Spitfire Suckerpunch (House of Pain Book 2) (34 page)

“Shay,” he said, his voice almost inaudible over the wind.

“I don't want anything to do with it anymore,” she said, when she could speak again. “The past is dust. It's buried.” She heard how sure she sounded, how absolute. She realized that it was for the best, but it still felt like someone was drilling a screw right into the center of her chest. “He's gone and now I want you gone, too,” she said. The coldness that surrounded her was slowly numbing her pain to a dull roar. She told herself that the pain didn't matter. She was used to it. She would get used to life without her father again. And she would get used to life without Tate.

They were both toxic.

She grabbed at her purse and dug around inside until she found her keys. She pulled the cold metal out and fumbled with the fob, trying to get the extra set of keys off of her ring. He stood next to her, unmoving, his silence infuriating. He wasn't fighting her; he wasn't screaming anymore. He wasn't telling her that she was wrong or being an idiot. She didn't know what she expected, but his silence shouldn't have been a surprise. It wasn't like she expected the man to get down on his knees and declare his love for her or something. That wasn't real life. That was a fantasy. She'd spent long enough wrapped up in the fantasy of Tate Grayson. It was time to get back to cold, hard reality.

“Here,” she said, holding up his set of keys. He made no move to take the keys. He just stared at her. She couldn't read his eyes because they were in shadow, but she supposed that was for the best. She didn't want to see what he was really thinking. Whether he was happy, or relieved, or pissed, or disgusted, she didn't want to know. Her mind was made up. “Take them,” she said, letting impatience creep into her voice. She had to get away from him. She had to get home to the safety of Gina's and slam her bedroom door and shut out the world for as long as she could.

“Hold out your hand,” she said, holding up the keys. Tate didn't move. He just stood there like a big dark statue. His hood was pulled over his blond hair, which made him look even more like a stranger. Good, she thought. It only made what she was about to do even easier.“Hold out your hand,” she demanded again.

“What are you doing?” he said, his voice hoarse. She felt the screw tighten in her chest and she bit down on her lip until the pain passed. It may hurt, she told herself, but it would hurt a hell of a lot more if she didn't end it as soon as possible. Tate was only one man; there were hundreds of thousands of men in the city. Decent men, men that were far removed from cops and criminals, men that she'd never met in her past life. There were other men for her out there, she knew. In her rational mind she knew it made sense. But in her heart, she couldn't imagine Tate being replaced with someone else. It just didn't seem possible.

“Take your keys,” she said, before she relented. She reminded herself that couldn't afford weakness anymore. The price was too high. “I don't need them anymore.”

“I gave you those. They're yours,” he said and she could hear his breathing quicken.

“I don't need them and I don't want them,” she murmured. He clicked his tongue and looked out toward the street. She watched him work his jaw, like he wanted to say something. She waited and waited, wanting him to say something despite everything, but he didn't. No words came. “Hold out your hand,” she repeated again. He didn't look at her. He looked everywhere but at her. But eventually, he held up his left hand and she dropped the keys into his gloved palm. She stared down at the small shining pieces of metal and told herself that even though it was the end of whatever she and Tate were, it was just the start of whatever she was going to be. She was going to be fine without him, she told herself. She was going to be fine no matter what.

But even as she told herself that, she still felt like she was about to die.

“I'm going to go now,” she said when she couldn't take being close to him for one more second. She turned and stepped into the street. A car rushed in front of her and she gasped in surprise. She suppressed the urge to look back at Tate and see his reaction. Instead, she checked that it was all clear and then she finally hurried across the cross walk. After that, she didn't stop. She kept on going until she made it back to Gina's.

It was only then that she let herself cry.

It was only then that she let herself fall apart.

Chapter Twenty

T
he vibrating cellphone on his nightstand jarred Tate out of his light sleep. Grumbling, he immediately grabbed it and accepted the call, not even bothering to open his eyes before he pressed the phone to his ear. “What?” he said, knowing automatically it was work. Something bad had happened, somewhere in the city. Whether or not it was his problem and he would have to get out of bed had yet to be seen.

“Hey bro,” the voice on the other line said. He recognized it immediately. It was an officer from the Harlem street beat, O'Malley.

“Better be good,” Tate said, annoyed that his sleep being interrupted. Thanks to a certain female, he hadn't had a decent night's sleep in weeks.

“Homicide on 129
th
. Guess who.” O'Malley sounded like he was busting at the seams to tell him about it, but Tate wasn't in the mood for games, especially not at two in the morning. Seemingly sensing Tate's annoyance, O'Malley didn't bother waiting for a guess. “Fucking Sam Spears. Took two to the chest. We're guessing a .38. Still waiting on the coroner to pronounce it.” Tate bolted upright, awake instantly. For a second he couldn't move as the news sunk in. Sam Spears. Shay's father. Dead.

“Fuck,” he said, only one thing on his mind. “You sure?”

“Yeah, bro,” O'Malley said, his voice cutting out as a siren rode by in the background. “Shot him down in the middle of the street like a dog.”

“Who did?”

“We don't know. Neighbors didn't see shit. Nobody's talking.”

“Just him?” Tate felt a cold sweat break out on his forehead, despite the chill in the air of his bedroom.

“What?” O'Malley said, his voice choppy again.

“What about his daughter?” Tate said, trying to keep his voice steady. His heart was a stone in his chest as a million fucked-up thoughts flashed in his brain. He almost threw the phone across the room when he had a vision of Shay, stiff and lifeless on the ground, her blood leaking out all over the street for everyone to gawk at.

“What daughter?”

“Spears has a daughter. Lives in the neighborhood. Was she there?” Tate cracked his knuckles as he waited what felt like a lifetime for O'Malley to answer, telling himself that she was fine. He was just being fucking paranoid. If Shay had been hurt, he would know it somehow. He would feel it in his bones.

“I don't know about any daughter. Spears has a definite date with a body bag tonight, though.” O'Malley's end of the line crackled, and Tate could hear other voices. He tossed the blanket off of him and stood, not even bothering to turn on the light. “I gotta go, bro.”

“Hey,” Tate barked out before O'Malley could disconnect. “Find out about the daughter for me, would you?”

“No problem,” O'Malley said, then the line went dead. Tate yanked open a drawer and grabbed a folded shirt off the top of the pile. He dressed quickly in the dark, only one thought on his mind. It had been three days since he'd seen or talked to her. He had no idea where she was, but all he knew was that wherever she was, he had to get to her. He didn't know whether she knew about her father yet or not, but either way, she was going to need someone to be there for her. She was going to need him. And there was no way in hell he was going to let her go through it alone, no matter how much she thought she hated him.

He slammed the door shut to his apartment and rushed down the stairs, taking two at a time. He tried calling her as he headed down, but she didn't answer. Her phone rang and rang and then went to voicemail.

“This is me,” her husky voice said into his ear. “If you can't be bothered to leave a message, I won't be bothered to call your ass back. Bye!” she chirped, her happy voice in contrast to the dry humor of her words. Hearing her voice was like a kick to the stomach. He wanted to talk to her and make sure she was okay. He had to get to her, so he shrugged it off and kept going. He didn't know where she was, but he was going to find her. First off, he'd try Gina's and then the salon. Content with his plan, he pushed open the front door to his apartment and hurried out into the dark, cold night. When his phone vibrated in his hand, he almost jumped a foot.

“Hey,” O'Malley's voice said in his ear when he answered. He couldn't help feel a sense of disappointment that it wasn't Shay, but he wasn't totally disheartened.

“What?” Tate said, fumbling with his keys as he reached his car, parked a block from the apartment.

“The daughter. I asked around. Found out they took her down to the 50
th
precinct for questioning.” O'Malley said. Tate let out a low breath as relief passed through him.

“Did she witness the shooting?” Tate asked, his hands steadier as he unlocked the car door and wrenched it open.

“No idea. All I know is what I told you.”

“Which detectives?”

“Ramirez and Holder. You know 'em?”

“Yeah.” Tate sighed and slammed the car door shut behind him. He stuck the key in the ignition and the car roared to life. She was going to hate that, he knew. The last place she would want is to be in an interrogation room with a pair of New York's finest. Ramirez and Holder weren't assholes, but they weren't powder-puffs either. He was sure Shay was in fight or flight mode. With her back against the wall, who knew how she would react? He said a quick thanks to O'Malley and hung up the phone. He tossed it on the seat next to him and peeled away from the curb, heading south toward Harlem. As he slammed on his brakes at a red light, he cursed under his breath. He took his foot off the brake and inched forward, his eye on the light. When it finally changed to green, he gunned it again, speeding through the residential streets. It was then that a long forgotten memory began to surface in his brain. He hadn't thought about it in so long, but all of a sudden, it hit him like a ton of bricks.

Six years ago

Tate stood against the back wall of the dark office, his arms crossed over his chest, watching the scene in front of him through two way glass. He could see the girl at the table in the adjacent room, her head down. They'd been in the room with her for over two hours, but she wasn't talking. She had her hands on the table in front of her, crossing and uncrossing her fingers. She had long red nails, he noticed, and she would drum them on the table in a light beat every time the detective asked her a question.

Shaylene 'Sugar' Spears was going to be a tough nut to crack. She wasn't stupid and she wasn't weak. Unfortunately for her, she was young and she was also very guilty. That was the leverage they had over her and she didn't have much of a chance unless she took a deal. Morales, the detective in the room with her, leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs like he had all the time in the world.

“We know your father put you up to this, Sugar,” he said in a soft, soothing voice. “He asked you to wait in that alley, didn't he?” She didn't respond, just tapped her nails.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Tate shifted on his feet, chomping down on his almost-tasteless peppermint gum. He knew Shay Spears. He remembered letting her go for a minor shoplifting charge, a couple of years before. He'd seen her numerous times around the neighborhood, especially after he knew who she was. He'd seen her smiling and happy with her friends, like a kid should be. It was fucked up that she'd been dragged into her father's mess. It sucked, but her father was in the wind, and she was sitting right in front of them. She was either going to end up being the bait or the scapegoat, it seemed.

“Can I have some water?” she asked, her voice low and barely audible.

“Sure. After you answer some of my questions,” Morales tented his hands in front of him. She worked her teeth over her plump bottom lip and shook her head slightly, like she was waging an internal war with herself. He ran his eyes over her face, not able to stop thinking that it was a damn shame that she'd found herself in such a shitty situation. She didn't deserve it. She was so damn young. And she was a pretty girl as well, although that didn't have anything to do with the situation at hand. She had smooth, unblemished brown skin and a heart-shaped face that made her look younger than she was. Her eyes were smudged with dark mascara and eyeliner and her lips were painted red.

Red like the color she'd tried to shoplift.

“I'll be honest with you, Sugar,” Morales said, keeping his tone soft and calming. “I know your father's probably told you that you can't trust us. I know you probably think you shouldn't talk to us.” He shrugged lightly. “But if you don't talk to us, you'll be making a huge mistake.” She lifted her hand and pushed a piece of dark hair behind her ear. It was then that he noticed she had what looked like an engagement ring on her finger. Something jumped in his chest. Maybe that was something they could use to get her to talk, he thought. He narrowed his eyes, waited for Morales to pick up on it.

“You're looking at ten years max, Sugar. Ten years in prison.” He adjusted his glasses, letting the words sink in. “How old are you? Eighteen? You really want to waste your twenties, your best years, in prison?” He shook his head. “I don't think any of us wants that. You want to go to college, don't you? I bet you have a boyfriend and a lot of friends who probably wouldn't stick around for ten years, right?” She closed her eyes for a long second and took a shaky breath, but didn't speak. “If you tell us where your father is, the D.A. will be a lot more forgiving. This is your first offense. You could walk. No prison time.” Morales leaned closer, perhaps sensing blood in the water. “If you testify against the man who put you up to this, everybody wins. We win, you win...” he trailed off, then patted his hand on the yellow pad of paper beside him on the table.  “Give me a statement and I'll see what I can do with the D.A.”

She shifted, the plastic chair creaking under her weight. She raised her eyes to look at the yellow pad. Morales slid it over to her. Tate clicked his tongue and shook his head. He leaned forward involuntarily, knowing somehow in his guts that she was about to go one way or the other. He cracked his knuckles, telling himself that he shouldn't care about this poor girl. She wasn't the important one. She wasn't the endgame; her father was. She'd just been caught in the crossfire. But it still felt shitty. The poor kid didn't know what she was doing. She was scared and alone and her father had fucked her to save his own ass.

“Come on,” he said, under his breath. “Don't fuck this up.”

“What about your aunt, huh? Regina?” Morales piped up. “Maybe she knows where Sam is. They're pretty close, right?”

“
Fuck
,” Tate hissed to himself, feeling in his bones that the interrogation was heading south.

“She's got a salon over on Morningside.” Morales continued, like an idiot. Tate flicked his eyes to Shay. She was shutting down by the second. “Maybe Sam is hiding out there. Maybe we need to send a few officers over there to check it out. If she's hiding him, we'll drag her ass in here too. Maybe you're willing to do time for Sam, but what about her?”

“She don't have anything to do with it and you know it,” Shay said, her whole body going rigid.

“I don't know that,” Morales said. “You're not giving me any information. If you won't talk, maybe she will.” Shay snorted in disgust and Tate felt a cold hard heaviness in the pit of his stomach. The interview had turned. Beside him, the assistant D.A, a sharp-dressed red-haired woman named Daphne, shook her head. “But even if we shut down her salon for a search and drag her in her for questioning, you're still going to be in a jail cell. We got you, girl. We got you.” Morales' voice was still calm, but it was no longer friendly.

“You aren't gonna do shit for me,” she said. “You want me to be your punk and then you're still going to throw me in a cell.”

“Now, that all depends on you. I told you, we're going to work something out with the DA. But you have to give me something. You give something, you get something.”

“I don't need anything from you.” Shay shook her head, her big gold earrings catching the fluorescent light.

“Come on, you're not a stupid girl.” Morales patted the yellow pad again. “You're not in the position to make demands. We got you, but we want your father. You can help us or you can hurt yourself. Your choice.”

“I want a lawyer,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. Next to Tate, Daphne sighed. The mood changed around in the room as Shay's words effectively shut down the interrogation. The lieutenant tapped on the glass and Morales stood and left the room, leaving the pad on the table. The lieutenant and Daphne turned to each other, talking softly. Tate didn't pay attention to their words. He walked closer to the two-way mirror, staring at the girl in the room beyond. She looked so small in there alone. He couldn't shake the feeling that he could have gotten her to talk. He knew her, sort of. He'd been kind to her before. She might open up to him, especially if he got her what she wanted. A glass of water and a friendly demeanor might have made the difference. The difference that might have kept her out of prison.

“Boss, let me talk to her,” he blurted out, turning to the lieutenant, even though he knew it was no use. It was worth a try though. Shay Spear's life was worth a try.

“Too late, Grayson. She's lawyered up.” The lieutenant shrugged and opened the door. Daphne, Morales, and the lieutenant filed out, leaving Tate alone in the dark room. He turned his eyes back to her and was startled to see her looking at the double-sided glass, right at him. Her eyes were wide and scared, like she was finally realizing the seriousness of the situation. A single tear ran down her cheek and something wrenched in his guts. He cleared his throat, telling himself that he didn't care. Shay Spears didn't matter in the long run. But even as he said it to himself, he didn't believe it.