by Rose, Emery
I didn’t know if he believed my story about how I’d gotten the money, but I’d always tried to be honest with my brothers about the big things. That went a long way in helping my case now.
“Thank you. For the donations,” he said, his voice so sincere, so grateful, that I felt a twinge of guilt for lying to him.
“You’re welcome.”
6
Deacon
Four days.
That was how long I’d been able to stay away. Where was my self-control? I stuffed my hands in the front pockets of my jeans as I walked to Keira’s apartment under the cover of darkness, the brim of my ballcap pulled low.
In my periphery, I watched the four guys outside the bodega next to The Candy Store, a basement club where we’d done a buy-and-bust sting operation last year. Rap music blasted from an old-school boom box on the sidewalk, too loud for a Tuesday night but I doubted any of them cared about the noise disturbance. “Yo Mamacita, what’s shakin’?” one of the guys cat-called to a girl who had just come out of the club. Danny Vargas. He must be out on parole. Scumbag. He used to be Connor’s dealer. I averted my gaze, thankful he hadn’t recognized me and kept walking.
Raised voices drew my attention to the basketball courts on the other side of a chain-link fence and I immediately recognized the suit and the set of his shoulders. Max Cooper was built like a linebacker and his suit jackets never fit him right. He was too cheap to have them altered and not vain enough to care.
His eye caught mine for a split second, but we both looked away without acknowledging we knew each other. Cops and drug dealers didn’t make the best bed buddies.
He was cuffing a guy and fending off a girl who was shouting obscenities at him. The girl spit at him. “Why you taking my boyfriend in? He ain’t done nothing wrong.”
“You keep it up and you’ll be coming along for the ride.”
I chuckled under my breath. The glamorous life of a law enforcement officer.
I’ve gotten in fights with junkies—meth heads were the worst. I’ve been kicked, punched, spit at, called names. Had knives and guns pointed at me. One time I was busting a dealer and he unleashed Cujo on me. The dog sank his teeth into my left calf and took off a good chunk of my skin. I still had the scar to prove it. The pay was low, the hours sucked, I’ve missed more family holidays than I can count. And yet, I fucking loved my job. I couldn’t imagine doing anything else. Sometimes it was boring as fuck. Hours of surveillance and mountains of paperwork. But there was nothing I liked better than the heat of danger when you’re running on adrenaline and your heart’s pounding and your survival instincts kick in. Maybe I was a sick mofo. Chasing a cheap thrill under the guise of being noble.
I had no business being in this neighborhood. Or going to her apartment. A decent guy would have stayed away from her, starting from the day we met. I wasn’t always a decent guy. Slipping into the role of drug dealer was surprisingly easy for me. Slipping into Keira’s apartment building via the laundry room in the basement to avoid the security cameras and the doorman was even easier. I had yet to meet an alarm system that could keep me out. If I hadn’t become a cop, I would have made a damn good criminal.
As I crept up the stairs to the fifth floor, treading softly so my boots didn’t make a sound, I questioned my sanity for coming here.
Could she be trusted? Keira Shaughnessy was a wild card. When she’d dropped that little tidbit that Sasha Petrov was her first boyfriend, I shouldn’t have been surprised. She liked to live on the cusp of danger. But then, with a ruthless criminal for a father, she probably traveled in the same circles as Ivan Petrov’s son.
I pushed open the metal stairwell door and quietly closed it behind me. She lived in a new-build with good soundproofing, the sound of my footsteps muffled by the beige carpeted hallway. It smelled like fresh paint and industrial carpet cleaner. Plastic plants in brass pots flanked the elevator doors and I wouldn’t be surprised if they piped soothing, New Age bullshit music into the elevator. Some Kenny G, maybe. This building, and her sparsely furnished monochrome apartment was devoid of color and life. Generic and mildly depressing. The opposite of her.
I stopped outside her door and pressed my ear to it. I heard the low hum of voices, but they sounded like they were coming from the TV. What if she wasn’t alone? Turn around and leave. Despite all the valid reasons why I should do just that, I rapped my knuckles against the door.
What the fuck was wrong with me?
Keira intrigued me. That was the only plausible explanation for why I was here. Keira Shaughnessy had so many layers that I never knew which version of her I’d be getting. Sometimes she reminded me of a tragic heroine from a Russian novel. Sometimes she was playful and funny. Shy and unsure.
She was tough with a hint of vulnerability. She was a risk taker. Daring. Strong. Reckless. Sometimes plain-ass crazy as she demonstrated that night of the street race. But she wasn’t as fearless as she liked to pretend. Intimacy scared her.
The door opened, and she stood there in flamingo-print boxer shorts, pink on black, and a muscle tee that said: Not Today Satan. Her face was clean of makeup, wild waves of honey brown hair framing her perfect face. She had the kind of beauty that could be wielded as a weapon. Jagged and dangerous. Instead, she chose to use it as a shield. Which made her infinitely more appealing.
Whiskey colored eyes studied my face, trying to figure out what I was doing here at eleven o’clock on a Tuesday night. Good question.
My eyes lowered to the slogan on her shirt. She wasn’t wearing a bra and I could see the peaks of her nipples straining against the pink cotton. Fuck me. I lifted my eyes to her face and grinned. “Should I come back tomorrow?”
She raised her perfect eyebrows. “Are you the devil?”
“In disguise.”
“In that case, come on in.” She opened the door wide and ushered me inside, her lips tugging into a smile. It was her genuine smile. I already knew the difference. And just like that, any doubts I’d had about coming here vanished. One smile. That was all it took.
As she sauntered into the kitchen, my gaze traveled down her toned body. Tall and lean, built like a supermodel, with the longest fucking legs I’d ever seen. I envisioned them wrapped around my waist, my cock buried deep inside her. Then I tried to erase the vision from my mind.
“Do you want a drink?” she asked, her head disappearing inside the open refrigerator while I leaned against the doorframe and checked out her ass.
“What have you got?”
“Hmm,” she said, her face hidden behind the refrigerator door.
The kitchen was spotlessly clean. Not so much as a smudge or fingerprint marred the stainless-steel stove and refrigerator or the glossy white kitchen cabinets. The granite countertops were bare except for a Keurig coffee maker. Stools were tucked neatly under the breakfast bar separated from the living room by a half-wall. If I had to guess, she rarely if ever cooked, and barely used her kitchen.
“I have water. Or water.” She laughed that husky laugh of hers that made me think dirty thoughts.
Relax. You’re not here for a booty call. Stop thinking about all the dirty things you want to do with her.
“Water’s good,” I said.
She smiled and gripped her plump bottom lip between her straight white teeth as she handed me a bottle of water. My fingers brushed against hers when I took it from her. She quickly snatched her hand away, feeling the same electric current I did when our skin touched. “Thanks.”
“Sure.” She took a deep breath and we stared at each other across her state-of-the art kitchen. It felt like we were at a junior high dance and had no idea how to navigate the space between us or what to do next. I set the water and my hat on the counter and ran my fingers through my hair. Her eyes followed my movement and she shifted from one foot to the other, crossing her arms over her chest as if suddenly aware that she was braless.
To alleviate the awkwardness, I did the first thing that came to mind. I gave her m
y most charming smile and held out my hand to her. “Care to dance with the devil?”
She burst out laughing and stared at my outstretched hand before placing hers in mine. She had piano player’s hands, the fingers long and graceful, but her palms were calloused, probably from her job. A contradiction, like Keira. With her, you rarely got what you expected. I wrapped my arm around her waist and pulled her closer but not so close that our bodies touched.
She placed her hand on my shoulder, the other one still clasped in mine. I led her around the kitchen floor in a slow dance to music I could only hear in my head.
“There’s no music.”
“Then I guess you’ll have to sing.” There was a challenge in my tone, and I knew she would rise to it.
“That’s what I get for dancing with the devil. I guess it’s time to pay the fiddler.” I laughed. She only hesitated a moment before she started singing “Free Fallin’,” her voice low and scratchy and off-key. It was sexier than if her voice was pitch-perfect and polished.
“You’re a good singer.”
“I’m shit,” she said with a laugh. “You’ll have to join me.”
I did. My vocals didn’t improve the song one bit. We made up the words we didn’t know or couldn’t remember, and we danced to “Free Fallin’” in her brightly-lit kitchen, moving more slowly than the tune called for. We started out with enough space between us to drive a Mack truck through it. As we danced, her hand moved from my shoulder to the back of my neck and she played with the ends of my hair, twisting it around her fingers. Almost imperceptibly, her body moved closer to mine until there was only a hair’s-breadth of space between us. I kept my hand on her lower back and resisted the urge to move it lower, to squeeze her ass and crush her body against mine so she could feel what her nearness did to me.
We stopped singing and our feet stopped moving, but we stayed in position as if we were playing a game of statues and we’d been caught mid-dance. I stared at the pretty pink pout of her lips and then I dipped my head and inhaled the heady scent of her hair and skin. Apricots and sweet almonds. She looked like a girl who would smell of musk and exotic spices. I was happy she didn’t. “You smell edible.”
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath through her nose. “You smell like Christmas morning.”
My hand moved lower, palming her ass and tugging her closer so her body was flush against mine. “You make me feel like a kid on Christmas Eve.”
“It’s the anticipation.”
“You feel it too?” I teased.
She took a step back and lowered her eyes to the bulge in my jeans. “It’s kind of hard to miss.”
I grinned. “Thank you.”
She rolled her eyes. “If this is a booty call, you banged on the wrong door.”
“If this was a booty call, you’d be naked and screaming my name by now.”
She arched her brows to hide the blush of her cheeks. “Cocky.”
“Confident. But don’t make it too easy. Make me work for it.”
“There’s nothing easy about me,” she said.
Why wasn’t I surprised?
“Do you like the thrill of the hunt, Konstantin?” She smiled smugly, proud of herself for figuring out that Kosta was the Russian nickname for Konstantin. Clever girl.
She sauntered into the living room and I followed, like a hunter stalking its prey.
“I like a challenge, Gracie.” That was the name on her fake ID. She smirked at the memory. Even if I caught Keira, I knew she would still be a challenge. “Can I trust you?”
I didn’t need to spell it out. She knew what I was asking.
“With your life, yes. I’m good at keeping secrets. Just don’t fall in love with me. That would be dangerous.”
“Appreciate the warning.” I imagined us crashing, not falling. I didn’t think either of us would get out unscathed.
I took a seat on the sofa next to her. The movie Drive was playing on the TV. A bowl of purple grapes, a bag of Cheetos, and a plastic container of Ramen noodles sat on the coffee table. “Is this your idea of dinner?”
She shrugged. “I worked until nine,” she said by way of explanation.
“Do you always work that late?”
“I’m trying to make up for the hours I missed.” She didn’t supply the information, but I guessed she was talking about her time in Miami. I’d love to ask her about it, but I’d save those questions for another day. “Besides, I love being at the garage.”
“What do you love about it?” I asked, genuinely curious.
“It’s noisy, it smells like motor oil and testosterone, and I work with men who make an honest living and enjoy the simple things in life. Like a comfortable couch, a cold beer, and a ballgame.”
An honest living. In other words, the opposite of her father’s lifestyle. “How’s Tate treating you?”
She laughed. “Tate is Tate. He’s not a big talker, but he’s a good teacher and even though he still grumbles about hiring a woman, I think he secretly likes me. At least, that’s what I choose to believe.”
She pulled the bowl of grapes into her lap, plucked one from the stem and held it in front of my mouth. “Open up,” she said.
“Aren’t you going to peel it for me?”
“Who does that? Who peels a grape?”
I opened my mouth and she fed me a grape. I’d expected it to be warm and juicy, not fucking frozen.
She smirked. “I put them in the freezer.”
“Who puts grapes in the freezer?”
“Me.”
I propped my booted feet on the coffee table, my fingers laced behind my head and she sat cross-legged with her back against the armrest. We watched the movie like that, with her leaning forward to feed me sweet frozen grapes, my mouth opening to accept the offering from her fingers, as if this was perfectly natural.
She nudged my thigh with her foot. “On Friday night…did you know it was me in the Charger?”
She was referring to the street race. I knew it was her. I recognized the car first and then saw her behind the wheel. “I knew it was you.”
I pulled her feet into my lap and held her left foot in both hands, kneading the ball of her foot. Jesus. First, I had danced with her in the kitchen and now I was massaging her feet. What next? Manicures and pedicures? She moaned then clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle the sound as if it embarrassed her. It was cute. I pressed my thumbs deep into the arch, my gaze focused on her indigo-blue painted toenails until she forgot about being embarrassed. Her moans and whimpers and repeated ‘oh my gods’ encouraged me to make this the best damn foot massage she’d ever had.
“I used to street race. Back in high school.” I gave my attention to the right foot that had been neglected while I’d worked on the left one. “It wasn’t as organized as your race. Just a bunch of assholes driving shitty cars and meeting up to race on a strip of road. Playing chicken used to be my favorite game. I would wait until the last possible second before swerving out of the way of an oncoming truck or car.”
“Why?” Her voice was breathy, her eyelids at half-mast. My dick twitched, begging for attention but I ignored it.
“I used to think it made me feel more alive,” I said. “But I was just a dumb shit.”
“Did you have a death wish?”
“No. Do you?”
“No. I don’t,” she said, and I heard the honesty in her voice. “I guess I do it for the same reasons you did. What made you want to become a cop?”
“Would you believe me if I said I wanted to make a difference in the world? That I’m a crusader of justice?” As corny as that sounded, it was a big part of the reason why I ended up becoming a cop.
She closed one eye and tilted her head, considering it. “Actually, I do believe that. But it sounds like a recruiting poster. I’m sure your story is far more interesting than that.”
“You think so?”
“Yeah, I do. You’re not exactly Captain America.”
“I should be of
fended.” I wasn’t. That was my least favorite superhero.
She laughed. “My brothers knew you in high school. They were surprised you became a cop.”
High school was ten years ago. I’d like to think I’ve changed a lot since then, but sometimes I still pushed the boundaries. “I’m flattered that you asked about me.”
She shrugged. “I was curious what your deal is.”
“Did they enlighten you?” I suspected that they hadn’t. We’d been more acquaintances than friends in high school. The one thing we had in common was that I hated their father. Seamus Vincent used to be the police chief at my precinct. He never liked me. Called me a maverick. At least I was an honest cop and not an abusive drunk, more than he could claim.
“Not really. You’re a man of mystery.” She looked at me expectantly, waiting for me to tell my story of how I became a cop.
“Back in high school, I didn’t have a lot of direction. I spent most of my time partying, hooking up with girls…I did all kinds of shit that was just the wrong side of good. By then, I’d figured out that I could use my charm to talk my way out of just about anything.”
“I bet a lot of people fell for that act.”
They did. But the smart ones saw right through it and called me out on it. “My grandfather knocked some sense into me. He was a homicide detective. Old school. Wore a trench coat and cheap suit. Smoked a pack a day. He was a real character.” I smiled at the memory. The man was a fucking legend. He got me through a lot of tough times with his take no bullshit attitude.
“One day… I was seventeen and my buddies and I were in the backyard, drinking, smoking, talking shit. My parents were at work and my grandfather rocked up. Told everyone to leave and they took off. He never had to raise his voice. He just had that look in his eye like you knew that if you didn’t do as he said, he’d kick your ass from here to Sunday. He told me we’re going for a ride. He owned a cabin upstate. He took me up there, didn’t say a word on the entire two-hour drive. When we got there, he lined up Folger’s coffee cans and beer bottles on wooden posts. Then he handed me his Glock and told me to shoot the targets. We did this for hours. While I worked on my target practice, he asked me questions. I don’t even know what he said exactly that made me see my future differently, but by the time we were on our way back to Bay Ridge, I’d agreed to apply to the Criminal Justice program at John Jay College. I got accepted and I ended up loving it. After I graduated, I went to the academy.”