Convict: A Bad Boy Romance (9 page)

“You mean I’m the only person whose prints you’ve identified,” I say. “You’re telling me there were no other common fingerprints between the two?”

“They weren’t in the database,” she says, her voice still prim.

“You find my prints on either of the cars?” I ask. “Have you got
anything
connecting me to this besides a paint can from the place where I work?”

Luna doesn’t answer.

“You know it wasn’t me,” I say.

I look at the mirror behind her.

“You were hoping it was me, though,” I say, and I can feel a flame spark to life inside me.

I’m not angry at her, but I’m angry at cops. I’m angry at the people behind the mirror who saw someone new in town and thought they may as well ruin his day, because then they might not have to deal with the hard truth that someone they already know might have done this.

More than anything, I’m angry that the Syndicate is shaking the tree that I’m in. I’m angry that they’re trying to make me nervous, and it’s
working
.

“Is there anything else?” she asks again.

You’re all I’ve thought about for seventy-two hours,
I think.
You’re pissed that I walked off but it was the only thing I could do. I’m bad for you, Luna.

“No,” I say.

Luna nods once, curtly. All business.

“All right,” she says, and stands. “Let me go make a couple of inquiries and we’ll see what the next steps are.”

She leaves the room, and the door clicks shut behind her. She’s going to look into the spray paint can from Eddie’s, find out that I wasn’t lying, and let me go.

It takes her a while, though. I stand, and my chair shrieks as it scrapes against the floor. I pace back and forth.

Arson.
Fuck
.

Now I
have
to stay away from Luna, even if it’s hard. Even if it feels nearly impossible, being near her. Watching her try to figure me out.

God help me, I like it. I like it when she’s right, when she’s sharp and tenacious. I want to let her puzzle me out, get under my skin, see me for me.

I keep pacing for a long time, my thoughts switching back and forth between the Syndicate and Luna until my mind is a muddled mess.

At last, the door opens, and there she is, leaning against the door frame.

“You’ve got something on your mind,” she says.

“You were watching me,” I say, nodding at the one-way mirror. “You think I was in here repeating a confession to myself?”

She snorts.

“Of course not,” she says. “But it’s useful to see how people act when they’re alone, and you act like there’s something on your mind.”

I take a step toward her, then stop, looking at the mirror.

“There’s nobody back there now,” she says, her voice lower.

“I got dragged out of work by two guys in uniform, stuffed into a police car, and told I’m linked to a crime scene,” I say, crossing my arms. “Fuck yes, there’s something on my mind.”

I look Luna up and down. I don’t even mean to, but I feel like someone else is guiding my eyes and I’m helpless. No one should look this good in high-waisted slacks and a button-down shirt.

Don’t,
I tell myself.
You walked away once. Make that the last time
.

“It wasn’t my idea to send the uniforms,” Luna says, lowering her voice. “But you’re not telling me everything. You know something, Stone.”

She has no idea how right she is. I’m hiding lots of things, starting with a half-erection for the way she looks in her professional getup.

“Because I’m nervous around cops?” I ask, even though I know that’s not it.

Luna gives me an
oh, please
look.

“You’re not nervous,” she says. “You’re pissed, and this isn’t the first time you’ve gotten hauled into a police station and questioned. You get into trouble as a kid? Is that it?”

She’s not
wrong
. I push my hands into my pockets and lean one shoulder against the wall.

Let her think she found the truth,
I tell myself.

“I spent four years in juvie,” I say. “Seventeen to twenty-one. You’re the first person in Tortuga to know. Happy?”

“Happy you went to jail instead of college?” she asks sarcastically.

I laugh.

“College was never in the cards, detective,” I say. “If I’d been a little less lucky, I’d have worked stocking shelves at Wal-Mart until my back gave out. If I’d been smarter, I’d have started making meth.”

“What do you mean,
lucky
?” she asks.

“I got a GED, a certificate in car repair, and a clean record,” I say. “That’s better than I even knew to hope for.”

Something in her face softens, like she doesn’t quite know what to say now.

“Where’d you do the time?” she asks quietly.

“You never quit, do you?” I say.

“Stone, this is my
job
,” she says.

“The Chickamauga Youth Development Center,” I say, letting my voice drop until it’s almost a growl. “Should I be expecting the cops to show up every time they need someone to pin the blame on?”

Luna snorts.

“I can keep a secret, Stone,” she says. “I’m not going to out you just because — for no reason.”

She swallows, and I can’t help but look at her lips and imagine crushing them under my own again.

“Because what?” I ask, stepping forward.

I feel like Luna’s a magnet and I’m drawn toward her helplessly, no matter how bad an idea it is to even be here, talking to her like this.

Hell, she’s probably recording everything I say, and now she can use it against me later somehow. Fucking cops.

Leave
, I think.

“You want to know where I was Friday?” I ask.

Luna opens her mouth, looking pissed, but I go on without letting her answer.

“I went back into the bar, stood there for about thirty seconds, and left,” I growl. “Then I got on my bike and rode nearly down to Santa Barbara, and my head’s
still
not fucking clear.”

“I didn’t ask,” she says. “Whatever’s going on with you, I don’t want to know, Stone.”

Exit this room and walk out of this station and put an end to all this bullshit
, I think desperately.

I don’t. I stay right there, looking down into Luna’s eyes.

“That’s why you’re still standing there instead of leaving?” I ask.

Luna rolls her eyes.

“You’re free to leave, Stone,” she says, and turns away.

I reach out and catch her wrist.

“Let me go,” she says through her teeth.

“Next time you want to see me, don’t send uniforms,” I say.

I don’t let her go, but I’m not gripping her tightly. All she has to do is pull away, but she doesn’t.

“You’re assaulting a police officer,” she says.

“Then arrest me, Detective,” I say, my voice low and dangerous.

“You better fucking hope we’re not being watched,” she whispers.

I chuckle. Then I pull on her wrist and suddenly Luna’s body is pressed against mine.

“This time is your fault,” I growl into her ear, running one hand lightly down her back, over her stiff, professional button-down shirt. Her back arches beneath my fingers, just slightly, and she puts one hand on my chest.

“How many times do I have to tell you it wasn’t me?” she murmurs. “You’ve got a high opinion of what I’m willing to do to see you, Stone.”

“Lucky coincidence, then,” I say, and bend to kiss her.

She steps back and a space opens up between us, my hand trailing off her back.

“Are you really trying to seduce me in an interrogation room?” she asks.

“Is it working?” I say, taking a step toward her. “Come on, Detective. You don’t want to be bad at work? Is that it?”

Luna opens the door.

“Among other things,” she says.

Then she’s gone, the door shutting behind her. I’m still standing there like an asshole.

I know it’s my own goddamn fault. I know I should stop even
looking
at Luna, much less going near her, but I can’t help myself.

“Fuck it,” I whisper to myself, and leave the room.

I
rush
down the hall of the police station, my nerves jangling through my body, away from the interrogation room. The observation room behind the glass was empty when I checked it before going back in, but that doesn’t mean that no one came in while we were talking.

I already slept with a coworker, and that was a fucking mistake. If someone saw me conversing sexily with someone I’m supposed to be questioning, I’d be fucking
finished
.

What if you made a good decision about a guy for once?
I think.
Just once, that’s all.

I stop short when I realize there’s an exit door in front of me. It’s got a big red sign that says IF DOOR IS OPENED, ALARM WILL SOUND.

I was in such a hurry to get out of there that I turned the wrong way when I left the room. Now I’m in a dead end with a supply closet and an emergency exit.

I feel like an
idiot
, but I also feel like I’d rather walk barefoot through raw sewage than back past that interrogation room right now.

I’ve only got one real choice, so I push open the door to the supply closet and flip on the light. I guess I need more post-it notes.

* * *

A
fter spending
a few minutes carefully considering the merits of full-sized, square post-its versus the smaller, rectangular post-its, I finally select one pack of each and leave the closet.

I can’t believe you just hid from someone in the supply closet
, I think.
What’s wrong with you?

Shit, I wish I knew. I don’t usually hide in supply cabinets, pretending to choose sticky notes, but I also don’t usually have the wild, nearly unstoppable urge to make out with suspects.

All around, today’s not going as planned. My chair’s still broken, my first big case seems like it’s about to stall out, and I’m upset about some
guy
.

He had his chance, and he decided he was going to play some bullshit games with me, walking away and not bothering to contact me. I like men, not boys, dammit.

I should probably make a poster of that phrase and hang it on my wall, so I remember it once in a while.

At least he’s gone when I get back to the squad room. Batali’s already left, because it’s half past six, so I shut down my computer, lock my paperwork away in a drawer, and leave the station.

The sun is setting over Tortuga. The air is cooling quickly, and for a moment I stop to watch the sunset and take a deep breath.

Sometimes cases take a while to come to fruition
, I think.
Shit happens.

Also, I
still
feel like jell-o on the inside, just from the way Stone ran one hand down my back.

I’m professionally
and
personally disappointed. If there were a third kind, I’d have a hat trick.

You’ll probably never see him again
, I think sarcastically.
That’s his move, isn’t it?

I take another breath and continue to the parking lot. My little white Honda is way in the back. While there are no official saved parking spots, I parked in the first row once and was politely informed that those spaces weren’t for me.

As I get closer, I can see someone leaning up against the hood of my car, arms folded, watching the sunset. I don’t need to be psychic to guess who it is.

“Polite of you to not just let yourself in,” I say.

“I know my manners,” he says. “I learned them at the business end of a wooden spoon.”

I dig in my bag for my keys, frowning.

“The hell does that mean?” I ask.

“Means that every time I forgot to call gramma
ma’am
or say
please
or
thank you
, I got smacked,” he says.

“With a wooden spoon?” I ask, momentarily surprised out of being annoyed.

“With whatever was around for smacking, really,” he says. “Hands, spoons, switches. A belt when I was really being a terror.”

I’m just standing on the other side of my car from him, just looking at him across the roof. Getting hit with a belt sounds
barbaric
, like it’s something out of a Dickens story about an orphanage in the 1800s. I had no idea people still did that.

“That’s child abuse,” I say.

“Let me guess,” he says. “You had a lot of time-outs and no spankings.”

I blush slightly at
spankings
for no goddamn reason.

“Looks like my parents’ way worked better,” I say.

“Touché, Detective,” Stone says. “You mind giving me a ride to Eddie’s? My car is still there.”

I unlock my door and open it, tossing my bag into the back seat. I shouldn’t. I should tell him to get a ride from someone else, someone whose
job
is to give him a ride back, because every second I spend near him eats away at my resolve.

“They didn’t offer you a ride when you signed the exit paperwork?” I say, straightening up again.

Other officers trickle out of the police station and into the parking lot. I nod at a few of them and hope they don’t wonder why I’m at my car talking to a suspect.

“I turned it down,” he says, a smile tugging at his lips.

I look at his face slowly, trying to calm the beating of my heart. One of the lab techs walks through the parking lot twenty feet behind Stone, and I wave at her half-heartedly.

“Did you sign the paperwork?” I ask.

Stone doesn’t answer.

“Go sign it,” I say.

“They know I’m gone,” he says. “If they don’t, they’ll figure it out when I’m not there.”

“Now your records are incomplete,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. “If we get audited by internal affairs, it could show up as a red flag.”

That’s not really true. People forget to do their exit paperwork all the time, but I don’t want to be one of them.

“You like your t’s dotted and your i’s crossed, don’t you?” he asks.

“It’s the other way around.”

Stone just laughs.

“And no, I don’t like things being left half finished,” I say, narrowing my eyes. Behind Stone I see two lieutenants, deep in conversation, walk to their cars. As if I needed the reminder that I’m still at work.

“I
don’t
appreciate when people just walk out of the police station without doing their paperwork or even explaining what’s going on. It tends to reflect poorly on that person, and it irritates the people who have to deal with it later.”

I’m not talking about Stone’s exit paperwork any more, and we both know it.

“The paperwork is probably better off for me not signing it,” he says quietly.

“Maybe that’s up to the paperwork to decide,” I say. “And maybe if you think that’s true, you shouldn’t be standing here, pen in hand.”

I think I’m stretching this metaphor beyond where it ought to go.

“Give me a ride,” he says. “That’s all.”

I take a deep breath and watch a few more people walk across the parking lot. One or two glance at me, but if they’re wondering why I’m standing there talking to a guy in mechanic’s coveralls, they don’t act like it.

“Get in,” I say.

* * *

W
e’re
both quiet for a long time. I drive carefully, like an old lady, following every traffic law to the letter just to keep my mind occupied.

“You really aren’t trouble, are you?” Stone finally says, watching my speedometer stay even at a perfect twenty-five miles per hour.

“I’m a cop, Stone,” I say.

“Live a little,” he says. “Twenty-seven miles an hour.”

“It might be hard for you to imagine, but I like staying out of trouble,” I say. “It makes life a whole lot easier.”

“Sure,” he says, grinning. “Let me guess: followed all the rules. Teacher’s pet. Tattletale. Always home five minutes before curfew, no breaking your parents’ rules. No touching under the clothes until the third date, at
least
. Never drank before you were twenty-one, went skinny dipping, or ran red lights.”

I just snort, because he’s dead wrong about all those things.

“Watch out, Detective,” he says. “You’re doing almost twenty-six.”

“You’re wrong about one of those,” I say, just to taunt him.

He leans to the side and searches me for a long time, his elbow on the doorframe.

“You stayed out past curfew,” he says at last.

I stop at a light, only a few blocks away from Eddie’s.

“And worry my parents like that?” I ask.

He’s right, but I’m kind of enjoying letting Stone think I’m a perfect angel. Of the few times I
did
have a curfew, I think I made it back on time once.

“Okay,” he says. “Not the teacher’s pet, then.”

The light turns green and I hit the gas, watching Eddie’s come up in front of us.

“Of course I was a teacher’s pet,” I say. “One more guess.”

I pull up outside the garage and put the car into park, looking over at Stone. He smiles slowly, and my stomach twists.

He’s going to guess ‘no touching under the clothes,’ and then I’m going to get awkward again,
I think.
Shit
.

“You ran a red light once,” he says.

I wind down the window, lean my elbow on it, and start taking the pins out of my bun.

“It was an accident,” I say, shaking out my hair.

“It’s a wonder they let you on the police force,” he says.

“It’s because I’m very good at finding things out,” I say.

We look at each other. Stone’s face slowly closes off.

“You still think I had something to do with this,” he says, quietly. “You’ve got no proof, and
yet
.”

“And you think that because we kissed once I’m going to ignore the fact that you
clearly
know more than you’re letting on,” I counter. “I’m not some doe-eyed ingénue, Stone.”

“So now I’m seducing you into letting me off easy?” he asks.

“Not very well,” I say.

Stone undoes his seat belt and opens the passenger side door of my car, then looks back at me.

“Come inside,” he says. “I want to show you something.”

He gets out of the car and walks for Eddie’s without waiting for me to answer.

Drive away
, I tell myself.
Drive the fuck away because Stone is going to be ten kinds of trouble, and that’s ten kinds more than you need
.

Men, not boys, Rivers. Come on
.

I look at Stone’s wide back, his strong shoulders, his calloused hands.

I sigh and I kill my engine, undo my seatbelt, and follow him. He opens the door, holds it for me, and I walk into the twilight-blue interior of Eddie’s.

At least he knows his manners
, I think.
Even if he learned them by getting beaten.

For a moment, I wonder what else is in Stone’s past. I have a feeling it’s not happy.

“Come on,” he says, and walks to the back.

He leads me past a parked BMW and a Hyundai up on a lift into the dark garage, then opens a door into a storeroom. I step into a pitch-black room as he holds the door for me, and as I feel the walls for a light switch, I wonder if I’ve just walked into a trap.

Then Stone pulls a chain and a single bulb flicks on. We’re in a storage room, bigger than a closet but too small to be anything else. He walks to one shelf, scans it for a second, then grabs a cylinder.

“I was wrong,” he says. “The brand name is COLOREX. Lock me away, Detective.”

Stone tosses me the can and I catch it, rolling it over in my hand. It’s the exact same brand and color that we found at the drive-in, and there’s a case of them on the shelf in this room.

“You can have that one for free if you want it,” he says.

“Are any of these missing?” I ask, even though I know he could just lie.

Stone shrugs.

“Hard to tell,” he says. “We don’t keep exact inventory on these, and when the garage got vandalized they knocked over some shelves in here. There might be a few less than there should be.”

I toss it once in my hand and watch it flip end over end, then do it again. I take a deep breath, because while I tend to be blunt and honest about most things, feelings have never exactly been my favorite thing to discuss.

“Why’d you walk off on Friday?” I ask.

I can’t look at Stone. My palms have started sweating, and I’m clutching the spray paint in my hand, staring at it like it’s a crystal ball that can tell me the winning lotto numbers.