is that a new thing?”

  “He stalks me. He thinks he’s my guardian angel, but I’m betting he doesn’t like to lose. He’s watching to see if anyone will make a move.”

  “Why would they?” Kerry asked. “It was probably a random crazy guy and you were unlucky. Maybe gang initiation. I’m sorry Brando got caught in the crossfire.”

  “Me too, but I guess Brando would want me to go on,” Avery said. “I’ve designed an entire heroic menswear line to honor him at Manhattan Fashion Week.”

  “That’s why I called,” Kerry said. “I’d like to do the ramp walk with you in Brando’s honor, if you’d have me.”

  “Oh, Kerry Merry, of course I’d have you, but I can’t put you in danger.” Avery felt her heart catch in her throat. “We don’t know if they were gunning for me.”

  “We’ll be safe,” Kerry said. “The president’s daughter modeling for you is such a coup, plus the hunky Secret Service agents are a big bonus. I’ll be safe.”

  Kerry had faced down sharks in the water, but she wasn’t made of iron. After being bitten, she’d conquered her fear of surfing, and Avery was proud of her courage and glad for her support.

  “I’d love to have you walk with me, but this is something I have to do myself,” Avery said. “My publicist is offering a football player. I can’t put him in the line of fire either.”

  “You can’t think that way,” Kerry said. “They might have been gunning for Brando. I know everyone loved him, but Finn says there are nuts out there who are jealous of heroes. They target those who are revered, hit policemen, military veterans, and the most beloved firefighters. There was a case out in …”

  “Please, Kerry, I don’t want to hear.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything. Avery, I’ll be there in a week, but I’m hugging you so close.” Kerry’s voice broke.

  “I love you, Kerry, you know that,” Avery said. “Don’t be sorry. I have to face the fact I might never know.”

  “I know, and it’s so hard to look over your shoulder all the time.”

  “Actually, not really.” Avery let the towel drop since she was alone, then stood up, stretching. “If a bullet finds me, I won’t complain, as long as no one I love is in the way.”

  Chapter Six

  Left hook. Right jab. Thud. Thud.

  Feint and duck. Then a swing. Blocked.

  Jason parried with his left fist and punched.

  His glove glanced off his sparring partner’s shoulder, and he raised his left glove to protect his face.

  Pow.

  The punch snapped his head back, and he reeled onto the ropes. His right ear rang where he was boxed, but he pushed himself back into the fight.

  He swung wildly at his opponent, landing a blow and missing another one. Off-balance, he stumbled and was knocked down.

  His partner, Blade Camden, ripped out his mouth guard and extended a gloved hand to pull him up. “You okay, Jase?”

  Jason swallowed back the nausea that accompanied the stars circling his visual field and nodded. Sucking in a breath, he struggled to his feet. “I’m good for another round.”

  “I say we hit the showers and call it,” Blade said. “Any plans for the evening?”

  “You hit the showers. I’m just getting started.” Jason mock-punched his partner. “That was only the warmup.”

  “Something’s bothering you.” Blade Camden might be a rookie on the police force, but he was a former UFC fighter and so physically fit he hadn’t even broken a sweat.

  Add to that a rugged, square face, jutting browbone and aggressive jaw that didn’t seem to dent, no matter how many punches he absorbed.

  “Nothing more than the usual.” Sweat rimmed Jason’s eyes, and his hair was soaked underneath the headgear.

  “Want to talk about it?”

  That was another annoying thing about Blade. He talked too much for a man. Oversharing and sticking his nose where it didn’t belong—especially in the realm of feelings.

  “Think I’ll go hit the bags,” Jason said, walking out of the training ring.

  Blade followed him. “Great idea. It’ll help you work off all that frustration. In fact, it’s therapeutic. Clears your mind and lets you sleep better at night.”

  Jason grunted while removing his headgear. He didn’t box to relax or chase out anxiety. He did it to stay in shape and hone his reflexes, although he’d been sluggish today. It hadn’t helped that he’d tossed and turned all night—unable to shut out the images of a blood-soaked Avery Cockburn underneath her firefighter fiancé.

  The two men stood underneath separate punching bags. Jason ignored Blade’s quip about picturing a face on the bag and proceeded to wallop the bag with everything he had.

  Loud thuds reverberated in the gym, and Jason’s punches were rapid-fire, like a machine gun’s splat as he sent the bag flying backward, pounding it over and over and over.

  The same way his father had pounded him over and over and over.

  Instead of quelling his fury, Jason drove his fists into the bag harder and faster, daring the bag to clap back at him.

  “Whoa there, Burnett.” Blade’s voice distracted him enough for the bag to sock him upside the head. “What’s chewing on you? Need to get laid or something?”

  “You seriously want to take it there?”

  A whirlwind of fury gusted deep in Jason’s gut, and before he could stop himself, he slammed his shoulder into Blade’s torso.

  The two men crashed onto the padded floor. Jason bounced off his partner’s chest and immediately regretted his rash action.

  “I didn’t mean to do that,” he muttered. “But sometimes, you need to shut up.”

  “Me, shut up?” Blade grunted, sitting up. “You’re the one out of control. I’m just trying to help.”

  “Don’t need help.” Jason helped his partner to his feet. “Let’s hit the showers and fuhgeddaboudit.”

  “Actually, no.” Blade removed his gloves and wiped his hand over his sweaty forehead. “I’m not going to forget you assaulted me.”

  “Sorry,” Jason managed to squeak out and turned toward the locker room.

  “Your apology isn’t good enough,” Blade said, dimming his ice-blue eyes. “I could report you to the chief. You have an anger problem.”

  Jason couldn’t believe his ears. Blade wasn’t hurt. He was into martial arts and used to getting knocked down.

  “Sorry, I bruised your face, but you must have taken worse hits in your fighting days.”

  Blade pointed to the swelling on his cheek. “I have an audition for a Broadway show. Think this is going to look good?”

  “Wait, what? What are you, getting into acting?”

  “Dancing. It’s what keeps my stamina up. You bette
r hope the makeup artist can cover this up.”

  “I said I’m sorry,” Jason reiterated. “Besides, I’m sure they aren’t looking in your ugly face for the chorus line.”

  “It’s a minor role, but I have a few lines in the spotlight.” Blade turned his face in front of the mirrored wall near the locker room.

  “Look, I’ll buy you a drink,” Jason offered. “I’m sure you’ll do well. I didn’t know you’re into dance.”

  “Keeps me on my toes.” Blade’s tone turned jocular again. “But you, my friend, aren’t getting off that easy. Since you’re my buddy, I’ll make you a deal.”

  Jason would have rolled his eyes if this weren’t serious. Assaulting a police officer was a felony, and if Blade insisted on filing a report—not that anybody other than a wuss would turn in his own partner—it would mean an investigation and possible suspension, if not outright criminal charges.

  “Look, it got out of hand, and I apologize,” Jason said, mimicking the touchy-feely dancer talk. What he wouldn’t give for an old-fashioned, no-holds-barred fistfight to settle the score. Not that he was that old at thirty-one, but it was the difference between being born in the free-wheeling eighties and the wussy nineties.

  “Hey, I understand.” Blade stepped in front of him, blocking his path. He placed a hand on Jason’s arm in a weirdly intimate fashion. “You’re not sleeping well and you’re worrying about that model lady. I know you’ve been stalking her because you want to catch the guy who ordered the hit. I bet you’re replaying the scene over and over in your mind, wondering what you missed.”

  “How would you know?”

  “Chief heard about your run in the park with the model lady.”

  “She has a name.” Jason tensed his muscles and stood firm. “Avery Cockburn, and how I choose to spend my free time is up to me.”

  “You know the case is dead, don’t you? The shooter acted alone. Gang initiation rite.”

  “Just because he was Salvadorian didn’t mean he was a gang member,” Jason said. “I’m not even sure we have his real name.”

  “He was illegal, so how did he get here? Must have owed money to the gangs.” Blade scratched his chin, something he did when the wheels turned in his mind. “He worked as a dishwasher at a dive bar in Soho—not a high-paying job. Someone comes by, offers him money to take a kill shot. He either hit his target or missed.”