by K. Bromberg
I hear her suck in a breath in reaction, and I love knowing that I’ve gotten to her somehow. “Well, I guess we both have control and trust issues we need to work through, don’t we?”
“I thought that was what we were doing.”
With a chuckle, I end the call and let out a long, controlled sigh.
Fuck. I may be getting the upper hand, but hell if I’ll take any hand about now so long as it’s hers.
“Hello, are you Officer Malone?”
What the?
I look out the open passenger side window to see a fresh-faced kid, late teens, dark features, about five foot eight, two hundred pounds.
“Can I help you?” I eye him. My immediate hunch is that he’s harmless, but I don’t like that I can’t see both his hands.
“Yeah, I have a delivery for you.”
“You what?” I sit a little taller in the driver’s seat and study him closer.
“A delivery. Here.” He shoves a pink box through the window. “From The Donut Shoppe.”
“The Donut Shoppe?”
“Yes. There’s a note on the top.”
I eye him warily. “’Kay. Thanks.” The kid starts to walk away. “Hey, wait.” I dig into my wallet and pull out some ones to give him.
“Thanks,” he says, but I’m already looking at the top of the pink pastry box. “Donut think you’ve won this battle – Emerson”
I stare at the writing and do the only thing I can, laugh.
“What’s that?” Nate asks as he slides into the car.
“Emerson.”
“She’s sending you love notes on donut boxes now? I thought you were the one trying to get the upper hand.”
“I’m trying, dude. Believe me, I’m trying.”
“Well, try harder. If you play this game any longer, your balls will become bluer than your uniform.”
“Fuck off.”
He smirks. “At least someone would be getting some then.”
“Whatever. Dude, you wish—”
“All units. 10-16 at 12662 Serenity Court.”
I don’t even have to glance over to Nate to tell him to respond. He already has the radio in his hand as I throw the car in gear and flip the lights and sirens on.
It’s Keely’s address.
We make it there in minutes, and I turn the siren off but leave the lights on as I turn into the neighborhood. We’re parked in the driveway and out of the car, my fist banging on the door in seconds.
“Sunnyville Police Department, open up.” I pound a few more times as Nate steps on the planters to try to see inside the front window.
“There was yelling and screaming.” I round at the sound of a feeble voice, my hand automatically going to my weapon, but I ease off when I see the elderly neighbor from across the street.
“What else?” Nate asks as he steps forward, leaving me to man the front door. I hear words such as “shouting” and “threatening,” but when it comes down to being a witness to anything, she didn’t see much.
I pound again. “Mrs. Davis, open up. We just want to make sure you and Keely are okay in there.”
Glancing around, I note that a few other neighbors are home from work already, a few even nosing out of their houses to see what the problem is. More rocks are painted in the entryway—hints of a normal, creative child or signs of a little girl escaping the fighting inside her house.
Just as I’m about to pound again, I hear the deadbolt slide, and the door cracks open. Amelia Davis stands there, tears staining her face and hair a mess.
“Mrs. Davis? Is everything okay in there?” I ask, voice gentle. I’m well aware that Mr. Davis might be on the opposite side of the door, judging her every answer and the according punishment.
“Yes. It’s fine. Everything is fine,” she says unconvincingly as she widens the door without my asking so I can see inside. My eyes scan her person for bruises, but she’s wearing long sleeves mid-summer. “He’s not home, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Momma? Is everything okay?” Keely’s timid voice calls from inside.
“Yes, sweetie. The nice officers from the other day stopped by. They wanted to see the new rocks you painted.” She lies easily, and I’m not sure if I respect or detest her for protecting her child.
“He did? He is?” Awe fills her voice as she peeks her sweet face beyond the corner wall, blue eyes wide as a smile spreads on her lips.
“I did.” I nod and play along with the mother as I eye Nate to take over the questions while I separate Keely from their conversation.
“I’m sorry, Officer. It was just a fight.” I overhear Amelia say to Nate as I walk Keely down the path and away from the front door.
“Are you here because my mom and dad were fighting again?” she asks and breaks my heart.
I nod, not wanting to lie about the obvious and needing her to trust me. “Mm-hmm. It’s our job to make sure everything is okay.” I kneel so I’m eye to eye with her. “Is everything okay, Keely?”
She stares at me with eyes that have seen way too much, and her bottom lip trembles some before she nods ever so slowly.
I could kill the bastard for putting that look on her face. Wring his goddamn neck.
“You sure?”
She glances back to her mom and then down to her fingers, which have found their way to twist into her shirt. “Yeah.” Her little shoulders shrug. “Mommy had me go in my room and be quiet. I don’t know what happened.”
“Okay.” I nod. I can face down a six-foot suspect and know if he’s lying or not, but give me a five-year-old little girl, and I’m lost in fucking translation. “What were they arguing about?”
“Stuff.” She shrugs again. Twists her fingers. Shifts her feet. “Money and just stuff.”
“Okay. Were you scared for your mommy or daddy at all?”
She finally lifts her eyes to meet mine, and I can see her fighting wanting to betray her parents. “Yeah. I don’t like when they fight. Nemo and I hide under the covers and sing ‘You are My Sunshine’ so we don’t hear them.”
“That’s my favorite,” I say, thinking of how my mom used to sing it to Luke when he was a baby. “And a very smart move on your part.”
“Did you really want to see my rocks?”
“Yes. Of course. That was why I came to talk to you. I’ve found some new favorites.” I glance over to Nate to see where we are in the call, and his slight nod and stiff expression tell me he’s getting no-fucking-where. “The poop emoji one is my new favorite,” I say, trying to keep a straight face.
Her giggle makes me smile, though. “You know what a poop emoji is?”
“Of course I do. Don’t let the uniform fool you. I know poop emojis like the best of them.”
And every time I say “poop,” I get another giggle, a sound that should be a norm for her but probably isn’t. Déjà vu hits me in the moment, much like it did the last time I was here. I shake it, along with the image of the strawberry blonde little girl in my memories, away but come up with an idea.
“Tell me something, Keely, do you like to keep secrets?” I ask in a hushed voice.
“You mean like secrets that will get you in trouble or secrets like a super spy?”
“Like a super spy.”
She nods, her smile widening. “I can keep super spy secrets. Of course I can.”
“I thought so. I mean, I gave you the badge last time, but I was pretty certain you were spy worthy.”
“I am. I am.”
“Sometimes, when you’re a secret spy, you have to leave coded messages for other secret spies so they know what’s going on.”
“You do?”
“Yep.” I nod, knowing I need to wrap this up but also needing to get this point across. “Sometimes the littlest of signs tells other spies that things are okay or they’re not okay.”
“Really?”
“Definitely.”
“So what does that have to do with me?”
“I need you to be a su
per spy for me. It’s my job as a police officer to know that you and your mom are okay at all times.” I can see her little wheels turning, and I speak before she can question it too much. “So, I’m thinking that we use your rocks as our secret code.”
Her eyes and smile both widen, pride in her work replacing any skepticism she had seconds ago. “My rocks?”
“Yes, but you can’t tell anyone else or else the secret spy code will be broken, and then we’ll no longer be spies.”
“I can keep a secret.”
I eye her as if I’m doubting her, but then when I smile, she knows I trust her. “Good. I think we should come up with a certain picture or word, and if you paint that on a rock, then I know you’re afraid and need help for you or your mom.”
Skepticism is back, but it isn’t as deep when she asks, “What word or picture?” Her voice is barely audible.
“You can pick it.”
“Hmm.” She twists her lips and thinks so hard it’s adorable. “Watermelon.”
“Watermelon?” I laugh, not expecting that answer in a million years.
“Yeah, watermelon. I’m not that good at painting, though. I know you’re just saying it because I’m a kid and you’re an adult so you have to say it so you don’t hurt my feelings . . . but I promise I can really paint a good watermelon.”
“I believe you.” I love the little glimpses of her personality that are starting to shine through her fear. “Will it be green and—”
“No. It will be red with black seeds; although, mommy only buys the kind without seeds and those are no fun because there are no seeds to see how far you can spit.”
“Got it. A red rock with black seeds.” I glance at the painted rocks already there and know I’d be able to spot it in a second. “Good choice. Now, we need to decide on a place to put our secret signal. Where do you think?”
She bites her bottom lip and looks around. “How about right there at the corner of the sidewalk?”
“I think that’s an excellent choice. See? You’re already proving what a great secret spy you’re going to be.”
“How often are you going to check for the code?”
“As often as I need to,” I say, not wanting to overcommit but needing her to understand she’s safe.
“What are you two talking about?” Amelia asks as she comes up behind Keely and puts her arm around her daughter’s shoulders.
“Secret spies and watermelon,” Keely says.
“Is that a show on Nickelodeon?” Amelia asks.
“Yep.” Keely looks back at me one last time with a soft smile before her mom ushers her to the house and shuts the door without another word.
“Did you get anywhere?” I ask Nate as we climb in the cruiser.
“You mean did she admit that the bastard hits her so she wears long sleeves in summer to hide the bruises? No. No matter how many times I told her that we’d protect her, that all she has to do is press charges to protect Keely, she kept denying anything was wrong.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“’Bout sums it up.”
I pound my fist on the steering wheel. “I’m sure we’ll be back again.”
“We can’t help her unless she wants the help.”
“And in the meantime, the girl is in the crosshairs. That seems fair,” I say, frustrated disgust edging my tone.
“Yep.” He blows out a sigh. “At least we have donuts.”
“No, you have donuts,” I say, hating their smell currently filling my car.
“Call Emerson and tell her you’re running late and then turn your car around and go home.”
Desi sputters on the other end of the phone. “You’re cute and all, but that doesn’t excuse you for being a bossy asshole.”
I glance over to where Emerson is sitting at the bar about fifty feet away. Her strawberry blonde hair is tucked behind her ear, her fingers twirl the straw stuck in her drink, and those long, tan legs call to every man in here. The thought alone has me itching for a fight or any excuse to get my anger over the Keely situation out of my damn system.
“I’ll owe you one,” I say between gritted teeth as another man sits beside her and offers small talk she doesn’t encourage. But still, she smiles. Still, she’s goddamn gorgeous.
“How do you know I’m meeting her for a drink?” Desi asks.
“Because I’m sitting in a back booth at Davenport’s, drinking away my shitty day, and I’m watching Emerson sit at the bar and ignore every man who dares pull up a stool next to her.”
Desi snorts. “So, in other words, you’re pissed at every man going near her, and the sight of them has started the testosterone-laced caveman part of you to finally make your goddamn move instead of sitting on the sidelines, playing games like you have been.”
“I am not playing games, Desi. I am making sure she knows she can’t control this like she’s controlled every other relationship she’s ever had . . . at least according to you.” I let that dig sit there to let her know if she talks about our conversations to Emerson, then I’ll talk, too.
“Are you blackmailing me, Officer Sexy?” she teases.
“Just stating the facts, ma’am.”
Another man. Another clench of my fists.
“Well, it’s about damn time. I was getting dried up over here waiting for you to act.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Just so you know . . .” The four words every man cringes when he hears. “You’re I’m-in-control shit doesn’t fly with me any more than it flies with Em. I’m only calling her and doing what you ask because you two need to get over this cat-and-mouse game and eat the damn cheese already.”
“Goodbye, Des.”
The call ends, and I sit back and wait for Emerson to pick up her phone. As if on cue, the moment I think it, her phone rings. She looks at her watch while talking to Desi, and she shrugs, flinging one hand up as if to question Desi when she’s nowhere in sight. She may be irritated, but that only serves in my favor in the end.
As soon as she sets down the phone, I’m already ringing her.
“Hello?”
“Hey, I’m heading out to you right now for my jump.”
There’s resignation in her sigh over the connection, and I physically watch as she slumps her shoulders back against the chair. “Not today. I can’t.”
“I thought you said any time, though.” I push her buttons.
“Yeah, well, any time is not right now. Besides, I’m not even there.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m meeting Desi.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Just a shitty day all around.”
“You and me both. Wanna talk about it?” She’s silent for a moment as a man sits too closely next to her and she shifts to regain her personal space. “Tell him to back the fuck off, Em.”
It takes a second, but I can tell the moment awareness hits her. Her spine stiffens. Her fingers tighten on her drink. But ever cool, she takes her time scooting back and looking around the bar. She finds me right away. Our eyes lock. A smile flickers and fades before I hear her sharp intake of breath on the phone.
“Tell him, Emerson. Tell him you’re with me.”
Her brow narrows, but she doesn’t move. “I’m meeting Desi,” she says into the phone instead of taking the ten steps to tell me face to face.
“No, you’re not. She isn’t coming. I called her and told her to turn around and go back home.” Temper stews on that gorgeous face of hers. “Tell him.”
She doesn’t say a word to the man next to her, who is still eyeing her, but rather slides some cash across the bar, pushes her chair in, and then stalks over to me, phone still held to her ear.
She stands in front of me, and every part of me begs to kiss her. Fuck her. Anything with her because it feels like forever since we kissed and a lifetime of foreplay that has in no way been satisfying.
“You don’t get to tell me what to do.”
Okay. This is how she wants this to go
. “Have a seat.”
“No.”
“Have a seat, Emmy.”
“It’s Emerson.” She glares, her feet shifting as she lowers her phone from her ear. I eye the seat next to her and then look back to her.
“Sit.”
“You’re an asshole, you know that?” she sneers.
“Yeah. Probably. But I’ve had a shitty day, so fucking sue me if I want you to sit and have a few drinks with me and maybe see why your day was so goddamn crappy too . . .” I shrug. “Sit.”
Her emotions wage a war across her face, but I can see reluctance flash through those eyes of hers before she lowers herself to the seat across from me. Without looking away, I lift a hand to the bartender and motion for another round. We don’t speak until the drinks arrive, tension mounting between the two of us for some odd reason.
Foreplay.
I smile at the thought, and I know it pisses her off.
“Since when did you become such a stalker?”
“Me? Stalker?” I laugh, and this banter is just what I need.
“Yeah, word has it that you’ve been asking about where I live.”
“You mean the one question I asked Desi?”
Her lips quirk as she fights a smile. “Yeah, that question.”
“If I’m going to stalk you effectively, don’t I need to know that info?”
She’s still trying to make up her mind whether she likes this idea, just like I’m still trying to figure out if I like her living in the loft of a hangar doing odd jobs in exchange for rent and transportation. Even if it’s for the harmless caretaker, Travis Barnhardt, it’s still another thing on her plate to do when she already does too much.
“Being a cop and all, I figured you had better means than loose-lips Desi.”
“I happen to have a soft spot for loose-lips Desi,” I say just to irritate her.
“No shit. Give the girl William Sonoma, and she’ll sing like a canary.”
I laugh, which draws looks from others around us. “I’m afraid to know what else she confessed.”
“That’s for me to know and you to never know.” Her eyes glance up from her drink and hold mine.
“So, you had a shitty day, too?” I prompt.