“That’s right.”
“So, does that mean there’s room for—”
“Shut it.” Steph cut her off. “Have you seen him by the way? I know he’s been looking for you.”
“Yeah, he’s—” Corey winced. “Oh, shit, I told him I was coming back.” She quickly glanced to Thayer to see her, Rachel, and Kelly Warren working their way through the shot tray. Looks like they were going to be here for a while.
“You’re at a packed bar by yourself.” Corey slid a beer in front of him.
He grunted his thanks and sucked down half of it. “I spend all day with these bozos. Don’t need to pal around with them too.”
“So, Steph’s going to narcotics. Are you happy about that?”
“I don’t like partners. And she earned it.”
She eyed him and drank her beer. “You know I can almost guarantee she wouldn’t be at all offended if you asked her out.”
His eyes shot to her but he didn’t speak for a long time. “What’s it to you?”
She shrugged. “Nothing, I guess. Just thought I detected some chemistry.” He looked thoughtful and had no snarky comeback so she left it at that. “I should get back.”
“Wait.” He put a hand on her arm.
Corey turned back to him, curious.
He cleared his throat a couple of times and set his beer on the bar before reaching into his shirt collar to pull out a small gold medallion on a gold chain. “St. Michael. Patron saint of police officers. A lot of guys wear it.”
“I didn’t know you were Catholic.”
“My ex-wife was.” He shrugged. “Some of it stuck and in my line of work, it’s not like you can ever have too much backup.”
Corey cocked her head wondering where he was going with this. “Yeah, I get it.”
He reached into his pocket, pulling out a silver chain with a small silver medallion and held out his hand. “I got you one too.”
She stared at it, confused. “St. Michael?”
“No. Take it.”
She scooped it out of his hand and held it up, but there wasn’t enough light to read the inscription around the half-inch silver oval.
“It’s St. Teresa of Avila, a sixteenth century Spanish woman known for not giving a shit about other people’s expectations and never letting anyone hold her back and tell her what she could and couldn’t do—or what was proper.” He snorted. “Course for her that meant committing herself to a life of devotion and piety, but you get my meaning. She was also a fan of pop culture, whatever that means, five hundred years ago.”
Corey was positively stunned at the gift and her expression must have said as much.
“You don’t have to wear it or anything, and I don’t know what you believe but you know…” He seemed to have run out of words.
“You’re not always going to be around to save my ass?”
“Something like that.”
“Well, organized religion and I haven’t ever been close, what with my lifestyle of mortal sin and all, but I have faith. You know, I see so many dead bodies I have to believe there’s more to death than ending up on a steel table under my knife.” She was thoughtful for a moment. “So, yeah, I believe in a higher power. It’s a she, by the way.”
“Obviously.”
Corey unclasped the chain and hooked it around her neck, the medallion falling to the neckline of her shirt. She touched it. “She sounds badass. What’s she the saint of? Fucking up the patriarchy?”
“Oh, yeah, that.” Collier finished his beer. “St. Teresa is the patron saint of headaches.”
Corey’s head snapped up, her mouth agape. “You’re shitting me.”
“Look it up.”
“Come on. There’s a patron saint of headaches?”
“There’s a saint for every goddamn thing you can think of.” He waved at Gina behind the bar and held up two fingers. She promptly deposited two beers in front of them.
Corey grabbed one and took several long swallows to mask her whirlwind of emotions. “I don’t know what to say.” She held the medallion between her fingers, her eyes pricking with tears.
“You don’t have to say anything,” he said quietly, and Corey could see his own emotions behind his eyes. “Anyway…” He cleared his throat. “I like you better at a loss for words and you probably want to get back.” He nodded across the room.
“Yeah. Will you come with me? You know, pal around for a while?” She grinned crookedly. “We’re a hell of a lot better looking than most of the other bozos.”
Collier rumbled a laugh. “Why the hell not?”
“Maybe I’ll become a saint one day,” she suggested as they crossed the crowded room.
“Sure, as soon as churches stop catching on fire when you get too close.”
“You’re so clever.”
“St. Curtis, patron saint of ‘inappropriate sarcasm’ or ‘public displays of idiocy.’ No wait, I got it—patron saint of ‘sad sexual encounters.’”
“Ha! I fucking dare you to ask Thayer about the last one. She’s had a lot to drink. I’ll show you. The church is gonna love me.”
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