by Maria Luis
If Shaelyn hadn’t been paying close enough attention, she would have missed the way Brady’s gaze imperceptibly shuttered when his hand dropped away from his side. “How about we save the questions for dinner? That way we’ve all got something to talk about.”
The subject change didn’t shock her. Brady had always been adept at slipping out of a particular conversation whenever it got “too much” for him. His penchant for avoidance had sparked many arguments back in high school, especially when junior year had rolled around and the topic of college had sprung up between them.
He’d wanted to go to Loyola, not Tulane. Which wouldn’t have been a big deal if his grandparents hadn’t been dead set on him following family tradition. As for Shaelyn, she hadn’t been all too certain that college was for her. That hadn’t gotten over well, with either her parents or the Taylors or Brady.
“It’s just the stress,” Brady had told her repeatedly. But it hadn’t been the stress that had eaten at her; it had been the fear of failing to meet her parents’ extreme expectations.
At the jingle of the front door, Shaelyn shook herself out of the past. “Shipment and then BBQ. Plan?”
Then, as if Brady and Julian had known each other for years, they saluted her at the exact same time and answered, “Deal.”
A deal it was, then.
21
“Where do y’all wanna sit?” Brady asked as he held the door open for his dinner companions. The restaurant he’d brought them to was a hole-in-the-wall, mom-and-pop type joint, and one of Brady’s absolute favorites in the city. Wooden tables and matching benches bordered the wall; on every table sat a roll of paper towel, a metal tin full of utensils, and an assortment of different bottled sauces.
Brightly colored picture frames haphazardly covered the walls, and the low murmur of conversation, mingled with the small square footage, impressed the sense of familiarity and home.
Brady jerked his chin toward the exit door to the left of the checkout counter. “There’s a small patio out back that we can scope out if y’all want.”
“Sounds good to me,” Shaelyn said, nudging Julian’s shoulder to get his opinion.
The kid was too busy staring at the chalkboard menu like he’d discovered the pearly white doors of Heaven.
“Pulled pork?” Julian whispered in awe. “Brisket?” He twisted to glance back at them. “I can’t decide.”
Brady shrugged. “Get both.”
Julian’s gaze shot to his cousin. “Can I—I mean, is that cool?”
Shaelyn ruffled the kid’s blond hair. “Of course it is. I can’t have your mama think I’m starving you.”
They placed their order, grabbed their drinks from the fountain machine, and sat themselves out in the courtyard. Brady listened as Shaelyn and Julian traded banter. They were two peas in a pod. They laughed at the same exact jokes and often finished each other’s sentences. When their food arrived, they both quieted and dug in, and Brady couldn’t help but wonder if this is what the rest of his life could be like if he just played his cards right.
And if you admit to her that you’re not telling her everything.
Guilt was a bitch. Here he sat, knowing without a doubt that the kid was just biding his time before he asked about his father—a man whom Brady had just spent the last forty-two hours trying to track down.
Not, however, because of Julian, but because the results from Caleb Kemper’s last murder had finally come back from the lab.
The previously unidentified fingerprints on the gun belonged to Anthony Mardeaux.
How, and who, had allowed Anthony Mardeaux firearms when the man was a convicted felon was just another problem in this shit-tastic mess. And since the Kemper case was Brady’s shit-tastic case . . . well, he honestly wasn’t sure the last time his blood pressure had ever been so high.
So, yeah, sitting across from Julian? The guilt was a not-so-friendly reminder that he had a thirteen year old relying on him to be a hero and find the man who definitely wasn’t Father of the Year.
“Are you going to eat your toast?” Julian asked, pulling Brady from his turbulent thoughts.
Brady glanced down at the Texas toast on his plate, which was slathered with enough butter to give a small rhino clogged arteries. Considering the stress he was already facing, he was probably better off without adding “heart failure” to his list of worries.
“Have at it.”
Julian didn’t have to be told twice. He snatched the toast and sank his teeth into the corner. Around a mouthful of bread, he asked, “Can I ask another question?”
“I think that Brady’s through with the questions,” Shae piped up as she snagged the other half of the toast from Julian’s fingers. Ripping off a chunk, she dunked it in the vinegar-based BBQ sauce on her plate and popped it into her mouth. If they hadn’t had juvenile company, there would have been no stopping Brady from leaning over and planting a kiss on her.
With her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and her fingers darkened with sauce, she looked damned adorable.
Brady settled for squeezing her knee under the table. Her fork clattered to the plastic tray, and she knocked knees with him in warning. He wasn’t so easily scared off. Letting his fingers trail up the soft slope of her thigh, he turned to Julian. “What’s your question?”
Please don’t let it be about Mardeaux.
He needed more time. What had started as a reasonably simple request had morphed into something that was decidedly the NOPD’s territory. He wanted to give Julian the information he sought; he wanted to give Shaelyn a reason to trust him. But Mardeaux was no longer just a hard-nosed criminal. He was now a suspect in a murder case.
Truth is, Brady had no idea how to get himself out of this mess, personally or professionally. It had been forty-two hours since Mardeaux’s prints had come back. Forty-two hours of sitting in unmarked vehicles, waiting for the guy to show up at his own house or at the auto shop he owned for something, anything—even a goddamn shit break. Forty-two hours of talking to neighbors, relatives, and clients at the body shop.
Brady was no closer to finding Anthony Mardeaux now than he had been two days ago, and from the way Lieutenant Cartwell had informed Brady of his slip from third to fifth place for the promotion, Brady suspected that his inability to solve the Kemper case might just take him out of the running completely for the job.
“Ow.”
Jerking, he glanced over at Shaelyn to find her glaring at him. “What?”
“You squeezed my knee too hard,” she said, swatting at his hand under the table.
Shit. “I’m sorry, Shae, I’ve had a—”
A what? He couldn’t exactly tell her that he’d had a really long few shifts at work—she’d be sure to have questions. Questions that he couldn’t answer. He fought back the urge to lean over and press his lips to hers in an apology he couldn’t yet explain.
Removing his hand from her knee, he dug into the pulled pork that needed no knife it was so tender. “Hit me with your question, Julian.”
And please let it be one that I can answer.
Julian’s blue gaze flicked from Brady to Shaelyn. “Promise not to tell my mom, Shae?”
“If you’re doing drugs, there’s not a chance in hell of that happening,” was Shaelyn’s quick reply.
Brady reached for the sweet BBQ sauce. “His mother will be the least of his problems if he’s doing drugs.”
That seemed to appease her, even though Julian looked to be about two minutes from stomping his foot. He shoved his sleeves up to his elbows, and dropped them to the table.
Brady cleared his plate and leaned back. “C’mon, kid, give me all that you got.”
“All right.” Julian’s plastic utensils dropped to the tray. “How do I kiss a girl?”
Silence descended over the table like the final curtain call of a play, and Brady felt the absurd urge to wait a moment for the ensuing applause. Of all the questions he’d expected to hear from Anna’s son, this hadn’t been it.
For her part, Shaelyn looked scared shitless.
Guess this one’s for me, he thought, and then adjusted his ball cap. “Is it your first kiss?”
The kid’s cheeks bloomed a vibrant red, which was the curse of all fair-haired people. Even if Julian had tried to lie, Brady would have known. The whole world would know.
“How ‘bout you answer me this,” he said instead. “What’s her name?”
“How old is she?” Shae interjected. “What does she look like?”
Julian’s gaze eagerly sought Brady for help. Reaching under the table, he once again squeezed her knee to catch her attention. “I think maybe Julian wants some guy talk.”
“Guy talk?” Shae spat the words like they were venom. “I’m included in this dinner, you know.” She turned to Julian and pointed her fork at him. “You’d better ask me how to land the girl, since I happen to be one.”
“Are you?” Brady teased as he slipped his fingers an inch up her thigh. “Who knew, right, Jules?”
Julian looked like he’d witnessed the start of World War III and was rethinking his life decisions. “Her name’s Alice,” he confessed, his blue eyes darting between them. “She’s fourteen.”
“An older woman—good move.” Brady held up his hand for a high-five, and Julian grinned widely as he answered the call. At his side, he heard Shaelyn snort. Was she thinking about the fact that she was older than him by almost four months? He hoped so.
To Julian, he added, “Age is just a number, buddy. What matters is that you and Alice connect on a deeper level.”
“I just want to kiss her.”
Famous last words right there. And a feeling Brady understood all too well. Just wanting to kiss Shaelyn had been his downfall ever since she’d returned from New York City. Hell, it’d been his downfall back in high school too.
He glanced at her from under the safety of his ball cap. He wondered if she was rethinking her brilliant idea of one-time-only sex with him.
Something that Brady refused to let slide for much longer. He wanted her, more than he was willing to show.
But sometime in the last twelve years she’d developed a knack for handing out rejection, and that was something he didn’t particularly wish to find himself on the receiving end of again.
So, he’d move slowly. Take his time. Insert himself into her life in small ways, until one day she looked up and realized that he was as necessary to her as breathing.
And one of those ways was getting Julian to like him, which wouldn’t be too much of a hardship because the kid already looked at him as if he hung the stars.
For how much longer, though?
He stamped down the guilt. He’d figure this Mardeaux thing out.
Shaelyn took a pull of her sweet tea. “What about spin the bottle?”
Julian’s blond brows drew together. “I’m thirteen, Shae.”
Shaelyn put her plastic cup on the wooden table. “What? Thirteen-year-olds played that when we were younger—right, Brady?”
Brady couldn’t for the life of him ever remember playing that or Seven Minutes of Heaven but he nodded anyway. Moral support, and all of that. The cornerstone of all budding relationships. “Yep, all the time,” he said agreeably.
Julian shook his head. “I’m not playing spin the bottle.”
“Okay, okay.” Shae fixed her gaze on the sauce bottles in the middle of the table. Her chin kicked up, and she looked at her cousin. “Seven Minutes of Heaven?”
Groaning, Julian dropped his face into his cupped hands.
“What?” Shaelyn flicked her gaze to Brady, a helpless expression on her face. She looked so adorably clueless that this time, Brady couldn’t help leaning over to plant a quick, easy kiss on her mouth. Her tongue darted out to swipe over her full bottom lip, as if trying to capture his essence.
It was erotic as hell.
Shifting on the wooden bench, Brady hitched his jeans by the crease at the knees to alleviate the pressure on his hardening cock. This was definitely not the time, nor the place.
Tell that to your buddy down under.
Fuck.
“Brady?”
He snapped his focus to Julian, who had, from the expectant look in his blue eyes, already said his name a few times. Meanwhile, Brady had been doing everything in his power to not think of Shaelyn riding him at least three different ways.
Not helping.
He backpedaled. “Sorry, Julian. What’d you ask me?”
“Who was your first kiss?”
“Miranda Wiltz. Second grade.” He lifted his shoulders in a shrug, and reached up to twist his hat around. “She cornered me at recess when I was hanging upside down on the monkey bars. Took advantage of me when I least expected it.”
“What a Mary Jane Watson you were,” Shaelyn groused. If he didn’t know any better, he would think she was jealous. He hid his grin.
“Does it count if I wasn’t wearing my super-secret Spiderman suit?”
Her pretty hazel eyes fell on him. “Was it raining?”
Cocking his head to the side, he pretended to think back on it. “Down-pouring.” If he recalled correctly, it’d been about as hot as the Sahara that day without a single rain cloud in the sky.
“Must have been love at first sight, then.”
“Must have been,” he murmured. For a moment, they only looked at each other.
Julian clanged his plastic fork against the tray, like a muffled wedding toast. Both Brady and Shaelyn looked away.
“What about y’alls first kiss?” Julian asked, using his fork to gesture between them.
Awkward as all hell.
Brady had been so nervous that his hands had nearly dripped with sweat and, when he’d leaned down for the kiss, he’d missed and pecked her chin instead. Shaelyn hadn’t been his first kiss, even after the whole Spiderman-Miranda-Wiltz-Debacle, but dammit, Shaelyn’s kiss had been the first one that mattered.
Brady had been so embarrassed after that he’d avoided Shaelyn altogether for two weeks. Even after that, he hadn’t mustered up the courage to lay one on her for another few months.
He grabbed the curled bill of his Saints cap and drew it up, and then resettled it on his head again. “It was, uh . . . you know—”
“Perfect.”
Brady swung his gaze over to Shae. She was watching him, and he wished beyond everything that he’d had the gift of telepathy so he could read her mind. But he wasn’t lucky, and all he could do was return the heat of her stare.
She moistened her lips with another sweep of her tongue, and on cue, Brady felt it down to his erection.
“Yeah?” he asked, his voice deep and gravelly even to his own ears.
“Yeah.” She offered him a small smile. “It was perfect.”
22
“Taylor! In my office—now.”
Brady glanced up at the sound of Cartwell’s bellowing. He’d never particularly cared for the guy. Not when he’d transferred to homicide and not now either. Still, when the boss shouted, you fucking hopped to it.
“Have you had your will drawn up?”
Brady barely spared Danvers a glance before grabbing his mug of coffee off the desk. God knew he was probably going to need it. He could only think of one time where a meeting with Cartwell hadn’t ended up with Brady being cut a D-1.
Suspension days were the equivalent to vacation here in homicide. Brady hadn’t been cut too many, but he’d had enough to know that when Cartwell wanted a “private” meeting, he might as well start picking between the Caribbean or somewhere in the Florida Panhandle.
Or his grave.
“I’ll be okay,” he said as he rounded the edge of his desk. Danvers merely two-finger saluted Brady as he passed by.
He entered Cartwell’s office with as much confidence as he could possibly muster up under the lieutenant’s stare, which was as dark and soulless as the coffee Brady held in his hand.
“Dump the java in the can,” Cartwell grunted.
&nbs
p; Brady did as he was told, mainly because the two-fifty he’d paid for the coffee wasn’t worth the price tag of picking out a tomb at one of the city’s many aboveground cemeteries.
“Shut the door.”
He edged the door closed with the heel of his boot, and then claimed the seat opposite the lieutenant. “You wanted to talk?”
Cartwell took his sweet time shutting down his computer. Reaching out, he wrapped a single hand around a black mug and pulled it close. Brady ground his teeth to keep from calling the man a hypocritical ass. He kept silent even when the lieutenant lifted the mug to his mouth and took a long swig of coffee.
Brady waited.
“It’s no secret that you want the promotion, Taylor,” Cartwell finally said.
“I do, sir.”
Cartwell planted the mug on the desk. He crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “So tell me why the department should consider you when you’re not even capable of wrapping up the Caleb Kemper case.”
It wasn’t a question, and Brady honestly wasn’t too certain that Cartwell cared to know the answer anyway. At this point, Brady felt more inclined to try and protect the job he did have as opposed to fighting for the one he wanted.
Refusing to show any sign of uncertainty, Brady brought his elbows to the desk and leaned forward. “Kemper was behind bars within twenty-four hours,” he said. “If you’re referring to Mardeaux, I put 24-hour surveillance on his house, his shop, and any place that he’s noted for frequently visiting.”
Cartwell didn’t blink. “And, still, you haven’t caught him. What, are you waiting for him to hire out for another murder before you finally cuff the guy?”
Internally, Brady knew that his superior was trying to rile him up. So far, he’d done everything he could to find Mardeaux. Even the man’s mother had been the first to say that she had no idea where her son had gone. “Disappeared” had been the word she’d used.
Telling the rank that the perpetrator had disappeared might actually land Brady in the grave. “We don’t actually know that he murdered anyone . . . his prints were on the gun, which is certainly incriminating. It’s only a matter of time before we get some more information.”