by Jackie May
“Deputy Director.”
As soon as he drives away, I whirl on Rook with a sickly-sweet voice. “Oh, she’ll be soooo glad you’re home. She simply can’t bear another second out of your arms. Bunch of limpdicks, you’re whipped!” As the words fly out of my mouth, I feel a flash of heat in my face. I know Rook, but not well enough to joke around like this. We’ve definitely never been alone together. His dominance is overpowering. But that’s not why I’m nervous.
He doesn’t laugh at my teasing. “I had a good talk with Nolan the other day.”
That’s why I’m nervous. How did I know he’d mention this? My defenses go up. “Oh? Nolan who?”
“That’s not funny, Shayne.”
I know that. It’s not fair to Nolan, either. His behavior—his persistence in making a claim on me—would have been nothing but endearing to other shifters. It’s not his fault I’m so independent. “Oh, don’t give me that look,” I say. “Nolan’s a top dog. He can get any woman in the county.”
Fuming, Rook throws the car in park and snaps, “You’re even dumber than I thought, do you know that?”
I literally flinch at his words. Rook and I definitely don’t know each other well enough for that kind of abuse. Part of me wants to bite his head off, but the other part—the part that is cowed by his dominance—wants to run with my tail between my legs. “Excuse me?”
“Nolan’s not the one I’m worried about. Do you even know—are you even the tiniest bit aware—that he’s been in love with Darby Monson since he was a teenager?”
“Who? Darby…who the hell’s Darby Monson?”
“Uh-huh, that’s what I thought. That’s exactly…” Shaking his head, he squeezes the wheel with white knuckles. “This is not my thing, Shayne. I should not have to be telling you this. I’m not even pack anymore. It’s out of line in every way. But you’ve burned your bridges, haven’t you? Which means if I don’t do it, nobody else will.”
Okay, leaning more toward biting the head off now. Of all Nora’s men, I’ve definitely found the one I like least. “Spare me the lecture, Rook. You’re right about one thing: you aren’t pack. You haven’t got a damn thing over me. Am I really getting chewed out for leaving my pack by the guy who left his pack?”
“I don’t give a shit about you ditching your pack. Like I can talk. But believe it or not, I do care a little something about seeing you make it worth something. Do you know how hard it is to find the thing we’ve found?” He runs a hand through his hair with a sigh, the storm blowing over as quickly as it came on. “Why you gotta make me say this shit? Maybe you’re right. I’ve gone soft.”
My head is spinning. I don’t dare say a word, for fear of setting him off again.
“Look. You found it,” he says calmly.
“I found what, Rook?” I know exactly what it is, but I want to hear him say it. “What’s this thing you’re talking about?”
He grinds his teeth. “Love, okay?”
“Limpdick.”
He pounds the wheel. “Okay, I don’t know what I was thinking.” He puts the car into gear.
“Wait, wait, no. What about it?”
“What about what, Shayne? Let’s hear you say it.”
Grinding my teeth. “Love.”
“Oh, love. Is that what it is? Am I wrong?”
This is so awkward. I should have kept my big mouth shut.
“Am I wrong?” he persists.
I fold my arms across my chest. “No.”
“Okay, so you found it. You fought for it. You won it. But now comes the hardest part: you’ve got to keep it. I’m trying to give you a heads up.”
My heart skips a beat. “I’m listening.”
Rook stares at the road, as though tempted by the idea of simply speeding away from this conversation. “Darby Monson is Manistee Forest pack.”
“I’ve heard of them. Coyotes.”
“Right? Doesn’t it make sense? You never wondered why somebody as dominant as Nolan would be mated to a fox?”
His words prick at my pride, but I have to admit he’s right. Nolan and I never made sense on paper. There was no benefit for him. I wouldn’t add to his dominance or expand his territory. Darby Monson, on the other hand, sounds like she would do both. “He used to go to Manistee all the time for fishing trips or work.”
“Yeah, he wasn’t doing either of those. He was spending time with his woman.”
“Then why chase me so much? I’d given him an out. He should have thanked me.”
“Because you’re family, Shayne. He wasn’t chasing you. He was protecting you. And he was willing to lose Darby Monson to do it.”
“Protecting me from what?”
He throws his hands up. “See? Dumber than I thought. Not protecting you from what. Protecting you from who.”
The whole truth drops on my head like an anvil. My mind reels in shock. The ultimate duh moment. “Ben,” I say.
“Ben,” he confirms. “If Nolan didn’t claim you, Ben would have. We all know that. Ben has literally salivated over you for the last ten years.”
I shudder at the truth. Ben the sadistic narcissist, Ben the psychopath, with a claim over me? “I’d have turned him down flat.”
Rook nods gravely. “We all know that, too. And what would Ben have done then?”
My flesh crawls. “He wouldn’t have killed me,” I say. “It would have been much worse than that.”
“It still could be, Shayne. You quit your pack, turned them all down, but it’s not you or Nolan he’ll blame now, is it?” Rook pins me with a knowing look that skewers my heart.
With a rush of fear, I suddenly feel the need to find Jay, to see with my own eyes that he’s okay. “I have to go.”
“I don’t envy you.”
“I have to go,” I repeat, running for the truck.
When I practically break down the doors of Homicide Division at Detroit PD’s central station, Detective Ferro throws a hand up in my face. “Stop right there, Davies.”
“Where is he?” Sidestepping her, I scan the rows of cubicles.
“I don’t care if you’re FBI, or Secret Service, or personal bodyguard to the Pope. You can’t just come in and out of here whenever you want.”
“Is he here or not?”
“Psycho-stalker, please. Don’t even try and come across like you ain’t tracked him on your phone.”
“Fine. Where is he, then?”
“Um, hiding from you?”
A deep voice booms, “Shayne Davies.” It’s Brenner’s partner, Danny Russo, a massive bodybuilder with a perma-smile and a mischievous arch to one brow. He’s older than Jay, late thirties, with some premature salt-and-pepper streaking the hair above his ears. I can’t ever decide what ethnicity he looks—a mix of European roots, Italian or Greek, throw in some Egyptian. Dark hair, tanned complexion. “Feast your eyes,” he says, sweeping his meaty hand toward an office window.
Rushing over, I see Brenner through the window, hunched over a computer screen, his back to me. Instantly, the breath escapes my lungs in a relieved exhale. I lean back against the wall, close my eyes, and clamp a hand to my forehead.
“Emotion,” Russo states with relish. “Raw. Honest. I love it.”
“What is wrong with me?” Doubling over, I place my hands on my knees, and just…breathe.
Russo doubles over next to me, as though he were my breathing coach. “Nothing wrong. Nothing at all. Putting it all out there. Laying it on the line, no holding back. Love it. Don’t you love it, Ferro?”
“Makes me want to lie down on the freeway,” Ferro answers.
“Right,” Russo says. “Exhilarating.”
Ferro deadpans, “Until a semitruck runs over my kneecaps.”
Russo pounds his chest. “Hurts. Absolutely. Love hurts, but feels are feels. Take what you can get.”
“If I want feels, I’ll take a massage, thank you.”
“Love it, a massage to the heart.”
“No, to the corns. On my feet.�
�
Russo winces. “Corns, now, that I don’t love, and I honestly think that’s a bit of an overshare.”
Ferro is outraged. Tuning them out, I peek one eye around the edge of the window frame to watch Brenner. Maybe Ferro’s right—I am a psycho-stalker—because I feel like I could stand here and watch him for hours. His shoulders and biceps bulge beneath his dress shirt, pulling it tightly across his back. A bit of golden scruff rubbing at his collar. He needs a haircut.
He seems so safe behind the glass. That’s what I enjoy most about this moment. In there, he doesn’t have to watch his back. But the moment he steps outside, he’s exposed to threats from all angles of the Detroit underworld. The East Side demon horde would love to have his head, ever since he helped me take down Arael Moaz. Any number of sorcerers wouldn’t mind seeing Brenner disappear, since he killed King Paul. And just when I can cross Henry Stadther off the list of threats, I now have to add Ben Cody. It doesn’t seem a matter of if, but who and when?
Brenner slaps the desk in frustration. When he hangs his head in his hands, I see on the computer monitor a series of mug shots. Each one is a close-up of a criminal with facial tattoos. Brenner is dejected, but for me, a sliver of hope blooms. If Brenner hasn’t found any black chins and Parker Reed has no knowledge of any vampire fitting that description, then maybe we’re at another dead end. Maybe we can avoid this dangerous case for a bit longer.
Russo’s deep voice hums just inches from my ear. “What’s he like at home?” The hulk of a man leans right next to me, peering at Brenner over my shoulder. We’re like a cartoon where the characters’ heads pop out from around a corner, stacked on top of each other. “Does he watch TV? Play video games?”
I shoulder him away. “Video games? What do you think?”
Russo jams his fists on his hips, striking an authoritarian stance for this authoritarian assessment: “I think he feels guilty if he’s not dedicating every second of his time to somebody else. Even in Chicago, when he was undercover Narco. He’d infiltrated a cutthroat biker gang—just ruthless devils, these guys—and here’s Brenner, gathering intel, right? Only, his reports to the captain talk more about the gang’s personal lives than their operations. On the side, Brenner’s helping their families, getting their kids to school, putting his cover in jeopardy just to get some groceries for a little old lady down the street. Captain was furious.”
“But you loved it.”
He smiles. “Loved it.”
“That’s fascinating, but let me ask, are you in love with Brenner?”
Russo unleashes a booming laugh. “I know, right? From bromance to romance. Can you imagine the captain’s face?”
“Okay, but I’m kinda serious, Russo. You followed Brenner here from Chicago. You don’t know how to quit him.”
“He doesn’t make it easy, that’s for sure.”
“Again, are you hearing yourself?”
“Hear this, Shayne Davies.” Planting his feet wide, Russo pins me with an intense look, vigorous gesticulation of his hands accentuating his explanation. “I’m a career cop, a lifer. Dad’s a cop. His dad’s a cop. His dad’s dad’s a bank robber, knew all the cops.”
“Close enough.”
“Point is, it’s in my blood. The job is all I know and all I’ve seen. But I’ve never seen anybody do this job like Brenner. Do you know how hard it is to keep that rookie focus, that passion for the job? Somehow, Brenner still hasn’t lost it. I was successful in Chicago, Shayne. I was a big deal, the big swinging dick.”
“You loved that.”
“Loved it. But couldn’t have done any of it without Brenner. He was my secret weapon. His devotion is infectious. I was just trying to keep up with him. After he left, things weren’t the same.”
“So you followed him here to ride his coattails?”
“Absolutely. That, and to escape my three girlfriends after they all found out about each other.”
From somewhere in the office, Ferro’s voice floats to the heavens. “Lord, take me. Just take me now.”
I slap his thickly-muscled shoulder. “Three?”
“Amy, Amy, and Jen.”
“Two Amy’s?”
He winks. “Less names to confuse.”
“They did not love that.”
“Didn’t love it. Didn’t even like it.”
“What happened to all this crap about being a lifer? Police work is in your blood? Don’t you have some kind of sacred duty to pass on the genes? You’re pushing forty, guy. Why don’t you find a nice cop lady to settle down with and have a dozen cop babies?”
“Love to,” Russo says. “Just point her out to me.”
I point to Ferro, the only woman in sight.
Russo gives a noncommittal shrug. “Ferro’s sharp. Good build. Great cop.”
“Good build? Are you buying a car?”
“No spark, is all. Got to have that spark. Can’t fake it, can’t force it, have to love it.” He raises his voice. “Ain’t that right, Ferro? No spark between us.”
“In your dreams,” she answers.
“Not likely. I maintain a strict regimen for optimum sleep hygiene. Deep sleep, no dreams.”
Ferro has had enough. She gathers up her things to move to another desk. “Delicious on the outside, crazy on the inside. You and Brenner truly are perfect for each other.”
“I just realized something,” I say to Russo. “You’re the voice.”
His smile widens. “Brenner tell you that?”
“Not to me, but to somebody else one time, he said, ‘I’m not the voice, I’m—’”
“—the hammer.” His smile stretches all the way to his ears. “Love the hammer. Good cop, bad cop. Nobody did it better than Brenner. But look, that was then…” His voice trails off, and his smile dims. In fact, it nearly vanishes. This is the closest I’ve ever seen him to not smiling. “It’s the one regret I have from Chicago, Shayne.”
“Not the two Amy’s?”
He waves off my joke, undeterred from his deep thought. “For so long, I spoke for Brenner. I did the thinking for him. Hell, he didn’t seem to mind, and I had more than enough opinions for the both of us, and then some. But…” Russo stares down at his feet. “By being the voice, I took his away. I’m not loving that.”
I want to laugh, because Ferro’s right; Brenner and Russo are so perfect for each other. But I force a straight face and say, “I dunno, he seems to do all right for himself.”
Just like that, the gleaming smile returns. “Which is why I asked you what he’s like at home. Because I’m curious to see what Brenner does with an actual life. He’s got a lot of catching up to do.”
Feeling a touch of pride, I say, “I’m pretty confident he’ll figure it out.”
With another booming laugh, Russo pats me gently on the arm. “Love it. Love that ignorance.”
“Wait, what?”
Squeezing my arm, he arrests my eyes with a fond gaze. “Shayne, he figured it all out the moment he met you. And that’s a quote, by the way.”
For a moment, I forget how to breathe. My voice comes out thin and wispy. “He said that? You guys…talk like that?”
Russo doesn’t get a chance to respond. The office door opens. Brenner strides to me, takes me by the hand, and pulls me into the office. As he shuts the door behind us, my mind scrambles to switch over to work mode. Brenner seems impatient. He probably wants answers. Did I find anything out about the black chin? My heart resists the subject, still repeating the words ‘the moment he met you…’ I want to hear more about that. I don’t want to think about the case. I want to—
Brenner backs me against the wall with a hungry kiss. After a stunned moment, I respond eagerly, my hands going straight to his hair, pulling him closer. He lifts me off the ground. I straddle his hips as we fall sideways, knocking into a filing cabinet, grasping at each other, breathing heavily. When he finally comes up for air, Brenner rests his forehead against mine. My hair drapes to both sides, blocking everything else
out. Only Brenner exists.
“I’ve been up since you left,” he says, “waiting to see you, to say I’m sorry.” He gives a little shake of his head, our foreheads rubbing together. “It wasn’t fair, what I said last night. All that about me not really being me until I close this case. It’s not fair—and it’s not true—to say that I couldn’t be whole without…you know, that this case is the most important thing in my life. It’s not.” He pulls his head back enough to look me in the eyes. “You are. You’re what I need most, more than any case or any…I don’t know, closure, or whatever.” His stormy green eyes are frantic with emotion, as though he’s afraid that I’m not getting the picture. He needs me to understand. “I’m just saying, if I’m not the whole me yet, then that missing part—the rest of me—it’s got to be you.”
Staring into the storm of his eyes—that hurricane of emotion—my heart stalls. Even the fanged, bitter butterflies in my chest have paused to stare with dropped jaws. That nose-diving sound you hear is me dropping from the sky, with only clouds to break my fall.
I cling tighter to Brenner. “Let’s just go,” I plead. “Somewhere else. Anywhere else in the world.”
He blinks. “But…Detroit.”
“I don’t care.”
“You do care. Detroit—”
“Burn it,” I interrupt, kissing his forehead and cheek and lips. “Burn it to the ground. Let them have it. I can’t…” Emotion threatens to take my voice. My eyes burn. “Jay, I can’t keep you. Not here. There’s too much…”
“Hey,” he says sternly, wiping a tear from my cheek with his thumb. “Let them try. They’d have to get through you first.”
“Oh no,” I mock. “A little fox.”
“I’m sure that’s exactly what Arael Moaz and King Paul were thinking. That was their mistake.”
“But how many times can we get lucky?”
“As many times as it takes. Nothing’s gonna stop us now.”
He’s tossing me a softball so I can say, “Great song,” and we can change the subject. We are in the police station, after all. If somebody walks in… But I’m not ready to let go. “Great song, but how about ‘Run Away With Me?’”