by Jennifer Ann
Shaking the eeriness aside, I throw my sheet off and pad across the cool hardwood floor, using my cellphone light to navigate around my brother’s drum set and into the hallway. By no surprise, my roommate’s bed is empty when I pass. I can’t help being a little jealous that it’s never a problem for Emersyn to find a hookup on any given night.
Before we decided to rent a place together, Emersyn and I were partnered by the precinct. At first our personalities clashed, and neither of us were too excited about the paring. She’s no-nonsense, blunt, and too bossy for my taste. Then one night while on a case, a perp assaulted her. I put a bullet in the asshole’s calf muscle before he inflicted permanent damage. We bonded, forming a friendship that became a running joke among our peers. Apparently two attractive female police officers can’t live together without it somehow being sexual.
I make my way into the kitchen and open the fridge, wincing when met by a rancid stench. Considering how many other women in their late twenties are married with children, its contents are downright pathetic. The nearly empty bottle of catsup, half-used package of processed ham, and six-pack of cheap beer are on par with two single police officers with a scant social life and outrageous shifts.
I pop the top on a beer and slug it half down, willing the demons of my past to go away. My brother was no saint—it was no secret he pedaled drugs for the “king” of the neighborhood. Trask only did it to keep food on our table after our mother split. Most of the kids in our neighborhood resorted to illegal acts at one time or another, myself included. It’s just how we survived.
Things went from bad to worse when Trask unwillingly tangled in the dirtiest business of all—organ harvesting. He knew too much, and took the fall on a bogus murder charge. When his friends were on the verge of setting him free, he was permanently silenced.
The men who orchestrated the hit were eventually taken care of, and the inmate who shanked Trask was already headed to prison for life. Yet there wasn’t any recompense made for the eighteen-year-old used as a pawn, torn from a little sister who counted on him for everything. His death wasn’t even mentioned in the local news.
Because of what happened, I decided to go into law enforcement. His death is the reason I’m so hungry for justice.
My phone dings with a new text. Wiping at a wayward tear, I sigh. Usually when someone messages at this ungodly hour, it’s the station wanting me to cover the end of a graveyard shift, or Emersyn checking in after going home with a hookup. When I see it’s from Ryker Blackwood—one of my brother’s best friends, i.e. one of select few I consider family—my heart skips a beat.
I’ve kept in close touch with my brother’s bandmates ever since they caught me posing as a motorcycle groupie at the age of nineteen. After it was all said and done, they convinced me to apply to colleges. They even paid for my 4-year degree, thanks to their band’s wild success. For more reasons than I can count, I owe my brother’s friends my life.
My phone betrays me, letting Ryker know I’ve read his message asking if I’m awake. A beat later, my phone lights with his incoming call.
“It’s ridiculously early for a world-famous rockstar,” I grumble in a raspy tone. “Or is the party just winding down?”
He answers with a deep, rolling chuckle in the husky voice that propelled In Disarray into stardom. “Ran out of coke.”
I snort at his facetious reply. “Must be hard to snort lines and guzzle Jäg with a toddler balanced on your hip.” In one breath, I finish the beer and toss the empty bottle into the overflowing trashcan. It clatters onto the tiled floor. “How is Little Bowie? Breaking hearts like his old man?”
“Growing like a weed…and busy as hell.”
Talking about his son sends a pang of guilt down to my toes. I haven’t been by to visit much since Bowie was born, letting too many of my tightly-knit friendships back home slack. But sometimes I need a break from seeing my brother’s crew ridiculously happy. It’s a painful reminder of all Trask has missed out on.
While twisting a lock of hair, I clear my throat. “Why exactly are you bothering me at this ungodly hour?”
“You have any time off in the next few days?”
“As a matter of fact, I’m off until Saturday. Are you coming out for a visit? This part of Chicago’s lovely this time of year. Just don’t forget to pack your Kevlar along with a case of sunscreen.”
“Didn’t need a reminder of the shithole you’re in,” Ryker growls out, sounding more like the surly teenager I knew as a kid. “I was hoping you could come back here for a day or two. There’s a complicated matter I’d like to go over with you in person. While you’re here, you can spend time with the family…indulge in my wife's mad baking skills. She has this killer new recipe for blueberry éclairs—you’d go apeshit over them. Blueberry was always your favorite.”
Wistfully gazing across the room at the pathetically worn couch Emersyn snagged off the side of a road, I grumble to myself. I haven’t seen my pseudo-nephew in ages, and the alternative of hitting bars outside of my jurisdiction in hopes of finding a decent man who isn’t married or jacked up on something has long since lost its appeal. I’d have far better luck cruising for widowers in neighboring nursing homes.
“Fine,” I concede with a huff. “But I’m flying to Minneapolis. I’m not wasting my free time weaving around idiots on the freeway for six hours when I get to do that every other day of the week.” Not to mention my rusted-out Chevy likely wouldn’t survive the trip.
“Send me your flight info. I’ll be there to pick you up.”
“I’ll keep an eye out for the not-so-subtle car surrounded by a gaggle of screaming girls.”
A humorless laugh follows. “Thanks, Sash. Everyone’s gonna be stoked to see you.”
I mimic his laugh. “Not as stoked as me.”
Can’t wait to share the misadventures of a single cop living in a rat-infested city. It’ll be as fun as having underage coeds paint the back of my squad car in barf.
Gliding along the streets in Ryker’s classic Challenger, I can hardly believe the changes that have taken place since my last visit. It’s completely void of the usual explicit graffiti, homeless bums, and junked cars. Once abandoned buildings have been restored as hip boutiques, 5-star restaurants, and coffee houses. Business people, upperclass residents, and families with small children litter the sidewalks, armed with paper shopping bags and radiant smiles. I half expect to see Matthew McConaughey cruising by in a Lincoln.
Amidst his rise to fame, Ryker took over his crooked uncle’s status as “king” of the South Side, doing everything in his power to rid the old neighborhood of drugs and violent crimes. The ‘hood I grew up in would’ve sent this crowd running for their lives. As someone who makes a living off busting criminals, it looks dreadfully boring.
As I absorb the new environment, Ryker eyes me with a goofy little grin on his handsome face. If he hadn’t found his calling as a rock god, he would've made a killing modeling or acting. He’s easily one of the most gorgeous thirty-something men in existence. Aside from faint lines permanently etched between his thick, dark eyebrows, he hasn’t changed much in the eight years since I left. Same full beard and luscious head of dark hair, same chiseled jaw, same heart-stopping blue eyes.
It’d be a flat-out lie of epic proportions if I were to claim I’ve always remained unaffected by the hotness of my brother’s bandmates. They’re each incredibly handsome in their own unique way, armed with enough easy-going charm to draw in hordes of female fans. But as Ryker’s features twist into a stern frown, I’m over the notion of seeing him as anything other than an annoying, over-doting relative who needs to mind his own business.
“You look good, though a little thinner than usual,” he comments. “Are you eating anything over in Gang Land?”
“Yeah…the hopes and dreams of scumbags.” Rolling my eyes, I turn away from him and watch the scenery unfold with a click of my tongue. At the edge of downtown, we roll past a massive water park cluttered wi
th toddlers and moms in bikinis—most of whom seem to have had work done on their flawless bodies. “Is that a splash pad? What’s next? One of those spas for pets?”
“Zoe was the driving force behind that splash pad, so don’t knock it when she’s around. She wanted a place for Bowie to interact with kids his age since he’s not in preschool.” Blowing out a long breath, he finger-combs his lustrous hair over his forehead. “Not gonna lie—the neighborhood’s getting to be a bit pretentious. But it’s good…it’s growing rather than shrinking like in the old days. At least until recently.”
“Oooh, that sounds rather ominous. Does it have something to do with the reason you lured me back with the promise of baby cuddles and blueberry pastries? You should know I was slightly offended when you pulled the stereotypical cops-eat-doughnuts card…even if it was spot on.”
His head dips heavy with guilt. “Someone’s wrangling lower-level dealers that are starting to sneak back into the neighborhood. One was found strapped with bungee cords to the jungle gym at a middle school. Another was duct taped to the hood of a taxi. They seemed to be doing nothing more than getting the attention of the local PD. The ‘victims’ always had a note pinned to their chest, confessing their crimes.”
Lifting a brow, I smirk back at him. “You want me to find this superhero wannabe so you can shake their hand?”
“Maybe in the beginning, when it was harmless, but not anymore.” After maneuvering past a double-parked car, he glances my way, methodically running his fingers through his well-trimmed facial hair. “A well-known businessman from Minneapolis was murdered a couple weeks back. He was shot up with enough heroine to kill an elephant, then dumped in the alley behind the old Slick Willie’s. They found him with dozens of dirty needles stuck in his body. The cops suspect it’s another act by the vigilante the way they were clearly trying to make a statement.”
Though I’ve seen a lot of crazy shit since becoming one of Chicago’s finest, the visual of a human porcupine sends a shiver down my spine. “Why are you bringing me into this? I thought you were big buddies with someone in the homicide unit.”
“I am—she says they’ve narrowed it down to a handful of suspects. They have reason to believe a hardcore metal band in the area is somehow tied into every instance related to the vigilante’s activity, though they haven’t been able to dig up anything solid enough to bring the band members in on official charges. No DNA, no fingerprints, nothing to prove they’re related other than coincidence of location. They were brought in for questioning after it was rumored they performed a song about overdosing on one’s own poison the same night the man from Minneapolis was murdered. The band claimed it was an old song they’d written years back, and their alibi of performing at a place in White Bear Lake was verified.”
“Sounds like a weak lead.” I snort, thinking they must be desperate to pin the murder on someone. If musicians were held accountable for their lyrics, the jail would be filled with gangster rappers. “Still waiting for the part where you needed me.”
“The band’s drummer is being deported back to Mexico at the end of the week. It’d be the perfect opportunity to infiltrate the band, get a feel for what’s going on. Problem is, none of the detectives around here can play the drums worth a lick.” A slow smile spreads across his lips. “I told my friend I knew the perfect candidate.”
Gawking back at him, I flinch internally. “You’re kidding, right?”
“If you’re interested in the job, my friend would promote you to detective. Sounds like you’d make enough bank to buy yourself a nice house in the neighborhood.”
My ears perk with the mention of a promotion. Maybe I could actually afford to stock my refrigerator with something more than condiments. “This is about you wanting me to move back.”
With a slight nod, he lifts one shoulder. “May sound selfish, but it’d make the rest of us feel a helluva lot better knowing you’d no longer have to sleep with a loaded gun nearby.”
“You mean after I help arrest the murderous vigilante.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” He briefly hangs his head low like a scorned child. “Look, Sash. You know how hard I’ve busted my ass to turn the neighborhood around. Thought I’d done a respectable job until this shit started up. This vigilante business is starting to make the residents uneasy. Everyone’s wondering if it’s not as safe as they thought. And once word gets out there are dealers back on the South Side, the corrupt assholes that once operated under my uncle will see it as an opportunity to return to their ways.” Hard jaw working through a bout of anger, he glances back my way. “I want this shut down before they destroy all I’ve worked for. I want Bowie to grow up here without having to break the law in order to survive the way we did.”
A hallow laugh falls from my lips. It doesn’t get any lower than extortion involving a two-year-old. “The way the band’s ripping up the charts, I doubt he’ll be falling back on a life of crime in this century.”
As I stop to put some thought into his offer, my shoulders rise and fall with a deep, shaky breath. While I’ve successfully convinced my brother’s friends and their wives that I’m happy in Chicago, it’s plausible I’ve been waiting for a valid excuse to return home without appearing my life is more pathetic than I let on. My only long-term relationship ended over a year ago after my skeezy ex left me for dead during a mugging. It hit me hard when he came out as a pansy-ass-bitch, especially when we’d planned on buying a house together. Whenever I realize how close I may’ve been to using someone of his feeble stature as a sperm donor, my blood runs cold.
But am I ready to give up the glamorous life of a bachelorette to make detective and go deep undercover? Other than leaving Emersyn with my half of the rent, there wouldn’t be any real sacrifices made.
From the driver’s seat, Ryker throws me this dazzling white smile that leads me to believe he knows damn well I’ll give into the idea. “Would it sweeten the deal if I threw in one of Zoe’s chocolate pies?”
“Is that another jab at my weight?”
“Sash, you have to admit you were born for this job,” he says, his tone turning gentle. “You wanted to become a cop because of Trask’s murder, and he’s the reason you’re a force to be reckoned with when behind a set of drums.”
I grumble out a non-verbal reply, turning back to watch the old ‘hood pass.
Before my brother died, he taught me everything he knew about the proper fulcrum of drumsticks…the dynamics and methods…the timing. After me, music was the second most important thing in his life. It showed in the unapologetic way he’d drum. Agony clenches at my chest when I recall him shirtless, scruffy red hair slick with sweat, green eyes wild, joint held in his lips as he hammered out a tune. Though they never did anything beyond jamming for fun until years after Trask was gone, he was arguably the most talented of them all.
After his funeral, I was sent away before a hit could be put out on me too. I wasn’t reunited with Trask’s drum set until years later. Playing became therapeutic, the only way I felt connected with my brother’s memory. Considering I spent half my life watching him sit behind a set of drums with his buddies all hours of the day and night, it made sense.
Because of its emotional ties, drumming’s something I’ve only ever done in private since Trask’s death. Well, as private as having a roommate in an apartment complex of 300 units will allow. Still, I’ve become more passionate about playing than ever before.
Ryker reaches over to squeeze my knee. “This means a lot to me.”
“I haven’t agreed to anything,” I mutter.
The ugly truth is that more than anything, I’m terrified. Picking up a set of drumsticks in front of an audience could potentially open a Pandora’s Box filled with more nightmares.
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About the Author
Jennifer Ann is an award-winning and bestselling author of contemporary romance with darkly complex plots. Much like her characters, she's in love with the city of
New York, trips on airplanes or the back of her husband's Harley, and everything rock and roll.
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