Convict: A Bad Boy Romance

by Roxie Noir

  “Nothing,” I say.

  She gives me a long, searching look.

  “We found your prints on spray paint cans at both crime scenes,” she says.

  I frown. I didn’t do this and I know I didn’t do it. For once, I’m innocent.

  She pushes another photo across the table, and I look at it. It’s a can of bright orange spray paint, lying in the grass. I almost laugh with relief.

  “That’s the paint we use at the garage,” I say. “Usually orange, to mark car parts we’re throwing out. Old tires, busted fenders, that kind of shit.”

  I spread my hands on the table, palms up.

  “They probably took it when they broke in,” I say.

  Luna watches me carefully and waits for a moment.

  “Your prints were on the cans outside Eddie’s too,” she says.

  Shit.

  The scene replays itself in front of me, clear as day: grabbing each can and hurling it against the gate in a fit of anger. I didn’t tell anyone about that, because I hate when my anger gets the better of me.

  I lean back in the uncomfortable chair, take a deep breath, and fold my arms in front of me. I don’t want to tell Luna about my temper tantrum, but I don’t have much of a choice.

  “That’s because I picked them up,” I say.

  Luna’s face is still, and it’s impossible to tell if she believes me or not.

  “Go on,” she says.

  I glance at the mirror behind her, wondering again who’s back there. I imagine some fat, middle-aged man, frowning, his arms folded across his belly, just waiting to pin this all on the new guy in town. Anger flickers inside me, and I stomp it back, trying to keep my cool.

  “I got there before Eddie that morning,” I say, letting my voice go quiet.

  I pause, trying to think of the best way to tell this story.

  “I like Eddie,” I say. “I like working for him. He hired me even though all I’ve got is a GED, he pays fairly, and he’s a good boss. So when I saw that shit on his gate, I was pissed.”

  She’s still watching me, her face unreadable.

  “And I threw the cans against the wall,” I say. “It was stupid. It didn’t help anything. It didn’t even make me feel better. I’m still pissed at whoever fucked up Eddie’s garage. But that’s why my prints are there.”

  Her eyes lower to the pictures, like she’s considering my story. It’s the truth. I know full well that it’s the truth, but I’m not stupid enough to think that that’s always going to be good enough for the police.

  I’ve seen people tried and convicted on less. Not me. I was guilty as shit, but it happens.

  I should have asked for a lawyer, I think. I can’t believe I’m still this stupid.

  Luna pulls back the photos.

  “What brand is the paint you use at the garage?” she asks.

  I exhale hard, squeezing my eyes shut.

  “Something that ends in EX,” I say, because I can’t fucking remember, even though I just looked at the photo of it. “It’s a blue background with big blocky yellow letters, though. We buy cases of it in orange and red.”

  There’s a pause.

  “Paintex? Spraytex?” I say.

  Luna puts the photos back in the manila folder and rests her fingers on it lightly for a moment, then looks back at me.

  “You sure you were home last night?” she asks.

  “Yes,” I say, and lean forward. “Alone. All by myself, all night. That what you want to know, Detective?”

  “Yes,” she says, her voice brittle. “Thank you.”

  “You also gonna ask about Friday night?” I say.

  I know I shouldn’t be taking my anger out on her, but I’m fighting it for control. She has me brought in by two uniforms while I’m at work, practically accuses me of arson, and now she’s trying to find out what I’ve been up to?

  “No,” she says.

  “If you want to know what I’ve been doing, you could just ask,” I say, keeping my voice low. “You don’t have to send a couple of assholes in uniform to bring me in.”

  “I don’t care what you’re up to except for when you’ve got an alibi,” she says crisply, knocking the lower edge of the manila folder against the table.

  Then she looks me in the eye, and something softens in her face.

  “And that wasn’t my call,” she says, her voice suddenly quiet, nearly a whisper. “I don’t do petty revenge, Stone.”

  We stare at each other for a split second, and I have to fight back a smile.

  She’s pissed I left, I think. She wanted more, too.

  Not that this makes anything less complicated. Luna folds her hands on top of the folder, sitting up perfectly straight, like someone who’s acutely aware of being watched.

  “Is there anything else you haven’t told me?” she asks, her eyes meeting mine.

  The things I haven’t told you would take hours, I think. Starting with that symbol.

  My stomach tightens again.

  “Not about this,” I say, holding her gaze.

  “Nothing?” she asks.

  I could swear her voice drops, just barely, and then I’m back in that parking lot with her up against the car. For a second, I forget about the graffiti and the arson, and I lean forward, my elbows on the table.

  I tug at one sleeve to make sure my ink is covered. Luna sees. Of course she sees. She’s a detective.

  “Like what?” I ask, my voice lowering to match hers.

  “You tell me, Stone,” she says. “You’re the only person we’ve linked to the crime scenes so far.”

  “You mean I’m the only person whose prints you’ve identified,” I say. “You’re telling me there were no other common fingerprints between the two?”

  “They weren’t in the database,” she says, her voice still prim.

  “You find my prints on either of the cars?” I ask. “Have you got anything connecting me to this besides a paint can from the place where I work?”

  Luna doesn’t answer.

  “You know it wasn’t me,” I say.

  I look at the mirror behind her.

  “You were hoping it was me, though,” I say, and I can feel a flame spark to life inside me.

  I’m not angry at her, but I’m angry at cops. I’m angry at the people behind the mirror who saw someone new in town and thought they may as well ruin his day, because then they might not have to deal with the hard truth that someone they already know might have done this.

  More than anything, I’m angry that the Syndicate is shaking the tree that I’m in. I’m angry that they’re trying to make me nervous, and it’s working.

  “Is there anything else?” she asks again.

  You’re all I’ve thought about for seventy-two hours, I think. You’re pissed that I walked off but it was the only thing I could do. I’m bad for you, Luna.

  “No,” I say.

  Luna nods once, curtly. All business.

  “All right,” she says, and stands. “Let me go make a couple of inquiries and we’ll see what the next steps are.”

  She leaves the room, and the door clicks shut behind her. She’s going to look into the spray paint can from Eddie’s, find out that I wasn’t lying, and let me go.

  It takes her a while, though. I stand, and my chair shrieks as it scrapes against the floor. I pace back and forth.

  Arson. Fuck.

  Now I have to stay away from Luna, even if it’s hard. Even if it feels nearly impossible, being near her. Watching her try to figure me out.

  God help me, I like it. I like it when she’s right, when she’s sharp and tenacious. I want to let her puzzle me out, get under my skin, see me for me.

  I keep pacing for a long time, my thoughts switching back and forth between the Syndicate and Luna until my mind is a muddled mess.

  At last, the door opens, and there she is, leaning against the door frame.

  “You’ve got something on your mind,” she says.

  “You were watching me,
” I say, nodding at the one-way mirror. “You think I was in here repeating a confession to myself?”

  She snorts.

  “Of course not,” she says. “But it’s useful to see how people act when they’re alone, and you act like there’s something on your mind.”

  I take a step toward her, then stop, looking at the mirror.

  “There’s nobody back there now,” she says, her voice lower.

  “I got dragged out of work by two guys in uniform, stuffed into a police car, and told I’m linked to a crime scene,” I say, crossing my arms. “Fuck yes, there’s something on my mind.”

  I look Luna up and down. I don’t even mean to, but I feel like someone else is guiding my eyes and I’m helpless. No one should look this good in high-waisted slacks and a button-down shirt.

  Don’t, I tell myself. You walked away once. Make that the last time.

  “It wasn’t my idea to send the uniforms,” Luna says, lowering her voice. “But you’re not telling me everything. You know something, Stone.”

  She has no idea how right she is. I’m hiding lots of things, starting with a half-erection for the way she looks in her professional getup.

  “Because I’m nervous around cops?” I ask, even though I know that’s not it.

  Luna gives me an oh, please look.

  “You’re not nervous,” she says. “You’re pissed, and this isn’t the first time you’ve gotten hauled into a police station and questioned. You get into trouble as a kid? Is that it?”

  She’s not wrong. I push my hands into my pockets and lean one shoulder against the wall.

  Let her think she found the truth, I tell myself.

  “I spent four years in juvie,” I say. “Seventeen to twenty-one. You’re the first person in Tortuga to know. Happy?”

  “Happy you went to jail instead of college?” she asks sarcastically.

  I laugh.

  “College was never in the cards, detective,” I say. “If I’d been a little less lucky, I’d have worked stocking shelves at Wal-Mart until my back gave out. If I’d been smarter, I’d have started making meth.”

  “What do you mean, lucky?” she asks.

  “I got a GED, a certificate in car repair, and a clean record,” I say. “That’s better than I even knew to hope for.”

  Something in her face softens, like she doesn’t quite know what to say now.

  “Where’d you do the time?” she asks quietly.

  “You never quit, do you?” I say.

  “Stone, this is my job,” she says.

  “The Chickamauga Youth Development Center,” I say, letting my voice drop until it’s almost a growl. “Should I be expecting the cops to show up every time they need someone to pin the blame on?”

  Luna snorts.

  “I can keep a secret, Stone,” she says. “I’m not going to out you just because — for no reason.”

  She swallows, and I can’t help but look at her lips and imagine crushing them under my own again.

  “Because what?” I ask, stepping forward.

  I feel like Luna’s a magnet and I’m drawn toward her helplessly, no matter how bad an idea it is to even be here, talking to her like this.

  Hell, she’s probably recording everything I say, and now she can use it against me later somehow. Fucking cops.

  Leave, I think.

  “You want to know where I was Friday?” I ask.

  Luna opens her mouth, looking pissed, but I go on without letting her answer.

  “I went back into the bar, stood there for about thirty seconds, and left,” I growl. “Then I got on my bike and rode nearly down to Santa Barbara, and my head’s still not fucking clear.”

  “I didn’t ask,” she says. “Whatever’s going on with you, I don’t want to know, Stone.”

  Exit this room and walk out of this station and put an end to all this bullshit, I think desperately.

  I don’t. I stay right there, looking down into Luna’s eyes.

  “That’s why you’re still standing there instead of leaving?” I ask.

  Luna rolls her eyes.

  “You’re free to leave, Stone,” she says, and turns away.

  I reach out and catch her wrist.

  “Let me go,” she says through her teeth.

  “Next time you want to see me, don’t send uniforms,” I say.

  I don’t let her go, but I’m not gripping her tightly. All she has to do is pull away, but she doesn’t.

  “You’re assaulting a police officer,” she says.

  “Then arrest me, Detective,” I say, my voice low and dangerous.

  “You better fucking hope we’re not being watched,” she whispers.

  I chuckle. Then I pull on her wrist and suddenly Luna’s body is pressed against mine.

  “This time is your fault,” I growl into her ear, running one hand lightly down her back, over her stiff, professional button-down shirt. Her back arches beneath my fingers, just slightly, and she puts one hand on my chest.

  “How many times do I have to tell you it wasn’t me?” she murmurs. “You’ve got a high opinion of what I’m willing to do to see you, Stone.”

  “Lucky coincidence, then,” I say, and bend to kiss her.

  She steps back and a space opens up between us, my hand trailing off her back.

  “Are you really trying to seduce me in an interrogation room?” she asks.

  “Is it working?” I say, taking a step toward her. “Come on, Detective. You don’t want to be bad at work? Is that it?”

  Luna opens the door.

  “Among other things,” she says.

  Then she’s gone, the door shutting behind her. I’m still standing there like an asshole.

  I know it’s my own goddamn fault. I know I should stop even looking at Luna, much less going near her, but I can’t help myself.

  “Fuck it,” I whisper to myself, and leave the room.

  10

  Luna

  I rush down the hall of the police station, my nerves jangling through my body, away from the interrogation room. The observation room behind the glass was empty when I checked it before going back in, but that doesn’t mean that no one came in while we were talking.

  I already slept with a coworker, and that was a fucking mistake. If someone saw me conversing sexily with someone I’m supposed to be questioning, I’d be fucking finished.

  What if you made a good decision about a guy for once? I think. Just once, that’s all.

  I stop short when I realize there’s an exit door in front of me. It’s got a big red sign that says IF DOOR IS OPENED, ALARM WILL SOUND.

  I was in such a hurry to get out of there that I turned the wrong way when I left the room. Now I’m in a dead end with a supply closet and an emergency exit.

  I feel like an idiot, but I also feel like I’d rather walk barefoot through raw sewage than back past that interrogation room right now.

  I’ve only got one real choice, so I push open the door to the supply closet and flip on the light. I guess I need more post-it notes.

  After spending a few minutes carefully considering the merits of full-sized, square post-its versus the smaller, rectangular post-its, I finally select one pack of each and leave the closet.

  I can’t believe you just hid from someone in the supply closet, I think. What’s wrong with you?

  Shit, I wish I knew. I don’t usually hide in supply cabinets, pretending to choose sticky notes, but I also don’t usually have the wild, nearly unstoppable urge to make out with suspects.

  All around, today’s not going as planned. My chair’s still broken, my first big case seems like it’s about to stall out, and I’m upset about some guy.

  He had his chance, and he decided he was going to play some bullshit games with me, walking away and not bothering to contact me. I like men, not boys, dammit.

  I should probably make a poster of that phrase and hang it on my wall, so I remember it once in a while.

  At least he’s gone when I get
back to the squad room. Batali’s already left, because it’s half past six, so I shut down my computer, lock my paperwork away in a drawer, and leave the station.

  The sun is setting over Tortuga. The air is cooling quickly, and for a moment I stop to watch the sunset and take a deep breath.

  Sometimes cases take a while to come to fruition, I think. Shit happens.

  Also, I still feel like jell-o on the inside, just from the way Stone ran one hand down my back.

  I’m professionally and personally disappointed. If there were a third kind, I’d have a hat trick.

  You’ll probably never see him again, I think sarcastically. That’s his move, isn’t it?

  I take another breath and continue to the parking lot. My little white Honda is way in the back. While there are no official saved parking spots, I parked in the first row once and was politely informed that those spaces weren’t for me.

  As I get closer, I can see someone leaning up against the hood of my car, arms folded, watching the sunset. I don’t need to be psychic to guess who it is.

  “Polite of you to not just let yourself in,” I say.

  “I know my manners,” he says. “I learned them at the business end of a wooden spoon.”

  I dig in my bag for my keys, frowning.

  “The hell does that mean?” I ask.

  “Means that every time I forgot to call gramma ma’am or say please or thank you, I got smacked,” he says.

  “With a wooden spoon?” I ask, momentarily surprised out of being annoyed.

  “With whatever was around for smacking, really,” he says. “Hands, spoons, switches. A belt when I was really being a terror.”

  I’m just standing on the other side of my car from him, just looking at him across the roof. Getting hit with a belt sounds barbaric, like it’s something out of a Dickens story about an orphanage in the 1800s. I had no idea people still did that.

  “That’s child abuse,” I say.

  “Let me guess,” he says. “You had a lot of time-outs and no spankings.”

  I blush slightly at spankings for no goddamn reason.

  “Looks like my parents’ way worked better,” I say.

  “Touché, Detective,” Stone says. “You mind giving me a ride to Eddie’s? My car is still there.”