Divorced, Desperate and Daring

by Christie Craig

  “You got your apartment?” she asked, unsure if she was relieved or . . .

  “No. Just a gig in Austin. I’ll be home Sunday.”

  Home. This wasn’t his home. “I think . . .”

  He moved in again. “Tell me you love me.”

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I—”

  “Come on. We’re good together.” His hands moved to her breasts.

  He twisted her nipples as if they were turn-on switches. Another thing she didn’t like, but hadn’t told him. Nipple twisting, ear licking, and that thing he did with her navel. The longer she stayed with Stan, the longer her list got. And she wasn’t even a list person.

  She attempted to step back, but he held her there, and continued his nipple assault.

  “Stop!” She pushed her hands against his chest. “I don’t love you.”

  He released her, but his nostrils flared, and something flickered in his violet eyes. Something not so pleasant. She inhaled, seeking calm, but the air tasted like cigarette smoke.

  Had he started smoking?

  “So you’ll take my gifts, but won’t put out?” His gaze cut to the bracelet on her wrist.

  “That’s why I can’t keep it.” She tried to get it off, but the dang thing wouldn’t release.

  “How long do I have to go without?” he snapped.

  She raised her gaze. Anger brightened his eyes. “It’s over. Leave.” She used her teacher’s voice, then darted into the kitchen and tried again to get the dang bracelet off. It wouldn’t give. She waited to hear the door slam. It didn’t. She swung around. His large frame loomed in the doorway. Her breath caught.

  Panic cat-walked her spine, and she’d never been clearer about what she wanted. Or rather, about what she didn’t want. She didn’t want the Cubic Zirconia bracelet. She didn’t want Stan. Earlier, when she’d seen his bags, she’d mourned being alone; she hadn’t mourned losing Stan. And along came another epiphany. Fear of being alone had jump-started this fling. Even when her mom was alive, Cali knew she was dying. And Cali hadn’t wanted to be alone.

  She opened her mouth to apologize for using him because that’s what she’d done. She’d used Stan. She didn’t want to have sex with him. Had she ever wanted sex with him? No. Oh, this was so bad. She had to give him his bracelet back.

  “This isn’t working.” She meant the relationship and the latch on the bracelet. She looked up to say she was sorry, and to tell him he needed to leave, but the flicker in his eyes stopped her. She dropped her hands to her sides.

  “What the hell do you think isn’t working?” He slammed his fist on the counter.

  She jumped. Her toaster jumped. She considered making a mad dash to a room with a lock. But when you ran, things tended to chase you, and Stan looked ready to give chase. She met his gaze and hoped she appeared braver than she felt. Right then, she knew who her mama meant when she’d asked if Stan reminded her of anyone. She pointed to the door. “Go.”

  “It’s not over.” But he grabbed his stuff and stalked out. The door slammed.

  “Leave. Leave just like Daddy did,” she said, her breath shuddering in her chest.

  • • •

  “Cali! You’ve got to get out of here.”

  Another dream. Cali tried to push it away. She needed sleep. Deep sleep. Not dream sleep.

  “Cali Anne!” Her mom’s tone got stern.

  “I’m so tired. Can we chat about lesbians later?” She burrowed her face into her pillow.

  “He’s coming back. He’s a bad man. Up to his ying-yang in trouble.”

  Cali jerked up on the bed. She heard it. Someone tried to open her door. But she’d set the deadbolt. Stan didn’t have that key. The doorbell chimed. Half asleep, she hot-footed it into the living room.

  “Who is it?” She clutched a fistful of her Mickey Mouse nightshirt in her hand.

  “It’s me!” Stan sounded panicked . . . or drunk. “Open the door!”

  “I don’t want to see you now.”

  “Fuck it, Cali! Open the door!”

  “Don’t open that door.” The voice came from behind her. Her mom’s voice.

  Was Cali still dreaming?

  “Move baby. Move!”

  Cali didn’t move. She froze. Afraid of what was in front of her. Stan. Afraid of what might be behind her. Her dead mother. But that was silly.

  Cali swung around to prove ghosts didn’t exist. Of course, ghosts didn’t exist. Nothing was there. Nothing.

  “Let me in.” The door jarred with a splintering thud. A loud blast exploded.

  It sounded like. . .

  The lamp on her end table lamp banged against the wall and crashed to the floor. She swung around and stared in horror at the hole in her door.

  Oh, God. Good shoulders, nice-guy-to-the-elderly Stan had just shot her door.

  And if Cali hadn’t have stepped back, she’d have traded places with her lamp.

  The door knob started turning. Back. Forth. Back. Forth. Another blast sounded. A scream lodged in her throat.

  • • •

  “Who’s feeding those damn stray cats in the back?” Brit’s sergeant’s voice boomed down the hall. “Whoever it is, stop! One of them took a shit on my car last night.”

  Brit’s gaze cut to the cans of tuna on top of his file cabinet, but he didn’t care enough to hide the evidence. He sat at his desk, two different case files spread out in front of him. Only one mattered. The one they refused to assign him. Keith’s photograph stared up at him. He looked away, but saw it in his head. Keith’s body lying face up, his empty eyes open, the concrete around his head darkened with blood.

  Brit closed his fist, his chest ached. Rina’s tip had gotten him nowhere. She’d said she heard the small-time drug dealer, Tony Payne, talking about a gang member who’d shot a cop.

  Brit and Quarles had joined the two officers assigned to Keith’s case and spent most of the night and all day kicking the dust up in some of Hopeful’s more drug-infested streets, looking for Payne. And they got dust for their trouble. Payne couldn’t be found.

  When they’d returned to the precinct, Sergeant Adams had jumped them for not working the jewelry store murder. Much to Brit’s surprise, his partner, who’d never met Keith, had been the one to jump back. “Keith Bolts was one of our own!” Quarles had said.

  Brit had walked away before his fist decided to handle what he couldn’t.

  Now, leaning back in his chair, he tried to calm down.

  “Hey.” Quarles appeared at the door. “There’s shots fired at some nearby apartments. Got one car heading that way, but something’s happening across town. They’re short of men and need backup.”

  Brit stood. “Let’s go.” Maybe some excitement would do him good. Get his mind off the fact that he was no closer to finding Keith’s killer today than three weeks ago.

  Five minutes later, they arrived. A patrol car, lights flashing, sat in the apartment’s parking lot. Guns drawn, Brit and Quarles raced up the steps.

  As they hit the landing, Brit saw Officer Logan standing outside apartment 215. Logan’s partner’s voice echoed from behind the door that was left ajar. The rush of adrenalin lost its edge. Brit slowed down long enough to take a bite of air. Someone was a chain-smoker.

  He lowered his Glock. The smell of smoke faded, but the coppery scent of blood assaulted him and had his adrenalin bellying back up to the bar. He gripped his gun. His gaze zeroed in on the white front door, or rather on the red handprints smeared and smudged there. A lot of blood. This wasn’t going to be pretty.

  Chapter Three

  “What we got?” Brit asked Officer Logan, who held his position by the door.

  “Domestic disturbance,” Logan answered. “One woman inside.”

  “She hurt?”

  “Didn’t look like it. Anderson’s talking to her. What do you want to bet she won’t press charges? These things always end the same.”

  Brit wouldn’t take that bet. He knew those odds—and he hadn’t
learned them on the job either. “Did you search the apartment?” Brit looked at the blood.

  “Why?”

  “Because she could be hiding the body in her closet.” Brit holstered his gun and wished like hell he hadn’t come. Nothing pushed his hot button like domestic situations. He glanced down at the lower half of the door and saw two circular streams of light peering through the wood. Kneeling, he studied the holes. “Shots came from out here.” Maybe there really was a body in the closet. Careful not to disturb any evidence, he nudged open the door.

  The lingering aroma of smoke evaporated as he moved into the warmth of the feminine-scented apartment—hair spray, perfume, candles. He looked around. The source of all those soft scents sat on the sofa, wearing a Mickey Mouse nightshirt, her arms worry-locked in front of her. He gave her a once-over for injuries. Found none. Then he gave her another up and down for male-related reasons. She shifted. Mickey’s ears jiggled with a soft sway of breasts. The woman’s gaze, oh-so innocent, found his, and Brit felt his hot button being finger-jabbed to high.

  Men who abused women topped Brit’s lowlife list, but their victims, who went back to them time and time again, both annoyed and puzzled the hell out of him.

  Brit stepped closer to the conversation.

  “Are you sure it was your boyfriend?” Officer Anderson shifted his nervous gaze to the notepad as if trying not to look at Mickey’s ears.

  “I’m sure.” She looked sad and a little pathetic, like a lost puppy. They all had that look.

  Anderson jotted something down. “I’m going to search the parking lot. See if he’s out there, then I’ll need to finish getting your statement. You sure you’re okay?”

  She nodded, her white blond hair whispering around her shoulders. Her blue eyes looked almost doe-like, large and scared. Pretty woman, Brit thought, and he tried to guess her type. Was she the doormat, a fighter, or did she just have a thing for make-up sex after being knocked around? Admittedly, he knew there were a few women who just got caught up in something ugly, but what were the odds of that?

  Anderson nodded at Brit, then started for the door.

  “You’re not leaving?” she asked, as if she hadn’t heard anything he’d said.

  Practically a rookie, Anderson shot Brit a desperate look. “Uh, Detective Lowell is going to ask you a few questions.” Brit’s shoulders tightened. He didn’t want to get involved. Unless a body appeared, he’d come only as backup. Backup didn’t ask questions; backup didn’t write reports. Backup didn’t care. Brit didn’t want to care. He had enough to care about.

  He cast her another glance. She fiddled with a bracelet around her wrist. Brit did a rundown of the surroundings, partly so he wouldn’t get caught up with Mickey again, and partly to search for signs of a struggle. No signs. Even the books on the shelves appeared to be in perfect alignment.

  Maybe too perfect? Suspicion pricked his gut. “Can I take a look around?”

  She brushed a lock of hair behind her ear. “He . . . left. I locked the deadbolt. He doesn’t have that key.”

  “Can I look around?” he repeated.

  “I don’t mind.” She yanked at the bracelet as if it were a handcuff. Frowning, she dropped her hands in her lap.

  He moved in and inhaled. The scent of shampoo and sleepy woman filled his lungs. But his nose had failed before. “Been drinking?”

  Her scared beautiful gaze shifted up. “No.”

  He felt himself go a little soft. Tension coiled inside his body as he fought the emotion back. “Drugs?”

  “No.” Her frown tightened.

  Before he got caught up in her oh-so innocent eyes or Mickey’s ears, he walked down the hall to the bedroom. Nothing seemed out of order. Everything seemed almost too neat. A few clothes hung over a chair, not tossed, but carefully laid out. He opened the closet—no body—mostly women’s clothes, but a few hangers with men’s shirts and jeans. He looked down at the floor where six pairs of colorful high heels waited like dominos. When he closed the door, the smell of cigarette smoke hit him again.

  Moving to the bedside table, he opened a drawer, thinking he might find a gun. Only a pack of condoms and a book of poems. So she read poetry and liked sex. But was she into make-up sex after a knock-down, drag-out? He ran a hand over the pillow when someone touched his shoulder.

  He swung around. Nothing. Yet chills ran down his spine. Damn, he needed some sleep.

  Giving the room one more glance, he turned to leave, but something caught his eye. A movement. A flutter in the bed skirt. He drew his Glock then slowly he got to his knees. He stared at the white bed skirt, not knowing what he’d find behind it. A body? A boyfriend trying to avoid a trip to the county jail? He pinched the cotton ruffle between his thumb and forefinger, and with his other hand he pointed his gun. Slowly, he lifted up the cotton fabric.

  Nothing. Well, nothing except normal below the bed stuff, like a baseball bat and a pair of men’s tennis shoes.

  Letting out a breath of frustration, he got up and walked out of the bedroom. He ducked his head into the bathroom. It smelled like the woman on the sofa, a clean flowery scent. The smell stayed with him as he ambled back into the living room where he found her as he’d left her—looking like a woman in need of a shoulder. He dug his hands into his jean pockets and tried to decide what he thought was the truth.

  “You want to tell me what happened?”

  She frowned. “My boyfriend started beating on the door. It was late. I asked him to leave.”

  “This boyfriend live with you?” The question made her twist her bottom on the sofa. Discomfort usually meant a story loomed right beneath the surface. “He live here?”

  She wiggled again. “Only until his apartment becomes available.”

  “So he came home banging on the door and then what?”

  She blinked. “And then he shot . . .”

  She hesitated, and Brit waited for her to say who had been shot, to explain the blood on the front door, but she pointed across the room and said, “ . . . my lamp.”

  Brit moved over to the victim, the lamp, and saw the bullet lodged in the brass base. “You two have a fight?” He knelt to get a closer look at the bullet. Looked like a .38.

  When she didn’t answer, he asked, “What was the fight about?” He stared at her.

  She buried her straight, white teeth into the soft, pink flesh of her lip. “A silly argument.”

  “Humor me,” he said, with no amount of humor in his voice. When she didn’t reply immediately, he pitched another question in her lap. One she’d feel obliged to answer and prep her to answer the others. “What’s your name?”

  “Cali McKay.”

  “Miss or Mrs.?”

  “Miss.”

  “Miss McKay.” He walked around, sat in the chair across from her, and purposely didn’t look at Mickey. “I’m going to tell you how it is. You called us out here. You got us involved. Now you’re going to have to be up front with us.”

  She glanced away as if to hide the guilt in her eyes. Was she guilty? Most were.

  “You hit your boyfriend with something?” he asked, following his guilt theory.

  Without looking up, she shook her head. “No. I told the other guy that we didn’t fight—not physically. ”

  And evidence says you did. As a cop, he learned that evidence seldom lied. “Maybe he threatened you. So you hit him, drew blood. He went outside to his car and got his gun.” Brit’s gaze shuffled around the room again. The thing missing was the blood in the house and the sign of a struggle.

  She shook her head again, only this time she raised her eyes. “No. When I got home from work, we argued, no hitting or anything bad. He left but woke me up later, banging on the door.”

  “What was the fight about?” He watched her. “Well?” He hurried her so she wouldn’t have time to think up a lie.

  “I wasn’t in the mood to be friendly.” She blushed.

  Brit felt confident he understood the meaning of “be friendly,�
� and guessed the rest of the story. “So he tried to pressure you into having sex. You fought him off. What did you use?”

  Her shoulders stiffened. “I told you. I didn’t hit him.” Anger flashed in her eyes.

  And that’s what he’d been going for. When angry, a suspect usually gave something away. Let the truth slip out.

  “There’s blood,” he said.

  “I didn’t hit him!”

  “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?”

  About the Author

  New York Times bestselling author Christie Craig grew up in Alabama, where she caught lightning bugs, ran barefoot, and regularly rescued potential princes, in the form of bullfrogs, from her brothers. Today, she’s still fascinated with lightning bugs, mostly wears shoes, but has turned her focus to rescuing mammals and hasn’t kissed a frog in years. She now lives in Texas with her four rescued cats, one dog—who has a bad habit of eating furniture, a son, and a prince of a husband who swears he’s not, and never was, a frog.

  If Christie isn’t writing, she’s reading, sipping wine, or just enjoying laughter with her friends and family. As a freelance writer, Christie has over 3,000 national credits, as well as three works of non-fiction, including the humorous self-help/relationship book Wild, Wicked & Wanton: 101 Ways to Love Like You’re in a Romance Novel. Christie also writes the New York Times-bestselling Shadow Falls series, under the pen name C.C. Hunter. Contact Christie—she loves hearing from readers—or learn more about her and her work through her website: www.christie-craig.com.