by Tessa Bailey
I’m not supposed to get turned on. Especially by a man I can’t stand.
Greer is like a pair of distressed leather boots in a shop window. I can admire them and hate them a little for drawing my eye, but I’m definitely not supposed to try them on. This afternoon, I was dragged from the street into the shop and pinned down on top of the cash register. Because cha-ching. I liked that show of strength way too much.
Galling is what it is. Especially because I’m a certified control freak. Ask my family. I’d rather run errands, until I’m in a stupor, than delegate. I love being the person my family relies on. It’s the reason I became a cop. That satisfaction I get from others relying on me, multiplied by a whole city? That’s what I want out of life.
That momentary theft of my control today? I didn’t like it. I . . . loved it. As soon as I got home from the academy, I buried myself under my comforter and used the highest setting on my LELO. Picturing Greer and those caveman thighs despite my brain’s protests. Should I be scared that the lieutenant inspired a need to explore something new and exciting I’ve never felt before? Probably. But is that going to stop me?
Greer hasn’t become the object of my scorn merely because he’s a world-class tool to the recruits. Or because he doles out positive reinforcement like it’s literally killing him. Oh no. I’ve got a long memory. Long enough to stretch back to the afternoon he showed his true colors, saying something awful about Jack. I overheard. Now, any time my admiration for his sterling police record makes me want to soften, I force myself to remember he claimed to have no respect for my best friend.
I’m not sure where my ability to carry long-standing grudges came from, because my mother is a forgiving Catholic to the bone and my father falls on the who-gives-a-shit end of the spectrum. But here I am. And I don’t forget. Thankfully, I make up for being a grudge holder in other ways. For my friends and family, I will march up into their business and straighten out whatever is broken, free of charge. Being the boss is my thing. If anyone looks at them sideways, I want to be the one on speed dial.
For both of these reasons, I still haven’t forgiven Lieutenant Greer Burns.
Getting him out of my head—especially after today—however, is proving annoyingly difficult.
My erstwhile thoughts are interrupted by the slamming of a steel oven door.
“Strap on your taste buds. It’s game time, kids!” Across the massive kitchen, Charlie’s girlfriend, Ever, executes a perfect pirouette, balancing a baking pan in each hand. She sets them down with a flourish, eliciting oohs and ahhs from the group, which also includes Jack and his newly minted girlfriend, Katie.
That’s right, I’m the fifth wheel. As soon as graduation from the police academy rolls around, I plan to fix the universe’s little oversight and find myself a man. Greer will be out of sight, out of mind, and I’ll go back to cruising sensitive dudes. With regular-sized thighs.
Charlie rubs his hands together, a wolfish smile on his face. “Tell us what we’ve got to choose from here, cutie.”
“My answer is already both,” Jack says, his arm wrapped around Katie. “You’re going to be feeding a bunch of recruits who’ve been living on pizza for months. You should probably worry less about flavors and more about inciting a riot for seconds.”
Ever’s start-up catering company, Hot Damn Caterers, has an off-site facility in Williamsburg, which is where we’ve come tonight to play taste testers. A privilege that totally makes up for having to be the fifth wheel. “Jack is right.” I pick up a knife and slice off a small portion of the carrot cake sitting in the center of the table, alongside a red velvet one. “You’re more likely to have your arm gnawed off while serving than to get any complaints.”
“Any gripes can be forwarded directly to me.” Charlie saws off a giant portion of the red velvet, throwing Ever a wink. “As if there will be any.”
Picking up a wooden spoon, Ever leans in to kiss her boyfriend’s cheek before going back to the stove where other concoctions are bubbling and sizzling. “You heathens aren’t the only ones eating. Charlie’s father will be there, along with other NYPD brass. Parents. A bunch of New York One news anchors . . .”
Katie gasps. “I love New York One. Especially when they tell you what happened on this day in history. Last week, it was the mob execution of Blue Eyes Duffy.” She accepts the bite of carrot cake Jack pops into her mouth, chewing a moment. “They repeat the same hour of news all morning long, but I watch it anyway.”
“That’s because I won’t let you out of bed long enough to find the remote,” Jack drawls. “You have no choice.”
“That’s not the only reason,” Katie whispered in her melodic Irish accent, cheeks flushing red. “The repetition is soothing. And . . . I like knowing the weather.”
Jack shrugs a single shoulder. “Whatever the weather, it’s always warm in our bed.”
I ball up a napkin and toss it at Jack’s head. “Not if you keep torturing the poor girl.”
Okay, true story. I love Katie. Not only because she’s honest, hardworking and sweet—not to mention, a badass weapons trainer—but she saved my best friend when my help wasn’t enough. Jack is making progress every day in his battle with alcoholism. It’s his fight. But he never wanted to fight before Katie. So she has me in her corner for life.
Everyone in this kitchen is family now. Family is everything to me. My parents, aunts and cousins, all of whom still live in Hell’s Kitchen, rely on me for a lot. Not a day passes where my phone isn’t ringing, someone asking for a favor, advice or help out of a jam—be it with the landlord or an in-law. Does it stress me out sometimes, having so many balls up in the air? Having so much responsibility? Yes. But how will I know for sure a problem will be handled the right way, unless I see to it myself?
“My vote is for red velvet,” Charlie announces. “No, wait. Carrot. Wait . . .”
“I’m stuck, too,” Katie says. “They’re both lovely.”
Jack puts up both hands in surrender. “I’m a hung . . . jury.”
My sigh is exaggerated. It usually is. “Oh, fine, leave it up to me.” I tap the fork against my pursed lips. “I’ll go with—”
I don’t get chance to finish, because the rusted side door leading into the kitchen space opens slowly, revealing an outline I know too well after today’s training session. It fills up the frame a lot like it fills my mind. My pulse starts to hammer, remembering that rough grind of his hips down onto mine, those seconds where I couldn’t move, because his weight was an unmovable force on top of me. Stop thinking about it. What is he doing here?
“Hey, big brother,” Charlie calls, good-natured as usual. “Wasn’t sure you’d show.”
It’s news to me that Charlie invited his brother, but it probably shouldn’t be. Charlie has been bending over backwards in the last month, trying to improve his relationship with Greer and his father, a big-time NYPD bureau chief. Their family is a law enforcement dynasty, heavy on work ethic, low on affection. Watching my roommate spin his wheels and get barely anything in return from Greer is yet another reason I’d like to deliver a right cross to his smug, all-knowing face. It’s not the main one, though.
My job isn’t to single out bright shiny stars. My job is to conform these men into team players. Groom them for something larger than themselves. Lone wolves get their fellow officers killed, the way my partner was killed, and that’s exactly what Jack Garrett is. A lone wolf with no respect. And I have no respect for him.
Before I walked in on that meeting between Greer and Katie last week, I already disliked the lieutenant, but those words effectively sealed the deal. Sure, Greer helped Katie out with the work visa that allowed her to remain in New York with Jack. He’s also taken an interest in Jack and stopped treating my childhood friend as if he’s a waste of space.
But like I said, I have a long memory. My mother would say to turn the other cheek, but when Lieutenant Burns saunters up to the table and surveys the two cakes like they’re some paltry offe
ring being presented to a king, I turn both cheeks in his direction, tilting my head back to meet bored, flinty eyes.
“If I’d known you were coming,” I say for his ears alone, “I would have suggested a devil’s food cake.”
Chapter 3
Greer
It’s obvious I didn’t knock loose any of Silva’s hatred when I flipped her over on the mat today. Good. I certainly wasn’t hoping for anything different.
The way she’s looking at me now, one might think I imagined that husky moan and the flutter of her eyelashes this afternoon. The spasming of her thigh muscles. No. My mind sure as hell didn’t fabricate those things. And I’ve spent way too much time over the last few hours wondering what they meant. One answer is clear: They didn’t soften her toward me.
Refusing to acknowledge the stab of disappointment, I mentally repeat what I told myself on the drive over. My job is to train this scrappy, little brat into a decent police officer. After that, my association with her will be over. No more passing her in the hallway or watching a bunch of twenty-something assholes eagerly volunteer to be her training partner. Perhaps I’ve never been so anxious for a class of recruits to graduate, but can anyone blame me? They’ve challenged my patience and my sanity at every damn turn.
First, Charlie loses his shit over the blonde chef who’s currently fussing over a bowl of pink frosting, turns into a wounded beast and almost blemishes his fledgling police record. Next, Irish Annie Oakley shows up and makes me care a little too much about how I’ve classified Jack Garrett. I was only ironing out a few misgivings about him when Danika walked into my office uninvited last week. Now, I’ve got a pissed-off recruit plotting my death from behind the most . . . incredible brown eyes I’ve ever seen.
That slippery thought makes me grunt, and Silva narrows said eyes, clearly waiting for me to respond to her barb. Devil’s food cake. Not bad. Although I’ve been called worse things than Satan by perps and colleagues alike. No one likes the dick who keeps everyone accountable, and I’m good with that. I’m just fine being alone.
In my thirty years, I’ve never given a second thought to another person’s opinion of me. Or my teaching style—unless you count my father, who taught me about police work. Why I should consider . . . adjusting to make this short-tempered . . . beautiful, passionate girl happy—
Dammit.
For some reason, Silva’s pleasure seems to be infinitely more desirable than her disappointment. It’s why I’ve tried to make up for what I said about Jack in that meeting, by checking on his progress in treatment, as often as I can. And there’s no sense in pretending she didn’t bring me all the way out into Brooklyn tonight.
I tried to convince myself that by showing up, I’d be humoring Charlie into thinking our family has a hope in hell of being functional. Whatever my version of love is, I have that for Charlie. The kid is nothing like me. He’s optimistic, for one. He has the ability to make everyone around him feel included. He talked a bunch of hard-assed cops into a flash mob to win back Pink Frosting Girl, for chrissakes.
In my gut, though, I know I came tonight because I wanted to see Silva. Assure myself she was safe. Working in Manhattan, I don’t have any firsthand knowledge of the neighborhood where this kitchen is located, so I came to check it out. Now that I’ve seen for myself there’s no machete-wielding maniacs in the vicinity, I should probably go.
But, my feet stay right where they are, inches from the tips of Silva’s boots. Those kind that stop at a woman’s ankle and make her legs look even better than they do in gym shorts. The fact that she has some kind of control over my usually ironclad will stirs impatience in my belly. Impatience and the need to gain back the upper hand. Without a sound, I let her scent slide into my senses and give her a nice, long once-over, like I usually do when she’s lined up for morning inspection. If I can’t inspire pleasure from Silva, I’ll settle for riling her up.
“Someone should have baked you an angel food cake,” I say, my voice cracking from disuse. Twin blooms of color appear in her cheeks on the heels of a little intake of breath. Across the scant distance between us, my body feels hers soften and does the opposite. A grudging invitation for . . . something. Just like today on the mat. I like her response so much that I have to go and ruin it. “Maybe it would make you lighter on your feet, since you were dragging ass during drills today.”
“Ohh,” she breathes. “If I was dragging ass, it’s because your lecture failed to motivate me, Lieutenant.” Her smile is deceptively sweet. “Might want to work on your oral skills.”
She slaps both hands over her face, groaning over her slipup, and I have the strangest urge to laugh. To peel her hands away and witness the damage underneath. Our stolen moments before inspection have become the highlight of my week, but we’ve never taken it further than those blistering seconds of eye contact. I’ve never made so much as a suggestive comment. Ever. I’m her instructor and I will not abuse my authority.
So temporary insanity or the way she melted beneath me today must be the culprit for what I say next, my voice at a low murmur. “Are you volunteering to help me practice?”
Silva shoots backward and knocks into the table, sending forks clattering in every direction. The other four people in the room, who either heard nothing or have better poker faces than I gave them credit for, reach out to steady her, but I beat them to it. My hand is wrapped around her elbow, keeping her from falling, and the physical contact sends heat slicking up my spine. My tongue grows heavy. All I want to do is haul her close. Take a fist full of her hair and rub it against my open mouth. Down my neck and chest. Jesus.
She jerks her arm away, and I command myself to regain control. Not for the first time, I ask myself what the hell is it about this girl? Ever since she walked into the academy, my eyes follow her everywhere, my head full of her when I give in to my needs at night. When I tuck an eager hand into my briefs, roll onto my stomach and fuck myself. If it was just sexual interest, I could wait out the next four weeks, no problem. She’ll be gone and the infatuation will fade.
But here I am in Brooklyn, worried for her safety.
Caring what she thinks.
Hating the fact that she heard me say something shitty and is now mad at me.
I need a run. A good run will make these stupid feelings manageable. Until tomorrow.
“Uh yeah . . .” Charlie’s voice trickles into my awareness. “So we’re testing out two Ever cakes here, and Danika was getting ready to woman-up and make the final judgment.”
I manage to tear my eyes off Danika, who’s clearly still shocked over what I said. Join the club, baby. Baby? “What is your choice, Silva?”
“The, um . . .”
She needs a nudge out of her apparent stupor, so I provide one. “Today, please.”
I sense her lift a boot, like she’s going to stomp on my foot, and I almost hope she does, because I’d be required to touch her again. But she gives a cool answer, instead. “Red velvet.”
Picking up a fork, I sample the two cakes and have to admit they’re good. I’ve been wondering if my brother’s bragging over his girlfriend’s culinary skills was a product of his pussy-whipped status, but he didn’t exaggerate. “I’ll go with carrot.”
Four sets of eyes ping-pong over to Silva, who looks like she’s concentrating on not stabbing me with her fork, but Ever speaks up before Silva gets a chance. “It’s settled then,” she says, too brightly. “We’ll go with both—”
“This calls for a tie breaker,” Silva interrupts, lifting her chin. “Wouldn’t you say, Lieutenant?”
The saucy way she pronounces my title makes me insane. What would she say if she only knew? She moans that title in my dreams, along with my name. Loud and nightly. “Did you have something in mind?”
“Yes. Always.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“Since you’re so underwhelmed by my performance today . . .” She shrugs, but I glimpse her nerves peeking through. “Quiz me on radio codes. Five
of them. If I get them all right, we go with red velvet. Anything else and you can have your fuddy-duddy carrot. No offense, Ever. I’m just not big on vegetables.”
“Fair enough,” murmurs the cook.
I don’t like Silva having the misconception that she underwhelmed me. She never does. She’s one of the more impressive recruits at the academy, male or female. She’s focused, doesn’t complain when she’s exhausted and improves every day. Of course, I can’t tell her that. If she softened too much—or hell, at all—toward me, I’d never be able to stay away. It’s imperative that I do. The only thing permanent in this life is my job. Friends, women . . . hell, even family, comes and goes.
People lose people every single day. Parents, children, spouses. I see it constantly in my profession. Betrayal, abandonment, death. It all ends in one thing: solitude, with the added gem of knowing what love and togetherness once felt like. I stay beholden to myself and the city of New York, because we’re substantial. We can’t quit on one another, the way people quit on their loved ones all the time. At least I got that lesson out of the way early in life, so I could avoid having to face it again and again, like some fucked-up Groundhog Day.
Speaking of groundhogs, I’ve gone down a dark hole while Silva’s gauntlet still lies between us. “You’re on,” I finally answer, codes filtering through my mind in neon green ribbons. “Ten-fifty-two F.”
“Dispute with a firearm.”
I’m doing my best to appear bored, but I’m suddenly having fun. It might have something to do with the fact that she’s smiling at me. It’s a cocky smile, too. According to the flickering of my pulse, it’s my favorite smile of hers. “Correct. Ten-eighty-four.”