by Rhyll Biest
Short, thick and black, it defied identification.
A knife, a gun, a baton?
She twisted sideways. The room and everything in it narrowed and greyed, leeched of colour, depth and even sound. All that stood out was his eyes locked on hers, all pupil and no iris, twitchy and murderous. Her heart swelled, crammed tight with every bit of detail sucked from the room, the seconds that lasted hours.
She raised the binder folder to shield herself but the black object clipped her shoulder with a solid thud. In her panic she failed to register pain, but the contact was hard enough to make her stagger, and when her shoe found a slick spot she slid.
I’m gonna fall.
Balance lost, the room rushed by. She fell to one knee and put a hand on the linoleum to keep from falling further.
You fell, you fucking idiot. That thought was followed by, give me a pen and I’ll stab both his kidneys.
Hot thoughts on a cool floor.
Then, as if through the depths of a swimming pool, she registered the weapon as it fluttered to land by her feet. A rolled up magazine. A black label issue of Penthouse. The airbrushed blonde on the cover stared at her mockingly, lips parted in glossy invitation. Curves in all the right places, the text leered.
He’d hit her with nude, airbrushed pictures of women.
Sound returned, the deadbeat dad’s wheezing—a sound she finally identified as a cigarette-scoured laugh—almost drowned out by his daughters’ crying. She found enough air to breathe again, sucked it in deep as she weighed what to do next.
Before she reached a decision the waiting room door sprung open, the burst of sunlight sudden and shocking as a mare’s waters breaking.
Kat, squinting against the glare, clocked a figure poised on the threshold like an intruder.
Great, more trouble.
The man wore a face made for scars. And then there was that body of his—jacked in a way that would arouse envy in the weights yard of a maximum security prison.
And the manner in which he took in the whole room, absorbed it with one look? She knew. Though there was no police uniform, no weapons, no cuffs nor utility belt to confirm it, everything about him screamed law enforcement, from the shoulders built for breaking down doors to the flatly assessing stare harder than a riot baton. She knew what he was.
A cop.
She also knew what he would do next. That part was as familiar to her as Cornflakes. He’d take control of the situation, use his stance and voice to dominate those in the room, would interrogate to gather details. He would be deceptive and manipulative to get the truth, and if push came to shove he would also be prepared to use whatever weapons or force necessary to gain compliance. If he had no hand gun, Taser or pepper spray handy, he would use his body.
And as far as bodies went, his was a pretty good weapon.
Sweat drenched the neck of his grey t-shirt black and ran down his flushed face, but the gaze he turned upon the irate, cat-dumping dad was cold enough to freeze brand a steer. ‘Back it up, mate.’
The look on his clean-shaven, don’t-fuck-with-me face had the Father of the Year retreating several steps.
A white knight, one of the good guys, yet something about him left Kat feeling rattled rather than reassured.
‘What’s going on?’ He didn’t direct the question to anyone in particular, and Kat was too busy registering the voice sharp as a rusting razorblade against the throat to formulate an answer.
The deadbeat dad answered. ‘Nothing.’
Fucking liar, she wanted to spit, but a shovel-sized hand thrust at her diverted her attention.
Such a ridiculously big hand, twice the size of hers. What if he refused to let go? Then she’d be stuck trying to pry her hand free from that bear trap.
‘You okay?’
His voice was rough enough to cause gravel rash, and in keeping with the span of his chest rolled around the room, deep and commanding, dominating even. It was such a cop voice, god was it ever. Something she despised as much as she envied. If she’d had his size, command presence, and voice, the deadbeat dad would have run rather than assaulting her with a titty mag. Her gaze shifted from his paw to his cloud-grey eyes, the placid patience in them reassuring.
Somewhat.
‘I’m fine.’ She was always fine, even when she wasn’t. But she might need to see a chiropractor after landing on her arse that way. If Walgarra had such a thing. She wasn’t in the ‘burbs anymore. She took the hand the cop offered and drew strength from its solidity.
His callouses scraped hers, rough and warm as a cat’s tongue as he pulled her to her feet, leaving her in no doubt as to his physical power.
I’m in love, Galenka crooned, look at biceps like big, juicy ham hocks.
Shut up.
She’d felt small on the waxed linoleum floor, but standing next to him diminished her even further, his heavyweight frame reducing her to bantamweight status. Who knew the waiting room of the RSPCA shelter would become a boxing ring so quickly?
Welcome to the new normal.
‘You sure you’re okay?’ His grey gaze injected the room with calm as he held her hand.
She gave him a vague smile, preoccupied with the scar bisecting one of his midnight eyebrows, another faint scar visible near his hairline. Badges of violence. How else did a man get those kind of scars?
Something other than body warmth spread from his hand to hers and she hastily tugged it free, but not before catching a half-second flicker of surprise in his eyes.
What the hell had that been? Clutching her folder tighter, she forced a smile. ‘Thanks.’ Her body could be attracted to a cop all it liked, her brain knew better than to tangle with one, even if he was rocking the hot inmate look.
At the whisper of a sneaker on linoleum her head whipped around. Deadbeat dad winding up for a second attack?
No, just scuttling past to edge out the door with his daughters in tow.
Kat’s gaze darted to the receptionists. Are you going to just let him go?
Yes, it seemed, they were.
Still, what did she expect? An arrest because she’d been threatened with a titty mag? What exactly was the penalty for assault with deadly pornography?
A stupid thought. Still, she wasn’t the first person to have their IQ lowered by anxiety. With the prospect of an imminent brawl fading, her awareness of the broader environment returned. Sharon’s bangles jingled as the receptionist bent to retrieve the magazine from the ground before addressing the newcomer. ‘I’m so glad you came, Luka.’
‘No worries, I was already on my way here.’
Luka. Unusual name. And delivered in a somewhat breathy tone by the receptionist. Below her false eyelashes, there was serious hunger in Sharon’s eyes and her beehive almost quivered with lust.
Kat frowned as a needle skewered her lungs, stitching them up tight. Why? The danger had passed. She rubbed her throat, her chest, but the sensation of breathing razor blades remained.
Just post-titty-mag-attack stress syndrome. Relax.
A big, warm hand alighted on her back. The air changed, became charged, while an invisible choke chain tightened around her throat. She raised her eyes as the cop rubbed her between the shoulder blades, his splayed fingers almost spanning the gap, the warmth of his palm at once disturbing and comforting.
The reassuring gesture was at odds with his stark, unsmiling face, the skin drawn tight over hollow cheeks. If his cheeks grew any more concave one could spelunk in them. Why so gaunt? Perhaps he’d been unwell or had insomnia. Or a bad conscience. Shadows certainly lurked in his eyes.
And yet she pegged him as one of those rare, unnatural beings who declared all quarantine material.
He frowned. ‘You right? Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth. You need to sit?’
She shook her head, she was not a fainter and his reassuring hand stirred unease. Not because she didn’t like it but because she liked it a little too much. Each rub left a warm slick of confusion in it
s wake.
She made the mistake of meeting his eyes and discovered that his irises matched the coat colour of the Weimaraner puppy she planned to adopt.
Hard face, soft eyes.
Her insides turned stickier than pudding.
That was it. Low blood sugar. She needed to eat something and that was why she felt woozy and lightheaded. Nothing else. She murmured an apology before sidling away from his hand but his gaze lingered on her, its weight palpable.
She wasn’t stupid, she knew physical attraction when she sensed it, but she chose not to act on it. Still, better to acknowledge its existence than to outright deny it. Her mother had always likened sexual attraction to a knife fight. The most dangerous and effective knife was the one not seen until it had already been used to good effect. Attraction was like that. By the time you worked out you were bleeding from multiple stab wounds, it was too late to do anything about it.
So it was best to acknowledge the attraction and move on. She crouched by the abandoned pet crate and inspected the ginger cat left by the deadbeat dad. An assessment of the cat’s coat and body fat would give her own vitals time to behave themselves. ‘He looks in reasonable condition.’
‘Who?’
You, officer, your size and condition are excellent. He had to be over a hundred and eighty centimetres tall, and all lean muscle. ‘This guy down here.’ She met the cat’s bright yellow eyes through the wire mesh and digested an unpalatable truth. Not even her first day and she’d semi-disgraced herself, freaking out over a titty mag attack. All she’d wanted was to make a good impression, but Sharon, Beth and this officer must think her an utter nob.
She glanced up at the officer but his eyes were as empty of judgement as they were of colour.
He nodded at the cat. ‘Who does he belong to?’
She kept her tone neutral. ‘Dumped by the guy who just left.’
If it bothered him to hear it, he didn’t show it. Still, as a police officer he’d no doubt seen far worse … like the body of a murdered RSPCA inspector.
The bleak thought had her scrambling to focus on something else. ‘Thanks for your help, I thought that guy was going to thump me.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘That so? You get a name?’
She suffered a moment of doubt. Had the Father of the Year been going to punch her or had she just expected the worst, as usual? ‘No, it’s okay. I mean, he didn’t punch me, just kind of bopped me with his magazine, so …’ So it didn’t really count, did it? Shit, she sounded like her mother. What a fucking thought.
The reception door swung open. Another man strode in, rangy and greyhound lean, his long legs eating up the distance. As he neared, his face became visible—scars peppered it in crop circle patterns, with fine white lines streaking his cheeks and brow like comets. His neat brown beard, she suspected, was less about hipster posturing and more about hiding scars.
Don’t stare.
She dropped her gaze to the slime ringing the top of his boots and noticed that he and the officer wore matching mud. Why? Had they been wrestling water buffalo in a mud hole? Or maybe they’d just decided to join in, since they were buffalo-sized themselves. Men built like livestock.
Mites of unease nibbled at her. Big men were a threat and yet they also held out that dark promise of pleasurable annihilation.
‘Hey, what’s going on?’ The newcomer looked to Sharon, dark brows raised.
Sharon nodded in Kat’s direction, her earrings swinging with the force of it. ‘The new girl nearly got thumped by some dickhead. Luka stopped it.’
The man grimaced. ‘Huh, some welcome.’ He extended his hand. ‘I’m Nick Evert. You must be our new inspector.’
‘Yup, Kat. Nice to meet you.’ She shook his hand. She’d picked him as the type to forget to clean foreign soil from his boots when returning from overseas.
Nick pointed to the giant beside him. ‘Luka ‘Brick’ Belovuk here is the fuzz.’
So her instincts had been correct. Belovuk. An unusual surname. Russian? Serbian? ‘Nice nickname.’
His deceptively soft grey gaze met hers. ‘Not really, it’s short for brick shit-house.’
That much she’d gathered, since he was built like one. She eyed the men’s clothes. ‘Have you two been playing in the mud?’
Belovuk wiped sweat from his brow. ‘I was helping Nick to free a sheep stuck in a creek.’
Didn’t he have anything better to do with his spare time than to save sheep? She didn’t want him doing things like that, it made her like him too much.
Galenka chose that moment to speak up. I bet he fucks like real man.
Thanks. Now piss off.
Galenka cackled.
‘Why was the guy with the kids being such a jerk?’ His baritone resounded in Kat’s ears, reached inside her chest.
She glanced at the carry crate. Good question.
Sharon answered. ‘He wanted us to take the cat, but we don’t take strays.’
The ginger cat meowed plaintively.
‘When we told him he’d have to take it to the pound he flipped out.’ Sharon made a sound of disgust.
Kat’s muscles unwound another notch when the big cop’s gaze shifted from her to Sharon and then the cat crate. He frowned. ‘Guy was getting punchy because he’d have to drive ten minutes to the other side of town?’
Sharon rolled her eyes. ‘He acted like we’d asked him to drive to the other side of the country. And he threatened his kids.’
Blink and you’d have missed it, the imperceptible tightening of his face. ‘I see. Did you get a name?’
Sharon made a sour expression. ‘He got pissed when we asked for one, started ranting about the police state and his rights as a tax payer.’ She sniffed.
Kat winced. No name. Hard to follow up on a case of possible domestic abuse without a name.
Sharon’s gaze roamed the cop. ‘Do you have time for a coffee, Luka?’
‘Sorry, gotta roll. Can I have a word outside, Kat?’
No emotion stirred his flat, still gaze and yet her bones hollowed out at the request. Uh-oh, what had she done to land herself in trouble with the police before she’d even clocked her first day on the job?
***
Luka admired her super-casual reply. ‘Sure’, like it was no biggie, nothing at all. He knew the work that went into that sort of veneer, a front that served as a holding cell for emotions.
He pushed open the reception’s heavy double-glazed door. The double glazing was for fire and heat but what kept the drug fiend thieves out was the CCTV camera and steel roller door he’d recommended installed after the place was hit twice in one month for ketamine. Most people never saw the roller door, never even knew it was there, but he knew. Just like he knew every other defensive measure installed around town—temporary cures, really, in the face of the convulsions of crime seizing Walgarra since bikers and methamphetamine had come to town.
The new inspector murmured her thanks as she passed by as he held open the door.
What should he call her? Did she prefer Daily, Ms Daily or Kat? His guess was the latter. She wasn’t a Mrs Daily because there was no ring. And despite her thanks for his holding the door open he’d bet she had feminist tendencies. Her jeans and utilitarian t-shirt confirmed it, as did her sneakers. But drab clothing couldn’t conceal her looks, the graceful curve of her neck, the refined features, the world class arse. The glorious auburn hair. The RSPCA inspector had pedigree.
He shut the door behind them.
Who was this woman? She had a curious stillness about her, the sort of stillness he associated with the lull just before a riot turned ugly. Plus, she was awfully cool for a woman recently set on her arse by a bloke twice her size.
Seeing her sprawled on the floor, the toes of her shoes pointing heavenwards just like Mark Fairly’s, had hit him harder than capsicum spray.
For several trembling seconds his fingers had twitched with the urge to apply his Taser to the guy’s nuts, until he’d recalled that he wa
sn’t in uniform and that he wasn’t carrying his Taser.
Which had probably been for the best.
It had taken several moments before the snakes of darkness in his head receded, his heart slowed and things grew less fuzzy and frantic. Then he was able to use ‘the voice’ to scare the crap out of the man, and had derived dark pleasure from the shithead’s hasty retreat.
He ran a weary hand over his face. Frigging flashbacks, frigging insomnia. As if his job wasn’t hard enough without that crap as well. And now this.
He glanced at the back of the woman walking ahead of him. How could she be the new inspector? How?
Nick had described the new inspector as pushing thirty with a solid background in compliance. Luka had pictured a hard-faced, leathery woman built like a tank.
But this woman, this woman was slight and looked to be only in her early twenties, face still fresh and pretty, and free of make-up, like she didn’t care for it. She certainly didn’t need it.
Inside, Nick had avoided his accusing glances, god damn him, as if it weren’t his fault the new inspector was not much bigger than an Olympic gymnast. But then Nick hadn’t been the one to find Mark’s body in a tractor shed all curled up, a pale, waxy shell in a dark pool of deep red.
Luka narrowed his eyes at the new inspector’s back. I’ll be fucked if I’ll set up crime scene tape around your body. Whatever it took, he was keeping this one alive.
And while he appreciated the way the new inspector was put together, it wouldn’t help her one bit. In fact, he’d bet his handcuffs the way she looked would cause problems. Every sexual predator in Walgarra would rush out to adopt a cat or dog.
He waved a fly away as he crossed the parking area. Christ, every year the sun grew hotter, the town poorer, and the number of people intent on pulling one another apart multiplied along with the flies. But he refused to abandon Walgarra, not to meth and not to bikers.
And he wasn’t going to abandon the new RSPCA inspector, either.
He caught up with her in three strides—fuck, she was so small—and she cast him a wary sideways glance as he neared. Good situational awareness, that was one point in her favour.