Mermaids in the Pacific (Peyton Brooks, FBI Book 2)

by M. L. Hamilton

  “Yes, you can.”

  “Shouldn’t we go back there?” She pointed to where the line disappeared around the corner.

  “Just watch,” said Bambi and she adjusted her dress, as if that were necessary to highlight her abundant curves. Walking up to the bouncer, she reached into her handbag and pulled out her FBI badge, then said something to him.

  His eyes tracked over her, then did the same to Peyton. Peyton didn’t like the look and wanted to sock him in the face, but he unhooked the rope over the door and motioned them inside. Bambi grabbed Peyton’s hand and dragged her into the building.

  The second the door closed behind them, Peyton knew this was a mistake. Booths in brown leather hugged the walls, but the entire middle of the building was a dance floor where people ground against each other.

  “Come on, let’s dance,” shouted Bambi in her ear.

  Peyton shook her head. “I need a drink first.”

  Bambi led her to the bar, pushing into the crowd trying to get the bartender’s attention, but Peyton took her elbow and pointed to the far corner near the wall where there were two open stools. They took a seat and Bambi waved the bartender over. He was a handsome man with black hair and goatee, dressed in an old-time western get-up, complete with garters on his shirtsleeves.

  “What can I get you, ladies?” he said, flashing a bright smile at Bambi.

  “Screwdriver,” said Bambi and motioned to Peyton.

  “Water.”

  Bambi frowned at her, but the bartender left to make their drinks. “What gives?”

  “I don’t drink anymore.”

  “Why?”

  “Long story.”

  Bambi bounced on the stool to the beat of the music. Leaning close, she pointed out a couple of men at the other end of the bar. They were giving Bambi sultry looks. “What about them?”

  Peyton followed her pointing finger. “What about them?”

  “They look promising.”

  “Do you do this a lot?”

  “What’s a lot?”

  “Frequently. Do you pick up men in bars frequently?”

  “No.” She made a waving motion with her hand. “I pick them up in grocery stores, the laundromat. Oh, once in a hospital emergency room.”

  Peyton laughed. “No long term romances?”

  “Who needs them. Look around you, Peyton. There’s just oodles of men to pick from, why would you ever settle for one?”

  Peyton could think of a few good reasons to settle for one, if he was the right one.

  The bartender returned with their drinks. “On the house,” he said, giving Bambi a wink.

  She blew him a kiss, then picked up the drink and put the straw to her full, red lips. A moment later, the drink was gone. Peyton’s brows rose.

  “Come on, let’s go dance,” she begged Peyton.

  “Let me work my way up to that, okay? You go.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Watch my purse,” she said, shoving the bag across the bar at her, then she was gone, disappearing into the crowd on the dance floor. Peyton noticed the two guys at the end of the bar followed her.

  She picked up her water and took a sip. God, she didn’t want to be here. She would give anything to leave. This was such a mistake.

  “Hey.” A very young man sat down next to her. He was Hispanic, pretty with just a hint of stubble on his jaw. His eyes were like dark velvet.

  “Hey,” said Peyton.

  “Can I buy you something?”

  “No, thank you. I’m good.” She held up her water.

  “This place is off the hook, huh?”

  “I guess.”

  “You wanna dance or something?”

  “Not right now.”

  “Why not?” His gaze swept over her. “That dress was made for the boogie, baby!”

  Peyton laughed. “I’m just observing right now.”

  “Ah, that’s no fun. You gotta get in there. Do the bump and grind, get the sweats.”

  “You go. I’ll just wait here.”

  “Naw. I’ll sit with you. I don’t mind. I can dance any day.” His eyes lowered to Peyton’s breast. “I don’t mind.”

  Peyton leaned her elbow on the bar and placed her chin on her hand. “Look, this isn’t gonna happen. I’m just getting out of a relationship.”

  “Whoa! I know what that’s like. I just got out of one myself.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, me and my girlfriend, we been together for like years. All through high school and stuff. Then a month ago, she just tell me we over, man! Just like that.”

  Peyton’s expression sobered. “High school? How long ago was that?”

  “Oh, man, three years. Can you believe it? I been outta high school three whole freakin’ years.”

  Three years? Peyton felt ancient all of a sudden.

  “Can you believe it?”

  “No,” she said.

  “So, wanna dance?”

  “No.”

  “Aw, come on, chica! I like older women.”

  Peyton didn’t know how to respond to that.

  “She said no,” came a voice behind the young stud. “Why don’t you find another chica, bud?”

  A man with light blond hair had come up behind the boy. He had to be Peyton’s age or older, nearly six feet with broad shoulders – clean shaven, not exactly handsome, but not ugly, a face filled with character.

  The boy took the measure of him and Peyton wondered if he’d be stupid enough to try something. The blond guy had him by a good fifty pounds. “Whatever, dude!” he said, sliding off the barstool and pushing past him. He gave Peyton a look over his shoulder, then slipped onto the dance floor.

  “Thanks,” she said as he took a seat beside her.

  “My pleasure.”

  Peyton lifted her water glass and took a sip. She wanted to tell him she didn’t need a man coming to her rescue, but figured it wasn’t worth the effort.

  “Mike Edwards,” he said, holding out his hand.

  Peyton accepted it. “Peyton Brooks.”

  “Nice to meet you, Peyton.” He gave her an appreciative look, then released her. “So, can I get you another drink?”

  “No, thank you.”

  He drummed his fingers on the bar. “So what’s a classy lady like yourself doing in a dive like this?”

  “Oh, that is the most ancient pick-up line I’ve ever heard.”

  He laughed. “Did it work?”

  “Not even a little.”

  He smiled. He had a nice smile. It softened the lines around his mouth and eyes. “Sorry. That was my best one.” He held out his hand. Peyton noticed he didn’t have a wedding ring. “Still, I’m serious. This doesn’t seem like your scene.”

  “Oh, I like this scene just fine.” Before the Janitor she’d enjoyed coming to such places with Abe, but now… “I’m just tired. Long day.”

  “Got it. What’s say we go over to Foleys? They’ve got dueling pianos. It’s a lot quieter and we can talk.”

  Peyton frowned at him. “No, I’m gonna stay here.”

  He held out his hands again. “Worth a shot, right?”

  “I guess.”

  Bambi appeared out of the crowd, throwing her arms around Peyton’s shoulders. “Come on, please dance with me,” she said in Peyton’s ear. “Please.”

  Before Peyton could protest, she pulled her off the barstool and toward the dance floor. Peyton just had time to snag Bambi’s purse before she found herself thrust into the middle of flashing colored lights, banging rhythms, and people...so many people all jostling against her. She felt a hand slide over her ass and she didn’t know if it was the man or the woman behind her. Then a man pushed up against her, grinding his crotch into her backside.

  She spun to face him, but Bambi yanked on her arm, dragging her deeper into the crowd and further away from the edge. More bodies surged against her and the hammering of the beat drowned out all other sound.

  Peyt
on felt panic edge up inside of her. People surged against her, rubbing their bodies on hers, pushing her this way and that. The lights swept over the faces, contorting them. The smell of sweat and booze and perfume tickled the back of her throat.

  She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t stand it.

  She shoved one guy off and broke into the hole his body created, then she shoved and pushed to make it to the outside. Stumbling off the dance floor, she placed a hand against her chest, her heart hammering violently.

  She staggered to an open booth and sank onto the seat, closing her eyes and fighting for composure. Sweat trickled down her back, ran between her breasts, her heart was thudding so hard, she could feel it in her temples. Her head buzzed and she knew if she opened her eyes, she’d see black spots.

  “Here,” came a male voice.

  She opened her eyes and looked up into Mike’s weathered face. He held a damp napkin out to her. She took it and placed it against her throat. He held a glass of water for her. “Take a drink.”

  She grabbed it with her free hand and downed half the glass. “Thank you.”

  He nodded and slid into the booth across from her. “Better?”

  “Yes.”

  “PTSD’s a bitch.”

  Peyton frowned at him. “How the hell do you know?”

  “I’m an ex-soldier. Army rangers. I fought in both Iraq and Afghanistan.”

  She nodded and forced herself to take a deep breath. “I knew this wasn’t a good idea.”

  He leaned closer, staring into her eyes. “Your pupils are contracting again. Good sign.” Peyton noticed he had green eyes.

  “How long were you in the army?”

  “Twenty years. Went in at 18, right out of high school.”

  She took another breath and finished the water. “So, you asked me why I came to a nightclub like this. Why are you here?”

  He looked around. “I love the music.”

  Peyton laughed.

  He gave a shrug. “I don’t know. It gets lonely, you know? Just trying to fill the time.”

  “Never married?”

  “Divorced. You?”

  Peyton looked away. “Engaged, but...no more.”

  “Ah, I’m sorry.”

  “It happens.”

  “Because of the PTSD?”

  “What?”

  “Your engagement ended because you have PTSD?”

  “No.” She wasn’t going to tell a stranger what happened between her and Marco. “It just ended.”

  “Fair enough. Look, I was out of line earlier, Peyton. I shouldn’t have asked you to go to a different bar with me, but I just felt a connection, you know?”

  “No, I don’t know.”

  He smiled. “I saw you and I thought, now there’s a real woman.” When Peyton frowned, he held out his hands. “Honestly, no line. You’re not like the other paper-dolls here.”

  Paper-dolls? Interesting assessment.

  He extended his hand to her. Peyton reluctantly accepted it. “I’d just like a chance to get to know you better. That’s all. So let’s start over.” He shook her hand. “I’m Mike.”

  “Peyton.”

  “Nice to meet you, Peyton. What do you do for a living?”

  Peyton opened her mouth to respond and stopped. Now there was a loaded question. “I’m in public relations,” she said.

  He smiled. “Beautiful and mysterious. You just proved my point. You, my dear, are a real, three-dimensional woman and I would be so honored if you’d give me your number.”

  Peyton went still, carefully extricating her hand. Give him her number? Boy, this guy moved fast. “Tell you what, Mike. Why don’t you tell me more about yourself first?”

  “Fine. We’ll play this your way.” He laughed and leaned back in the booth. “Let’s see. I was born under the given name of Michael Barnabas Edwards.”

  “Barnabas?”

  “I know. My grandfather’s name, but it just shows you the lengths I’ll go to to get your number.”

  Peyton couldn’t help but laugh.

  An hour later, she knew he’d gotten married right out of high school, but two years later, they’d divorced. His wife had remarried and had three children. He’d been stationed all over the country, a true nomad, and now he lived in South San Francisco. He’d taken a job in security, but he was itching to move. He just couldn’t stay in one place for long, unless of course, he met the right woman.

  Peyton steered the conversation away from that angle, asking him about his military service. He seemed more than willing to tell her whatever she wanted to know. He told her he volunteered at the VA hospital, which is how he knew about PTSD, and then wanted to know about her.

  She kept it clinical. She told him about her father and mother, but she didn’t talk about her career. She told him about Abe, but she avoided all talk of Marco. And finally, she spent a few minutes talking about Pickles. All safe subjects. All guaranteed to tell him less than nothing about her.

  He accepted her reluctance to talk and instead regaled her with stories from his days in the army. Bambi found her just when Mike had gotten up the courage to ask her for her number again.

  She slumped into the seat next to Peyton. Sweat glistened on her chest and forehead, her pupils dilated. She gave Mike a critical look.

  “This is my friend, Emma,” said Peyton, motioning to Bambi. “This is Mike Edwards.”

  “Please to meet you,” he said, offering his hand.

  Bambi continued to eye him. “Same here.” She shifted on the bench and dropped her voice so only Peyton could hear, but she was drunk, so pretty much everyone in their area heard. “Are you ready to go? The guys here suck.”

  Peyton nodded and passed her her purse.

  “Wait. Emma, I was just trying to get your friend’s phone number.”

  Bambi rose to her feet and pulled Peyton up with her. “She’s not giving out her phone number tonight, Mike. So sorry.” She pushed Peyton in front of her. “Good luck though.” She pointed across the dance floor to a redhead grinding against a brunette. “They look like they’ll give you their numbers.”

  As soon as they got outside, Peyton pulled Bambi to a stop. “What was that about?”

  “What?”

  “You were rude to him.”

  Bambi put her hands on Peyton’s shoulders. “Listen, girlfriend, he’s not right for you.”

  “Why?”

  Sliding her arm around Peyton’s waist, she steered her toward the parking garage. “He wants a relationship. You just need sex, so unless you’re going to take him home for that, he’s not your type.”

  Peyton didn’t need sex, but Bambi was right, she didn’t need Mike Edwards either.

  CHAPTER 13

  Saturday/Sunday

  “I have a memory of Serge asking you to dance on the table,” said Jake, entering the kitchen and slumping into a chair. Tater padded after him, laying his head on Jake’s thigh.

  Marco looked over, then poured him a cup of coffee and brought it to the table, scratching Tater’s ears. Jake gave a nod and took the mug, just breathing in the steam. Marco sat across from him with his own coffee.

  “Did that happen?” asked Jake, peering at him through one eye.

  “The request or the dancing?”

  “Either.”

  “The request yes, the dancing not so much. Since I can hardly walk with a cane, climbing on the table seemed a bad idea.”

  Jake pointed a finger at him and took a sip of the coffee. “You’re showered and shaved. Why? It’s Saturday.”

  “I’m going to the precinct.”

  “Why?”

  “We have two cases to work.”

  “The Cook case is almost wrapped up. We just gotta get the ballistics report and give the evidence to Devan.”

  “But the headshop case still has no answers, no suspect, nothing.”

  Jake nodded, bracing his head with his hand. “Raspberry pomegranate vodka seemed like such a good idea before we actually starte
d drinking it.”

  Marco chuckled. “Most things do.”

  Jake chewed on his bottom lip. “I also vaguely remember saying something really stupid to you.”

  “You always say something really stupid.”

  “Yeah, but this was more stupid than usual.”

  Marco shifted in the chair, rubbing his thigh. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It does. I didn’t mean it.”

  Marco shrugged. “Whatever. You were drunk.”

  “Why can’t you ever just loosen up for a minute?”

  “Ryder.”

  “No, I’m serious. I’m trying to apologize to you for something stupid I said and you can’t accept it. You can’t even let me get to the damn apology.”

  “You don’t have to apologize. You’re entitled to say whatever you want. Last night we weren’t at work where I’m your boss, so let it go.”

  “No, we weren’t. So what are we? You and me when we’re not at work?”

  Marco leaned on the table, lowering his voice. “You’ve gotta stop hanging out with gay guys.”

  “I’m not asking you for a love declaration, Adonis, I just wanna know what we are. Are we friends?”

  “Ryder.” Marco ground his teeth. He hated this shit. Picking up his coffee cup, he pointed it at him. “You’re right. No more raspberry pomegranate vodka for you. It makes you…” He made a face. “...squishy.”

  “Squishy?”

  “Emotional. Men aren’t supposed to go around saying their feelings.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “It is.”

  “So if I love a woman, I’m not supposed to tell her. I’m not supposed to tell my friends they mean something to me. I can’t tell Tater he’s my widdle baby doggy.” He made smooching noises at the dog. The dog’s tail thumped.

  Marco rolled his eyes.

  “Fine. Want some flapjacks?”

  “What?”

  “I make flapjacks after a drinking binge. It soaks up the alcohol.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  “Well, I think it does.” He started to push himself to his feet.

  “Do you mean it?”

  Jake stopped and sat back down again. “Mean what?”

  Marco looked him straight in the eyes. “The things you say about Peyton. You’ve always said them. You’ve always remarked on how she looks or commented that you’d like to take my place. Do you have feelings like that for her?”