Heat (The Stark Affair Book 1)

by Cross, Skylar

  The store employee appears at the opening to the dressing area. She looks about sixteen with long red curly hair and freckles.

  “How is everything going in here?” she says in a sparkly voice.

  “Emma,” says Jorge, “be honest. This is the one, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” says Emma. “Mmm-hmm. Very hot.”

  “I don’t even know what’s keeping this up,” I say. “And where am I supposed to put my gun?”

  Emma turns around quickly and is gone.

  “You’re so mean,” Jorge says. “You frightened the poor girl.”

  “I’m not wearing this!”

  “Fine, then I’m done here. I’m leaving.”

  “You can’t go!”

  “Sofe, you want to attract his attention. That will attract his attention. Guaranteed. Heck, that would attract my attention if I weren’t so gay and you weren’t the sister who beat me up continually between the ages of twelve and eighteen.”

  “I never beat you up!”

  “I have scars, honey.”

  “Those were taps. Sisterly love taps.”

  “Keep telling yourself that. Okay, so that’s the dress. You’re buying it. Now it’s shoe time.”

  “They sell shoes here?”

  “Of course not. God, you really don’t know a thing about shopping, do you?”

  I give Jorge the finger and storm back into the dressing room, whipping the curtain shut behind me.

  * * *

  One pair of ill-fitting, awkward shoes with some brand name I can’t even pronounce later, Jorge and I are walking south to 8th where we’ll turn toward Collins and back to the floral boutique he and Brad run. I’m a little tense because we’re going to pass by Heat along the way. Not that anybody would be there at two in the afternoon.

  “Couple more pieces of advice,” says Jorge. “Use a bar name, not your real one. Oh, and fix your walk. You walk like a man.”

  “Shut the fuck up!”

  “Seriously, sis. Get the James Bond movie with Halle Berry. Watch the part where she walks out of the ocean. Then practice that. Swing and sway, swing and sway. Like this.”

  He demonstrates with flourish.

  “Fine. What else?”

  “Hmmm, let’s see... oh, I know! Do this.” Jorge puts an empty goofy smile on his face, then tilts his head and pretends to twirl his hair.

  “I am not doing that!”

  “Well, your usual face isn’t going to get you anywhere. You want a look that says I’m horny and I’m stupid. Yours says Talk to me and I’ll kill you. Not what we want. It’s head-tilt, giggle, twirl hair. Do it with me. Ready? Head-tilt, giggle, twirl hair.”

  I head-tilt, giggle, and twirl my hair... but I overdo it on purpose.

  “You know, I don’t even know why I talk to you. You’re mocking me.”

  “Shut the fuck up, you big sissy.”

  “I am a sissy, and a fucking proud one.”

  “I’d like to hear you say that to Dad.”

  “Speaking of Dad, have you been over to see him this week?”

  I roll my eyes. “No. Mom already yelled at me on the phone this morning. I’m going there right after this.”

  “I was there on Monday. Oooh, he’s on the warpath this week. Is there any way you could shoot that scanner that he’s glued to?”

  “Wish I could. How do you think I felt my last year in the Pit knowing he was listening in on all my calls?”

  “In the what?”

  “Nothing. Police talk.”

  “But Sofe, whatever you do, don’t let him get to you.”

  “Right. Like that could ever happen. You know him as well as I do. I mean, I love him because he’s my dad and everything, but sometimes I just want to get my hands around his neck and–”

  “How do you think I felt growing up? All he ever wanted me to do was play sports. Didn’t even come see my riotously hilarious homoerotic interpretation of Hysterium in A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum. Eventually, I just had to tell him ‘I’m not going to do what you want me to, Dad.’ If I hadn’t, today I’d be married and a cop. And nobody would be happy. Least of all Brad.”

  Heat is at the corner of the street we’re crossing.

  “This is the place,” I say as I slip my ten-dollar sunglasses over my eyes.

  “What place?”

  “The place I have to infiltrate.”

  “This place?”

  “Shhhhh. Quiet. Just keep walking. I shouldn’t even be telling you this.”

  “Like I would even know who to blab to, sweetie. This is Colton Stark’s place. The hot billionaire.”

  I smile. “Yeah.”

  Jorge’s face goes big and wide.

  “Ohmigod! Ohmigod! Ohmigod! It’s him, isn’t it? You have to seduce Colton Stark!”

  “Shut the fuck up or I’ll smack you right here, I swear! And nobody is seducing anybody.”

  We both resume walking casually. Jorge puts his Ray-Bans on.

  “Colton Stark,” he says in a loud whisper and then looks off quickly. “Oh my God, he’s gorgeous!”

  “Yeah? Hadn’t noticed,” I say.

  “Rumor is he’s really into anal.”

  “You would know that.”

  “I’m serious. So make sure you clean out your butt ahead of time. I’ve got an extra Anal Douche at the boutique if you need one. Still sealed in its package.”

  I smack him in the arm with my left fist.

  “Ow!” he says. “Police brutality! Police brutality right here!”

  “There will be none of that,” I say. “This is police work, and that’s it.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Sofe. I know you go all ways from Sunday, but you cannot tell me you haven’t fantasized about his cock in your ass. I know I have.”

  I smile.

  “Never,” I say.

  Chapter 6

  Sofia

  Even though it’s only 6.6 miles from Ocean Drive to my dad’s house in Wynwood, it may as well be a space flight to Mars. Ocean Drive is the Beverly Hills of Miami. Wynwood, on the other hand, is known as “Little San Juan.” Although it’s safer than it used to be.

  I pause my hand-restored yellow 1970 Chevelle with black hood stripes two houses up from my dad’s house, cursing the load roar of its engine. Just need to sit here for a minute or two and compose myself, plan my words.

  I had planned on going to the gym to go a few rounds with the heavy bag. God, do I need it! But Jorge’s reminder guilted me all up.

  So here I am with a pizza and a six-pack in the back seat, and there’s the house.

  Jammed in tight between the two neighboring houses, my childhood home has a white iron gate around the tiny square of front lawn. Iron bars over the windows, painted an ugly red to match the trim on the ugly rose-colored stucco. My dad’s ancient blue Ford Bronco parked alongside in the narrow driveway.

  Why do I dread going in so much? Maybe because Mom isn’t here to act as a buffer.

  She’s in Puerto Rico taking care of my grandmother who has Alzheimer’s. Been there five months already.

  Even though my Aunt Yuxaira lives back on the family property, my mother felt the need to go down there.

  Which is noble and should be applauded and all that, but a part of me wonders if it has anything to do with the fact that my dad is home all the time since getting shot in the leg during an armed robbery.

  Metro gave him a choice. Early retirement or a desk job. I think my dad would shoot himself before taking a desk job, so early retirement it was.

  Poor Mom. She had to actually live with him. I don’t blame her running back to Puerto Rico. My dad is... God, this is so hard to explain to somebody who doesn’t know him... difficult. Let’s just leave it at that for now.

  One thing I inherited from him, though, was his toughness. He was a cop. So was my late grandfather. And his father. Runs in the family, I guess.

  All my dad wanted was for his son to become a cop to carry on the family traditio
n. Yes, Jorge the floral designer.

  Not a cop.

  Funny thing is I always knew it would be me.

  I wasn’t like other girls. No babies or Barbies for me. I was all Transformers, Avengers, and X-Men.

  When my dad came home telling stories about his day, I hung on every word while Jorge painted watercolor daisies.

  I just knew someday I’d be putting bad guys away. I could taste it.

  He tried talking me out of it. Don’t blame him. Who wants to see his little girl get shot at?

  But it’s in my blood. Just like him. Just like my grandfather and great-grandfather.

  My dad knew. He always knew.

  When I was fifteen, an eight-year old boy was hit by a car up the street from our house. He had been racing his bike and tried leaping in front of a minivan, but the woman driving it didn’t see him in time and ran over his leg. My first instinct was to rush to help him.

  The other neighborhood kids all just stood around wide-eyed watching the poor kid bleed.

  I took charge, yelling for someone to dial 9-1-1. I checked the boy’s neck for a pulse. Faint but there.

  The bottom half of the kid’s leg was almost completely off, hanging on by only a thread of tendon. Blood spurted out everywhere. I quickly tore my shirt off, ripped it, and tied it around his thigh as a tourniquet to stem the flow.

  The woman who hit him was having a panic attack, screaming and crying. I calmed her down, assuring her we were going to save him.

  When I heard the sirens, I yelled at everybody to get off the street so the ambulance had a clear path.

  When the EMTs arrived, I advised them of his pulse and what I did. As the big woman slammed the back door of the ambulance shut after loading the boy inside, she turned to me and said, “Good job.”

  After the ambulance left, I sauntered back to our house, half-naked and bloody. My dad stood on the front stoop. Unbeknownst to me, he had seen the whole thing. He just looked at with me with cold eyes, nodded, and walked back into the house.

  Like I said, we both knew.

  The doctors were able to reattach the boy’s leg, thanks to my quick action. His mother was so grateful she wanted to adopt me.

  A few months later, while out with some girlfriends, I prevented a convenience store holdup with my fists. Robber had a sawed-off and told everyone to get to the ground. All my friends obeyed, but I saw in his eyes that he didn’t have the balls to shoot anyone. With no hesitation, I walked right up to him and landed a right cross to his face that sent him down. I grabbed the gun as I kneed him in the groin. As he bent over, I smashed him in the head with the barrel. When the cops arrived, the last thing they expected to see was a sixteen-year old girl standing on the perp’s back pointing a gun at his head.

  Watching the surveillance video later with a female cop at the station, she asked me where I learned how to fight like that.

  “Don’t know,” I said. “Just came to me.”

  “Have you considered going to Police Academy after high school?”

  “Hadn’t thought about it. Can I go home now?”

  “Yes you have thought about it. You must have. Your father is Sergeant Martinez.”

  “He says girls can’t be cops.”

  She just smiled at me.

  “When you’re ready to talk more, call me,” she said.

  She handed me her card. Det. Sgt. LaTashia Washington.

  Yeah, my path was pretty much carved out for me in the destiny book.

  Against the wishes of my father, I signed up for the Police Academy the day after graduating high school.

  That was seven years ago. I’m twenty-five now and afraid to go inside my dad’s house.

  Pathetic, isn’t it?

  Oh God, I have to do this, don’t I?

  I put my car in gear and pull up out front. I grab the pizza and the beer, walk up to the door, and open it with my key.

  “Dad!” I shout. “Just me. Sofia. Don’t shoot.”

  Nothing.

  That’s strange.

  I put the pizza and beer down on the dining room table.

  “Dad!”

  I go into the kitchen. Nothing.

  I go to the back of the house and find him in the bathroom, on the floor, trying to stand up using the sink for leverage.

  “Dad! What happened?”

  “I’m fine.”

  I reach behind him and pull him up. It’s obvious he’s been on the floor for a while, struggling to get up. I get his cane and hand it to him.

  “Goddamned knee,” he says. “I never know when it’s going to give out.”

  I try moving some of his weight onto me, but he brushes me aside.

  “I’m fucking fine,” he says as he hobbles through the hallway into the kitchen.

  Now you know where I get my profanity issues.

  “Dad, you need to seriously think about getting a knee replacement. They can do amazing things nowadays. It’s like getting a whole new knee.”

  I follow him into the kitchen. He’s way unsteady on that cane.

  “I’m not having a goddamned piece of metal for a leg. I’ve had enough metal removed from me.”

  Oooh... sometimes I just want to...

  Breathe, Sofia! Breathe!

  “I brought us a pizza,” I say.

  “Not that fancy kind with chicken and no tomato sauce?”

  “No, Dad. Your favorite. New York-style from Lucali. And, a six-pack of Bud.”

  “Sixteen-ounce cans?”

  “Of course.”

  He shoots me a little smile. As he sits down at the kitchen table, he grimaces in pain. I give him an angry stare.

  “You’re so fucking stubborn,” I say. “You’d rather go through that every time you sit down than have a knee replacement? What if I hadn’t come by?”

  “Shut up and hand me a beer.”

  I walk back into the dining room and grab the pizza and beer. I put it on the kitchen table, looking around.

  The kitchen looks like an earthquake recently hit. Dirty dishes everywhere. Newspapers piled in a heap. Woodworking tools where there used to be a fruit bowl. I wonder what happened to the fruit bowl.

  This is unlike my dad. He used to polish his belt buckle and shine his shoes every day. Getting a little nervous now.

  I remove the six-pack from the bag, tear off a can, open it, and put it in front of him. He grabs it and takes a sip.

  I search for two clean plates but come up empty-handed. Instead, I tear off two squares of paper towel and put one in front of each of us. I open the pizza box, take a slice, put one on his square, then one on mine.

  We eat like that for a while, the silence broken occasionally by slurps of beer.

  “Good pizza,” he says.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Lucali, huh? That’s over near the Publix on Alton. What were you doing over there?”

  I knew he’d ask. I’m prepared to give only the barest of details. Dressing up as a nightclub party girl is nothing I want my dad to know.

  “Staking out a rich guy, possible trafficker.”

  “Long or short?”

  “Long. Three weeks probably.”

  “You should be staking out a rich guy to marry out there. Rich guy would take care of you.”

  Breathe, Sofia. 500... 499... 498...

  “Dad, I’m fine. I don’t need anyone to take care of me.”

  “All women need a good man.”

  497... 496... 495...

  “So what did you do today?” I say.

  “Some woodworking.”

  “What are you making?”

  “New coffee table.”

  There’s a perfectly nice coffee table in the living room, but whatever. Staying busy is good.

  “So this rich guy you’re staking out. He hang around in all the usual rich guy places?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Then while you’re there, put on a nice dress. Act ladylike. Once you find the right guy, you can quit the
force.”

  494... 493... 492...

  “Why quit the force?” I say. “Why not marry a man and stay a police officer?”

  “How can you have kids if you’re a cop?”

  “Dad, we’ve had this conversation a million times. I don’t want kids.”

  “Not yet. You will. It’s born into you. Hasn’t hit you yet. Besides, what man wants to be married to a girl cop?”

  491... 490... 489...

  I put my pizza slice down. I feel myself losing it. I had planned to stay and wash the dishes, but there’s the tremble in my hand. I need to punch a heavy bag... soon.

  “Kind of like The Cleaver,” he says. “Nobody married her. Looks like a goddamned truck driver in a skirt with makeup. You want to end up like that?”

  I pick around the edges of my pizza slice.

  “She’s incredibly good at what she does, Dad. Even your old buddy, Frank, likes her.”

  “Frank is just playing along until retirement like I’d be doing if I hadn’t been shot. How’s Frank doing?”

  “He’s a lot quieter than he used to be. Stays at his desk a lot. No clue what he works on.”

  “See? Playing it smart, like I said. He knows. Women are good for stings, intel, and secretarial stuff, but shouldn’t be in charge.”

  Why? Why does he always do this? What’s the point? Why pick and prod at me? Why can’t he just accept that I’m a cop after all these years?

  Eat your pizza, Sofia. Eat your pizza.

  I take a bite and chew.

  “Women are too emotional,” he says. “Can’t always handle the job. Plus, they got a thing for criminals. They like bad boys. All of them.”

  I see the dead girl’s face again, lifeless eyes lit by the flashing lights. She’s looking right at me. Her handsome boyfriend smiles at me as Mike drags him out in cuffs. Ten minutes earlier, the fucker had convinced me that he wouldn’t hurt her. Charmed me with his swagger. Then he killed her the moment I left.

  A little dam bursts in my head.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I say.

  “Oh, nothing,” says my dad. “Just a tough job, that’s all. Tough jobs need to be done by tough men. Who don’t fantasize about tattooed scumbags in their beds.”

  I stand up. My fists are clenched.