by Nicole Helm
“You seemed...” It was probably too direct to admit the truth, but he wasn’t very good at white lies. He could keep his mouth shut, but he didn’t lie well when faced with a direct question. “Like you needed it.”
That queen-of-the-world expression disappeared, replaced by confusion. A hard-edged, brows-together confusion he didn’t want to mess with. “What do you care what I need?”
“I don’t. Or shouldn’t.”
“Superhero complex.” She shook her head as if that was a bad thing. “You gonna ride with me or what?”
“Need a sober driver or something?”
“I don’t get drunk.”
“Ever?”
“Nope. Besides, we have an early morning.”
“So why are we doing this?” His shoulders were already tense from all this back-and-forth. How was he getting pulled into this verbal sparring? He never did that.
“You need to understand, I don’t know how your old department was, but here we’re a family. We have to trust each other. We don’t have to all be best friends, but we need to know that if someone gets in a jam, someone else is going to be there backing us up. Being the quiet guy in the corner isn’t going to fly.”
He understood that, to an extent. In his rookie days he hadn’t gone out and partied like most of the guys he’d gone to the academy with. He didn’t step out of line. Not one drinking-and-driving incident, hell, not even a speeding or parking violation. Even if he’d gotten one, he would have paid it rather than flash his badge.
He believed in right and wrong. Because doing the right thing would be noticed and rewarded.
Joke’s on you.
But he’d been friendlier then. Smiled more. Hoping for some kind of belonging that had never materialized. No one liked a guy who wouldn’t bend the loosest of rules.
“Getting in or what, Captain Quiet?”
“Captain Quiet?”
“It’s my superhero name for you.”
“I’m not answering to that, either.” But he got into her glorified rust bucket. Why? A million reasons that didn’t make sense. At least not without some deep introspection he wasn’t in the mood for.
“That one suits you, though. You’d probably even look good in a pair of superhero tights.”
He frowned over at her as she pulled out of the parking lot. Was she...flirting?
He didn’t have much time to ponder. The Good Wolf, an old, dilapidated place on the riverfront, was a short drive from their apartment complex. It was brick on the outside, showing its age, a vintage neon sign buzzing Open in the big window.
Inside it was dark and smoky, but not as dingy as he’d expected. Tess waved to a couple other guys and suddenly he was being introduced, maneuvered into a seat, beer placed in front of him.
Social hour. He was so damn rusty with this he felt like an awkward teenager again. But Tess didn’t let him stay that way for long. She prodded him into a long, drawn-out conversation about the old Superman movies.
Then she foisted him off on a middle-aged guy who turned out to be all right once they found some common ground talking cars. Still, Marc found himself watching Tess even as he chatted and drank.
She was an odd figure. A leader of sorts, but more like a mother. Which was a weird thing, because half the guys were her age or older. Weirder still because he didn’t think most of the guys staring at her ass thought of her as a mother hen.
But she stepped in. Cut a guy off when he’d hit his limit, separated one of the young guys from a clearly uninterested woman. Every time Marc thought he escaped her notice, she pushed him into conversations about cars with one guy, baseball with another.
She was everywhere, subtly maneuvering people away from what they shouldn’t do and toward what they should. It was all kind of mesmerizing.
“She doesn’t fuck cops.”
Marc jerked his head toward one of the guys from earlier who was leaning against the table next to him. Granger. He’d been the first one she’d had to cut off, and he wasn’t falling-over drunk but definitely impaired.
Marc kept his tone bland even though the out-of-nowhere comment pissed him off. For a lot of reasons. “Excuse me?”
“You’re staring awful hard at our Camden.” Granger gestured to where Tess was laughing with two older guys, covertly handing off their not-empty drinks to a waitress. “The thing is, every single guy in the department, and probably some of the not-so-single ones, have tried and failed. She doesn’t fuck other cops.”
“Not why I was watching her, pal.”
“Chill, man.” He held up his hands. “Not trying to warn you off, just giving some information. We’re all friends here.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
Granger slapped the table. “Keep it in mind.”
Marc rolled his shoulders. The kid, and he was just a kid, was right. Friends. He needed to make friends. Sure, not lifelong buddies, and certainly not anything involving fucking, but it wouldn’t kill him to remove the stick from his ass.
He was free. Until Mom and Dad moved, but even then. He’d already done his duty by moving here. Leah was back in their lives. Why was he still trying so hard? He didn’t matter. Never would.
It was long past time he started living for himself.
CHAPTER THREE
TESS WAS IN TROUBLE. Of two very different kinds. Sadly, they both involved drunk men she felt responsible for.
The first she was going to ignore. She had to. She had to be up early and couldn’t risk another bottle-throwing incident on a work night. At some point, once in a while, she had to put herself first.
The second bit of trouble, well, she was 100 percent responsible for the second, and kind of enjoying it. Typically, she didn’t like drunk men, but she’d also been around enough to know everyone handled their liquor differently.
Some got belligerent, like many of the drunk drivers she dealt with on the job. Some got violent. Hello, dear old Dad. Some, well, some just got goofy. Buttoned-up, strong silent type Marc Santino got goofy.
It made her grin, and feel oddly light. Both things her father’s drunkenness never made her feel. Everything about Marc’s normally tense, ramrod straight posture had relaxed. He was smiling, head bobbing along with whatever Stumpf was telling him.
He did shake off an offer for another beer, which was more than half the guys in their little group would ever do. Which was why she tended to spearhead these little gatherings and moderate some of the looser cannons.
Most were making noise about leaving, so she made sure none of the worse-for-wear guys were planning on getting behind the wheel, then she approached trouble. Hot trouble, which was nothing to smile about at all.
But she couldn’t help herself. “You ready to get going, San Francisco?”
“You know, Mother Hen, which is my new nickname for you, I have never even been to California.” He didn’t slur, but his words, his demeanor, were all loose. So different from usual.
“I thought you said it was a hellhole.”
“Seems like it would be, anyway. Can’t even pay their own damn bills.”
“Yes, Grandpa. Now let’s get you up and out.”
“I can walk.” He got to his feet. No weaving or tripping, but there was a difference in his gait. Not that measured, stiff walk he usually had. This walk was a lot more wiggly.
But he followed her, and even though he was definitely inebriated, he watched her as she made sure the rest of the guys were out the door, too, and she got the weirdest feeling he was silently judging her for it.
Well, let him. He’d obviously come from a department where having each other’s backs was not important. That was not how BCPD worked. Period.
Her phone buzzed and she closed her eyes for a second before slipping into her car. Maybe when they got
home she’d call Dad and try to talk him down, but she wasn’t giving in and going over there, and she certainly wasn’t talking to him with Marc in the car next to her.
“So, what were you and Stumpf talking about?”
“Aliens,” he said, deadpan.
“You were not.”
“Oh, yes. He was trying to convince me he’s seen a UFO. To which I said N-O.”
Tess laughed and shook her head. “I hate to encourage drinking, but you’re a lot funnier with a few under your belt.”
“Maybe that’s been my problem all along.”
Her first instinct was to poke and prod and figure out what problem he thought he had. She liked to fix problems. But something about the way he looked grim and stiff again made her clamp her mouth shut as she pulled into their apartment complex parking lot.
Her phone buzzed. Again. She didn’t bother to look this time. Just clicked the ignore button through her pocket.
She should have turned off the phone. Sure, it wouldn’t stop Dad from calling, but it would stop her from the stab of guilt after each ring.
“Seriously, what’s the constant calling about?” Marc asked, gesturing at her pocket as he walked leisurely toward the door.
When she laughed, he squinted at her and his hand missed the handle of the complex door. “What’re you laughing at?”
“Aboot.”
“Huh?”
She giggled again. “Your Minnesota shows when you’re drunk.”
“I’m not drunk! I’ve never been drunk in my life.” He stepped inside and then promptly tripped over the mat, barely catching himself on the wall.
“Never?” She offered Marc her shoulder and he grumbled something before using her as a bit of a steady crutch on their way up the stairs.
“Not once. Didn’t even touch a drop until I was twenty-one. I am a perfect citizen through and through.”
“You really are a superhero.”
“The world loves superheroes. They have women and families falling all over them telling them how great they are. Well, when their parents aren’t dead. Still, I am no superhero.”
Oh, don’t have hidden hurts. Please don’t have hidden hurts. She was such a sucker for hurts of any kind. She wanted to soothe. Then there was the whole fact Marc was all muscle. Yummy, chiseled muscle leaning against her.
That leaning was enough to bring a little sanity into the equation. She couldn’t juggle someone else who needed to lean on her. Dad took all her be-someone-else’s-rock strength.
So she gave Marc a nudge so he leaned, with an ungraceful thud, against his door.
He squinted down at her, and even with the squint and the slightly glazed-over eyes, the color had impact. He had impact, and she did not have the time or energy to be impacted.
But there were certain parts of her body not getting that memo.
“Sleep it off, buddy. You don’t want me storming your gates in the morning, because it won’t be late and I won’t be nice.”
His gaze dropped. A quick, odd, up-and-down once-over. The kind she usually got in a guy’s face for, but because he was drunk and that was kind of her fault, she let it go.
Totally had nothing to do with the fact she liked it from him. You are one sick puppy, Camden.
“Drink some water. Take some aspirin and get some sleep, Captain Quiet.”
“Night, Mother Hen.”
She gave him a mock salute and then walked to her apartment and slipped inside. She pulled out her phone. Twelve missed calls. Six voice mails. All from Dad.
It took a lot of willpower. A lot of thinking about her meeting with Franks earlier today to delete the messages unheard. She knew what they’d be. The first would be sweet, ending in crying. Increasingly belligerent with each message.
She got enough of him calling her a bitch to her face—she didn’t have to deal with it via message. Not tonight.
Are you sure you want to delete all messages?
She stared at the little pop-up, not sure for how long, then clicked yes with more force than necessary. He would not get her in trouble again. Police work was the only thing she could count on in this life, and no amount of crappy guilt or biological duty was going to make her screw that up.
* * *
MARC STARED AT the coffeepot slowly spitting out dark liquid. Scowling was probably a better word. Glowering.
He felt like utter shit. Head pounding, dizzy, queasy. All from a few too many beers and one weird cocktail Stumpf had talked him into. How did all those people who’d rolled their eyes at his two-beer limit over the years enjoy this?
The pounding at the door made him wince, then growl. Then groan because, damn it, that all hurt.
The pounding started again. Moving gingerly, Marc walked to the door and jerked it open. “Do. You. Mind?”
Tess’s sunny smile only served to irritate him further. “Morning, sunshine.” She was in her uniform, like he was, and her hair was back in that tight work braid. Which reminded him of how loose it had been last night, how tight her jeans had—
“I’m just waiting for coffee,” he grumbled, turning away from her. “No thanks to you, I feel like I’m going to die.”
“Hey, I didn’t force-feed you any of those beers. Didn’t buy you any, either.”
“It was whatever concoction Stumpf convinced me to drink. I’m sure of it. But I wouldn’t have been there to drink it if not for you.” He poured his coffee into a travel mug before flipping off the coffeemaker and unplugging it.
“Sorry our welcome was so unwelcome.”
He turned to face her and found her looking around his living room. “Sparse. Stark. Why am I not surprised?”
“Am I going to come home some day when we’re not in each other’s pockets to find you’ve mother henned your way into sneaking throw pillows on my couch and frilly curtains in the window?”
She laughed, a full-bodied, sexy laugh.
This attraction thing was getting really annoying.
“If you ever see my apartment, you’ll know why that’s laughable. Now, can we get going, or what?”
“I’m not late.”
“We will be if you keep chitchatting.”
“I’m never late.”
“Never late. Never drunk. Boy Scout Captain Quiet to the rescue.”
“You’re irritating in the morning.”
“You’re hungover.”
“You were irritating yesterday morning.” She would be irritating every morning. What with the cheery demeanor, smug grin and smelling-like-flowers shit.
And he talked too much around her, under the influence or not. That needed to stop. So he waved her out of his apartment, grabbing his utility belt, going into his closet and unlocking his gun safe.
Tess, of course, watched instead of shooing out like he’d asked her to.
“Man, I know a lot of cops who own a lot of guns and I’ve never seen anyone keep them locked away like you do. Code and key?”
“Safety.”
She shook her head, finally taking that stupid flower smell with her as she stepped into the hallway. “I’m pretty well versed in gun safety. That, my friend, is what we call gun paranoia.”
“Well, you and my sister can share your penchant for unlocked firearms sometime. I will remain staunchly prosafety.”
“You have a sister, huh?” She side-eyed him as they walked down the stairs.
Talked. Too. Damn. Much. Why did she have that effect on him? No one had ever had that effect on him. Top-heavy mouth, queen-of-the-world attitude, really amazing ass or no. He was a bastion of silence. She was screwing that all up and it had only been about a week.
She slid into the patrol car and he placed his travel mug in the console before attaching his gun belt and sliding into th
e passenger seat.
Just had to get through today and then he got a break from her. Then four more days until he’d at least have his own car, even if she was there. He hated this two-week watch thing BCPD did. He wanted to be behind the wheel. In charge. Maybe then he would feel as though he had some control, because today, with headache pounding and mentioning Leah, all he felt like was a helpless...amoeba.
“So, what’s she like?”
“Who?”
“Your sister. I always wanted one, and I can’t picture you doing a lot of playing with a sister. Although, in fairness, I can’t picture you as a kid.”
“Leah and I didn’t do a lot of playing.”
“Big age difference?”
“No.”
“You’re too macho and manly to have played with girls?”
“No.” He squeezed the coffee cup and lifted it to his lips. He wouldn’t engage. Not on this. He was not elaborating on his pathetic family situation.
She picked up the radio, seeming to have given up on him explaining. “Ten forty-one,” she said into the speaker.
Now they were officially at work, which meant he was officially not thinking about her mouth in any way aside from official officer-to-officer...mouth things.
He focused on the window. He drank his coffee and kept his mouth otherwise firmly shut. She whistled, off tune, to some terrible ’80s power ballad in between answering some minor calls.
Luckily his headache subsided, the sloshing in his stomach abated. He felt almost human by lunchtime.
Just as they were about to take lunch, a call came through the radio. “Domestic disturbance at the Meadowview apartment complex on East Main. Front yard. One of the participants is armed.”
Her whole demeanor changed. Granted, so far all the day shift calls they’d run together had been easy, nonthreatening. A fender bender. Blown-out tire blocking the road. Disturbances with weapons were a lot more serious, so it made some sense, but there was something about her expression that made him wonder.
She clutched the radio. “En route.” She flicked a glance at him then back at the road as she turned around. “When we get there, I’m going to need you to field this one,” she said, a kind of steely, grave note where usually nothing but ease lilted.