Ice water would have been more welcome. He pulled his fingers out from between her thighs and rolled completely off of her and stared at the ceiling—the tightening in his crotch bordered on pain. He hadn’t been this close and told no since he was a teen in the back seat of his mom’s old Chevy. And he hadn’t particularly liked those days either.
He dropped his hand on his chest and tried to find the right thing to say. But his next breath came scented with the sweet, musky scent of her sex and another wave of desire shot though him.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated.
“No problem,” he managed to say, if you didn’t count the worse case of blue balls he’d ever had as a problem. His dick—hard as wood—slid across his zipper as he sat up and he almost moaned.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“You could get in trouble at work by crossing a line with me.” Her heart raced while her body was one big ball of want.
She saw the desire bright in his eyes and she knew the look mirrored her own. Her body shook. She could still feel his touch between her legs, the ache, the desire to beg him to continue working his magic was so strong that she grabbed a couple of handfuls of blanket into her fist.
“That’s the reason you stopped this? Because I don’t see how what I do on my off time is anyone’s business. The chances of you having to testify aren’t even that great. That asshole pretty much sealed his fate when he left his cell phone at the crime scene.”
She bit down on her lip. His complete confidence in Stan’s guilt and her lack of it suddenly seemed like a bigger issue than his getting in trouble at work—especially when she remembered the conversation with Brit’s sister.
Without completely meaning to, the question just came out. “Do I remind you of your mom? Is that why you were so hard on me in the beginning?”
Even in the semi-darkness she could see his frown. See the emotion playing across his expression. “Why would…What does that have to do with this?”
“Just answer me.”
His frown deepened. “Big sis has been talking, hasn’t she?’
“Can you just answer me?”
When he hesitated, she recalled everything her mom had said in the dream, about her not being a doormat, but being more of a fixer. Taking a deep breath, she continued, “Maybe I have a little issue with choosing the wrong men, and Stan was wrong. But I’m not the type to let men abuse me.”
He inhaled and raked his hands over his face. She remembered where his hand had just been and she tightened her legs to fight the ache there.
“How did Stan find you?” he blurted out.
“We met at the coffee shop. I told you that.”
“No. How did Stan know you were staying at the hotel? Someone had to have told him.”
She felt the accusation all the way to her painted toenails. “You really think I told him?”
“All I know is he found you. And the desk clerk swears he changed all the paperwork and never told a soul.”
What he said got hung up somewhere between her head and her heart. Brit believed the desk clerk, but he didn’t believe her. Her need for his touch vanished. “Then he had to have followed me.” The hurt echoed in her tone, but she didn’t care.
“Not when I was there. And if he’d followed you the first night why did he wait a few days later to come after you?”
“I don’t know. But I didn’t talk to Stan. And I think I’ve already told you that. And yet you don’t believe me, although you were going to make love to me. How could you do that?”
Guilt and then honesty flashed in his eyes. “I want to believe you. I want to believe you so bad it’s eating me up inside.”
“But you don’t trust me.” His distrust hurt, hurt more than she wanted to admit. She stared at the ceiling, because looking at him stung too much. Silence thickened the darkness. She tried to decide what she needed to do. Would Brit take her to another hotel? She needed to get away. She needed to think.
“I’m a cop, Cali. I get paid to be suspicious. I see the worst in people. It’s not you. It’s me.”
A distant and familiar chirping filled the air.
He sat up and pushed a hand through his hair again. “Damn, that’s my cell phone.” He’d barely got to his feet when his home phone started to ring.
“Friggin’ hell,” he muttered.
Both phones stopped making noise. She saw him bury his face into his hands.
Then, she heard the footsteps from the hall. She’d forgotten about Susan being here. A knock echoed.
“Uh, Brit. Are you in there?”
Cali wanted to bury herself under the covers, feeling like a teen being caught in bed with a guy.
“Yeah.” His tone sounded so tight it might break.
“It’s John. He says he really needs to talk to you.”
“John who?”
“Quarles. Your partner,” she answered with sarcasm.
He frowned.
“I’ll pick up in here.” He walked around the bed and reached for the phone. His gaze met hers and before he reached for the phone, he whispered, “I’m so damn sorry.”
She cut her gaze away. Sorry for what? For not believing her. For doubting her and still planning on having sex with her? For his sister catching them?
He snatched up the phone. She snatched up what little dignity she had left. Which wasn’t much.
“What is it?” he asked.
She listened, but pretended not to.
“Fuck,” he muttered. “I’ll meet you at the hospital,” he said and hung up. He glanced back at her. “I’ve got to go. There’s been another cop shooting.”
~
Brit found Quarles pacing in the surgery waiting room at the hospital. “What do we know?” Brit demanded.
Quarles motioned for him to follow him outside the room. As he turned to leave, Brit noted a pregnant woman sitting in a corner. Silent tears fell onto her pale cheeks while her hands splayed across her round stomach as if to protect the life within her. Several uniformed troopers surrounded her. The wife. Pain filled Brit’s chest. He hurt first for her, then for Keith’s wife, Laura. He still hadn’t returned her call.
He clenched his fists, the need for revenge singeing his heart.
Each of Brit’s footfalls fell harder than the last, and his chest clenched tighter. “They can’t hear us now,” he snapped. “What do we have?”
Quarles turned around. “One shot to the chest.”
“One. Chest,” Brit repeated.
“I know. It’s not the same MO. I’m not sure it’s connected. He was making a routine stop. Something went bad.”
“Did he call in a license number?”
“There wasn’t a tag, which is why he pulled the car over.”
“Do we have anything?” Brit closed his hand so tightly his nails cut into his palms.
“Yeah.” Quarles pulled out a small tablet from his front pocket. “His call in stated it was a 2003 Honda Civic, silver.”
The information stirred up another piece of data from Brit’s brain. “Civic, silver,” he repeated, trying to connect the dots of what he heard to what he knew. Then the dots merged. “Damn.”
“What?” Quarles asked.
“One of Stan Humphrey’s band buddies, the drummer with his throat sliced, he had a silver Civic. His car never turned up.”
“You think Humphrey is behind this shooting?”
“Do we know the type of gun that was used yet?”
“No.”
“Where did the shooting take place?”
“Around Main and I-45.”
Brit’s brain juggled that information until something else hit. “Didn’t someone in the band rent a house around there?”
“Yeah,” Quarles said. “But I checked and the landlord said they moved out three weeks ago. Left the place in shambles.”
Brit combed a hand through his hair. “Which would mean the landlord hasn’t rented it. And maybe Stan is hanging out there.”
Qu
arles squared his shoulders. “Let’s go.”
~
They stopped by the precinct to grab the address, then hightailed it over to the house. Only one out of ten street lights cast a small globe of brightness. Both he and Quarles looked out at the darkness. Brit’s gaze shifted to the house on the corner. No white pickup. No silver Civic. Not even a light on in the house. Yet, his sixth sense told him that someone waited.
Quarles must have felt it, too, because they both reached for their guns at the same time.
“Should we call for backup?” Quarles asked.
Brit considered it. “We don’t know if anyone is there.”
“You’re right.” Quarles opened his door, but didn’t get out. “You want the back or front?”
Raking a hand over his face, Brit wished like hell he’d caught a few hours sleep. Being dead on your feet in a time of crisis could land you dead on your back.
Brit’s grip tightened on his gun.
As if reading Brit’s mind, Quarles asked, “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Brit said, and collected his wits as he squared his shoulders. He could do this.
“Ready?” Quarles asked.
“Yeah. Why don’t I take the front this time?” Brit’s gut told him if Humphrey hid within those shabby walls, he’d shoot before trying to escape. The longer a man ran, the tenser the situation got and the quicker he drew his weapon. If bullets were going to be fired, Brit would rather they were aimed at him. He couldn’t live through losing another partner.
Their eyes met. Quarles shifted. “You die on me and I’ll get fucking pissed. I’m not breaking in another partner.”
Brit smiled. “Back at you.” Right then, Brit knew for certain that somehow Quarles had jumped over Brit’s emotional hurdle. He hadn’t wanted a partner. He’d been determined to keep a distance between them, but that distance had been bridged.
“Let’s do it.” Brit opened his door.
They got out of Brit’s SUV and moved in the shadows leading to the house. With every step Brit took, the more his gut told him to get ready. Something was about to go down.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Brit zipped up his thin coat to shield himself from the bite of cold. As he watched Quarles slink to the back of the house, every noise seemed amplified—the distant roar of traffic traveling with the cold rush of November air, the scratchy vibrations of maple leaves finding a place among those that had fallen before, and the sound of Quarles’ footsteps moving around the house.
Brit counted to fifty before taking action. The wood porch creaked with his steps. He blocked out all the other sounds and trained his ears to listen for a noise from inside the house. A sign that someone lingered there, that someone knew they were here. He heard a scuffle, maybe a footstep. His heart stopped. Suddenly, the smell of cigarette smoke filled his nostrils. Someone was inside smoking.
Instinct screamed for Brit to move. He darted to the side of the door, his gun raised. He drew cold smoke-scented air into his lungs.
“Police!” Loud pops of gunfire filled the night. Brit pressed his back against the wall. Splinters from the wood door fell like snow to the porch. “Give it up!”
Footsteps pounded, the sound shrinking as those steps moved deeper inside the house. “He’s going out the back!” Brit shouted, praying Quarles could hear him.
Brit lurched off the porch and ran to the back. He heard the backdoor open then slam.
“Police! Stop or—”
Quarles voice rang in unison with the cracking pop of gunfire. His unfinished sentence hung in the darkness.
Cold air lodged in Brit’s throat. No! “Quarles!” Brit bolted around the corner, following the darkest shadows against the house. His gaze darted left, right.
Then Brit saw him—saw Quarles hunkered down behind an old Chevy truck. Dead vines clung to the bumper.
Quarles waved. Alive. Hopefully, unharmed.
Brit let out the gasp of air that lodged in his throat.
Quarles pointed to the patch of pine trees clustered to one side of the yard, then started shouting orders. “Throw down the weapon! Come out with your hands up.”
Brit spotted the caved-in fence behind the perp that led to the alley in the back. If he was the perp, that’s where he’d run.
Brit started moving in. Quarles shook his head, but Brit had made up his mind. Humphrey wasn’t getting away, not this time.
The cold bit into Brit’s skin, even as sweat pooled on his brow. He inched closer, his steps muffled by the layered pine needles blanketing the ground. Finally, he made out a figure crouched behind a tree. Quarles continued talking and the perp’s gaze appeared trained toward the rusted Chevy, giving Brit just the opportunity he needed.
An old wheelbarrow lay upside down on the ground and Brit moved toward it. His foot came down on a twig. The snap rang in his ears. The perp swung around, gun aimed, and Brit dove for his cover. The smell of wet earth filled his nose as gunfire erupted.
“Don’t do this!” Brit yelled, rolling to his side, using the wheelbarrow for cover. “It’s not a good day to die.”
“We got you covered.” Quarles’ voice rang in the frigid air as if to remind the lowlife that he was out numbered.
But Brit would have been a hell of a lot happier if the ass was outnumbered by one more. They needed a guy behind the fence. Then again, this idiot didn’t know how many there were. “Watch out, Tompkins. He might come your way and try for the fence,” Brit yelled.
All was fair in shootouts—even lying. Brit sighed and spoke to the man again. “My partner has been aching to kill somebody today. You’re going to make his day if you try to make that alley.”
Quarles must have figured out what Brit was up to, because he saw his partner pick up a rock and toss it at the fence.
Brit saw the lowlife jerk his gaze toward the fence. “Be ready,” Brit called to the non-existent officer.
Silence fell on the backyard.
“You don’t want to die tonight,” Brit spoke to the perp again. “Do the right thing.”
“Okay, I give up,” came the voice. The gun hit the ground with a hollow thud.
“Come out with your hands up,” Brit said. “Lay face down on the ground and cross your legs and arms.”
“Do it now!” Quarles ordered.
Brit saw the man step out from behind the tree.
“Down!” Brit yelled, frowning when the man moved into the spilled moonlight. Unless Humphrey had just lost about four inches of height and dyed his hair blond, the man falling to his knees wasn’t him. So who the hell had they snagged?
~
For two hours, Cali had roamed Brit’s house with silent steps, determined not to wake Susan. Yet Cali’s emotions were not so silent. Her emotions flipped from anger to desire then to fear. Anger that Brit didn’t believe her. Fear that he might be the next cop killed. And then desire. Want it or not, still angry at the man or not, the memory of their kiss, of his gentle touch, had her body tingling in places that hadn’t tingled in a very long time.
Oh heck, who was she kidding? Her body and those places had never tingled like this before.
For the first time in her life, she felt she understood what the big fuss was about sex. Those few moments of feeling on fire with passion, feeling submersed in the world of want, had been unlike anything she’d ever experienced. Sure she’d enjoyed sex before, but never had it felt so intense. She’d never been so lost in it, or maybe it was that she’d never been so present in the moment. Whatever it was, it was different.
Cali moved back into the kitchen and looked at the open laundry room door. Mama Cat’s gold eyes stared up at her. She didn’t look too approachable.
“I’m not going to hurt you. I’m a friend. Actually, I could use a friend.”
The cat hissed and disappeared. She didn’t want to be friends. Cali just stood there, eyes trained on the door, in hopes of getting a peek at the kittens. No luck. It seemed mama had warned them not to meow to strangers.
Feeling closed in, Cali stood by the window in the living room, waiting for the day to arrive as if her confusion about last night’s events would clear with the sun.
As the sky turned bright orange, Cali didn’t feel clearer, except she knew she needed some time to think. And she couldn’t do that here. The phone book lay open where she’d left it earlier. She punched in the number. Brit wouldn’t be happy, but she needed to think about what was right for her.
She waited by a window until the cab arrived. Afraid Susan might wake up, and not wanting to face her, Cali hurried out. Walking out the door, her purse slipped off her shoulder and landed at her feet. When a light inside came on in the extra bedroom, Cali snatched up her purse and took off.
~
The sun had risen an hour ago, but even in the daylight, Brit and Quarles were in the dark about the man they’d arrested. The bastard had lawyered up and refused to talk.
Adams wasn’t happy. “So you’re telling me that you don’t know if this lowlife is involved with either of these cases?”
Brit slumped in a chair, too tired to fight. “We know who he isn’t. He isn’t Humphrey or Nolan Bright, the other band member. And until Trooper Garland is able to talk—which according to his doctors won’t be until tomorrow—we won’t have an ID on the man who shot him. I think the guy’s connected to the jewelry case, not Keith’s murder. The gun our guy used is at the lab. If it’s a match to the one used on Garland, we’ll know.”
“So basically you have shit,” Adams growled.
“That pretty much sums it up,” Quarles stated, his tone colder than a witch’s tit, his shoulders held ramrod straight.
Glaring at the two of them, Adams pounded his fist against on the table. Brit could see that stress had Adams in a piss-poor mood. The man wanted answers, he wanted the assholes who’d killed Keith and Anderson and had attempted to kill Trooper Garland.
No one wanted that more than Brit, but people in hell wanted ice cream, the kind with marshmallows and nuts. And they friggin’ weren’t going to get it just because they wanted it. Neither would he or Adams. And no amount of brow beating on the sergeant’s part was going to change it.
Murder Mayhem and Mama Page 25