by Zoe Hill
Apparently, I needed to see Bella cry to remember how to speak up.
“Oh,” Rebecca sneers. She picks up her tablet and touches the screen until it’s illuminated once more. “It’s not that easy to get rid of me. In fact, I’m suspending Detective Tennyson, effective immediately, pending further investigation into the allegations. Your personal matter, Lieutenant, will remain open until I’m satisfied that there hasn’t been inappropriate conduct between yourself and Detective Vertes.”
Pointing at the door, she continues, “Please gather your things, Ms. Tennyson. My department will be in touch to arrange formal questioning within a week. Until then, enjoy your time off... I’m sure your family will be happy to have their little rebel home.”
The powerlessness that overcomes me turns my blood to ice in my veins. Incredulity widens my eyes until they burn, and I glance at Lieutenant Ashford for confirmation that I’m not the only person hearing her snarky and unprofessional remarks.
With a similar level of impotent resignation to mine written all over his face, he inclines his head. “It’s going to be okay, Poppy. Pack your things, then see me on your way out so we can finalize the paperwork.”
Detective Barrington laughs at our exchange before adding, “While I usually prefer to be the only rebel on the premises, I can advise that I’ll also need your service weapon and badge before you leave this office.”
Nostrils flaring with suppressed rage, I snap my badge from my waistband and slam it down on the desk. After dropping the magazine and the one in the chamber, I place my Glock next to it. As I look them over, I realize that I already feel weak and naked. It’s an ineptitude that I swore I’d never live with again. I glare at Detective Barrington, then at my Lieutenant, before swinging around and striding out of the office.
Loss and despair hit me. Fast. Hard. It’s a clanging bell that hangs around my neck that rings with shame. The defeat grows heavier within me as I re-enter the main work area and everyone keeps their attention on their desk to avoid meeting my eyes. I search for Bella, worry nibbling at the edge of my mind when I can’t see her. A blinding burn flares behind my eyes when I reach my desk and discover that hers is bare.
She’s already gone.
Stumbling as I blink back the tears that want to fall, I drop into my seat and work to balance out my breathing so I can ward off the panic attack that’s dawning. Once I have a little control, I check my phone. No new notifications. It’s just past eleven in the evening. If Bella’s gone home, she’ll still be up. Mortified at the way the day has unfolded and my role in Bella’s demotion, I tap out a quick apology, but my finger hovers over the screen when I go to press send. Sighing deep, I erase the useless words and shove my cell into my back pocket. Ears ringing from the dull buzz of gossip rippling through the room, I unzip every pocket in my backpack and sweep my belongings haphazardly into the different compartments as quickly as I can.
I’ll sort it out when I get home.
“I guess the trash is taking itself out,” Chelsea snipes. I ignore her. Yanking the edges of the biggest section of my bag together, I work the overburdened zipper closed. Chuckling lightly, she runs her finger along the edge of my desk while I fight back the urge to snap her wrist. “It’s funny how things have a way of working out for the right people.”
I stand as tall as I can, then sling my hefty bag over my shoulder before I step into her space. “Every dog has their day, Chelsea. I guess today is yours. Don’t fret, though. My version of the right people and yours is miles apart, so hopefully, this is the last time we cross paths.”
Shouldering my way past her, I accidentally swing my bag into her stomach, then turn back to her with mockery in my gaze as she doubles over to catch her breath. “Oops. Sorry about that. You really should be more careful... I’d hate for you to get hurt.”
As I saunter off with false bravado in my step and a rapidly shattering heart flip-flopping in my chest, she yells after me, “Was that a threat? I should report you, but I won’t because it’d be a waste of my time. You’re too worthless to bother with. Have fun with Trigger, he has a taste for ex-detectives.”
Visualizing myself as a piece of rubber and her as glue, I imagine her insults bouncing off me and sticking to her. It’s a juvenile coping mechanism that I haven’t had to use for over a decade, yet today, it feels fitting to bring back this positive reminder of my ability to cope from the past. I need something to hold onto since my present and future are evaporating before my eyes. First Ollie dies, then my family evokes the memory of Harrison and floods my carefully crafted life with his venomous presence. Add Seb. The IA detective. Renee. Chelsea. Bella. A contract killer named Trigger.
I’m on the cusp of collapsing under the weight.
Everyway. Everything. Everyone. It’s all turning to shit.
“Can I come in?” I ask after knocking on my Lieutenant’s door. “It’s Detective Tennyson.”
“Come in,” he replies.
As I’m twisting the handle, I expand my lungs to capacity and slowly let the air out through my nose. Facing Detective Barrington again is close to the bottom of the list of things I want to do, so I’m glad to see that she’s not in the office. I settle into the seat my Lieutenant used during the summary execution of my career less than half an hour before and plonk my bag between my feet on the floor.
“Here.” Lieutenant Ashford pushes a pile of paperwork across the table. I pick it up and shove it into the top of my bag without looking at it. “Take that home and go through it with a fine-tooth comb. When I received notification from a friend that IA was on their way down here, I started digging. I’ve spoken to Renee, and she said to tell you that she’s got your back and she knows you’ve got hers.”
“Ah, thanks, I guess.” He nods his head as an assortment of emotions flicker across his face. Seeing judgement settle into his features startles me, and I blurt out, “I didn’t do anything wrong, Lieutenant. I swear.”
Lifting his chin toward the door, he offers me a tight smile. “Okay. Off you go...”
When he pauses and blocks me out by closing his eyes, regret at my impulsive outburst floods me. He doesn’t believe a word I said, not that it should matter. I know I’m not guilty and that he’s not the lily-white innocent he’s pretending to be. Scooping my bag from the floor, I turn my back to him, and with a white-knuckled grip on the strap, I sling my backpack over my shoulder. My weakened legs refuse to move for a moment, and I find myself fighting back angry tears while I mentally berate my body into cooperating with my decision to leave.
“I believe you, and everyone who knows you will too.” My boss’s voice is strangled and the remorse that coats his words persuades me to spin around to face him. Our gazes lock, and in his eyes, I see a man who’s trapped in a battle between right and wrong. “When they asked me, I told them no. I refused to participate in this travesty... travail, whatever you want to call it. Then they brought my thing with Chelsea into it, and I had to choose. I’m sorry, I know it’s wrong, but my family comes first.”
His explanation is a jumbled mess. Part excuse, half justification—it only adds to my confusion.
His affair with Chelsea has nothing to do with the allegations against me.
“I’m sorry, sir, but I’m not following. Are you saying that I’m being set up and you’re being blackmailed?”
Unadulterated panic flares in Lieutenant Ashford’s eyes until he forces it down and juts his chin toward the door with a sharp jerk. “That’ll be all, Tennyson. Please keep the office updated with your location. We need to know if you leave the state.”
Running my tongue between my top lip and my teeth to work some saliva into my mouth, I manage to croak, “Will do.”
My hand is on the door handle and I’m moving out of the office when Lieutenant quietly adds, “Don’t trust anyone. Especially the one they call Trigger. He’s dangerous, and he’s watching you.”
I trip over my feet as I stumble to a stop. Before I can properly proc
ess what he said, Lieutenant Ashford starts talking loudly on the phone. It’s a clear dismissal, so I follow the gut instinct that blooms within me as his warning cements itself into my brain and rush out of the building that used to contain a group of people I trusted with my life.
As I rush down the block toward 34th Street, a prickle of awareness burns its way up my spine. I stop short. Panting from my sprint, I check my surroundings. Dozens of people mill around me in the dark night, seemingly unconcerned that my life just crumbled around my feet. Hyperventilation stalks me. I spin in a circle. People look at me, yet they don’t really see me, even though I can’t shake the feeling I’m being watched.
Biting the inside of my cheek and blinking crazily, I slip my phone free of my pocket, and swipe to light up the screen. I still have no notifications.
As a solitary tear spills down my face, I swipe it away.
My life has spun out of control and I have no one to tell about it.
Seb’s stopped spamming me with angry messages about my stupidity for ditching him for the train. Not that I’d reach out to him, anyway, not now that I know he’s a liar.
My family hasn’t tried to contact me to ask how I’m handling being back at work.
Bella hasn’t texted to tell me she’s home.
I’m in the middle of the worst day of my life, and I’m alone.
My legs give out and I drop to my knees. The dirty sidewalk catches me, and the people walking down the street simply redirect their path around me. Forget Lieutenant Ashford’s warning to say safe. Someone could shoot me in the head, right here in the street, and no one would notice. They’d probably dance around the pool of blood to protect their shoes, then continue on their merry way.
“Poppy?” A deep, velvety, and somehow familiar, voice calls my name loud enough to jerk me out of my pity fest. I peer up when a large body crouches in front of me, but I can’t see his face in the shadows. A pair of cold hands take hold of mine and I jerk away from the chill. For some reason, when he reaches for me again, I accept his assistance and allow myself to be tugged back to my feet. “Are you all right?”
The newcomer’s face becomes properly illuminated. I let go of his hand to dry my eyes and do my best to plaster on some semblance of a smile. He’s the last person I expected to see in New York. My mood improves when I think about our last encounter, and my lips quirk into the ghost of a genuine grin.
“Spenser?” I inquire, even though I remember his name. How could I forget? It’s not often that someone stands up to Seb, then jerks off while watching me being fucked by another man. Spenser grins, a wide, brilliant beam of remembrance emanating from his handsome face as he nods to tell me that I’ve got his name correct. “You’re a long way from New Haven.”
“So are you.” His voice is a mix of sex and grit. It’s a radio worthy sound. I could listen to him speak all day. “What brings you to the city?”
“I work here,” I say, pointing down the street to Midtown South Precinct. My lips droop when I remember that I don’t actually work there right now. “I, um, there’s—”
“It looks like you’ve had a shitty night, and there’s a whole story to debrief,” Spenser quips. He runs a hand over the scruff on his chin, and a shiver of desire works its way through my body. Drunk or drugged, I’m happy that my memory did this man justice. He is beautiful. He is kind. He is the perfect mix of safe and dangerous. “I’m staying at the Plaza. I’m actually headed there... now that we’ve run into each other, would it be too forward to take advantage of the universe’s strange ways and invite you for a drink?”
I don’t answer him immediately. My mind is overwrought and I’m struggling to form words. Spenser lifts his shoulders, then he cocks his head to the side. His face takes on a cute sheen of shyness that fills my head with nothing but a chorus of “yes.”
“I’m not sure where you’re headed, maybe we can walk together, or we can share a taxi and you can give me your number instead?” he amends his initial offer.
“Yes, I’ll get a drink with you,” I blurt in a higher pitch than usual. Shaking myself, I try again, “I mean, a drink would be nice after the past few days I’ve had.”
Emerald eyes alight with delight, Spenser rubs his hands together, then blows on them. He picks up my backpack with his left arm, then holds his right hand out to me. I take a second to appreciate his clean and manicured nails before accepting his grip. His warm touch settles my frayed nerves. Spenser loosens his grasp to lift his arm and tuck me beneath it. Overcome with the compulsion to be close to him, I snuggle into his side as he drops his arm around my shoulder.
With our fingers intertwined, we walk down the pavement together. As we go, I can’t help but muse to myself how the company of the right person, temporarily or permanently, can change the way I view the world. The busy sidewalk that made upset me moments before doesn’t seem so lonely and the dreary night filled with fragmented loyalties and too many fallacies to list no longer feels like a personal judgment.
Just like he did in the alleyway, Spenser has appeared out of nowhere to help me out of the mire that’s quickly becoming my life.
FIFTEEN
“Serendipity always rewards the prepared.” ~Katori Hall~
SPENSER
Observing Poppy while she laughs at the preposterous action scene unfolding in the movie we’re watching, sends a bolt of lightning to my dormant dick. She snickers when the hapless couple tries once again to make their “one, two, three” count work for the third time in the movie so they can thwart the dirty cop who’s trying to kill them on a boat.
Her reaction is captivating.
When she’s happy, every feature in her face glows.
When’s she’s sad, sorrow radiates from every atom of her being.
I can’t imagine being as free with my emotions as Poppy.
Wearing my heart on my sleeve, if I was ever lucky enough to locate it—my heart that is, not my sleeve—would get me killed.
My hand trembles as I reach over and tuck a lock of her long hair behind her ear. All night, I’ve wanted to touch her curls to test if they were as soft as they appear. Lingering a heartbeat longer than necessary, I run my finger down the skin in front of her ear before pulling my hand back into my lap. Poppy turns to me, a wide smile quirking her generous lips, then she returns her attention to the television.
A few seconds later, her hand captures mine and she links our fingers together in the same way we held hands on our walk back to my suite at the Plaza. Settling our joined hands on the couch cushion between us, Poppy tightens her fingers around mine. After a beat, I match my pressure to hers. Her touch makes my skin burn, but it’s not in the usual way.
Physical contact with Poppy incinerates the dark thoughts that cloud my head and lights a desire to touch her more. Her mere vicinity sends my pulse skyrocketing. Her subtle perfume mingles with her vanilla soap and shampoo in a way that makes me wish I was strong enough to dip my tongue into the cleft at the bottom of her throat to taste her without flipping out. Everything about her, from her throaty laugh to her wild hair, pleases my senses.
When I’m near her, I almost forget that I’m tainted by my past and held hostage to the Coalition’s plan to dispose of her.
The couple on the television make up in the back of an ambulance and the movie comes to an end. As the credits roll, we both stare straight ahead, even as our thumbs begin to stroke the back of the other’s hand. A commercial plays on the screen, and she gradually breaks free of the spell that’s holding us together.
“I guess,” Poppy begins in a reluctant tone, “I should get going. My roommate will be wondering where I am.”
“You could stay,” I reply before she’s finished enunciating the last word. Heat flares through my face. “Or I can drive you home?”
“Let me think about it,” Poppy answers. She ducks her head, but I don’t miss the wistful sheen that shines in her eyes at my suggestion to stay. “Can you point me toward the bathroom?”
I gesture toward the short hall. “Down there, take a left, then it’s the last door on the right.”
“Thank you,” she says in a breathy voice.
As I watch her wander away, I’m struck by the gratitude she infused into those two words until I realize that she’s really talking about her meltdown on the street in front of her precinct. A lump of guilt lodges in my throat. I try to swallow it down, but it won’t go. Eitan may have told me to get to know her organically, however, I already planned on chasing her down to learn why she can touch me when no one else can.
It’s still selfish, but it must absolve me a little.
Surely?
I examine my motivations, suddenly desperate for a better excuse. The lump dissolves when I admit to myself that my eagerness to keep her here is genuine. As much as that acknowledgment surprises me, it also doesn’t. I should be keeping her close so I can learn what she knows about the Coalition. Except even thinking about the Coalition makes me want to push her away. To keep her out of the crosshairs when the shooting starts.
But why?
I’ve only just met her.
The answer comes to me easily.
Poppy makes me wish I was normal. That Trigger wasn’t needed to balance out the duality of my life. Being with her holds a light to my loneliness and blazes a trail of longing through my heart. She makes me think that being cured is a possibility. There is a comfortable familiarity between us, even though we both recognize that we’re essentially strangers.
For the first time in my life, I’m caught between doing what I crave as Spenser and what the Coalition demands of Trigger.
I’ve watched it happen to others. My paternal aunt, Rosalie, recently had the father of her child killed by the Coalition when he asked to change his role to be home with her more often, and they decided his request meant that he wasn’t fully committed to them any longer. Stirling is married to April because having him marry one of Constantine Vertes’ daughters was more beneficial to the Coalition than allowing him to have the girl he loves. Axel married an Arab princess to secure unfettered access to oil at the Coalition’s behest. Luca Zidane is betrothed to a woman he’s never met after the Coalition deemed it a suitable match that would keep an original family seated at the table. Edward Averell endures a loveless marriage because it’s advantageous for the Coalition. And earlier today, Gareth Averell, who somehow managed to marry for love, had to watch while I terrified his wife to the point where she willingly sought refuge in his arms, despite her valid reasons for hating him.