Текст книги "Tangled Bond"

Автор книги: Emma Hart

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

“Did you just agree that your cock is a pencil?”

“Can I change my mind? If it has to be stationery, can it be a permanent marker instead?”

“Why are we comparing our bits to stationary? This is so wrong on so many levels.”

“At least we ain’t fightin’.”

“Yet,” I add. “We ain’t fightin’ yet. It’s only been ten minutes.”

“Is that all?” he groans, grabbing his beer bottle. “Feels like a fuckin’ prison sentence.”

“Oh, now, we’re about to fight.”

“Can you call me a bastard again?”

“I should call your mom and have her change your name on your birth certificate. Heaven knows Bastard would be more appropriate.”

“Since when do you have my mom’s number?” He looks amusingly alarmed at this.

“I don’t.” I raise my eyebrows. “But I have my new techie. He could get it faster than you could wrestle me to the ground to stop me.”

“I’d never wrestle you. I value my balls too much.” He puts the bottle down and reaches for the remote control. “There are several other things I’d do to you, but I don’t want to ruin the surprise.”

“Spanking might not be a surprise with you anymore.”

“Hey—you knock it, but you’ve never complained. You’ve moaned plenty though.”

I reach forward and smack my palm against his hard upper arm.

Sassy son of a bitch.

“And there it is.” He laughs, and damn him, I want to hit him again, but all I can do is look down and smile, fighting my own giggles, because he got me.

Total bastard.

I don’t know if I’m amused or pissed. I do know that my thumb wants to trail across that stubbly jaw of his until it’s numb to the sensation of the rough hair against it. I want to tease my lips across his in barely there kisses until his patience snaps and he takes control.

God, I want this to be something and nothing all at the same time.

I’m not even hungry anymore.

The silence that has settled in the wake of his fading laugh has me taking a deep breath, picking aimlessly at the cheese on the pizza in front of me. I’m alternately licking my lips and grazing my teeth over them, making sure not to look at him. Because this is different.

It’s one thing to be on a date in a public place.

It’s another to have one at his house.

I swig from my wine glass, letting the alcohol linger in my mouth before swallowing it down. He even got my favorite fucking wine. What kind of sorcery is this bastard pulling with me? His voodoo is so fucking freaky that not even New Orleans would welcome him onto Bourbon Street without dousing his fine ass in sage and asking Roman goddesses for their blessing.

It’s easy to banter with Drake. It’s easy to fight and argue every second of the day because those are the words that flow easily. Foot stomps and door slams and righteous shoves and grabs are the way we’ve worked as long as I can remember. They’re easy for us.

This? This crazy, comfortable silence mixed with the echo of our laughter and words that aren’t insulting but plain old teasing?

It’s hard.

It’s hard to be something other than everything I’ve ever known us to be.

More than that, it’s terrifying. God, it’s so fucking terrifying.

Because it is comfortable. To sit here in silence, me picking at my pizza and sipping my wine quicker than should be allowed while he happily gorges down pizza and barely even sniffs his beers. We’re not even touching except for the slightest brush of his knee against mine when he reaches for another slice. And I…I don’t know. I don’t know what to do with this.

I have no idea how to live with this man who makes my blood boil with both anger and desire at the same time.

“Stop thinkin’,” he orders, flicking a piece of mushroom into his pizza box. “Bad shit happens when you think, cupcake.”

“But murders get solved, too, so it’s a win-lose kinda situation, right?” I give up on the pizza and instead drain the rest of my glass. I tilt it toward him in a question.

He nods toward the door that I’m assuming will take me to the kitchen.

I get up, grasping my glass tighter than I should. His eyes are on me as I make the turn from the living room into the hallway and then the kitchen. Charcoal cupboards cover the room, a chrome sink breaking up the black countertops. The stove is black, too, and completely shiny, but the fridge is a brushed chrome that’s neither the color of the sink nor remotely close to the cupboards.

But the cooker is black. His appliances aren’t coordinated. I’m not sure how I feel about that.

Still…inside one of those appliances is a bottle of wine, and priorities have to win out here.

I’ll figure out how to get home once this awkwardness is gone.

I pour my glass a little higher than I should and put the bottle back into the wine rack on the middle shelf of the fridge. So I think most people call it a bottle rack, but it just so happens to be perfectly shaped for wine bottles. So it’s a wine rack.

If I’m rambling in my head, perhaps one glass of wine is enough.

I take two steps in the front room and stop. Drake’s shirt is undone, every button un-buttoned and the sides falling to his sides so there’s chest and tan skin and abs and a very tempting V that dips beneath the waistband of his black pants. And his belt is unbuckled. Invitingly.

I definitely don’t need glass two of this wine.

He turns his face toward me and, with his eyes glinting, smirks.

I take it back. I need this glass.

Fuck it. I need the whole damn bottle.

“Problem?”

“Are you seriously asking me if this”—I motion to his exposed body—“is a problem?”

“I’m sensing a flatterin’ answer comin’ my way.”

“Like a fuck, no, put it away?” I take a drink and set my glass down. “Or were you expecting a girly giggle?”

I think my vagina is giggling in the form of a very harsh clench. Nice to know she’s easier than the rest of me. No problems with her in the bedroom, huh?

Since when did I start referring to my vagina as a she? Or even a separate entity?

Fuck this all so much.

Clearly, I’m not cut out for dating.

Drake scoops his arm around my waist and throws me back onto the sofa. He moves his body over mine before I’ve barely even fallen, and I inhale sharply.

“Thinking,” he breathes, the heat of his mouth just ghosting mine making me close my eyes. “Too much of it, sweetheart. Stop it.”

“Can’t,” I admit in my own whisper. “This is so crazy. You. Me. This. We’re supposed to hate each other.”

“I can hate you. I do several times a fuckin’ day. I don’t have to like you to want to be with you though.”

“I know.” My eyes open, but I look down. Away from him.

Because he’s stronger than I am. He admits what I can’t. He admits what he wants, whereas I’m still hiding beneath myself.

He’s a better person than I’ll ever be.

And maybe… Maybe he deserves someone who can give him as much of them as he can of himself.

“Nope,” Drake snaps, covering my mouth with his hand, forcing me to dart my gaze to his. Toward that intense, Antarctic gaze of his. “Stop. Now. Noelle, enough. You’re the strongest, sexiest, most confident woman I know. No doubts. Not from you.”

I open my mouth, but it’s dry, so I close it again. I lick my lips, and I hate this. This feeling. So insecure. Like I’m not good enough.

Here he is, offering me everything on a silver platter, and I’m feeling fucking sorry for myself.

He’s fucking insane. I’m insane. This whole damn thing is so insane that there isn’t a single psychiatrist in the country who could make sense of this thing we call a relationship.

Except it’s all me. He’s there. Waiting. Ready. Open. And I’m here. Hesitating. Not ready. Closed.

So wrong. So. Fucking. Wrong.

I hate myself for it.

My palms flatten against his cheeks, my fingers brushing his hair, and I bring his mouth down to mine. If I can’t talk, I can feel. And, God, he makes me feel. Everything. So many things I don’t want to feel.

His arms wrap around my body, and he adjusts himself until there isn’t a breath of space from our mouths right down to our feet. Our bodies are connected entirely, and I can’t get enough of this—of him. Of the feeling of his hot weight on top of me or his long fingers deftly massaging my side and my skull. Of his rough stubble as it scratches my jaw. Of his spicy lips as they explore mine thoroughly. Of his tongue as it battles with mine in a war so fierce that I don’t know if either of us will ever win it.

“Fuck!” he yells, shoving himself off me and grabbing his phone from his pocket. “What?” he roars into it. “Does it fuckin’ matter? … Thought not. Spit it out.” A long pause. “You’re kiddin’ me. You better be fuckin’ kiddin’ me, Trent.”

“Uh-oh,” I murmur.

“Fine. We’ll be there as soon as we can get across town.” Drake takes the phone from his ear and drops it on the table.

It bounces off the pizza box, landing facedown. He spins away from me and leans forward, diving his hands into his hair. The messy curls curve around his fingertips as he slowly runs them through his hair to the base of his neck.

I, too, set my feet on the floor and sit up straight. My blood is still thrumming with the promise of his kiss, but the frustration tightening his shoulders is more than the slither of lust left inside my body.

I slide my butt along the sofa until we touch. Then I reach up, my hand knocking his out of the way as my fingers press onto the sides of his neck. I gently massage it, waiting with a tightly coiled stomach and twitching toes as his silence stretches further and further between us.

Finally, I drop my hand. “Drake.”

“Vince Fulton.” He looks up, rubs his hand down his face, and sighs. The way he turns his face toward mine seems to take forever, and I’d swear ten new species have been discovered by the time his eyes finally collide with mine. “The guy we were going to interview first thing tomorrow morning. Natalie’s regular dom.”

The words fall from my lips although I already know the answer. “What about him?”

“He’s dead.”

The blue lights sure do help when you need to make it across town in a quick dash.

We get from Drake’s house to D.O.M. in a matter of minutes. I did make a request to bring my wine, but he steadfastly refused while buttoning his shirt.

Personally, I think the wine would have been useful. For me, obviously, because what is it with people fucking dying during my investigations?

Our investigations. Whatever.

The dying thing is getting old.

And yes. I’m pissed. I’m really fucking pissed because I know for a fact that Vince Fulton could have provided me with some answers, and there’s no way his death was a freak one, even in the exclusive sex club.

Brody meets us as soon as we get out of Drake’s squad car and hands us both a pair of gloves. “Identification on him and the manager both confirm Vince Fulton as the deceased. No visible injuries on him aside from a welt on his left upper thigh. Tim is examining him now but assumes a different cause of death than with Natalie.”

“They’re connected?” Drake questions, holding open the opaque, black glass door for me to pass through.

“Right now, we’re saying yes. The connection between him and Natalie Owens is too deep to pass off as his death being coincidental.” Brody holds a second door open, scooting me through it before I can take the club in. “He’s been out of town on vacation for a week according to the club’s owner, so he had no idea about Natalie. He was due to meet her tonight, but who he got is anyone’s guess.”

“Vince is a big guy though,” I put in. “It would have to be a male at the very least to overpower him.”

“Not necessarily.” Drake glances back at me. “A regular like Vince could have entered this club without confirming Natalie coming tonight. A woman coming in could have easily convinced him she’d been sent in Natalie’s place and taken control.”

People swarm the corridor, but all of them are in official uniform except one man who’s dressed in a suit.

“Mr. Lawrence?” Drake asks, approaching the man and snapping a glove off. “Detective Nash. Tell me what happened.”

The man—Mr. Lawrence—is presumably the owner of the club, and as soon as Drake releases his hand, he wrings them together in front of his stomach. “I wish I could. I came in as soon as I heard myself. From what I can find out, my staff assumed he knew about Natalie and had switched her out for one of his other girls.”

“His other girls?”

“Vince has been coming here five nights a week for at least three years. Every night is a different girl. Each one is contracted to the club. He knows the rules, and so do they, Detective. They wouldn’t have broken them.”

“All due respect, but someone did, because you have a dead man in your club.”

Way to be nice, Drake.

“Mr. Lawrence.” I step forward, nudging Drake to the side. “Noelle—”

“Bond,” he finishes for me, his smile meeting in eyes. “Keep that one quiet, darlin’. I’d bet there ain’t a man in this club who hasn’t been waitin’ for the day you stepped in here.”

Brody steps behind me.

“Well, unfortunately for them, my clothes are staying on.” I smile tightly.

“I can think of four men in the bar who’d like to convince you otherwise.”

Wait for it.

“Enough,” Drake snaps, wrapping his hand around my wrist and tugging me behind me. “We’re here in investigate a murder, Mr. Lawrence, and she sure as hell ain’t here to be hit on.”

Holy shit.

Did he just beat my brother to the protective punch?

He did.

Holy. Shit.

That’s never happened before.

“Any and all security tapes you have from today would be appreciated,” Drake continues. “Perhaps you should go and work with your security team to ensure we get those as soon as possible.”

By perhaps, he means do it. Now.

See? I do listen. I’m learning.

“Drake?” I prod his arm, seeing Mr. Lawrence walk away. “You can let go of me now. I promise not to run away from the big, scary man in the scary suit, trying to hit on me.”

He turns around, narrows his eyes. And without saying a word, he drops my wrist and walks into the room where Vince’s dead body is.

I glance at Brody. “What did I do?”

He shrugs. “I’m still pretty stuck on the fact that he told him to fuck off before I could.”

“Glad I’m not the only one,” I mutter, finally walking into the room.

Oooooeeee.

That’s the only thought I have as I focus on it.

Yeah. The men who come here are gonna be waiting a real long time for me to be here naked. Like another fifty lifetimes.

Whips. Chains. Floggers. Lots and lots of things I don’t know the names of and would likely give me nightmares if I did.

One particularly scary-looking clamp device makes me shudder.

I cannot imagine that being pleasurable on any part of my body.

“Uncomfortable?” Brody smirks.

“Are you not?” I shoot back. “What if that”—I point to the clampy thing—“is meant for your junk?”

He stops. “How about you stop creating new torture devices and get to work?”

“Pussy,” I whisper.

He hits me.

Honestly, it’s a wonder anyone in this family ever gets any work done when we’re together.

I worm my way in between Drake and Trent with a sweet smile. Then I focus on the man lying facedown on the bed in front of me, buck naked. “How long has he been here?”

“That’s what we’re trying to work out,” Trent replies. “No one seems to know exactly what time he got here. Could be ten minutes or since it opened at noon.”

“Wouldn’t someone have noticed if he’d been in here that long?”

“Not necessarily. By the sounds of it, these guys can be in here for hours at a time because it’s more than sex. Apparently, it isn’t unheard of for Vince to be locked away with a woman for three hours.”

“That’s some stamina,” I note. “Do they really go that long without eating or drinking and stuff?”

“Not everyone has the same priorities you do, Noelle.”

“Hey. I’m taking offense at that.”

“Then don’t say things I can offend you with,” Trent sighs. “Are you here to be productive or get in the way?”

Given that I was hit on within five seconds, pissed Drake off somehow, and now Trent, I’m probably better off not being here.

“You know what? I think I’ll go. Y’all can fill me in tomorrow.” I turn toward the door.

“Noelle…” Drake starts.

“No, no.” I stop in the doorway, meet their eyes, then drop my gaze to the white shape hidden beneath the bed Vince is lying on. “Oh, and before you discount asphyxiation as the cause of death, y’all might want to get that pillow that’s under the bed. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go before I get in your way any further. God forbid that should happen,” I snap, knowing they didn’t notice the pillow.

I don’t wait for their response.

I’m stepping out into the balmy night air when I spy Drake’s squad car and remember that he brought me here, because my car is at his place.

Awesome.

I pull my phone out and call Bek. She arrives within five minutes.

“In,” she demands. “Tell me everything.”

I drop my head back against the back of the seat and sit down. I recap everything from the start of our date to the interruption to what transpired inside the club.

“And here I was thinkin’ you and Drake were going for some kink already,” she snorts. “So, you really walked out?”

“Right after pointing out their possible, and likely, murder weapon. That none of them noticed.”

“How dare you get in their way?”

“Right? This is exactly why I could never be a cop again. I can’t deal with their complexes. I mean, come on. He’s so connected to Natalie, so obviously his death would be similar. You wouldn’t exactly strangle someone then stab their fuck buddy unless you didn’t know about their connection, would you?”

“Well, you would if you didn’t want them to be connected by law enforcement.”

“If you don’t want that, don’t kill them within days of each other.” I shrug and take a deep breath. “Bek, this is no coincidence. I was only speaking to Madison this morning at the town hall and saw the mayor. She was the one who told me about Vince. And now, he’s dead, like, not even twelve hours later? And the mayor knew about Natalie’s baby and that it was his? How fucking screwed up is this?”

“Seriously,” she admits. “Have you thought about interviewing the mayor?”

“And saying what? ‘Hi, Mr. Mayor. Did you kill the girl you knocked up?’” I shake my head. “We have to be so careful. The only way I could speak to him would be to get more information and try to wrap him up in knots so he’d have to spill. He’s smarter than that though. He’d know exactly what I was doing.”

“Then why don’t we follow him?”

“Because I’ve been hired by him, not for him.”

“I didn’t say anything about you.” She pulls up by Drake’s drive and grins, her red hair glinting as his security light flickers on. “I closed my big case this afternoon. I only have two small ones open right now since that one took all of my time. I can keep tabs on him.”

I chew the inside of my cheek. I’ve never had to follow a client before. Except for that time when my client’s wife hired me to follow him. That was confusing.

This would help. I can’t follow the mayor or even interview him. If he catches me, he’ll fire me. Which, honestly, might not be a bad thing at this point. Look at the trouble this case has caused since I agreed to it. The only person I haven’t fought with on the team is Brody, and that’s because he’s the laid-back one.

But I want to figure this out. I’m in way too deep again—like I was with Lena and then Daniel. I’m so tightly surrounded by the lies the suspects have told that, to get out, I truly will have to unravel every single one.

Long story short, I’m fucked. And I’m being fucked without the promise of an orgasm, too.

“Fine,” I tell Bek, my fingers grasping the door handle. “Light surveillance. Get Carlton to see if he can get the mayor’s schedule off Ellis Law’s computer so you’re not risking sitting around and getting caught, okay?”

“Yes, boss.” She smiles. “And hey, Noelle?”

“What?”

“Everything will work out,” she says quietly. “I believe it will.”

“There’s nothing to work out,” I respond. “It’ll always be this way. Maybe it’s easier for it to stay this way,” I finish quietly and close the door.

I walk up to the driveway as her car rumbles away down the street. Digging in my purse for my keys, I look at Drake’s house, sighing as I remember how different things were some measly sixty minutes ago. I hit the button and get into my car, dumping my purse on the passenger’s seat.

My chest aches.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this, was it? It was supposed to be easier. If I knew how messed up this whole situation would get, I never would have agreed to that first date with Drake, never mind accepting the mayor’s contract.

I don’t even know why Drake is mad at me. I don’t know what I did. Was I supposed to thank him after he went all protective on the manager? Was I supposed to keep my mouth shut and offer him a demure smile and a batter of my eyelids? Maybe a thank-you blow job?

And it’s work again. Always work. Always the thing that drives a wedge between us.

It was easier when I hated him. When he hated me. When we only worked together because we had to. It was easier when I could walk away from an hour of being around him and wanting to punch his smug little face in.

Now, I’m afraid that, if I punched him, I’d hand him an ice pack straight after.

I take a deep breath and rub my hands down my face, leaning back fully in my seat.

He’s the one thing I have no control over. Not how I feel or how he makes me feel. I can’t control anything about that man. I wish I could. I wish I could wipe away every tingle and thought and memory until he’s nothing more than the guy whose foot I shot.

Nonna’s blind dates don’t seem so bad anymore.

I’m jolted as arms scoop beneath my knees and around my back. My neck is stiff, and I swallow a groan as my head lolls onto the hard chest.

“Shh,” Drake whispers.

Drake?

Did I fall asleep in my car?

Oh fuck.

Not enough “oh fuck” to wake up properly though.

He carries me smoothly into his house and up the stairs.

“I’m okay,” I mutter around a yawn, my eyes still closed. “Two secs and I’ll drive home.”

“It’s two thirty in the mornin’. You’re not drivin’ home, cupcake.” He kicks a door open and softly lays me on a bed.

I yawn and bury my face into a pillow as he pulls my shoes off and tugs the covers out from beneath me. He throws them over me, and hidden, I pull my shorts off and drop them on the floor before rolling over and stretching my legs out.

Doors close after a few minutes, and I’m lingering in an odd, sleepy state. This bed smells like Drake. Rich. Addictive. Warm. Coffee and cupcakes and maybe a hint of gunpowder underlying the caffeinated sweetness that’s wrapping itself around me right now.

Another door shuts, and I force my eyes open long enough to see Drake yanking his tie off and dropping it. He fiddles with two of the buttons on his shirt and pulls it over his head, exposing his skin, his muscles illuminated by the dimly lit room.

I look away as he undoes the belt and pulls his pants down. “I’ll drive home,” I whisper. Yawning. Again.

“No, you won’t.”

A drawer opens and closes. The bed dips twice before the light goes out completely and he lies next to me.

“Spare room?” I ask.

“Nope. This is the only bed in my house.”

The covers move as he tucks in.

“I’ll drive,” I repeat, forcing myself up.

Drake grabs me and yanks me across the bed, forcing my back against his chest. “God, shut the fuck up, Noelle,” he mutters, curving his arm around my stomach and trapping me against it. “It’s two thirty in the fucking morning. I told you that. You’re not going anywhere. You’re going to sleep right here.”

“I can’t.” I tilt my hips away from him. “You’re poking me.”

“I’m gonna a whole lot more than poke you if you don’t be quiet. I’m pissed as hell at you, so unless you want to disturb the whole neighborhood with a blazing fight, get your ass back against my cock and go to fucking sleep.”

I could let him sleep then sneak out, right?

“And don’t even think about escaping while I sleep. I might shoot you.”

I move back against him, my heart thudding. “That’s my line.”

“So shoot yourself.” He yawns. “Just shut up.”

“Okay.” A moment passes, and my eyes close as the warmth from his body calls sleep back to me. “Night, Drake,” I whisper.

“Night, bella.” He kisses my hair, and it’s the last thing I know before sleep wins.

Sleeping next to Detective Drake Nash is like being a piece of coal inside a blazing fire. My feet have been hanging out of the covers for hours waiting for some alien monster to come and nibble on my toes.

At some point during the night, I rolled over into him and he ended up with both arms around me. I don’t know how it happened, but it’s probably the reason I’m so warm right now. I need a cold shower or ten.

I tilt my head back to look at him. My fingers twitch where they’re resting on his defined stomach, but it’s his hair that has a smile creeping onto my face. If I thought it was messy during the day, I was so wrong. It’s sticking up in all kinds of directions, one crazy, loose curl brushing his forehead.

God. His hair is the best thing about him.

Well, it isn’t, but since that’s encased in his underpants and his eyes are closed, his hair wins right now.

His eyelashes are fanned across his cheeks, and his breaths are slow and easy. The only parts of him that aren’t relaxed are his fingers. They’re holding me just as tight, and I don’t think he was kidding when he said last night that he’d shoot me if I tried to get away. He’s sleeping so deeply right now that, if I moved, he’d wake up in cop mode and think I was an intruder.

Which means I’m also stuck here next to my personal radiator until he wakes up. Thankfully, the clock on his nightstand reads 6:57 and the alarm icon is flashing next to a 7:00.

I need coffee. And to pee.

I tighten my muscles in case my bladder decides that three—oh, now, two—minutes is too long for her to wait to relieve herself. Really, at twenty-eight, I should have more control over her than she does me, but I did drink two glasses of wine last night before I fell asleep in my car.

In my car. In his driveway. What a dick.

Slowly, I move my hand from his stomach, and he reaches out with ninja reflexes and grabs it. My hand. Not his stomach.

I squeal at his tight grip, and he gazes down at me through barely-opened eyes.

“What are you doing?” he asks, his voice way too clear for someone who just woke up.

“How long have you been awake?”

“Long enough to feel you looking at me like I’m your favorite cupcake.”

I purse my lips. “You’re a shit.”

“A shit who let you sleep in his bed,” he answers, closing his eyes again.

The alarm goes off in the form of a radio, and he reaches over and thumps the top of it.

“You know there’s a button to shut that up, right?” I say.

“Yep. I’m taking you to the store to see if they can install one on you.”

“I can still shoot you if I can’t talk, you know.”

“I know.”

“And you didn’t let me sleep here. You made me.”

“I know.”

“Is that all you’re saying?”

“I’m wondering why it’s taking you so long to get coffee.”

I prop myself up on my elbow. “Because I’m your guest and you’re still in bed, perhaps?”

He slowly opens his eyes and sighs heavily. “Really? You’re my guest?”

“Sorry. Did I say guest? I meant prisoner. Look.” I try rolling over, and he smiles lazily, deliberately tightening his grip. “Trapped. You’ve virtually kidnapped me.”

“Why do you think I need a mute button installed on you? It’d be no fun if you could scream.”

“You’re hard work on a morning,” I sigh. “Where’s your bathroom?”

“You’re hard work all the damn time,” he returns, letting me go and sitting up. “That door right there.”

“You don’t have a spare bedroom but you have an en suite?” I swing my legs out and pause, perched on the edge of his bed.

“Well, yeah. I don’t need a spare bedroom, but I have to pee at three a.m. like everyone else.” He laughs.

I roll my eyes and reach for my shorts before realizing that putting them on right now is totally useless since I’ll have to take them off again in five seconds. So, with a glance over my shoulder, I notice that Drake is sitting on his side, his back to me.

I get up and run into the bathroom.

“I still saw your ass!” he yells as I close the door and slide the lock.

Fucker.

Mind you, judging by the mascara beneath my eyes, his seeing my ass is the least of my problems.

“We need to talk,” he says as soon as I leave the bathroom.

I tug my tank down in an effort to cover my panties. “I swear that’s our tagline. ‘We need to talk.’ And yes, we do, but I can’t understand anything except yabber-yabber until coffee happens.”

“Better get your ass into my kitchen, then, huh?”

I grab my shorts from the floor and pull them up, buttoning them. And this is why I should never wake up next to Drake Nash.

He’s pissed me off already.

I lick my thumb and scrub at the circles under my eyes as I stomp downstairs, shoes in hand. My purse on the counter is the first thing I see, and I peek inside to see if everything is there. Since “everything” is kind of a wide term for all the crap that’s usually in my purse, I’m going for yes after seeing my phone and keys.

I dig deep for my compact mirror and pull a hand wipe out of the little packet. There’s some kid character on the packet, so it’s left over from the last time I babysat Silvio and Aria, but hand wipes are wet wipes, and that’s exactly what I need.

Drake appears in the doorway, his hair damp and slicked back from his face, curling at the base of his skull. He’s dressed in his usual white shirt and black pants with a black tie wrapped around his fist.

“Don’t you do makeup in the bathroom?”

“I’m not doing it. I’m removing it.” I wipe the last black smudge from my cheek and snap the mirror shut. Then I ball the wipe up and throw it in the trash. “I’m going home to get changed and get coffee. I already know I have to be at the station.”

“Eight,” Drake confirms. “And I’m coming with you. You’re not getting out of this conversation, either, sweetheart.”

“I’m not getting out of it. I’m postponing it. There’s a huge difference.” I slip my shoes on and grab my purse.

“And I’m still coming with you. I’ll make coffee while you change. Problem solved.”

Maybe for you, I want to say. Not for me though. I don’t want to talk about whatever he wants to talk about. I want to be filled in on Vince’s death so I can go to my office and do my thing. That’s it.