by Jade Hart
Officer Bliss clenched his jaw.
I couldn't understand him. He wore an aura of old cop, which couldn’t be true since I guessed he was only in his late twenties, but his tanned face was ashen. Had he never seen a case like mine? I was hardly unusual. Not common, but not unusual.
He shook his head, clearing the horror from his eyes. “Why sell yourself? After everything you survived, why allow sleaze-bags to touch you? To buy you?” He swallowed hard. The way he asked was very personal. As if he needed to know, not the cop force he represented. “Kings Cross is the capital of prostitutes, so why degrade yourself?”
He truly did care. It wasn't an act. I would have sniffed that out of him in a heartbeat. I couldn't afford to allow sympathy to thaw my frozen heart. I was an assassin. A killer who took the lives of men who didn't deserve to live. Men like the ones who took my innocence—my chance at a happy life—and chopped it to smithereens with a chainsaw.
Sniffing, making my voice as cold as Antarctica, I said, “Are you going to wrap up this pity party and book me? Or should I order a pizza and get the tissues ready for a cry fest?”
Officer Wade spluttered, but it was Bliss who gave me a wry smile. “You're tougher than you look. I respect that.”
Despite myself, I returned his smile. It was nice to invoke pride in a man's eyes for once, rather than the fear and knowledge he was about to die.
“Well, we don’t have any evidence you were up to no good. So what should we book you on?” Officer Bliss asked, picking up a pen to flick over his knuckles.
Ah, he was one of those: never able to sit still. I always wondered how people did that with a pen. I watched in fascination as he balanced the thin Bic, twisting it between his digits effortlessly. My face grew hot. His fingers were agile. Long, graceful. . . what else could he do—? Stop that, Ocean. You're dirtier than a truck driver.
I leaned forward, well aware that my cleavage was pushed to the max, and spilling over my boob-tube. Tacky, smutty, but I’d been bait tonight, after all. It wasn't like I always dressed like this. It was the price to pay on this particular mission.
It took me seven years not to slice and dice at the barest of brushes against my skin, but now I was a robot. I was as good as dead inside and it was only going to get worse. My back twinged in agreement. The scorch marks on my spine held evidence: I was a ticking disaster.
I smirked, answering his question. “Well, Mr. Tub-o-lard over there seems to think I was selling my booty. So I guess that's what you book me on.”
“Were you? Selling yourself, I mean?” Officer Bliss's eyes practically begged me to say no. What was with guys wanting to believe in innocent women? Did it matter I'd only slept with two men in my entire twenty-four-year existence?
“Yes. Yes, I was selling myself. Good coin, too.” Take that, Mr. Sympathetic. I don't want your pity.
His eyebrows fell, causing a slight frown to appear. I bet he had a little wifey at home who was curled up asleep, waiting for him to finish work. Men like him didn't last long on the market.
“Officer Wade, would you mind stepping outside for a moment?” Officer Bliss looked pointedly at Chubby.
“Eh, sure. I'll be close if you need me.”
“Care to bring back a doughnut? I'm starved!” I called after him. I didn't get the reaction I hoped for. The door slammed shut.
Officer Bliss eyed me. “When was the last time you ate?”
Oh please. Here we go with the protectiveness. Lay off already. I wasn't his to protect.
“A few hours ago.” It wasn't—more like this time yesterday. You needed money to eat. I could get my hands on stacks of the stuff, but I wasn't a thief.
“Where do you live?”
“Around,” I hedged. Did he really want to hear that my accommodation normally included a cardboard box or a dingy mattress in a safe community house for the night?
“Do you do drugs?”
Now hang on a freakin’ second. “Do you truly think, after the fucked-up childhood I've endured, I would put crap in my body?” I jutted my arms out, showing perfect pearly skin with no track marks. “See?”
“You put crap in your body in the form of guys' cocks,” Officer Bliss pointed out. He couldn't have surprised me more if he slapped me. What was this guy's deal? Try living my life, buggo, and we'll see who gets to judge.
“That is none of your concern. Now, are you going to let me go or what?” I pretended to be bored, when really I was riled up tighter than lightning. I wanted out of there. I wanted away from this cop who looked into my soul. He wasn't safe. He might see the truth of who I was.
“You're free. I won't book you tonight. We don't have you down as a prostitute, so consider this a warning.” He wriggled his pen in my face. “But if we catch you in the Cross again, you won't be so lucky.”
He would never catch me again. It was a miracle they got me tonight. I saluted him. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Half his mouth quirked in a smile. Damn, did he have to be so sexy? He looked as if he’d stepped off a Billabong advert for board shorts. Great, now an image of him half naked and dripping with salt water paraded in my head. Time to leave.
Standing, I edged toward the door, raising my eyebrow and tapping my foot. “Do you mind releasing me, then?”
He stood. He was taller than I originally thought. A whiff of cologne battered me—a scent of salt and spice; summer evenings with stolen kisses. Whoa. Get away from this man immediately.
“I'm not letting you go that easily. You haven't eaten—I can tell. I'll buy you dinner before I call my work done for the night.”
My eyes bugged. I didn't hear him right. “Dinner? You want to buy me dinner? Yeah, pull the other leg.”
This guy was ludicrous. Or insane. I'd go with insane. I bet he rescued puppies and kittens and nursed them back to health. Well, newsflash—I was neither a kitten nor a puppy. I had teeth and could freakin’ well take care of myself.
“Maybe some other time.” I cocked my head at the exit.
He refused to open the door. A look stole across his face as he stepped into my personal bubble. “Not negotiable. Don't make me cuff you.”
He played with fire. I did not appreciate threats, but a free dinner would be good. My eyes narrowed. “Fine.” I tried to think of an expensive place that was healthy too. I'd been living on crap for so long. “I want sushi.”
“No problem. I love sushi. I'll take you to Yachiyo.”
Chapter Two: Ocean
The basement level sushi restaurant was like a decadent cave—all dark wood, booths with kimono patterns, and filigree lanterns. As we stepped over the threshold, the three chefs yelled, “Irasshaimase!”
I cringed, bumping into a warm torso behind me. I hated being in the spotlight. If too many people knew your face, they could turn into witnesses.
“It means ‘welcome’, Japanese people say it when you enter their homes.” Officer Bliss smiled, his green eyes glowing in the low light.
Too close. He was too close.
Taking a hasty step away, I kept a scowl planted on my face.
A waiter dressed in a smart red uniform bowed and motioned for us to follow. The cop's hand touched the small of my back, urging me forward. I jumped a mile. He touched me! Crap, did this man have no boundaries?
My skin erupted into sparks of fire, and not good fire. He had no right to touch me. For all he knew I was a hooker—one touch and he might catch gonorrhea. Stupid man. Slapping his wrist, I glared. “Keep your paws to yourself. Comprendez-vous?”
“You speak French?”
“No touching. Got it?”
That tiny frown appeared between his eyes again. “Understood.”
I huffed and followed the waiter, pleased when he directed us to a dark, private booth with a Japanese screen sheltering it from the rest of the restaurant. Perfect. If I had to disappear, the only witness would be the annoying cop. And I didn't care about him. I wasn't planning on returning to Sydney anytime soon. My
next stop was Manchester, England. A certain someone was due a visit.
Pressure built behind my eyelids, warning that my power had ignited. I forced myself to breathe deep, to relax so the pressure diminished. It was a constant tightrope. Too much stress, too much sensory input or emotion and pop. Bye, bye. Why didn't I allow my power to whisk me away when the sirens first sounded? I could’ve avoided this whole fiasco.
Oh, that's right—I needed food. Rule number one of teleporting: no fuel, no port. Stupid rule.
“What will you have?” Officer Bliss asked, fanning open the menu.
I didn't need to read the selection to know. Japanese food was my favorite. Crossing my arms, I said, “I'll have teriyaki chicken with a side plate of mixed sashimi.” Glaring at the cop opposite, I slipped into seductress mode. “If that's alright with you, of course, Officer Bliss?”
Annoyance flared, followed by amusement in his eyes. “No acting. I can see right through it. And call me Callan.” A sun-highlighted eyebrow rose. “You like raw fish? Straight up?”
I couldn't tell if he was disgusted or happy. With his practiced blank expression he was unreadable. My lie-detecting abilities misfired on him.
“What's it to you?” Seriously, I wasn't a charity case to plump up or care for. As far as he knew, I was a broken girl, a street walker.
“Nothing. That's my favorite dish, too. Just thought it was interesting.”
The way he said interesting caught my attention. The sneaky man was reading me. The glint in his eye told me he wasn't a passive cop. This one was dangerous.
The waiter approached when Callan stuck his hand up. “We'll have two teriyaki chicken bowls and a large platter of assorted sashimi with two Coke Zeros.”
“Great choices.” The waiter smiled and took our menus, hustling away to place our order.
My eyes narrowed. I didn’t appreciate his attempts to understand me. The sooner dinner was over, the sooner I could disappear.
Awkward silence charged the air between us. My body was raw with nerves. Not good for controlling my power. Blowing chocolate bangs from my vision, I looked around the restaurant. Low-slung bolts of scarlet fabric draped from a central chandelier to the corners of the room. It was rich, inviting. Cozy.
Callan fiddled with his napkin—another tick against sitting still. “So, you're Australian?”
Now the questions would begin. My life was a secret, of course, but I could share up to the age of twelve. After that, I was off the grid. “No. I'm not Australian. Not originally. But you are. A true-blue Aussie mate.” I put on the accent for his benefit.
Callan studied me as if I was a bug under a microscope. His green eyes were a laser—unwavering. Unnerving. “If you aren't Aussie, where did you come from?”
I hated getting into this. It was a mouthful and a half. “Let's just say it's a long-winded topic.”
“I like long-winded. Shoot.”
I groaned, and ruffled my hair, very aware my boobs were on the cusp of popping out of my top.
Callan was suddenly very aware too. His jaw clenched, but he didn't look away.
A smile slinked over my mouth. “Like what you see?” I leaned forward, testing him, letting him get an eyeful. “Buying me dinner won't buy me, you know. I'm a lot more expensive. Priceless, even.” If he didn't understand that piece of information—that I was admitting to not being a hooker—then he was an idiot.
“You're not a prostitute, are you?” Ah, give the man a prize. He wasn't some blond surfer with salt water for brains.
I leaned back, grabbed a soya bean, and popped it in my mouth. “What makes you say that?”
“You don't have a used feeling about you. Your eyes aren't glassy with drugs, or vacant of emotion, and frankly, you scare me a little. No self-centered john would willingly pay you for anything. His cock would most likely end up chopped off.”
Our drinks arrived, and I choked on my sip. Had they found the bastard I sliced after all? Was this all a game? I scanned the restaurant for other cops. There was only one other couple in here at five in the morning, and they were lip-locked over their California roll. Safe. For now.
“Clever,” I muttered. “Are you going to tell on me?”
“What? That you aren't a prostitute? Why would I? That's excellent news. Much better for our streets that you aren't putting yourself in danger. And for you, of course. The riff-raff hanging in the Cross shouldn’t be messed with.”
Oh, I messed with them all right. I snorted, twirling the straw in my Coke. “Trust me. I'm never in danger.” Even if I was, I just teleported the hell out of there. No big deal.
“So, continue. Where are you from?” His voice was rich, deceptive. He oozed confidence, and something else. . . something vulnerable. It made me want to open up with the hope of getting him to open up.
See? Dangerous. Very dangerous.
Our meals appeared, and we both smiled as the waiter laid the dishes with a flourish. “Itadakimasu.”
Callan repeated it with a grin, while I tucked into my teriyaki chicken.
My stomach growled, and my fingers fumbled with the chopsticks in my rush to eat.
On my second over-stuffed mouthful, Callan cleared his throat. “When was the last time you ate?” Protectiveness shone in his eyes.
I rolled my eyes. He'd known me a couple of hours and moaned about my eating habits. Not gonna fly with me.
Forcing myself to slow down, I glared. “You only get one.”
“One what?”
“Question. Do you want me to answer where I'm from, or when I last ate?” I popped a piece of salmon sashimi in my mouth after drenching it with soy sauce and pickled ginger.
“You. Tell me where you're from.” Callan placed a piece of chicken in his mouth, his movements predatory, watchful. Eyes never leaving mine, he speared a piece of tuna sashimi with his chopsticks.
“My mum is from Cambodia. My dad is from England.” Crap. Was from Cambodia and England. When would I stop stumbling like that? “I was born and raised in Thailand before moving to Sydney when I was five.” Gathering some rice, I smiled. “That's it. I'm a mutt. I don't belong to any country or any nationality. I don't belong to anyone.” Get that hint, kangaroo boy?
“You're not that unusual, and it wasn't that long-winded either. I expected more.” His eyes dipped to focus on his teriyaki chicken.
Did he just insult me?
Despite myself, I was intrigued. “What do you count as unusual then? You? Mr. probably-never-left-Australia-in-his-life.”
He finished eating, before giving me a hard smile. “My dad is from Russia, my mum from New Zealand. But I was sent to boarding school in America. There, I joined a school exchange program and lived in Korea for a few years. I've only just returned to Sydney after living in Bali for five years. I speak two languages and have a law degree.”
That was quite a resume. But it all begged the question: What was he doing as a foot cop in the seediest part of Sydney? Why wasn't he a detective or a lawyer? “You’ve whet my appetite, Officer Callan.”
He choked.
I laughed, enjoying his discomfort. Men were just too easy to manipulate.
Licking my lips, to further the bloom of embarrassment on his cheeks, I added, “You're a puzzle, and I like puzzles.” Rather, I liked solving puzzles to find if darkness lurked behind them. And by solving, I meant killing. “Lucky for you, I've been to all those countries you speak of and I’m fluent in three languages.” I smiled sweetly. “Considering I dropped out of school at fourteen, I think that's a big achievement compared to some college graduate.”
Callan swallowed his mouthful. “There’s no passport on file for you. You're lying about the travel.”
My stomach clenched; the pulse in my temple warned I was perilously close to disappearing.
I shrugged, hiding my indignation. “You don't know anything about me, Officer Callan. Don't assume everything you need to know is in that little file of yours.”
“Stop calling
me that.”
“What?”
“My name is Callan. Just Callan. I'm not on duty now.”
“Well, you won't be able to claim this dinner as an office expense then. Pity.” I rolled my eyes, and finished the last piece of chicken.
Callan watched me chew; the tension between us was so thick I tasted it. He took a sip of Coke. A small dewdrop remained on his lip. “I want to see you again.”
I refused to give in to the jolt in my belly. I cocked my head haughtily. “You told me I scared you. Why on earth would you want to see me again?”
Nerves danced in his eyes; he rubbed the back of his neck. Any other girl would have been swept away by the endearing, rejected look he wore. Not me. Of course not me.
My stomach clenched. Get a grip. He is the law. The enemy. Time to leave, Ocean. You've overstayed as it is.
I made to stand, but Callan's hand shot out and grabbed mine. “Do you have a phone number I can call you on?”
“What? So you can take care of me? Make sure I'm safe and well fed?” I laughed. “I don’t need taking care of. Now take your paws off me.” I glared at his hand until he dropped it. “Chase some other tail.”
He stood. I didn't like the look in his eyes. Gone was the calculating surfer boy trying to read me, replaced with a hard-edged cop who wanted what he couldn't have. “I want to chase you. You're like me. I can tell.”
Now that was the most ridiculous thing I'd ever heard. “Yeah. Okay, Callan. We're both so alike.”
I planned on running out the door while he paid the cheque, but it was obvious with the way his body guarded the exit that it wouldn’t be that easy. Fine. I had another plan.
“I'd like to get to know you, Ocean. You're different.”
“You know nothing about me—let’s leave it at that.” I took a deep breath; power swirled from my stomach, erupting behind my eyes. Teleporting was a very convenient way to travel, but fuck it hurt. The migraine took over. I wanted to throw up my dinner. I groaned, letting the pressure build.