Hardass (Bad Bitch)

by Christina Saunders

  I reached across the table and covered Luke’s hand with mine. “Luke, it’s fine. Really. I can’t imagine how hard it is for you to have us show up here and talk about a murder investigation that might involve your only brother. You don’t have to tell us anything that makes you uncomfortable. I already have a few leads on where Tyler might be. I’m heading to Algiers after work to visit some of his last known residences. Boardinghouses. Places like that.”

  “Thank you, Caroline.” He put his other hand on top of mine and squeezed. “That really means a lot. It’s been so hard.” Then the light bulb clicked. “But, wait. You can’t be going to Algiers at night. Especially not to the places Tyler would hang out.”

  I pulled my hands away and folded them in my lap. “Just part of the job, Luke.”

  He turned back to Wash. “Surely you aren’t letting her go, are you?”

  “We’re short on resources and time. Trial for Rowan is just a few months away, and we have to divide up duties as best we can. I’m heading over to Treme, and she’s going to Algiers.” He shrugged. “The sort of characters we’re looking for—the ones who might know where Tyler is—only come out at night. I’m sure you know this.” Wash began to rise. “I’m sorry to have taken so much of your time, Luke.”

  I followed his lead and stuffed my legal pad into my briefcase.

  “Now, wait a minute. Wait just a goddamn minute.” Luke held out his hands, waving us back down into our seats. “I’m not going to put anyone else in danger on account of my brother.” He pointed at me. “And you have no business in Algiers at night, young lady.”

  I nodded and dropped my eyes. I’d played the part, done what I could. Wash wasn’t the only one in the room who knew how to play to the crowd.

  Luke stood and retrieved a notepad from his desk. He wrote out two names in neat block letters before sliding it across the table to me.

  “That’s the last couple of places he contacted me from. All I ask is that you don’t mention me if you find him. Like I said, my family is more important to me than anything. I won’t let Tyler hurt them. Understand?”

  “Completely.” Wash stood, our business at an end. “We won’t say a word about you to anyone. Caroline, go ahead and delete the audio from this meeting when we get back to the office.”

  “Will do.”

  Luke and Wash shook hands once more.

  “Thanks for your help. It really will save us time and, hopefully, bring us closer to the truth about what happened to the victims.”

  Wash gripped his briefcase and pulled back my chair as I stood.

  “Right. I mean, if it is your guy, then I hope he pays for his crimes. All the same, if someone else did it”—Luke wrung his hands as he walked us to his door—“even if it’s Tyler, then I don’t want an innocent man behind bars. I just hope it isn’t him. He’s sunk so low, but I can’t believe he’d kill anyone.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “Thanks again for taking time to speak with us. We’ll get out of your hair.” Wash pushed through the door and ushered me ahead of him.

  “No bother at all. Good luck,” Luke called.

  The receptionist waved and said “bye” in her sultriest southern drawl as Wash stalked past. He didn’t respond, just maimed the down button on the elevator bank with his index finger.

  The doors opened, and he waited for me to get on first. I walked past and backed up to the wall, the rail pressing into the small of my back. Surely he isn’t mad? Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything?

  The moment the door closed, he whirled and loomed over me, his hands on the elevator wall on either side of my head.

  “Wash—”

  “You were fucking brilliant in there.” I stared up into his eyes as the descent pushed my heart into my throat. But I knew it wasn’t the elevator making me feel suddenly light-headed, not even close.

  He leaned down, his lips only a breath away from mine.

  “Thank you.” I wanted to close my eyes and bridge the distance between us. To just taste him one more time.

  But then I would be a fool again, chasing after a man who changed faster than a weather vane. I turned my head away, though it took every bit of willpower I had. His lips had a power over me. The rest of him did, too. I was screwed.

  He leaned back. “Fuck. I’m sorry, Car—Ms. Montreat.”

  He turned away from me and shook his head. I leaned on the rail for support. I needed to snap out of it.

  “Let’s just keep this professional, Mr. Granade.” My voice was a sex rasp. I cleared my throat.

  His shoulders stiffened as the elevator pinged and the doors opened. He stepped aside so I could exit first. I hurried past him, afraid of my ill-advised desire to remain still, let the doors close again, and jump him.

  He walked at my elbow through the parking deck. My heels clicked on the concrete, interspersed with the rumble of cars on the floor above us.

  I pressed my key fob and my car woke up, the brake lights shining and reminding me that I actually had parked on this level.

  “This is me.” I opened the trunk and put my briefcase inside.

  “Listen, about the elevator.” He wrinkled his brow, as if wrestling with a particularly stout thought. It made him look younger, as if he were having a hard time on his contracts exam in law school. “I’m sorry about that.”

  I slammed my trunk and sidestepped to the driver’s door, not trusting myself to face him directly. “It’s okay. I just don’t want things to be confused again. That’s all.”

  “They won’t be. I won’t kiss you unless you ask. I won’t. I promise.” He followed me between the cars, turned me to him with a hand on my shoulder, and tilted my face up toward his. My breath hitched. “When I promise something, Caroline, I stick to it. And I’m promising you that I won’t kiss your lips again until you ask me.”

  “I . . . Okay.” I was already trapped in his gaze, in the intensity he somehow stored up inside each iris.

  He licked his lips. The movement sent my skin into a tingling panic, and my nipples were uncomfortably hard against my bra.

  “But I need you to know, Caroline. When you do ask me to kiss these perfect lips”—he ran his thumb over my mouth—“I’m going to do a lot more than that. I’m going to take all of you. I’m going to have you screaming my name and begging me to go easy. I won’t, Caroline. I’m going to make you come harder than you ever have in your life. I just need us to be clear on our rules of engagement.”

  The throaty growl of his voice started a vicious ache between my legs. And his words . . . his words were enough to poof my panties far enough away that they’d send me a postcard in a couple of weeks.

  He leaned down, close enough that anyone watching us would have thought we were kissing. “Do you understand the rules, Ms. Montreat?”

  “Yes.” I couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but focus on him. I already wanted to ask him, to lose the game.

  “Good.” He dropped his hand and retreated, stepping between the cars and striding away in the dimly lit parking garage.

  I let my jelly knees go a bit and leaned against my car. What the fuck was that? I couldn’t figure him out, couldn’t even begin to follow what was going on in his head. One second he seemed ready to rip my clothes off, the next he was the hardass, and then he was a mix of both. My head spun almost in time with my heartbeat. Dizzying.

  My phone chirped, bringing me out of my horny yet confused stupor. I checked the text as I sank into the car. It was from him. Case meeting. 3 p.m. My office.

  I dropped my head against the headrest. He was relentless. Absolutely relentless. And now he’d thrown down the gauntlet on what it would take to get his touch again, his mouth, his everything. I shuddered at the memory of his words before groaning at the clusterfuck of a situation I’d gotten myself into.

  What could I do? I already wanted to break, to give him the okay. No. I shoved my key into the ignition a little too hard. He wouldn’t win. I wouldn’t let him
.

  I drove the whole way back to the office while scream-singing along with the local rock radio station. I couldn’t sing on the best of days, but my rock act was even worse than usual. I didn’t care. I needed to pump myself up for the meeting. He’d barely given me time to make it back, much less to his office, before 3 p.m. hit. I hurried down the hall, gaining a small slice of satisfaction from elbowing past a scowling Yvonne. I was very busy and important, after all.

  I stopped before I rounded the corner to Wash’s office and composed myself. Terrell lifted an eyebrow at me through his door, but I shook my head. Later. He gave me a two-finger salute and went back to typing.

  Once my heartbeat calmed, I walked through his open door. He had taken his jacket off and loosened his tie, and the top button of his shirt was undone. Gorgeous. He was playing hardball. I could take it, despite the flush creeping up my skin trying to convince me otherwise.

  “You’re late.” He smiled, the dimples so close to the surface that I was certain if I’d cracked an off-color joke, they’d make an appearance.

  “Traffic.” I kept my sex jokes to myself and took a seat.

  “Tell me what you thought about Luke.” He began rolling up one of his sleeves, the dark hair along his arms drawing my gaze like a magnet.

  I crossed my legs and stared out the window, though I could see his reflection just fine. He kept rolling.

  “I thought he was a nice guy. I felt bad for him. Having a brother like that must be hard on him. Why, what did you think?”

  He put his bare arms on his desk and clasped his hands. “I saw the same things you did. Older brother disappointed in the younger one. I’m just not sure how accurate his information is going to be. He’s a smart man. He didn’t get to the top of that building with just the easy demeanor he showed us. And therein lies the lesson.”

  I turned back to him and barely kept myself from rolling my eyes. “What’s the lesson?”

  “In this line of work, everyone you meet is going to lie to you.”

  “I don’t think so. He fell right into my trap. If he was hiding something, why did he give me the information I wanted?”

  “He wanted to make you like him. It worked.”

  I shrugged. “I guess you got me, Sherlock. Yes, I thought he was a nice guy.”

  “Well, then, Watson, try not to be so elementary. What would a guy like him have to hide? What would he want to protect? Family? Money? Figure out why they’re lying and you have a much better chance of figuring out what they’re lying about.” He pointed to my briefcase. “Go through your notes and listen to the audio again—send me a copy, too.”

  “Okay. I can do that.”

  “I want to hit Tyler’s last known haunts first thing. Meet me in the deck tomorrow morning at seven. When regular folks are getting up and moving about is when people like Tyler go to ground. We might be able to catch him napping.”

  He leaned back, his chest expanding with the movement and making him appear larger than life. “That’s all for now, Ms. Montreat. Unless, of course, you have anything else?” He smirked, cocky beyond belief. He knew exactly what he was doing.

  I glanced down to my turtleneck and slacks. I’d been demure for one day. But not anymore. Right then and there I decided I’d make him regret even setting up the game board, much less putting the pieces into motion. It was time he learned who the real hardass was.

  Chapter Nine

  Caroline

  I slid into Wash’s car, ignoring the rising hemline of my skirt. He’d watched me walk from my car, taking in every one of my movements with an intensity that sent shivers down my spine. I wore a short gray pencil skirt and a black top with a V-neck. I would have worn some ridiculous heels, but since we were going to be doing field work, I chose a more modest pair of pumps. I’d thrown some ballet flats into my bag, just in case. But those were only for emergencies.

  I slid my briefcase into his backseat and settled down, waiting for him to get in and start the car. He stood outside the driver’s door in the same position he’d been in when I’d sauntered over, swaying my hips and working my heels with each step. Had he gone into a fugue state?

  I thought about leaning over and honking the horn, but then he said something—the word muffled by the car—and opened the door.

  “Problems?” I gave him my best wide-eyed innocent look.

  He scowled at me and started the car. “None, Ms. Montreat.” His jaw was tight, teeth clenched.

  “Okay.” I put my hand on his arm and smiled as he met my gaze. “I was just checking.”

  I moved my hand to the console and began typing the address into his navigation system as he reversed out of his parking spot. I leaned forward, knowing full well my breasts were demanding to overflow the edges of my V-neck in that position. Wash stopped and shifted, but the engine only revved and the car didn’t move. I glanced at him, coy smile still on my face.

  “Sure you’re all right?”

  He finally got the car out of neutral and into drive before shooting through the deck more recklessly than usual.

  I finished entering the address, and a smooth male voice with an English accent directed us toward Algiers. We darted into traffic, early enough to beat the commuter crush.

  I slid one knee on top of the other, my skirt riding up even higher. “We in a hurry?”

  He pulled his sunglasses out and clamped them down over his eyes. “No. Why do you ask?” I gripped the door handle as he took a turn so hard I swore the tires squealed a bit.

  I gave him a glare, but he returned it with a smile, the not-quite-visible dimples mocking me. He must have thought driving like a maniac would put him back in control. I reached into my bag and put on my own sunglasses before arching my back into the seat and laying my head on the headrest as I stared out the window. My body was fully available for his view, my breasts poised above my V-neck, my cardigan open, my legs crossed.

  A strange rubbing sound hit my ears, and I slowly realized it was his hand tightening on the leather steering wheel. I smirked into the window and moved my hand under my cardigan, pretending to scratch an itch on my shoulder, and giving him an excellent view of the strap of my lacy red bra.

  Another sudden burst of speed and we were on the interstate, passing other vehicles as if we had a number painted on the side of our car.

  “What do we know about this first location?” His voice was strained and raspy.

  Good.

  “Halfway house. The owner is a Mrs. Lily Barnett. She’s a widow. Has a degree in social work. I don’t know much more. I would’ve called and interviewed her if we weren’t working with the element of surprise, of course.”

  “Of course. Anything else important?” He tore across the murky river, past a tugboat splitting the water and several barges lined up in the channel.

  “Yes. Rowan was holed up at the same halfway house when he was arrested. I’m hoping she hasn’t trashed all his belongings the police didn’t take. There might be something there, though I assume the cops took all the real evidence.”

  “You assume?” His question was cutting.

  “I, well, yes. I assume the police know what they’re doing.”

  He sighed. “Oh, Ms. Montreat, your naïveté may have worked for you in law school, but it isn’t going to work out here in the real world. Never, and I mean never, assume things. More importantly, never assume the police have done their job. We make our living off showing just how shoddy police work truly is. Reasonable doubt is a complicated recipe that’s different in each case. But the one ingredient that is the same case after case is bad police work. Don’t forget that.”

  Was I being chastised or taught? Why did they feel like one and the same with him?

  “I got it.”

  “Good.” We took the first Algiers exit and traveled past various industrial parks before coming to a neighborhood of beat-down houses. Wash assiduously avoided the larger potholes as we drove down the rough road into the heart of Algiers. The smo
oth Brit on the navigation system indicated the house was ahead on the right, and we slowed to pick out the address. The faded street number was written in large black letters on the curb as well as on the side of the rusted mailbox.

  The halfway house had once been a beauty, with stately columns and a wide front porch. But it was obviously in disrepair. The paint was streaky, faded white and peeling away to gray. The roof was bowed in two places, leaves and debris collecting there and a couple of saplings taking root. The morning sun didn’t do the rotting façade any favors. Curtains twitched in a couple of windows, and the hair on the back of my neck stood on end.

  I reached for the door handle, but Wash spoke before I could pull it. “Stick close to me. Got it?”

  I couldn’t decide if I was tired of his babying or comforted by it. I split the difference. “Yes. I got it.”

  “Record everything. Take good notes.”

  I opened the door and slid out, careful to keep my knees together lest I give the window gazers more than I intended. “I got that, too.”

  Wash strode past me onto the broken front walk.

  Damn. My heels were sensible, but still not up to the challenge of the high grass and uneven concrete. I shouldered my briefcase and stepped gingerly onto the biggest chunks of sidewalk. Wash glanced back, his sunglasses and suit making him look almost like James Bond, and smiled a bit as he put out his elbow. I wobbled to him and took it, pissed I needed him yet relieved that I wouldn’t face-plant on my way to the house.

  He was warm, heat radiating through his jacket and into my palm. His scent lured me closer as we managed the steps to the porch. I would forever associate his scent with my office, Mr. Palmer’s guest bedroom, and Wash between my legs one way or another.

  Snap out of it. I pushed those memories away and focused on the job. This might be the best place to get a lead on Tyler Graves and, hopefully, come up with a way to defend Rowan.

  Once at the front door—the edges were splintered, and the white paint a grimy dark gray around the door handle—I released Wash’s arm, and he rang the doorbell. We waited for a moment, but no one came, so he rapped his knuckles on the only uncracked windowpane.