by Leigh Lennon
“You mean Victor? Oh, fuck no. I saw him today, and he made mention of the two of us together—with him. It was a weak moment. The man at first looks hot as hell with his black hair. He’s big and bulky and sculpted by the gods. But when you talk to him, I can’t place it—the man gives me the heebie-jeebies. I’m actually happy you came back when you did. It was really quite stupid to hook up with a guy I barely knew.”
“So glad to have helped you,” I tease.
“Yeah, me, too.” She sits up on her knees like we’re chatting as if I’m a normal girl. “But don’t think you’re getting off that easy. I still want the goods on Detective Police Angel. So talk.”
There’s not much to share—except for today, which was beautiful, romantic, and frustrating all rolled up together. But I was with Wells, so for that reason, I simply smile and keep my mouth shut.
Chapter 9
Wells
I reach for the switch next to my door, flipping it up as the overhead lights turn on. My little home. It’s not much, a three-bedroom bungalow in South West Seattle in a neighborhood that’s been rebuilding itself for the past ten years. Drug dealers and prostitutes once lined the streets, but with a new initiative, parts of Seattle have been rebuilt and redistricted. Old buildings once abandoned now are filled with banks, churches, and small businesses. It’s been great to see this area begin to thrive again, and my little home is one of the many reasons I decided to be a part of the project.
It has been a long haul. I could see the bones of the house and got it for next to nothing, and in the Seattle market, this is saying something. Matt and I, along with pretty much every Montgomery, especially his brother Isaac, a contractor, spent countless hours helping me restore my home.
Bamboo floors lead into an open living space, a countertop island separating the living space with the kitchen with a large eat-in area on the entrance side of the house. With three bedrooms off the living room, and Jules’s magic touch so it wouldn’t look like an out-and-out bachelor’s pad, this is my minimalist rustic modern, as she coined my style, and it’s so much a part of me, almost as much as Malia is.
I fall back on my couch. What a day. What a fucking crazy, wonderful, and beautiful day spent in her presence. I’d often wondered if I’d see her again. The letters stopped two years ago—after she showed up on my doorstep, but it never prevented me from asking Jules about her. Or digging on my own.
Vanessa isn’t wrong. My house has Malia written all over it. I didn’t frame all the pictures she’d drawn for me over the years, but the one of the cat is on the end table next to the bed in the guest room, and I have several displayed on various walls throughout my home.
She drew a watercolor of the Seattle Space Needle that sits over my desk in my office. The one of the barn on her aunt’s property is on the wall above my bookshelf in my living room. She also drew a spoon, fork, and knife that I’ve appropriately hung in my kitchen, and a rooster, which matches my dark kitchen table, hanging near it.
But the painting, the one I knew would be the center of my life, the one that kept me grounded and made me understand she was going to be okay, was a picture of her painting at her easel. It represents everything that she has lived to do, including her passion.
In the thoughts that swirl around my foggy head, of the day I spent with this amazing and wonderful girl, I find peace as I stretch out on the couch, and before I know it, I’m asleep.
The sun drifts in the slats in the blinds, and as I make sense of my surroundings, I reach for my phone and attempt to piece together how I slept on my couch last night. But my smile as I wake can’t be denied. I spent the whole day with Malia. Should one girl evoke this much desire from my body? I call her a girl, and though she’s twenty, she’s so young. The trauma she’s suffered would have stopped most from living but not my girl.
Did I just call her mine? She’s not, she can’t be—ever. Right? Yes, that’s right, or at least it’s what my mind tells me. My cock, on the other hand, not so much.
My phone rings, and I see Higgie’s name appear on my screen. “Coming into work today?” he asks, his pitch a little bit of the ha ha demeanor this kid sports.
“Yeah, I crashed last night.” I’m stretching when he cackles, and an out-and-out ear-piercing screech hurts my head.
“I guess I would, too, if the object of my affection came back into my life, old man.”
He ribbed me just as I did to him. Calling him Higgie or kid, normally had him using old man on me as much as he could.
“You know nothing, young protégé’ of mine.”
He laughs again. “Keep telling yourself that. But I’d hurry because your ex is on the warpath. I’m positive she sees the same affection toward Malia as I do.”
“Again, you’re delusional,” I say when the doorbell rings. I open it up, the phone cradled near my ear and shoulder. Malia stands in front of me with groceries in her arms and in this unexpected but wanted surprise, I forget I’m on the phone with Higgins.
“I come bearing gifts.” She walks in, calling behind me, “I’m making you the best breakfast known to mankind.”
I turn around, watching her fine ass when Higgins’ voice is louder than before as I remember I’m on the phone with him. “Yo, Shanahan, where the hell did you go?” he asks.
Without taking my eyes off Malia, I reply, “Hey, I need you to cover for me with Vanessa for just a little bit longer.” I end the call, not wanting to hear his reply.
“What are you doing here?” I ask as she makes herself cozy in my kitchen.
“Yeah, I figured you were a complete bachelor when it came to food, so I’m here to send you off to work with a healthy and comforting morning delight.”
She looks up, and her eyes stop on my shirtless body. I must have ridded myself of it in the middle of the night. “Go shower, and when you’re done, I’ll have breakfast ready for you.”
I’m staring at her again as she’s making herself cozy in my house. “Are you going to gape at me all morning, or are you going to clean up? This breakfast is not good if it’s cold, so hurry up, mister.”
“Are you always this bossy?”
She’s bending over a cabinet, and her ass, which is in another pair of booty shorts, is gorgeous. “Yeah,” she calls behind her. “And I’ll beat you if you make me eat this breakfast cold.”
“Hey, Mal,” I call out, shortening her name in such an easy and casual way. “Has anyone ever told you you’re trouble?”
She stands, unzipping a lightweight jacket, her tits about to spill out from a tank top that doesn’t leave much to the imagination.
“All the fucking time. Now get showered so we can eat.”
It’s steel, fucking hard as a rock, when I turn on the shower to start my day, the water beating on my head, and my hard as fuck cock does nothing for the release I need.
I wrap my hand around it, and in my mind, I think of those short shorts of Malia’s or how her tan legs disappear at the apex of her pussy. My idea as I begin to stroke my cock is burying my face in that apex I can’t stop thinking about. I tip my head against the glass of the shower stall, watching me stroke it. My mind’s on Malia and Malia alone, along with all her body parts I want to get lost in.
“Ah,” I let out as I take my other hand and cup my balls. Her tits…are the nipples large and pink? Yes, my dick likes this idea. Her moans...are they loud, or are they intermittent? Would she wrap her legs around me when I pick her up and toss her on my bed to sample that area between her legs?
My cock thinks that I’m balls deep in Malia, and I can’t convince it otherwise. I continue to stroke and stroke. With a couple more up and down movements, I explode all over the side of the shower, but it’s not the same. Not like being lost in Malia, which apparently excites my cock more, and just the thought makes it come back to attention.
“Sorry, buddy, that’s a no-go zone for us.” And with that, whatever Malia is cooking beckons me to hurry and dress to find out what she’s conco
cting for us.
I push my plate back, moaning at the decadence I just ate. “What the hell is this again?”
She has a pleased smile on her face. “It’s bananas foster stuffed French toast.” My mind runs through everything this dish is, and I know very little except you need rum for bananas foster. “Wait, you can’t buy rum.”
“Nope, I can’t, but when it’s in your cabinet, and I’m cooking you breakfast, I sure as hell can use it.” She stands, pulling at my empty plate. “Do you want some more?” she asks, and I can’t help but watch her as she sashays away from me.
“No, and I better get to work unless I want my boss to go apeshit crazy on me.” She begins to scrape the scraps into the trash can. “So, when do you start school?” I make a beeline to the coffee pot, grabbing a to-go cup.
“There’s almost two weeks before classes start.” This surprises me with such an early check-in, but she begins before I can ask. “Greenlyn is a part of the cheerleading squad, and everyone in sports activities moves in early. My aunt’s farm sold, and I didn’t have anywhere to go. I could have stayed with Georgia, which, if I did, I was afraid I wouldn’t want to leave. With my tuition being paid by the state of Oregon, after many waivers to attend an out-of-state school, I requested early move in.”
“Ah, that makes sense.” It pains me to think of Malia having nowhere to go. “You know, you have a support system now with the Montgomerys and..” I stop to think if I should give her more—and in this false hope, but I don’t stop. “You have me, too, Malia.”
She stops at the sink but doesn’t look at me. I know what she wants. It’s what I want, too, but I can’t go there. Thirteen years is too far of a gap—too forbidden.
“Hey.” She spins around with a huge smile on her face. “Do you mind if I stay and clean up? I’m avoiding the dorms, all the jocks and cheerleaders are driving me crazy. Except Greenlyn, she’s pretty cool.”
“Yeah,” I begin, “why don’t you hang out for the day, watch some television, and when I get home, I’ll repay your breakfast with dinner?”
“You’re going to cook?” she asks.
I give out a large snicker. “Oh, you don’t want to eat what I make,” I explain. “I’m taking you to Ivar’s down on the pier. So, have a relaxing day, and I’ll see you on the flip side.”
“You didn’t just say on the flip side? Right?”
I give her a sly smile. “What can I say? I’m old.” I shut the door behind me, and something about leaving Malia in my home as I start my day seems right, too right, and it’s then because it’s so simple, I know it’s wrong. Or at least I keep telling myself this.
“Oh, someone’s in trouble,” Stewart teases when I drop my coffee and keys on the desk.
I ignore him. “Do we have preliminaries back from the letter that was left for Malia?” I ask as I gaze into Vanessa’s office.
“Yeah, here it is, but you won’t like it.”
One page. The report is only one page. Upon further inspection, it’s not even a full page. No prints. There are no samples of the handwriting in the system. “So basically, it’s a dead end.” Fuck, that’s all I need.
I let out a large sigh, leaning over my filing cabinet where the Strickland family murder files are stored.
“Do you think there’s more to come?” Stewart asks over his desk, which faces me.
“I don’t know, but whoever left that letter, they knew who Malia was.”
I’ve not been able to admit how Malia has had my feelings all jumbled together since I picked her up at the Montgomery house.
“So does anything jump out to you since you know that case inside and out?”
I open the case file with the initial interviews in the surrounding neighborhood, starting with Jules Montgomery, the Brightly family, the Wayne brothers on the corner, who were no help since they were on vacation, and Ms. Becket, next to the Strickland house. I continue with the interview with Smith Turner, and nothing hits me. “A fucking dead end.”
He leans back, interlinking his hands around his head, and begins, “So, do you want some fresh eyes?”
I raise both eyebrows, challenging him. “It’s just, fuck, Wells, you know how you feel about the girl.”
I feign ignorance. “No, I don’t. Why don’t you enlighten me, asshole?”
He leans forward with a pen in his hand, tossing it on his desk. “Yeah, you keep denying it. I’m just saying, she’s more than a case to you. So maybe fresh eyes might be what you need.”
I toss it across the desk. “Okay, Higgie, have at it.” But as he grabs it, scouring through it, all I can think about is the girl at my house, waiting for me to take her out for supper.
After a couple of mindless calls and some last-minute paperwork, I’d been able to leave the precinct, a little too excited to come home to Malia. Pulling back the door, it’s quiet, with only the low sound of the television. From the doorway, my gaze falls on her. She’s asleep on the couch. I don’t want to wake her, so I sneak in, watching her intently.
She has some reality show turned on about dating strangers. I pass her, making a beeline to my room. I’m ready to get out of my detective clothes because Vanessa insists I wear slacks, a button-down shirt, and a tie.
I shut the door lightly and undress quickly, getting in my shower. I want to be in and out because I don’t have time to jack off like I did earlier this morning. Five minutes and I have a towel wrapped around me; grabbing my jeans and a simple black T-shirt, my usual non-police uniform of sorts.
I drop the towel, and the creak of the door has me turning around, a large gasp escaping Malia’s mouth with a baseball bat in her hands.
“Oh, shit.” She twists her body from where she had been but stays in my doorway. “Wells, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you were back, and I heard a funny sound, then footsteps, and with everything…” I’ve pulled on a pair of boxers along with my jeans. My chest still bare.
How stupid could I be? “Mal, sweetheart, you can turn around,” I begin, grabbing my black T-shirt. She stays in the same stance. “Mal, sweetheart, it’s okay. This was my fault. I should have woken you up.”
She spins back toward me, wearing a large grin on her face. “I’m sorry.”
I narrow my eyes on her. “I’d say by the huge smile that you’re not too sorry.”
Her grin doesn’t evaporate. “Um, well, what can I say? I did like what I saw.”
Malia has never strayed away from letting me know what she wants. I walk to her now that I’m dressed. “You’re going to be a lot of trouble, aren’t you?” I say, teasing her as I have in the past.
“Again, I’m worth all the trouble, officer,” she begins, and I have no fucking doubt about this.
Chapter 10
Malia
“I really miss the BMW,” I tease.
His eyes flash to mine as he takes the entrance for I-5. “You’re a brat, you know that?”
“Yeah, and a smart-ass, and a little crazy at times,” I counter. “Are you getting clam chowder?” I ask.
He scoffs at me. “Of course, it’s the main reason to go there. But that’s not enough for this growing man. I normally get the fresh salmon.”
“Yeah, you’re a growing young man, that’s for sure,” I tease, speaking of his grown member, which I certainly didn’t miss as it became more erect by the second.
His cheeks pinken, and he doesn’t respond to me.
“Oh, shit, Wells, that was super inappropriate.” Though it’s the truth. I don’t regret what I’ve said, but I’ll keep this to myself.
“I was going to agree with you that you’re a smart-ass.”
“And you can’t be a smart-ass?” I question as he weaves in and out of traffic.
“Nah, I’m mostly known for being an overbearing asshole.”
Now this I’d like to see. “Oh, great, can’t wait.” I’m serious, especially if he wants to be an overbearing asshole on my behalf by protecting me.
“I don’t know if you w
ould, Mal.” I love this nickname—I love it so much, and at the mention, it makes me smile.
“What are you smiling about, sweetheart?” he asks, pulling off the freeway toward the Seattle Great Wheel.
I’ve been smiling at the ease of our conversation, and I keep this to myself. “I forgot they have a big wheel. Can we do that, please?”
When he stops at a red light, his gaze turns to mine. I let my lips fall into a pout and make my eyes as big as they can be.
“So you’re telling me you’re a smart-ass, a peeping Tom, a brat, and now one to bribe an officer of the law with your pouty lips and big eyes?”
I nod my head in agreement. “By golly, you get me. Is it working?”
“Fuck yeah, it’s working.” Our eyes stay connected. I won’t look away because with every moment I’m in this man’s presence, I recognize how our relationship is evolving. It’s what I want, and with a small flash of longing in his eyes, I know it’s what he wants, too. It’s not until the light turns green and the car behind us honks that he breaks this intimate moment.
The waiter has his eyes transfixed on my boobs when he comes to collect our drink orders. I’m used to this because the girls tend to call home all sets of eyes, but I’ve been curious as to what Wells would do.
“And, you, beautiful, what would you like?” He barely pays Wells any mind as he’s asked for a beer, but me, his eyes stay planted on my ample breasts.
“I don’t know, honey,” I say to Wells, moving in close in the small circular booth we are seated in. “Why don’t you order for me?” My stare turns to Wells, and his jaw is clenched with the sound of his teeth grinding.