Disturbing His Peace Read online

  A laugh vibrates in my belly, and I’m punched with nostalgia. There’s something about lying on your stomach in your childhood living room and giggling that makes you feel as if you never left. There’s a million memories trapped within these four walls. Watching movies on rainy days, big bowls of ice cream settled on our knees. Walking out in the morning and finding Jack asleep on the couch and knowing his mother must be entertaining a man upstairs. Just another reason why I love my parents. They gave Jack a key, told him welcome to the family and never brought up why his escaping to our apartment was necessary.

  For all these reasons and more, I give up Saturdays to help my mother clean. To babysit Robbie’s sister’s new baby. To schedule my father’s physical therapy appointments. Stock the fridge, sort the bills, fix appliances. That’s what you do for people you love, right?

  I’m totally not throwing extra energy into my visit today to distract myself. I’m not.

  But it has been two days since Greer turned my dial from mildly horny millennial to sex-starved kerfuffle of hormones. He hasn’t been scheduled to train us at the academy, and since the sick instructor is healthy again, I haven’t seen him. Or spoken to him.

  He can’t honestly expect me to carry on with this probation after what happened, though. We both underwent an unexplainable psychosis in that locker room. There’s no other explanation for the lieutenant nearly orgasming me with a few well-placed sentences. Although, there were some well-placed muscles, too. Very well placed. Let’s face it.

  Then there’s the matter of his penis.

  It’s magnificent. Long and thick with one of those Roman helmet-looking heads. Pretty appropriate since the thing was prepared to march onto a battlefield. Oh my God. I can’t close my eyes without seeing it rise, the skin stretching, veins growing more prominent.

  For me. The invincible lieutenant was turned on for me.

  “Danny, when you’re done with that, can you help me get the ironing board down from the top of my closet?”

  “Yeah, Mom.”

  “And I need stamps to send out the bills.”

  “Caught her trying to sneak a couple from your collection again,” my father says, finally entering the conversation that has been taking place around him for twenty minutes. “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t let her.”

  My mom throws up one shoulder like a shield. “I was desperate!”

  My father snorts. “Your collection hasn’t seen a new addition in a while, Danika. You planning to get the new Elvis stamp? It comes out next week.”

  Elvis? I’m too focused on the stamps my mother needs to think about some . . . beautiful square piece of heaven featuring the King.

  “I, uh . . .” Tension creeps into my shoulders. It usually does when my plate starts to get crowded, but I shrug it off. Sure, I could say no to my mother’s requests, that I want to spend Saturday with my friends. Or I could delegate some things to my cousins, but I hate admitting I can’t do something. It’s just a few errands. No big deal. Sometimes I wonder, though. Would they still want me around if I wasn’t doing things for them? “I can run down to the bodega for stamps. The post office is going to be too crazy.”

  “Thank you, angel.” She’s quiet a moment, her potato peeler moving in a blur, sending brown debris into the sink. “I might need a police report filed, too.”

  I drop my screwdriver. “What?”

  “Your mother’s bike was stolen,” says my father. “She didn’t lock it up right.”

  “The bike we got you for your birthday?”

  “Yes.” My mother’s face is pinched. “I put it in the building hallway so I could talk to Pearl across the street. She wanted to show me the dress she knitted her grandbaby.”

  My father huffs. “She was over there for two hours. Forgot all about the bike.”

  “I didn’t forget, I got sidetracked.” She shoos him with a wrist flick. “Watch your sports, old man.”

  We bought my mother that bike because she was feeling cooped up in the apartment. Ever since she started riding it along the river, I’d noticed more color in her cheeks, more bounce in her step. But I won’t be able to afford a replacement any time soon. All my saved money is being used for rent and food. I sigh and pick the screwdriver back up. “I’ll file the report. But I’m sorry, Mom. I don’t think you’ll see it again.”

  “That’s okay,” she says quietly. I don’t realize she has crossed the room until she stoops down and cups my chin. “You’re a good girl, Danny. So responsible.”

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  All at once, I feel like an imposter. Am I responsible? I haven’t seen or checked in with Greer since Wednesday, when I witnessed him in all his buff, naked glory. Sure, he was a complete jerk in the locker room, but he helped me out of a bind. Not to mention Robbie worked with the NYPD community outreach program yesterday to clean graffiti off a local elementary school. I could tell over the phone how proud he was to do something positive to cover up the negative. To be responsible.

  Meaning the Grim Reaper’s lesson was working.

  But here I am, not living up to my end of the bargain.

  I blow out a breath and tighten the final screw, giving the vacuum a quick test. “Mom, let’s get down the ironing board. I’ll go grab those stamps, then I have to go out for a while.” Hopping to my feet, I dust off the back of my jeans. “I’ll be back later to babysit, but I can’t stay too long. I have a date.”

  My mother looks like she’s just been informed the Pope is coming to dinner. “A date?”

  “Kind of.” Although it doesn’t feel like one at all. More of an obligation. “It’s just pizza.”

  But first? I have a date with the devil.

  I’ve never actually been inside the Ninth Precinct where Greer is stationed, but I’ll admit to crafting my route occasionally so I can walk past the gray stone building. It’s arching steel entrance boasts glowing green lights on either side, letting all who pass through the door know that serious shit is going down inside. But I don’t really have a grasp on how serious until I step through the entrance, my Vans squeaking on the polished marble floor.

  It’s not loud or chaotic, but the mood is laser focused. Two cops nearly mow me down as they march through the foyer, accompanying their low conversation with precise, cutting gestures. I’ve spent a lot of time envisioning myself walking into a precinct and punching a clock, rubbing shoulders with veterans and rookies alike, but it suddenly seems much further in the future.

  Shaking off the negative worry, I propel myself toward the front desk, waiting patiently for the female officer to acknowledge me. She assesses me like spots on a drinking glass. “Yes?”

  “Hi, I’m here to see Lieutenant Burns.”

  At least now she looks interested. “What’s this pertaining to?”

  “Nothing. I’m just . . .” Just what? A recruit on probation? It might be the truth, but I’m still not sure it’s appropriate for me to be visiting my instructor on my day off. Definitely should have thought this through a little more. Intending to walk back outside and call Greer on my cell, I start to back toward the exit. “You know, I’ll just—”

  “Name,” she sighs.

  Mud. “Silva.”

  She picks up the phone and hits a few buttons. A few beats pass before she hangs up. “He’s still in a briefing. Have a seat.”

  Her no-nonsense tone gives me zero choice, so I park it on the far end of the waiting room, hands wedged beneath my thighs. When the front desk lady rises a few minutes later and opens the hallway door, Greer’s voice drifts—okay, barks—out and my spine goes straight. All I hear are the words pinpointing possible locations before the door closes again. Except now I’m curious. What does the lieutenant look like in action? Are his officers as scared of him as us recruits? What kind of case if he working on?

  Judging I have two minutes max before the receptionist returns, I creep toward the hallway door and open it for a peek. About fifteen yards ahead on the left, I can see Greer through
an entrance marked Briefing Room, standing in front of a whiteboard. Before we collided in the locker room, I used to feel tingly whenever the lieutenant was around. Aware. Sensitive. But ever since I’m talking about fucking you, baby, tingly doesn’t quite cover how it feels to see him again.

  Those low, intimate muscles between my legs tighten up, my nipples turning to spikes. Inside my shoes, all ten of my toes curl under. And I’m suddenly a mouth breather.

  It doesn’t help that he’s ten times as intimidating when leading a meeting. He’s standing, hunched forward over a desk, propped on giant fists. His frown is made of nightmares. Every time he speaks, I jump a little at the ringing intensity, the decisiveness with which he answers every question.

  My line of sight trails over his broad, bunched shoulders, down his back to settle on the curve of his butt. Damn. It’s not tight, exactly. It’s definitely muscular, but there’s some meat. I have this sudden vision of Greer checking out his ass in the gym mirror, growling over the extra cushion he can’t manage to banish—and it happens. I breathe a giggle.

  Blue eyes snap to mine so fast, I freeze like a clumsy moose in a hunter’s crosshairs. That’s all the reaction I get out of the lieutenant before he resumes the briefing, delegating and indicating things on the whiteboard with a tapping knuckle. Finally, I force myself to close the hallway door and sit back down, only now I’m considering bolting for the street. I can hear him now. Eavesdropping is technically a violation of your probation.

  But I already have violated it by avoiding my responsibility for the last two days. That fact, along with my determination to make it right, is the only thing that keeps me glued to the plastic bucket seat.

  I strongly rethink those intentions ten minutes later when the lieutenant fills the hallway doorframe like an irritated king and crooks a finger at me to follow.

  Chapter 9

  Greer

  When Danika walks into my office behind me, it’s as if I’m seeing it for the first time.

  God, it’s fucking boring.

  Sure, there are framed pictures of me on the wall shaking hands with the mayor, alongside commendations, degrees and awards. But there’s nothing personal. No propped-up family photos or children’s finger painting. Little things cops use as reminders that the entire world isn’t locked inside the tired gray walls where topics like assault, homicide and suspicious packages are discussed like the weather. There’s a paperweight—a birthday gift from Charlie—that says, “I’m not bossy, I just know what you should be doing,” but that’s it.

  Christ, this is ridiculous. I just led a briefing with an audience of jaded, hard-nosed cops regarding an armed assault suspect at large. Now this girl half my size is making my palms sweat. I track to the far side of my desk and gesture for Danika to sit down, wondering how long the smell of her will hang around when she leaves. Maybe it can be my version of a finger painting, just for a while.

  “What are you doing here?”

  She sits down, brown eyes flicking between me and the pictures on the wall. “I’m checking in, Lieutenant.”

  I don’t allow any surprise to show on my face, but it’s expanding in my throat. Since I sent her storming out of the locker room, I haven’t let myself harbor an iota of hope she’d voluntarily put herself in my company again. Hell, she shouldn’t. I can’t even turn off my asshole function when the girl I’ve been fantasizing about naked gives me permission to do just that. I’ve been vacillating between congratulating myself for putting a stop to an inappropriate situation and wishing it was possible to kick my own ass. Not a great couple of days.

  “I assumed it was clear after . . .” Frowning down at the papers on my desk, I make a big show of shuffling them so I can avoid a replay of the humiliation I caused. “After what happened, I think it’s best to end your probation. You’re off the hook.”

  Her eyebrows draw together. “I don’t want to be off the hook.”

  “Why?” My tone is still hard from the meeting, and I attempt to soften it, reminding myself she’s not one of my officers. “I haven’t seen you since Wednesday. What changed your mind since then?”

  For the first time since she walked in, I realize her hair is down. Have I ever seen it that way? No, it’s always in one of those flippy ponytails, bouncing all over the place when she runs. It’s wavy today, stopping a few inches past her shoulders. Even with her tits.

  Don’t think about her tits.

  “My mom’s bike got stolen,” she answers, sweeping back the uneven ends of her hair. “She told me I was so responsible, offering to file the police report for her. It made me feel guilty for taking the easy way out. With you.”

  “I see.” Her honest answer takes me off guard. I expected sarcasm. But I like her being truthful with me. Very much. “There’s no reason for you to feel guilty. I didn’t behave like a gentleman.”

  A laugh puffs out of her. “Most men don’t these days.”

  “They should,” I bite out. “They better with you.”

  Dammit, why can’t I operate with a clear head around Danika? My mouth acts on its own, right along with my cock. Brow furrowed, she’s staring down at the ground now, sneaking curious peeks up at me through her eyelashes, like I’m an alien life form. “I make sure they do, don’t worry,” she murmurs. “On the rare occasions I have dates. They’re like a lunar eclipse.”

  “You have one tonight,” I point out, before thinking better of it. Great. Now I’m not just her weirdly protective—older—instructor with a boring office. I’m also the guy who has a mental calendar of her social schedule.

  “Yes.” She rolls her lips inward. “It’s just pizza.”

  Is that why she’s wearing her hair down? I don’t like the style as much as I originally thought. My hands itch to shove the strands through one of those rubber band deals. I expend the extra energy by printing out a stolen property form for her to fill out, and sliding it across the table.

  Watching as she plucks a pen out of my cup and begins completing the questionnaire, I can’t seem to keep my curiosity at bay. Curiosity? That’s hilarious. If I didn’t think it would get me locked in a mental ward, I would book an interrogation room to get every detail of the upcoming date out of her. “Are you on your way to this . . . outing now?”

  Her eyebrow goes up at the word outing. “No, I have to run back to Hell’s Kitchen and babysit my cousin’s baby for an hour.”

  “You were already there once today?”

  She nods. “Mom’s vacuum was broken. And she needed groceries and stamps—”

  “So you came all the way east, just for . . . this? Only to turn right back around?”

  “That’s right. When something is bothering me, I try to face it right away.” She rubs her cheek on her shoulder in a gesture I know well from the academy. She’s always doing it during lectures. “I don’t want to get away with shirking my responsibilities.”

  “It sounds like you have a lot of them. Responsibilities.” Every once in a while, when interrogating a perp, the cop strikes a nerve. Sometimes that nerve has no connection to their possible crime, but we hit it nonetheless. I’ve just prodded Danika’s sore tooth by pointing out how busy she seems to be on others’ behalves. It’s my nature to dig deeper, but this time it’s because I want to know what makes her tick. No denying that. “I’m aware that Jack Garrett joined the academy thanks to your influence. Your cousin called you when his store was going to be robbed, too. Does everyone depend on you?”

  “If they do, I’m glad.” She says it too fast, and we both know what that signals. When I raise an eyebrow, the tension seems to leave her neck. “Maybe sometimes . . . I keep myself available, just in case my family needs me.”

  “You don’t know how to say no.”

  Signing her name on the form and pushing it back toward me, she smirks. “No.”

  I see you now, tough girl. Thank God I keep that sentiment in my head, because we’re both uncomfortable by how far this conversation has gone. Me, because I g
enuinely care about her answers and want to help. Her, because she probably thinks revealing her weaknesses to me is a bad thing. Does she have any idea how hard I can relate to her hating the chink in her armor? “All right, Silva. Consider yourself checked in—”

  “Is this your book of the week?” Her gentle fingers are combing through the paperwork on my desk. Which is so intimate, she might as well be combing through my chest hair. Finally, she retrieves my copy of The Lost Order by Steve Berry and holds it up. “For book club?”

  “Yes.” I shift in my seat, commanding my hands to stay where they are. “Brought it to read on my lunch break. But I never get one, so I guess the joke is on me. You can put it down now.”

  Danika tilts her head, setting off sparkles in her eyes. “You don’t like people touching your books?”

  “The corners get damaged very easily.”

  “Hmmm.” She lays it down carefully. “What are your book club meetings like?”

  “Most of the officers are there by recommendation of a department therapist.” Sliding the book off my desk, I place it in my top drawer, mentally reciting the page number where I left off, since I never bend pages. Ever. “Officers who’ve discharged their weapon or dealt with a traumatic event while on duty. Reading is a way to occupy their thoughts and the club keeps them accountable.”

  “And you lead the group.” Her delicious-looking mouth slides into a smile at one end. “Did you . . . create the group?” I give a brisk nod and she falls back into the chair. “Oh.”

  The urge to explain catches me off guard and I don’t suppress it in time. “I was required to attend sessions with the department therapist after . . .” When her smile drops I know she’s aware of the reason I had mandated therapy. It’s no secret I lost my partner. Ignoring the stab of discomfort in my jugular, I keep going. “I hated it. Figured there were other officers who’d rather drink a quick beer and talk about something besides themselves. So I got it done. There’s no tears or hand-holding. It’s not a support group, Silva.”