The Switch (3 page)

“
I’ll ask again—why was the man with the gun following you?”

I shrug my shoulders again.

He lets out a harsh breath. “Okay, you don’t want to talk? I’m calling this in, and there’s going to be a whole mess of cops down here asking you the same questions.”

“Wait!” I screech without further thought.

He looks at me, waiting. I double over, let my head fall into my lap, and take several deep breaths. I’ve always been able to cry on command. It’s just a matter of getting into the right headspace.

I think back to
this time back in high school when I was experimenting with rebellion. I decided to alter my school uniform and make it a little more
edgy
, which meant I shortened it to about mid-thigh. I caught the attention of a few boys before the nuns found me and called my parents in to talk about my wardrobe. I giggled at the boys attention, and when one boy in particular cornered me in the vacant gymnasium after classes one day, I thought I’d hit the jackpot. He was tall and muscular—for a seventeen-year-old—and popular. He backed me up against the wall and placed his hands on either side of my head. He dipped his head and started kissing my neck. And while I thought all of this was exciting and fun and dangerous—things I very much liked and wanted—it was when he shoved his hand down my skirt that I freaked out and tried to push him away. He wouldn’t budge, and I found myself screaming and crying. Still, he wouldn’t move. He got so far, despite my trying to push him off, that he nearly penetrated me.

Tears form in my eyes
, and I start bawling, remembering that incident. It feels like a lifetime ago but was really only a few years back. I was so scared in that moment. So fearful that he was going to take what he wanted and it didn’t matter what I wanted. When my mother found out about the incident, she told me they were going to deal with the boy, but that was why nice girls don’t dress like that.

I let myself cry
for my teenage self, who felt so hurt and betrayed by that stupid, awful boy, not to mention my own mother.

Officer Guilliot stares me down, his brows furrowed, his jaw clenched. He lets out a heavy sigh and reaches over, patting my arm. I let go and wail with reckless abandon
, keeping up the crying jag for as long as I can. Minutes pass, and still the good officer remains silent, allowing me my time. Somewhere in the distance a phone rings. It’s not mine, though I’m vaguely aware that I do need to get into contact with Victor. I should have been at the warehouse already, and my not being there cannot bode well for Becca.

Officer Guilliot rifles through his pocket and pulls out his ringing cellular phone. I steady my breaths, forcing myself to calm down. A hiccup escapes. The good officer’s eyes are trained on the phone in his hand. His face has fallen from the concerned do-gooder to the slapped
-puppy look he’s now sporting. I close my eyes and imagine his girlfriend is calling and he’s upset because he caught her cheating on him last night after he professed his undying love to her. That would be lucky. But luck’s never been on my side.

“
Sarge,” he says.

My stomach drops.

CHAPTER 3

Chase

I am so fucked.

“GUILLIOT,” SARGE GRUNTS
in my ear.

My
sergeant is a middle-aged man with a bad comb-over, even badder breath, and the disposition of an ornery dog. He’s not a personable man, but he is a good cop from what I can tell. Then again, what the hell do I know? I’ve been under his command less than a week. Still, since I’m just barely starting out as one of New Orleans’ finest, I’ve committed myself to thinking the best of the man. Though I can’t help the mild panic that spreads through my veins at the sound of his voice.

“You wanna explain to me why I’m standing in the Napoleon Sandwich Shoppe and watching a tape of your dumb ass running away from an armed man with a pretty brunette in tow?”

“Well, sir, ain’t gonna lie. Don’t really want to explain it,” I say. Because, really, what the fuck else am I supposed to say?

“Not an option, recruit,” he says.

I look over to the teary-eyed brunette. Her big gray eyes are staring up at me, her narrow shoulders are hunched, and her nose is red. She looks innocent and terrified. But there’s something else behind her eyes that I can’t shake. No matter how pretty and small and scared she looks, there’s an edge to her eyes, to her movements that gives away more than she intends.

I am so fucked.

“Nothing to tell, Sarge. I was eating a po’ boy and this perp came running in with a gun. Pointed it at the girl’s head.”

“And you ran her out of the shop?”

“Yes, sir. She asked for help, and so I gave it to her,” I say as steady as I can.

“Well, looks like Wilson owes me a twenty. I sure did call it, recruit. You are the dumbest of the bunch. Where are you now?”

I take several deep breaths to control my temper. Being called out pisses me off, but beyond that, being wrong pisses me off even more.

Running Shelby out of the shop is not standard procedure. Fleeing a gunman and leaving civilians to deal with his presence is not standard procedure. Using my badge and (half) lying to a business owner in order to find safe haven is not standard procedure.

“Le Petit Hotel,” I say.

Sarge mumbles something about knowing where the hotel is before I can even tell him.
I stand, pushing the chair back with my legs. Shelby’s eyes follow mine. Her wide, fearful expression intensifies as I back away. I take wide strides toward the bathroom and stare inside the generic space. Cream-colored walls, aged paint, chipped countertop. It’s no showplace we’ve wandered into, that’s for sure. I hear movement behind me but barely register it. Ms. Connor had to move sometime, even if I was starting to think she was trying out to be a statue.

“Well, dumb or not, you fell into it, kid. You recognize the gunman?”
Sarge clears his throat, and I can hear him taking a drink on the other end of the line.

I try to recall the guy’s face, but I can’t. All I remember are Shelby Connor’s big gray eyes staring at me,
begging me for help. And shit, I’ve always been a sucker for a pretty lady in distress. In fact, it’s pretty ladies in distress that have caused me most of my problems in life.

“No, sir.”

“Miguel Ruiz,” he says. “Thug. Works security for the Silva family.”

I roll my shoulders and take a deep breath. Shit. T
his isn’t bad—this is fucked. Royally. The Silva family has been running circuits around the city and metro area for decades. Every man in blue knows that family’s money is covered in blood, but they got too many of us on their payroll for cops like the sarge or myself to do anything about it.

“Way I figure it, son
, you find out who this girl is and why she’s running. Get her information and anything else she’s willing to give up. And stick close to her. She might be the break I’ve been waiting my whole goddamn career for.”

More movement sounds behind me and then the telltale cocking of a gun. I turn around slowly and am met by the tiny Shelby Connors
, and she’s pointing a gun right at my chest. “Please put down the phone, Officer Guilliot.”

“
Sarge, I, uh, gotta go,” I say and shut the phone.

Shelby’s hands are shaking, tears stream
ing down her face, and she’s shuffling from one foot to the other. One look at her and I know she isn’t going to shoot me. I chance a glance at the side of the gun and breathe a sigh of relief. The girl doesn’t even have the safety off.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I ask.

She blanches at my harsh tone. Good. She has the goddamn nerve to pull a gun on me and doesn’t even have the brains to make sure she can properly use it.

“I pull your ass out of a dangerous fucking situation, sweat through my fucking clothes so you get to keep your fucking head on your shoulders
, and now you’re pulling a fucking gun on me?” Anger vibrates through my chest making the words spill out and sound like a violent rumble.

“I’m going to walk to the door
, and you’re going to let me go,” she says. Her voice wavers and breaks halfway through.

“Am I?” I say, taking a step toward her.

She gulps, takes a step back, and her hands shake even more. She can’t keep eye contact.

“I’ll shoot you,” she say
s, nearly a cry.

“Do what
you gotta do, baby,” I say. I step closer, just a foot away from the gun now.

“Move
, or I swear I’ll shoot.”

Another step and my ches
t is butted up against the gun.

“Please stop,” she cries
. Her arms pull the gun back a few inches, and she backs up.

Slowly, I reach out and place my hand over hers, lowering the gun and angling it away from our bodies. Something I’ve figured out about this woman is that she’s learned how to talk the talk
—she just doesn’t have the guts to walk the walk. Whatever she’s gotten herself into is fucking dangerous. She needs to know this. I pull the gun from her grip and bring my body forward, pressing into her as she presses into the wall behind her. I tower over her, and she slinks back into the wall as far as she can. I bring my lips down to her ear.

“You pull a gun on a guy
, you better know what the fuck you’re doing, or you’re going to get your ass killed,” I whisper.

She flinches and pre
sses herself even further against the wall. She has no hope of escaping and doesn’t even look like she wants to. Her face contorts into an uncomfortable bunch as she realizes, I think, how fucked she really is. She pulled a goddamn gun on a fucking police officer. If I thought she was crazy beforehand, I had no clue.

“
Now, you wanna explain to me why you just pulled a fucking gun on me?”

H
er eyes shift around nervously. “Do I have any chance of making it out of this hotel room?” she asks.

Her attitude has blossomed, going from terrified to annoyed all in the matter of a few seconds. Her tears dry up
, and her back leaves the wall. She’s no longer afraid, no longer wilting. And it’s only now that I realize her terror was only partially real, if even.

“
Not without a pair of handcuffs you don’t,” I say, narrowing my eyes.

She bites her bottom lip, a small laugh dying in her throat. She looks up at me through her lashes and leans into me, pressing her small, curvy frame against me. Her jeans and jacket cover all
the curves of her flesh, but I can feel her ample breasts pressed against my lower chest. She’s less than a foot shorter than me, but not by much. She leans her face closer, and I tip my head down.

Her large gray eyes draw me in. Her soft lips part and she whispers,
“Is the handsome officer into kink? Because I think I might like that.”

Internally, I groan. I fight to keep
a straight face and to avoid reacting in the slightest. Bad girl. She’s a bad girl. She’s not some innocent victim. She’s not some sweet girl who’s been played. She’s a player, and I’m about to be played, which is so not happening.

This girl has got this body that practically sings to me. She’s not very tall and she’s all covered up
, but I can tell that underneath her clothes she’s got these legs that I’d liked wrapped around me, and she’s curvy in all the right places. And she’s all big eyes and playing the victim. I’m a sucker for a hot chick with side of crazy, but I refuse to let this happen. I’ve only had my badge a week, and I’m not about to lose it over this piece of ass. Her eyes dance in excitement.

A cell phone rings, snapping me out of my trance. It’s not mine. This ringtone is full of an obnoxious drilling noise that makes me want to gouge my eyeballs out. Shelby’s eyes fall, no longer dancing, no longer mischievous. She gulps
, and her body locks in place. A genuine fear, the first I’ve seen since the restaurant, closes in on her, marking her face. I look down at her jeans pocket and realize that’s where the awful sound is emanating from. Her eyes follow mine, and one of her hands covers her pocket as if to silent the ringing.

“Hand it over,” I say.

She obviously doesn’t want me to have the phone, because her hand works faster now, frantic to stop the shrill sound. Her head shakes minutely. I let out a great sigh of annoyance and press my body against hers, flat to the wall. She sucks in a breath, her stomach contracting, and then slowly lets it out, closing in the space between our bodies. I check the safety on the Glock just once and then stick it in the back of my jeans. I let one hand trail up Shelby’s belly and between her breasts, my fingers lightly grazing the edges of her brown leather jacket. She sucks in a shaky breath and her cheeks heat.

My hand traces the corners of her face, past her hairline
, and then slams hard against the wall beside her head. She shrieks as her eyes well up and once again presses herself against the wall.

“Phone,” I grit out.

She gasps, and her hand holds the bulge in her pocket even more firmly. She’s not moving, unwilling to give. I get it. She’s hiding something, and whatever she’s hiding is worth making a stink of it.

The ringing stops for just a few moments before it starts up again. Her hand moves frantically over the bulge in her pocket.
I remove my hand from the wall and take one of her wrists in each of mine, bringing them above her head. I hold her small wrists in place with one of my hands. She tries to jerk her hands free, frustrated and annoyed.

“And don’t even think about kicking me in the junk. I’m not above hog-tying your ass. Got it?” I glare down at her.

She gives me her best innocent smile. “Trust me, Officer Guilliot. Your junk is the last thing I want to hurt.”

“Uh huh,” I murmur as I wiggle my hand in her jean pocket and
pull out the obnoxious device.

The screen reads VICTOR CALLING. I cast a slight glance Shelby’s way and slide my thumb across the screen.
Before I can bring the phone up to my ear, I hear the deep, angry rumble of who I’m assuming is Victor.

“Where the fuck are you!”

For a brief moment I consider identifying myself as a police officer. In my head, I tell this Victor guy who is screaming obscenities at Shelby. I check her face, and it’s fallen. This is the most vulnerable I’ve seen her look in the short time I’ve known her. Perhaps, also, the most absolutely real I’ve seen her, as well. Vulnerable and real, and something about this makes my attention snap back to the phone. Anger rises in my chest, and a protectiveness I hadn’t expected fights to the surface.

“And who the fuck are you?” I snap into the phone.

Shelby’s eyes go wide, fearful, and her chest heaves in terror. She shakes her head from side to side and keeps whispering the word
no
again and again.

“Shelby?” The character on the other end is startled
. His breath catches, and then he launches into a tirade that I can’t even quite recite. His voice shifts from a well-trained American accent to something more European.

“Try again, fucker. Now
, you wanna tell me who the fuck you are and why the fuck my girl is standing here freaking out?”

“Your girl?” he asks.
“So why don’t you tell
your girl
that she has exactly thirty minutes to get her ass here, or
her
girl won’t live to see tomorrow. And you tell that bitch there’s a change of plans. I don’t just want the diamond. Now I want
her
. So whatever you think you’re doing with her, you better do it fast, because I can promise you she won’t fail Becca.”

My blood runs cold,
I’m unsure what’s going on, and the line goes dead. I shove the phone back in my pocket and tighten my grip on Shelby’s wrists. Nothing really makes sense at this point. All I know is I was eating a fucking po’ boy, a damn good po’ boy to boot, and then this chick runs in looking for a hero. And what do I fucking do? I run off with her, jumping into the role of hero without a second thought. Then? Then I get a gun pulled on me by the same supposed damsel in distress. Now her . . . boyfriend, pimp, boss, whatever . . . is bargaining for her and the life of another girl.