by Max Monroe
Steve was both a fellow officer and family. His dad and my dad were not only best friends, but they were brothers too. And crazily enough, they just so happened to be retired cops to boot.
It was like the desire to protect and serve ran in our blood or something.
“Just peachy,” I answered on a sigh, and he chuckled.
“I take it last night went that bad.”
“Well, it started off right,” I said and leaned back in my desk chair, resting my tired legs on the top of my desk. “And then it went to shit when Pauly Sabella got too drunk and tried to grope me in front of a customer who then decided to play the big hero. It all pretty much went tits up after that. Hoboken PD was called, and the four possible informants Marco had been schmoozing with liquor and lap dances ended up calling it an early night.”
“Shit,” Steve muttered and plopped down in the leather chair across from my desk. “You really think you would’ve gotten some good intel from those guys?”
“I know I would have.”
All four of the men who had been in Sabella’s company last night were heavily involved in both his illegal drug circuit and prostitution ring.
I’d wanted to overhear more of their conversations.
I’d wanted to get close enough to pinpoint which one of those four men would most likely become a reliable informant for our department.
Hell, I’d wanted a lot of things to occur last night, but all I’d managed were a few key players’ names, several hundred dollars in G-string tips, and a drunken asshole who didn’t understand the definition of personal space.
Don’t forget about that fine as hell man with the infamous TKO…
That’s total knockout for those of you who don’t follow Fight Night.
Internally, I sighed at my brain’s wayward thoughts. Lord knows, that was the last thing I needed to be focused on.
Steve grinned. “That confident, huh?”
I scoffed at his stupid question. “You know I don’t leave anything up to chance.”
The effort that had gone into the strategic planning of this undercover operation had been nothing short of precise. Once Sergeant Miller had agreed to put me on Marco Sabella’s case, we’d plotted out and carefully calculated every possible detail until we were certain there were no loose ends.
Not only did I look the part of Trixie, I lived it as well.
Besides my frequent—but carefully planned—drop-ins at the Hoboken Police Department for case research, paperwork, and to meet with my sergeant, I pretty much ate, slept, and breathed Trixie’s life.
The instant I’d taken this assignment, I’d moved out of my house on the outskirts of town and into a small loft apartment near Hoboken’s city center. Hell, I even had a car, phone, birth certificate, driver’s license, passport, and medical records created from Trixie’s fake information.
To an outsider, there was nothing in Trixie’s life that could be traced back to Detective Lana Simone.
This assignment was the biggest of my career thus far, and the preparation had been daunting. It had taken me two whole months just to get ready for it.
Not to mention, I’d also gotten my ass back into the gym to remind every muscle inside my out-of-shape body that I used to be quite the gymnast back in the day.
Seriously, pole dancing was no joke. It took some serious upper body strength and flexibility.
And pole dancing while wearing a G-string and stilettos? Well, that took some multitasking.
“Yeah,” he agreed on a laugh, but his eyes turned knowing. “I’m well aware you don’t leave anything up to chance, but I’m also well aware of the fact that you work too fucking much.”
“Jesus. Not this again.” An annoyed sigh whooshed from my lungs.
He rolled his eyes. “You do realize it’s eight in the morning on a goddamn Saturday, right?”
I shrugged. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“That’s not a good excuse, Lana.”
It was all the excuse I had. At least, it was the only one I was willing to entertain.
Now that I’d been living Trixie’s life for the past four months, I was getting so close to finishing this case, I could nearly taste it. Not only was Marco Sabella running an illegal prostitution ring, but he was also heavily involved in one of the biggest heroin and cocaine drug circuits this area had ever seen.
Once this man was removed from the general public and placed behind bars, it would be a good fucking day.
And until that day actually occurred, sleep didn’t come easy, and I couldn’t stop myself from working like a damn dog. It was like my brain was hyperfocused and incapable of thinking about anything else but the job.
Unfortunately for me, my family had recently taken to meddling in my work habits. I was too focused, too involved, and way too removed from everything else important in life—so they said.
“Look, Stevie, I love you like a brother and I really do appreciate your concern, but I’m too close to nailing Marco Sabella to lose focus now.”
“Taking a day off work isn’t losing focus, Lan. It’s a necessary evil for this job. If you don’t try to have a life outside of here, you’ll eventually drive yourself insane.”
“Did my dad put you up to this?” I asked, and he shook his head.
“Obviously, he’s worried about you too. We all are,” he answered, and the honesty in his voice hit me straight in the chest. “We’re family, Lan. And family watches out for each other.”
Lately, this whole topic of conversation had become my family’s MO.
Between my dad, my uncle Joe, and my cousin Steve, it was like the three of them had found themselves a new hobby prying into my life—specifically, my career.
“Yeah, but you guys seem to be forgetting the whole part about me being a grown-ass woman who can take care of herself.” I mean, I was twenty-eight years old, for fuck’s sake. Pretty sure I could handle my own shit at this stage in my life.
I appreciated their concern, but this was my life, not theirs. If I wanted to work every damn day of the week, that was my business.
“Trust me, when it comes to police work, I know you can take care of yourself.”
“And in my everyday life too,” I added, but he didn’t want to hear it. The skeptical skew of his face only deepened as I spoke.
His mind was already set, and apparently, he was convinced I was some sort of workaholic in need of an intervention.
“It’s safe to say, on that part, we’re going to have to agree to disagree.”
“You’re such a pain in my ass.”
“Can you just promise me one thing?” Steve asked, and my response was instant.
“No.”
“Lana,” he persisted, and his gaze refused to leave mine.
Eventually, though, I gave in. Lord knows, it was the only way to get him out of my office.
“Fine,” I huffed. “What’s the promise?”
“Take the rest of the weekend off. Put on a dress, go into New York, go out to dinner, a club—something—and live a little. Hell, you might even meet someone.”
I scoffed. “Not happening.”
If he rolled his eyes any harder, they’d burrow their way out the back of his head.
“At least make sure you’re out of here by two today,” he said and stood to his feet. “And for fuck’s sake, get some sleep before you go back to the club tonight.”
I rolled my eyes. “Okay, Dad.”
“Good talk, cuz,” Steve said with a sarcastic smirk. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll be on my way for another glorious Saturday morning patrol shift.”
“Have fun,” I responded with a wave as he headed for the door. My chest settled at the prospect of some time to myself, but before he could step out, a thought I needed help answering popped into my brain. “Hey, who’s handling the drunk tank this morning?”
“Deluva.” He studied me briefly, his hand on the knob. “Why?”
“Just wondering,” I said with an easy shrug, but
“You were just wondering, or you’re planning on pulling some strings for your big hero last night?” he asked. Unfortunately, and with precisely no planning, I blushed.
Son of a bitch.
“You know, I could probably convince Deluva to get his info so you can call and check up on him…”
“Don’t be a fucking pig,” I retorted. “I’m just making sure he only got charged with public intoxication.”
Pauly Sabella was the kind of dickwad who’d try to press assault charges even though he was the one who started the altercation in the first place.
And, well, that was the very last thing I wanted to happen.
Steve dropped the knowing grin and nodded in understanding. “Talk to Deluva. I’m sure he’ll be accommodating.”
“Be safe out there,” I added as he opened the door.
“Always am.”
I checked the time on my phone as Steve stepped out of my office and did the math.
Generally, if his charge was mere public intoxication, he had to spend a minimum of ten hours in the drunk tank, which meant he probably had an hour or two left to go.
Without thinking twice, I picked up my desk phone and called downstairs.
“This is Deluva.”
“Hey, it’s Lana.”
“Oh, hey, sweetheart,” he greeted. I didn’t care too much for the unprofessional nickname, but it wasn’t worth fixating on. It wasn’t the first time he’d used it, and it wouldn’t be the last. “How are you doing? I heard you had quite the exciting night last night. Stripping. Fights. You’re getting all the good action lately.”
I rolled my eyes. “Is the guy who got arrested last night at Skins still in the tank?”
“Yeah,” he answered. “But he should be heading out of here soon.”
“Did Waller and Jones file the report already?”
“Uh…hold on…let me check…” The phone went silent for a minute or two, and then a rustling alerted me he was back. “No, it looks like they left it open so you could add your notes.”
“Okay, good,” I responded. “And what are his current charges?”
“Just public intoxication.”
Instantly, relief lifted my shoulders.
“Mind keeping that report on your desk? I’ll head down now and finish it up.”
“No problem,” he said but then added, “wait…you’re here?”
“Yeah. I’m in my office.”
“You do realize it’s a fucking Saturday, right?”
Jesus. Was everyone going to be on my case today?
You’d think I was some kind of crazy workhorse who never left the station.
Probably because you kind of are…
God, even my brain was against me today.
“Yeah, Deluva,” I answered, and annoyance dripped from my voice. “I do realize it’s a Saturday.”
“Girl, you need to get out of the station more. Live a little.”
“Thank you for the candid advice.”
“Anytime,” he answered, and then his voice turned soft around the edges. “And hey, you know I’m always free to entertain if you’re bored.”
“Wow. What an offer, Deluva. I feel like the luckiest girl in the whole world.”
“What can I say? I live to serve.”
“I’m sure all of that devotion makes your girlfriend Sandy really happy.”
He cleared his throat awkwardly in response.
“Just keep the report on your desk. I’ll be down in a few,” I said and promptly hung up the phone.
Some men were downright pigs.
Not all men. Not my dad or my uncle Joe or even my cousin Steve.
But men like Jimmy Torres and Tommy Deluva? Yes, those two were definitely pigs.
That guy Cam didn’t seem like a pig. Quite the opposite, actually…
Although my brain had a bit of a point, I decided to push that thought out of the way and focus on the task at hand.
Ironically, though, that task was one hundred percent related to making sure Mr. Persistent didn’t get slapped with assault charges from the Sabellas.
And in all reality, it was the least I could do.
Although I hadn’t really needed his rescue last night, it was still appreciated.
I stood up from my desk and headed toward the back entrance of the drunk tank. After one elevator ride to the first floor and a short walk down one of the secured hallways, I stepped into the thankfully empty office and found the police report I needed on Deluva’s desk.
With the file in my hands, I left the way I came, and instead of going back to my office, I decided to make a quick coffee run to the Starbucks across the street. I’d barely stepped out of the back entrance of the station when a yell caught my attention.
“Cam! Bro!” A big giant of a man bellowed from the sidewalk across the street, and the familiarity of the name froze my footsteps. “How’s that arm feelin’, baby?”
Oh shit.
My gaze followed the big man’s focus, and it didn’t take long for me to realize he was, in fact, yelling toward the very same Cam whose police report was currently in my hands.
Quick as a whip, I stepped back out of sight, but not before I managed to catch a glimpse of the taut muscles of his back as he walked out of the station and toward his friend.
For someone who’d just spent ten hours surrounded by drunks and sharing one toilet with a bunch of criminals, he looked really fucking good.
Clean-cut but undeniably masculine, he was insanely attractive—and apparently immune to the nastiness lingering inside the drunk tank.
How did a man spend ten hours in a cesspool and still come out looking like a snack?
I shook my head at myself.
Cameron Mitchell, as the police report read, wasn’t an object to drool over.
He was a liability, and good guy or not, if he ever connected Trixie with Detective Simone, I’d be royally fucked.
Teeny Martinez’s smirk was one of the last ones I expected to find waiting for me outside the police station.
He was a staple of the team, sure, but there were so many other options who’d do less razzing and more lecturing.
And this morning, after the long night I’d had, I was more in the mood for a lecture, quite frankly.
“Hey, Teen,” I called in greeting as he put out a fist for me to pound. I obliged, leaving off our trademark explosion, and stepped up onto the sidewalk across from the police station with him.
“Wow, Cammy. Prison has changed you.”
I laughed and shook my head as we started to walk down the sidewalk toward the public parking up the street. “It’s changed you too, Quinn,” I remarked, and he returned my humor with a chuckle of his own.
“Yeah, yeah. I guess I’m not who you expected, but the other boys were busy. You know, wedding shit. Sean and Quinn had final tux fittings.”
I winced. Right. The wedding. Of course, Quinn was focusing on other fucking things than picking up his bum teammate from jail. “Ah, yeah. How’s Quinn’s anger toward me for fucking up his bachelor party looking? Like, scale of one to ten?”
Teeny shrugged. “Not too bad, actually. I think the excitement of marrying Cat at the end of the week is cushioning the blow. He even told me to tell you that he talked to your lawyer and found out the charge ended up being no more than public intoxication. Not exactly great, but a hell of a lot better than assault.”
The tension in my chest eased a little. “That’s good.”
“Mr. Lancaster is probably a fifty-five on that scale, though.”
Fuuuuck.
“Mr. Lancaster knows?”
“Is that question a joke?” Teeny scoffed. “Of course Mr. L fucking knows. You got arrested. At a strip club. And you’re a professional football player. The media’s been relatively quiet but not completely silent, bro.”
Yeah, Cam. Remember? You’re a public figure and an idiot.
Teeny shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe somebody else did something more important, or maybe they decided a drunk and disorderly charge wasn’t that big of a story.”
I laughed as the more likely scenario played in my mind. “Or…” I hummed. “This is just the quiet before the storm.”
Teeny’s laugh was explosive and taunting and not at all comforting. “Or that.”
Two mornings later, as I drove up to the stadium for our weekly off-season conditioning session, my stomach rumbled uncomfortably.
On a normal basis, in daily life, I wasn’t a nervous guy. I didn’t sweat small stuff, and I didn’t let any kind of challenge best me.
But Mr. Lancaster had left a lengthy, sternly worded message on my voice mail last night—I might have been too chicken to answer the call at the time it came in—and the gist of it was that we’d be having a meeting today after I was done with the team.
I took heart in the timing of having the meeting after conditioning rather than before, thinking that if he intended to suspend, or worse, fire me, he’d do it before letting me spend any more time around the other players.
But when I’d texted Sean to say as much, he’d pointed out what a busy guy Mr. L was, and that the timing could be more about him than me.
Have I mentioned how good Sean is at giving pep talks?
So, yeah. I was nervous.
And frankly, I was pretty sure I had a right to be. My job, my livelihood, my passion—my career in professional football—was on the line here. How it turned out could mean the difference in millions of dollars and opportunities…and substitute teaching so I could coach at some high school. I didn’t think it was outside the realm of reality that I needed to be prepared to grovel.
Still, I was a self-respecting thirty-year-old man, so I’d start by accepting hard truths and giving respectful answers and go from there. Begging and crying like a little girl would be a last resort.
The empty parking lot—a result of an exorbitantly early arrival—as I pulled into a spot was a dead giveaway for how far up shit’s creek I suspected I was, though.
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