by Freya Barker
I’m not interested in hearing what else he may have to say and slip into the linen closet to grab a clean pair of scrubs. He’s standing in the same spot when I step out, but I pointedly ignore him and head for the washroom at the end of the hall, locking the door behind me.
Flicking the light on, I check my face in the mirror. Oh man… My left eye is swelling shut and you can barely see I have a cheekbone. I pull down my bottom lip and see a straight cut where my tooth went through. Bill is right; I look a mess.
I strip off my soiled uniform and wet a wad of paper towel under the cold faucet before scrubbing any remnants of the patient’s blood off my skin. Then I put on the clean scrubs, splash some cold water on my face to try and numb the throbbing, wash my hands, and take a deep breath before I step outside.
Linda is chatting with Dr. Kevin Bogosh by the nurses’ station, wincing when she sees me.
“You okay?”
“I should be fine.”
“Go home.”
“I can’t, I have an hour left in my shift and I don’t want to give you-know-who an excuse.”
“Who? An excuse for what?” Kevin asks.
“It doesn’t matter,” I wave him off, pinching the bridge of my nose, but Linda speaks over me.
“Nurse Ratchet; Karla. You know she hates Hillary.”
Kevin shrugs like he doesn’t, but then looks at me with narrowed eyes.
“You can’t be on the floor looking like that. Besides, you may have a concussion,” he adds with a wink. “Go home. Doctor’s orders.”
“But—”
“This is not a negotiation. Go. It’s not busy and I’ll deal with Karla,” he insists.
I look at Linda, who is bulging her eyes at me.
“Scram, girl. Get rid of that shiner, it won’t look good with your cowgirl outfit for Saturday night.”
Shit. Forgot about that.
I promised Linda a while ago I’d go line dancing with her and Maggie at a new western bar that opened up last November. She’d been bugging me for a while. I’m not exactly one for country music or line dancing, but I get few opportunities to bust a move and beggars can’t be choosers.
“I’ll come, but you better not expect me to get dressed in chaps and a leather vest, because that ain’t gonna happen,” I respond, poking a finger at her before I round the desk and open the drawer to grab my purse and my sweater.
“Where do you think you’re going?” sounds behind me, just as I start walking to the exit. I swing around and see Karla standing behind Linda, her hands on her hips.
“I’m sending her home,” Kevin states firmly. “She needs some ice on that swelling and rest.”
Karla looks like she’s going to protest but he stares her down.
“Fine,” she grinds out, marching past Linda and Kevin before she disappears into her office.
I give Kevin a salute before I turn and head for the door, where I shrug on my sweater against the chilly night.
I’m surprised to see Radar walking toward me as I pull the car into my parking slot. His dog is pulling on the leash, trying to get to me when she sees me get out.
“Hey, pretty girl,” I coo, crouching down to give her a good rub before I straighten and look a smiling Radar in the eye.
That smile turns into an angry scowl a moment later.
“Who the fuck did that to you?”
My hand comes up to my face. “It’s nothing. An agitated patient.”
“Like hell that’s nothing.”
For the second time tonight my arm is grabbed and I’m propelled toward the stairway up to my apartment.
“Radar, hold on,” I protest, trying to twist from his hold to no avail. “Would you let go? You’re hurting me.”
The instant those words are out of my mouth, his hand falls away, and I turn to face him. His expression is full of shocked regret and even before he mumbles, “Jesus, I’m sorry,” I’ve already forgiven him.
“I’m fine,” I assure him. “We had a patient who was struggling and I was accidentally elbowed in the face. I’ve already been looked over by one of the residents.”
“We need to get some ice on that.”
I try to smile but it hurts.
“Which is what I intend to do the moment I get inside. Right before I roll into bed because I have to be at the shelter for seven thirty, I’m beat. Butter chicken tomorrow?”
He nods. “Yeah.”
I rise up on my toes and kiss his stubbled jaw before heading up the stairs. About halfway up, I hear his footsteps following me.
“What are you doing?” I glance over my shoulder and recognize determination in the firm set of his mouth.
“Seeing you safely inside.”
Too tired to argue with him, I step up to the door, unlock it, and walk inside flicking the lights on. He doesn’t follow me in, but braces an arm against the doorway, his eyes burning in mine.
“Kiss me goodnight, Lady.”
Chapter Ten
Radar
“Holy shit.”
Bree flips through the pages of profiles I spent half the night putting together. Sixteen kids—two girls, the rest boys—ranging from fourteen to seventeen and spread out over the US.
“There are more with mentions of that particular game, but these also have the hashtag in common,” I clarify.
“What is the significance?” Jake asks.
“Don’t know. All I know is that Jeremy Loman tweeted, Score! Won top marks. #H10:30, the day after the murder of Sandra Elliot. All other references to it appear to be from gamers as well, most of whom at some point or other also mention Lock&Load.”
“What about the second attack? The waitress…Gina Castillo?” Yanis pipes up.
“What was the date on that?” Bree asks, already flipping through the pages.
“April seventeenth.”
When she gets to the last one, she starts over again and finally looks up.
“There’s nothing. You’re sure this is all of them?”
“On Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram, yeah.”
“What about the other ones; TikTok, Snapchat?”
I glare at Yanis, and already sleep deprived, I snap, “I didn’t say I was done. I still have that game to dig into. It’s not mainstream or publicly available, so I’ll have to dive deeper.”
He looks at me with a raised eyebrow before turning his attention to Dimas. “You tackle the hashtag and also make a list of friends any of these kids might have in common who live around here.” Then he switches to Bree. “And I want you to contact the police departments in each of those locations.” He points at the stack of profiles. “Find out if they’ve had any random attacks close to the date those hashtags were posted.”
“On what authority?” Bree wants to know.
“Tell them to call Chief Underwood. I’ll give him a heads-up in a minute.”
“And me?” Jake asks.
“Find out what the fuck H10:30 means. Let’s get to work.”
Yanis grabs his phone off the table and already has it up to his ear when he leaves the conference room. The rest of us file out after him.
It’s so easy to lose track, sifting through layers of encryptions as I try to find any information on the game. By the time the hunger pangs in my stomach alert me to the fact I skipped right over lunch, I’m no wiser on its origin, but I did find an encoded link containing the name. I’ve only gotten as far as a login page asking for a reference code and haven’t managed to get much farther.
Looking into the office I notice only Bree is still there, talking on the phone. Another angry growl from my stomach has me dart a quick glance at the clock on my computer screen shows a quarter past five.
Fuck. Butter chicken at Hillary’s, but I still have to get home to feed Phil.
The state of her face isn’t much better in the light of day and a renewed anger at the bastard who caused it surges to the surface. The silky brown of her skin has turned a dark almost purple on her left cheekbone an
d around her eye.
“Hey.”
Instead of responding in kind, I step over her threshold, slide my hands on either side of her neck, and claim her mouth with mine. Her hands come up to rest on my chest, her fingers curling in the fabric of my shirt, as her tongue boldly tangles with mine.
Oh yeah. I didn’t imagine the matching hunger the first time I kissed her a few days back. Nothing tentative about the way her mouth moves against mine. She claims me right back and fuck if that isn’t an even bigger turn-on.
“Hey back,” I mutter against her lips, opening my eyes to find one of hers still swollen shut. It works like a bucket of ice water and I jerk my head back, letting my hands slide to her shoulders. “Shit, did I hurt you?”
“Not even a little,” she assures me with a smirk, before reaching around me to close the door.
“It smells fantastic.”
I only now notice the scent of dinner; rich with spices I can’t quite place.
“Hope it tastes that way too,” she says, moving ahead of me into the kitchen. “Have a seat. Beer?”
“Sure.” I sit down at the kitchen table, which is already set with placemats and cutlery. “Anything I can help with?”
She walks up with a bottle from the fridge and hands it to me.
“I just have to fry up the chapati. Everything else is ready.”
“Chapati?” I call after her when she makes her way to the stove.
“It’s a little like naan, but much thinner and made with roasted cumin seed.”
I can smell the cumin a minute later when she slides the first flat disk into a cast-iron pan and my mouth waters. Shortly after, I have a steaming plate in front of me and I barely manage to mumble my appreciation before shoving the first bite in my mouth.
Goddamn, the woman can cook. The flavor is deceptively smooth until the heat hits my taste buds. She didn’t mess around and I feel small beads of sweat forming on my forehead. When I try to surreptitiously wipe at my face, she chuckles softly.
“I should’ve warned you I’m pretty liberal with the heat.”
“I’m finding that out,” I admit, my double meaning not escaping her as she draws in a sharp breath between those lush lips.
My body is at war between a persistent need for nourishment and an undeniable craving for her. I’ll deal with one first, so I have energy for the other later. There’s no mistaking the promise in the way she absentmindedly bites the swell of her bottom lip.
Without breaking eye contact, I lift another forkful to my mouth.
Hillary
Have mercy.
I can feel the hair on my arms stand on end. Even from across the table I feel the heat of his gaze.
“Another beer?” I blurt out, never mind his bottle is still mostly full. From the slow grin stretching that wicked mouth, he’s well aware of the effect he has on me. “Well, I need one.”
I shove my chair back and head for the fridge, where I linger a little too long in the cold air before turning back. Thankfully his eyes are on his plate as he continues to eat as if he didn’t just set me on fire with that look.
“So what happened yesterday?” he prompts me, motioning to my face when I sit down across from him.
Grateful for the distraction, I tell him about the patient stumbling into the ER. Within minutes I relax and find myself sharing some of the more memorable moments in the life of an ER nurse. By the time we finish dinner, we’ve fallen into a relaxed conversation about our respective jobs. What Radar does falls well above my pay grade and I only understand about a third of what he talks about, but I could listen to the passion that shines through in his voice all day long. I always considered that kind of technical job tedious, but there’s nothing boring about the enthusiasm with which he describes his work.
He’s still talking when I stack our dishes and stand up to bring them to the kitchen.
“I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to ramble on.” He chuckles, mostly to himself. “I tend to get carried away and it wouldn’t be the first time I bored someone to sleep.”
This sheepish, self-deprecating man is quite the change from the confident, almost predatory one from earlier. The duality is captivating.
“I like listening to you talk,” I admit, setting the dishes in the sink so my back is turned to him. “You clearly love what you do.”
He doesn’t respond right away and I turn on the faucet to fill the sink.
“I do.”
His voice is much closer than I expected and when I look up, I see his reflection right behind mine in the kitchen window. I hold my breath when I feel his warm hand land on my hip and his head dip lower.
“Move over,” he whispers, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “My mom taught me cooks don’t do dishes.” With slight pressure from his hand, he moves me aside and takes my place. “Go drink your beer. I’ve got this.”
My whole body feels charged as I go sit down at the table.
“Your mother is a wise woman,” I comment.
“Was,” he corrects me, glancing over his shoulder.
“I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks. She died from cancer when I was twenty-seven.”
“That must’ve been hard.”
He shrugs. “It was. Mostly on my dad. He never quite recovered.”
“Was it long ago?”
He turns around again with amused eyes and a smile playing on his lips.
“Is that your roundabout way to find out how old I am?” he teases and I smile back.
“Maybe.”
He turns back to the dishes before answering.
“Thirteen years. I just turned the big four-oh. How old are you?”
“Thirty-six.”
“Family?”
Fair is fair, I guess. Not my favorite topic, but it’s the risk I took when I broached the subject myself. May as well lay it all out and be done with it.
I busy myself peeling the label off the beer bottle when I start talking.
“I was raised by my grandparents, but they both passed on a while ago. My mother was fourteen when she had me and I never knew my father.”
The sound of hands moving in water abruptly stops and when I look up his eyes are on me.
“That sounds tough.”
“Not really. My grandparents were great people. Simple but decent, you know? We didn’t have a whole lot, but they made a happy home for me.”
“And your mom?”
“She’s alive.”
At least I assume she is. She left home at eighteen and had been a vague presence in the background while I was growing up. Drifting in and out of our lives until she married an investment broker from New York, she was quick to leave the reminders of her meager background and youthful poor judgments far behind. She didn’t even bother to show when her parents passed away, one after the other. As far as I know, she still lives in the Big Apple with her perfect family.
“Here in Grand Junction?”
I can’t stop the snort. “Hardly. She went on to bigger and better things and never looked back.”
He’s silent as he turns back to the dishes and I’m feeling a little exposed. I don’t talk about my background a lot. People are quick to judge, and I’d rather be taken for who I am than where I’m from. I decided long ago I wasn’t going to make myself a victim of my mother’s rejection. That’s her cross to bear—not mine.
“Her loss,” he says suddenly, putting the last dish in the rack before draining the sink.
His comment’s relevance to my thoughts makes me wonder if maybe I spoke out loud.
“Yes, it is,” I confirm, smiling when he turns to face me, but the smile slides from my face when he wipes his hands on a towel and slowly stalks my way.
I have to tilt my head way back to look up at him as he bends over me.
“Thank you for an amazing dinner,” he mumbles, right before his mouth brushes mine.
I feel a rush of disappointment when the kiss is brief and light.
“Leav
ing already?”
He straightens and takes my hand in his, pulling me to my feet.
“Who said anything about leaving?”
“Oh, it sounded like you were.”
He grins and shakes his head slowly, as he tugs me to the living room.
“Didn’t want to forget later. My mind might be on other things.”
“What other…”
I don’t get a chance to finish before he drops back on the couch, pulling me on top of him. Putting my hands on his chest I push up a little, looking down in his face.
“I see,” I mutter, reaching to pluck his glasses off his nose and setting them down on the table.
He squeezes my ass with one hand and slides the other up my spine, cupping the back of my neck.
“Good.”
His eyes crinkle and his lips curve when I lower my mouth to his.
Dear God, the man can kiss, making me forget where I am. Not rough but firm, sure, naturally confident in what he’s doing. I tend to overthink, but he doesn’t give me a chance to do anything but allow instincts to take over.
With my hands in his soft hair and my mouth thoroughly engaged, I let him tug my legs between the couch and his hip, lining my aching core up with the impressively hard ridge in his jeans.
Oh, yes.
Ever so slightly he tilts his hips in concert with the rhythm of his kiss, barely brushing the building need between my legs. Teasing and coaxing, until I’m rocking against him, looking for maximum friction.
I break my mouth from his, gasping for air, when I feel his hand slide down the back of my pants and trace down the seam of my ass. He groans when his fingers find me slick and I throw my head back when he searches for my clit, pressing his face in my neck.
All I hear is the blood rushing in my ears as he builds me up, strumming me like an instrument. I push up on his chest and gyrate my hips, aching for the climax that seems just out of reach. I gasp when his long digits enter me, pumping deep as I feel the heat of his mouth closing over a fabric-covered nipple. The sting of his bite has my body go into free fall and I cry out my release.