Stark Raving Mad (Chicago's Finest Book 2)
Page 9
She leaned in and licked her lips. Fire burned in his belly as her tongue swept side to side, leaving a glistening trail along the pink skin. Her lips brushed his. The sadness swirling in his chest intensified. It felt so good, so right, but Steve…
Her lips pressed against his. Harder. Demanding. He met each surge. Pain fizzled at the edges as his mind buried all the crap beneath the sensations.
He wrapped an arm around her waist, bringing her closer. The kiss deepened. A groan escaped his throat as her hand wound around the hair at the back of his neck.
She consumed his senses, his body. The day disappeared. Heartbreak gone. Only her hands, her lips, and her trembling body existed. She was his air, his everything. He clung to her, desperate for anything she would give. Desperate for her.
She leanedback. Her eyes tried to pin his down, but he couldn’t look at her. He couldn’t face the sympathy or the pity in her stare. He leaned his head on her shoulder and drank in her scent.
“Do you need to be home for Bruno?”
“No, he stays with neighbor when I’m working.”
“Good, then it’s time to go to bed.” She stood and reached out for his hand. “I don’t know…” He couldn’t believe it, but he wasn’t in the mood.
“Are you staying here to protect me, tonight?” “Yes.”
“Then sleep upstairs. Sleep, that’s all.” She slipped her fingers through his, nudging him forward, and he followed. Just sleep, with Brook. He never thought those words would make him feel, well, anything. But, they did.
The thought of being alone tonight hurt, a gut-tightening, heart-aching hurt, but wrapping himself up in her all night just felt natural. He followed her up the stairs to her bedroom. Past the frilly drapes and ruffled pillows. He let her push him down onto the edge of the bed and then let her help him takeoff his shoes and belt.
“Get some sleep.” She slid the silky covers over him and kissed his forehead before she headed for the bathroom.
A few minutes later, she laid down next to him dressed in sweats and a T-shirt. She turned onto her side, and didn’t move away when he draped his arm over her and burrowed his face in her neck. Minutes later, darkness crashed over him, giving him the best sleep he’d had in months.
* * *
“…Can’t you do anything right? Why can’t you be more like your sister?” Dad’s face reddened as he yelled.
“Jonathon, she’s only sixteen.” Mom tried to stick up for me. She always tried to stick up for me, but he didn’t listen. I was never good enough.
“Pearl, she’s old enough to know better. This half-assed stuff isn’t tolerated in the Southby household. Don’t you have any pride?”
Pride? Why should I have pride? I have nothing to be proud of.
“Do it right, do it fast, or don’t do it at all!” He slammed his hand onto the kitchen table.
“Jonathon, she tried. Math has never been her strong suit,” Mom said, tears streaming down her pale cheeks. Her blonde hair was pulled tight into a bun, hiding it. Hiding her beautiful hair behind pins and clips.
Why didn’t I study longer, harder? I went to bed early. I should have done more. Stayed up later and run through more problems. Why did I put those tears in her eyes? I reached for her hand, but it was too far away.
“Tried? Is that true. Did you try?” Anger seethed from every spitfilled word. “Y-e-e-s-s.”
“You are a disappointment. I don’t know what’s worse, if you tried and failed or if you just didn’t give a damn.”
“I didn’t fail. I got a B. In some houses that’s considered a success.”
“Is that where you want to be, in a house that celebrates mediocrity? A house that celebrates stupidity?” A heavy sigh escaped his lips. “It’s a damn good thing you’re pretty.” He flipped her long blonde hair between his fingers. “Because your trying isn’t gonna get you very far. Maybe you’ll find a man to take care of you.”
“I hate you!”
Brook gasped as her eyelids snapped open. Images of her father’s anger and disappointment floated behind her sleep-hazed eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whispered to the air. The one thing she didn’t get to say when he was alive. The last words she said to her father before he died hung in her mind.
“I hate you.”
She threw an arm over her face. Plain black. No figures. No father. Nothing but darkness in her vision. Thank God. She hadn’t had a nightmare like that in a while.
She hadn’t felt the weight of those words in years.
She looked around the dark room. In a couple of weeks, daylight saving would ensure she woke to the sun, but for now she woke up to dark, left work in the dark, it was always just dark.
Right now, she welcomed the dark. Even the little bit of light coming from the alarm on the nightstand was too much.
She tried to turn over, but large arms surrounded her body.
Joe. He was strong and safe and exactly what she needed. Somehow, even asleep he knew how to take care of her. She snuggled closer to him, her cheek resting against his rock-hard chest.
He stirred next to her, a yawn spilling from his lips. He looked down as sleep left his eyes and awareness arched his brows. Instead of bringing her close, he angled his head back, his body rigid.
“Hey.” Brook smiled as she moved closer. He probably wasn’t used to waking up to a woman in the morning. “How are you today?”
“Hey…um, fine.” He stretched his arms, moving further away, rolling to a sitting position at the other side of the bed, feet on the floor. He leaned his elbows on his knees.
Honeymoon’s over. Brook yanked the blanket closer, trying to keep the diminishing heat around her body.
He jumped from the bed, leaning over as he slid his feet into the shoes sitting next to the bed. “Thanks for letting me stay last night.”
“Sure.” Her body chilled. What the hell was going on? She ran last night over and over in her mind. They talked. They fell asleep. They didn’t have sex of any kind. Where the hell did this uncomfortable nightmare come from? “I’ll make some coffee.”
“Don’t bother.” He looped his belt through his jeans. “I need to get to work.”
She watched him fix the collar of his shirt and straighten his jeans. He attached his gun to his belt. She’d never seen anyone dress that fast. Of course, it could be the fact that his eyes were glued to those clothes. He didn’t look at her. Not once.
His indifference chilled the air.
“Well, ’bye.” He grabbed his wallet and slid into his back pocket.
Surprise. She almost felt he should drop a C-note on the dresser.
It could not have made her feel any worse. Nothing could. “’Bye.”
He walked out of the bedroom, and a minute later the front door slammed. He didn’t pass go and didn’t collect two hundred dollars. She’d had a few morning-afters in her time, but this was the first time she felt used. Cheap. She knew she should keep her distance from that egomaniacal cop. She was there for him last night when he needed her, but today? Screw her. She always knew he would find a way to hurt her. Just not this soon.
She should be thanking her lucky stars it was over before she got in too deep, but somehow she wasn’t busting out the cornucopia and turkey just yet. She was too mad to be thankful.
Yet—it was her own damn fault.
She knew this was coming. He was a man like all the other men out there. Pretty face. Sexy eyes. Sweet words. All of that culminating in the final abandonment. She had lived it over and over.
She wasn’t doing it again. She was done.
She walked into the bathroom and turned the shower to hot.
Very hot. She’d wash last night from her body, if not from her mind.
Chapter Eleven
Joe had slept well the night before, which made it weird that he was so damn pissy this morning. He shouldn’t have left Brook like that. Hell, he shouldn’t have left her at all. Crap. He didn’t have time to think about that at the moment.
The captain sighed.
“Can I get back to it?” Joe stood up. He didn’t have time for this. He had work to do. He was going to take down this asshole who killed his ex-partner. He owed it to Timmons.
“Wait. Have a seat.” Humphries yanked a file off his desk as Joe sat. “I need to pull you from the Timmons case.”
“What? Why? That’s my case.” What the fuck! This. Was. Not. Happening. “It was your case, but Narcotics is taking it over.”
“It’s a murder. What the hell does narcotics know about murder?” “Nothing, but they’re going to work with Hogan and Dyer.”
“Why Hogan and Dyer?” The dipshit duo, oh hell no. “I’m already on the case.
Narcotics should be working with me.” “You’re too close.”
“Give me a break…” Joe stood, the chair rocking before falling onto its legs. “Perretti, you’re too close to this one. Step back.” “Screw this.”
The Captain threw the file on the desk in front of Joe. “Work this.”
“Dammit, Captain.”
“I know this sucks,” Humphries yelled, “but this isn’t up for discussion. Work what I give you, or take some time off. Your choice.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Maybe,” the captain said as he sat behind his desk, “but this is how it needs to be. You can’t work the Timmons case.”
Joe tookthe file from Humphries’ desk, anger poking holes in his temple. He wanted to burn the fucking file. This was a joke. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. He was supposed to work the Timmons case. Dammit. “Are you done?”
“Yes.”
Joe stormed out of the office, temples roaring, anger churning in his gut.
Dammit.
He walked through the noise-infested office and threw open the break room door before slamming it. His fist crunched into the wall. Shit. His hand throbbed. Timmons. Red and orange fury swirled in his vision. He kicked the metal set of cabinets again and again, aggression building and rushing with every movement. Blood pumping. He licked his dry lips and sighed. He bent his legand readied to launch another futile attack on the kitchen furniture.
Dammit.
He wrenched a chair away from the table and sat. The roar in his head gradually silenced. His muscles spent, he rested his elbows on the table, head hanging low. Tears wanted to fall, but they’d never see him cry. Not ever.
He hated to admit it but, he could have used Brook right about now, her hands that soothed away all the pain and her lips that kissed away the heartache and the bullshit. He checked his phone and found her name in the contacts—not that he could call the number. He’d burned that bridge this morning when he ran out the door.
Ran like a little bitch.
Back in the day, these were the times he’d call Steve Timmons, grab a beer, and growl about the bullshit that was the Chicago PD. They would stay out until neither one could find another thing to complain about or they were shitfaced drunk, whichever came first.
Now what? He twirled the phone in his hand. Now, he had no one. No one. He threw the phone against the wall and plastic snapped and splintered, bouncing back into the small room.
Shit, now he needed a new phone.
“Joe?” A head appeared around the door. Short black hair dipped into worried light-brown eyes.
“What?” he snapped.
“Need to talk?” Shay shut the door before sitting across from him. “Do I look like I want to talk?”
“No, but your phone looks like you need to talk.”
The door swung open and Marco Lopez walked in. He stopped when he saw Joe, but smirked and kept walking.
“This is occupied,” Shay said.
“You don’t own the place. I want coffee.”
“Oh, why didn’t you say so?” Shay stood up from the table and walked across the room. She held up the pot of coffee. “This coffee?” She dumped the contents into the sink and put the empty carafe back on the coffeemaker. “Go to the third floor.”
“What the hell?” Marco howled. “I’d ask if you’re menstrual, but you’re always a bitch.”
“Hey!” Joe jumped up, knocking over the chair he’d been sitting on. He wasn’t letting this little creep talk shit about his partner, no matter how big a pain in the ass she was.
“Back off, Stitches. Jeez. Can’t even take a joke.” Lopez stomped out. “Don’t go in there, Washington and Perretti have seized the room…Who knows, maybe they’re making out in there…”
Joe ran a hand over his face. Who needed this shit? Not him.
Not today.
“Joe.” Shay said his first name again. She was serious. She never used his first name, ever. Now, twice in one day. “Why don’t you take the day off?”
“I have things to do here.”
“Really? I think I can take care of things for a day or two.” She was using his words from the day before on him. He wasn’t buying it, though. “Go see your girl.”
“I don’t have a girl.” He dropped his head back and inhaled. This was not a conversation he wanted to have with Shay. He didn’t want to have it at all. He had no desire to delve into the non-relationship he had with Brook, especially after the look that crossed her face that morning. She looked hurt, confused. And he put that there.
“Screw it up already?”
Joe wanted to tell her no, it was none of her damn business. But he did screw it up. Already. Hell, it was screwed up before it even started. He had no idea how to fix it. He didn’t know what to do to make her listen to him. So he did what he normally did—ignored it.
She laid a hand over his. “You can make it right, just don’t ignore it. Man up to whatever stupid shit you did.” She must have been reading his mind. “You and Steve might have had your differences, but you still lost a good friend. Most normal people will give you a little leeway.”
“Maybe.”
“Go home, beg for forgiveness. Come in tomorrow.” She patted his hand and walked out of the room.
Beg for forgiveness. Hah. He had a feeling begging wouldn’t help, but he still had to protect her from Stark. Maybe he’d just stick to the original plan and stake out the front door. That was impersonal, distant. Perfect.
Because watching her from the inside was killing him.
* * *
Brook sat on her couch, stocking feet underneath her. What a day. Larry was still missing-in-distraction, and Junior Ryder was out of jail on bail and hadn’t been pinched for any illegal activity in twenty-four hours. Time to celebrate.
She tipped a glass of wine back as another set of dancers took the stage on the TV. Benny and Carly, the TV star and the professional dancer, took the stage and tangoed their little feet off. It was beautiful and exotic, and Brook had no desire to stop watching. But her work wasn’t going to start doing itself.
No matter how much she wished it.
As Carly twirled and dipped for her finale, Brook broughther briefcase closer. A weird smell wafted from the interior. She slid her hand in and her fingers grazed a cardboard box. Stupid package. Stupid Joe.
She was so tired of thinking about that jerk. She hadn’t heard from the asshole- detective all day. Thank goodness they hadn’t slept together, or it would have been hard for him to talk to her less than the nothing he’d managed thus far.
She walked across the room and pulled the drapes back. No police stakeout that she could see. Not that she thought she needed one, but he did, and he was nowhere to be found. Grrrr!
She walked back to the couch and sipped her wine. Well, “sip” might have been a bit kind, but “gulp” sounded so unrefined. And, dammit, she was refined. She was so refined she didn’t need an obnoxious asshole detective hanging around her bed, running like a scared little…kitty. See how she didn’t
think that other word for cat? That’s class.
She opened her bag and wrapped her hands around the box. The smell grew. She threw the box on the table, gagging. What kind of sick security contraption smelled of rot and metal?
Shit. She should call the cops, but didn’t know what to say. I got a weird package. She needed to get the darn thing open.
Pulling a knife from the knife block in the kitchen, she slid the sharp edge through the tape. Packing peanuts immediately spilled out. Her eyes watered and her nose burned. Fear lodged in her throat, or maybe it was bile. The smell. She lifted a tiny handful of peanuts from the box and dropped it to the table. She reached back in. Styrofoam infinity symbols spilled on the floor. Her hand inched around the feather-light shapes.
Fear constricted her temples. What the hell was in the box? Water pooled in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. A gag almost brought up her dinner as her fingers grazed something. Something that was not packing material. Red- soaked towel. Blood.
Tears blocked her vision as she stripped away the stiffened cotton. Metallic stench. She ripped the last bit of fabric free. “Oh God!” She dropped the bundle and ran into the bathroom.
Bile bubbled in her throat. Stars danced in her vision. She ran her hands under the water, scrubbing her nails with the bar of soap. She needed to get clean. Needed the blood off her hands so she could touch her phone. So she could call the police. Hot water burned her skin. Scalding. It needed to be hotter. To clean the red from her fingers.
Another night in the company of Oak Park’s finest. Awesome.
Chapter Twelve
Damn cops. He just wanted one look at Brooklyn. One look at her lying, scheming face. Just to see her fear.
“She’s probably crying.” Dennis laughed as he hunched lower and lower in the car. Between the closed curtains and flat-feet assholes running in and out of the house, he couldn’t get a look. Couldn’t get close enough to see anything.
He did notice one thing, though. No Perretti.
He should have known that man-slut wouldn’t hang around long. He didn’t have the character to stick around. Not that Dennis minded. That would work just fine. He didn’t want Perretti involved. He owed the cop, and he couldn’t let him get mixed up in this.