Disturbing His Peace Page 9

  Lieutenant Burns, this is Danika Silva calling to check in. So . . . ch-ch-check. You’re writing on that clipboard right this very second, aren’t you? Knew it.

  The memory makes my mouth edge up at the corner as the light turns green. But the ghost of a smile disappears when I remember how fast she talked, like she’d had to work up the courage to call me. The phone stops ringing by the time the post office comes into view again, forcing me to coast to a stop so I can listen. Right there on the avenue. Jesus, she has turned me into a double-parker.

  Hiiii, no it’s fine, don’t bother answering. You, uh, never really specified what I’m supposed to say during these check-ins, but Charlie marked your birthday on our community kitchen calendar, so you’re getting your horoscope.

  She’s talking fast again and that bothers me because it’s my fault. But I can’t help but feel a tug in my chest. She looked up my birthday? How many pages did she have to flip to find it?

  Pisces, cautious Saturn is in your money corner, so it will throw the penalty flag if you consider that impulse buy. Retail therapy is not your friend, so before you hand over that plastic, think hard. Do you need those nude pumps? Food for thought, Lieutenant. Byeeeee.

  Oh Christ, how cute was that? I can’t even hear the passing traffic over the ricochet of my heart off my rib cage. How mad or disappointed can she reasonably be if she’s reading me my horoscope? Either she has decided me showing up unannounced to give her head was no big deal, or she’s just putting on a brave face to hide her real feelings.

  I have extreme dislike for either option.

  And I’ll go to another hundred post offices to get the stupid stamp, if necessary.

  Ignoring the eye rolls from passing motorists, I slam the car door and enter the post office. Everyone is attempting to mail shit or score money orders on their lunch break, so of course, the line circles the interior. Twice. If I get in the back of the line, there’s every chance Elvis will have left the building by the time I reach the window. Nope. Not happening.

  With a sigh, I take out my badge and hold it up, approaching the first postal worker with an opening. But an elderly woman moving with the assistance of a walker beats me there, as if I haven’t taken enough punishment today. “I’ll take a book of the Elvis collector’s edition stamps, please,” she says. Because why not, universe?

  The teller hits a few buttons on his computer screen. “You’re in luck. It’s our last one.”

  Oh, so this is really happening. Incredible.

  They both notice me at the same time. “Can I help you, sir?” asks the teller, looking nervous. Probably because I look ready to grab the stamps from an old lady and run.

  “I’m going to need those stamps, ma’am.” My badge is attached to my wallet, so I flip it over and open the money pocket. “How much is it going to cost me?”

  “Nothing. They’re not for sale.”

  “We have Marilyn Monroe,” supplies the teller. “Or Spock.”

  I shut him up with a withering side glance. When I come back at the woman, she has already squirreled away the Elvis booklet and put on her game face. Apparently I’ve met my match. “Hundred bucks.”

  “Nope.”

  “Three hundred.”

  She sniffs, taking me in with a sweeping look. “You don’t strike me as a collector.”

  I clear my throat and make sure there’s no one else within earshot. “They’re for a girl who’s mad at me. She’s the collector.”

  Perfect. Now she’s smiling. What is it about women that they love to see one of their kind bring a man to his knees? And I realize that’s where I’m willing to go. One taste of Silva and I’ve lost my damn mind.

  “Are you useful around the house?” Stamp Stealer asks me.

  “I have no idea.”

  “Lord. Can you at least change some light bulbs?” She gathers herself up, like she’s getting ready to lay into someone. Hopefully not me. “My landlord won’t change them because of some liability nonsense, and my son lives in Texas.”

  I weigh the mountain of paperwork on my desk against becoming a handyman for an hour and finally getting those stamps. It’s no contest. “My car is outside. Let’s go.”

  She waits until I open the passenger side door for her to ask, “How about litter boxes? Mind changing a couple of those, too?”

  Christ.

  Chapter 13

  Danika

  Who’s got two thumbs and doesn’t let some man get her down?

  This girl.

  One of my fellow lady recruits holds the door for me on the way into the locker room, and we exchange a fist bump. It’s going to be a great Wednesday. Even if Greer is on the schedule for the first time this week and I’ll finally be coming face-to-face with him again. No big deal. I’m even wearing the red panties again for an extra boost of confidence, maybe even a sassy, secret middle finger to the lieutenant.

  There is absolutely nothing that can break my stride.

  Except maybe an envelope taped to my locker.

  I frown at the white rectangle and carefully remove it, settling it in my lap as I plop down onto the bench. Making sure there is no one looking, I lift the fold out . . . and a book of collector’s edition Elvis stamps slides out into my palm.

  Mayday, mayday. Stride broken.

  Oh my God. They’re so beautiful. Crisp, scalloped edges. Bright, vivid pinks and oranges. The King is crooning into an old-fashioned microphone with a stray, black hair dangling over his forehead. My fingers are already itching to add them to my book.

  Greer is the only one who knew I even wanted these stamps, which means . . . he left them here for me. An apology? Or did he buy them out of guilt?

  My muscles seize up and I can’t move, which is much the same condition I was left in Saturday night. Oh, I played off my humiliation when Ever and Katie came to check on me after Greer left. Putting on a smile and joining the crew for a slice of pizza made me wonder if I should look into working undercover, because I put on quite a performance. I think I fooled everyone but Jack into believing I was fine. Thank God no one asked me directly what happened or I might have cracked.

  What did happen? Nothing like a man barreling into a girl’s apartment, wiping off her makeup, spanking her, giving her a monumental orgasm, then leaving. Nothing confusing about that at all, right?

  I made the decision to follow through with the probation, though, and nothing is going to stop me from fulfilling my end of the deal. If I want to make my family proud, setting an example for my cousins and their children that come after? That example is going to be authentic. Unfortunately, Greer hasn’t been answering his phone, so I’ve been leaving messages like a clingy one-time hookup who won’t take a hint.

  Yesterday’s was the most ridiculous so far. Do you have book club merch? Asking for a friend. If not, she was thinking you should look into bookmarks. That way you don’t have to remember the page number. That is what you’ve been doing, isn’t it? Okay, bye.

  Funny enough, leaving messages has made me feel a lot better. Him walking out on me when I was vulnerable might have hurt—more than I will ever admit—but making light of the whole situation helped me take back power. Suggesting Greer stay and eat pizza was stupid. Seriously stupid. For a minute there, I even thought I wanted him to accept the offer. To what? Be my kind of boyfriend? No wonder he legged it. What happened in my bedroom was a hookup that got cut unfortunately short and won’t be happening again.

  Only . . . now I have stamps. What do they mean?

  A whistle blows out in the gym, rousing me from my stupor. I’m alone in the locker room? My glaze flies to the clock and I’m late. Shit. How long have I been sitting here? Time seems to slow down as I change into my academy T-shirt and a pair of black yoga pants, hopping on one foot while tying my sneakers. I almost wipe out minutes later as I skid around the corner into the brightly lit gym, finding everyone already lined up for inspection.

  Every head turns in my direction, including Greer’s, and
I want to stab him with his pencil when he makes a notation on the clipboard. I take the walk of shame to the end of a line, ignoring questioning looks from Jack and Charlie. They’re probably wondering how I left the apartment before them and somehow showed up late.

  Well, you see, fellas, I was mooning over some stamps.

  Every time Greer does inspection, walking down the line of recruits to mark us present and presentable, I have to think about something gross to keep my nipples from getting hard. Usually I think of eating snails or birds regurgitating food to their young, and it does the trick. But today, the closer he gets to me, the harder I find it to concentrate on keeping my body neutral. My backside hasn’t been tender since around Monday, but the skin he slapped wakes up and tingles now, like it wants more. Those tingles travel on little lightning clouds up and around to my breasts—and I’m in major trouble now. He’s only about two people away, and my buds are beginning to strain underneath my T-shirt. There isn’t a sports bra on the planet with enough thickness to keep them hidden . . . and I witness the moment Greer sees them.

  Hard for him.

  He drops his head forward, that pencil scratching across his clipboard, but I see him. He’s watching me though eyelashes I never noticed before. How does he make them look so masculine? Every part of him is. That ripped chest and those stupid, incredible thighs. Was this man really in my bed?

  “Break up into three groups.” Greer’s voice booms, confident and full, but I notice the dark rings around his eyes. Darker than usual. “A through J, you’re downstairs in the firing range. Garrett, you’re leading the session. Think you can handle it?” My blastoff to Planet Horny is aborted, pride plowing into my stomach. I look over in time to find Jack’s mouth curl into a hesitant smile before leading his group toward the stairwell. “K through S, you’re with me for drills. Everyone else, head to the track. Go.”

  A blow of his whistle sends everyone running, faster than we move for any other instructor. I don’t have far to go since I’m staying with Greer for drills, which, let’s face it, is going to be awkward. It was uncomfortable before he woke up this new desire inside me to be manhandled, because I’ve wanted a ride on the Thigh Express since day one. Saturday night was a game changer, however . . . and I should be feeling more exposed here. Why don’t I?

  It’s the stamps. The fact that he listened and realized they were important to me. It’s the fact that he just built Jack up in front of the whole room of recruits. And while I know my best friend deserves that recognition for his recent hard work, Greer is also trying to make up for what I overheard in that meeting. So he’s the one who’s exposed. Because that hard-ass lieutenant image is chipping away with each little gesture he can’t seem to help making.

  Damn. This is a real inconvenient time for my resentment toward him to take a nosedive. He walked out on me and hasn’t answered a phone call since. I can recognize his efforts to be a better guy as much as I want. It doesn’t change the fact that he’s not interested in anything serious. Saturday was nothing more than temporary insanity.

  My resolve to continue on like I’m completely unaffected by what happened Saturday night reaffirms itself. The alternative is to let Greer think he has the power to upset me, and I don’t want that. If I face him now, pretending I’m made of Teflon where he’s concerned will get easier each time, until it’s finally true.

  Instead of joining the rest of my group at the mats, I stay where I am and wait for Greer to draw even with me. “Can I help you with something, Silva?”

  Hearing him use my last name crams my belly with disappointment, but I ignore the feeling. What did I expect? Him to call me baby again? “Buying me stamps really takes the sting out of your dickhead act.”

  “It’s not an act.” Hard blue eyes flick to mine. “I think we established that on Saturday.”

  “Maybe.” My voice is threadbare, because I didn’t expect him to bring it up. The fact that he did throws me off. “We definitely established you’re a giver, not a taker.”

  Wow. God, that was bold, even for me. What am I doing? My goal was to act like Saturday was no big deal, sure, but I didn’t plan on inviting a conversation about it. Or making it sound as though I’m hoping for more. Without taking his focus off the clipboard, he speaks to me in a sharp tone. “That mouth is going to land you in trouble again.”

  His warning makes me think of slapping sounds, followed by groans of satisfaction. Wetness lands between my thighs, and I pull my T-shirt down on reflex. He notices, a muscle beginning to tic in his jaw. I want to push him further, to ask what kind of trouble he means. But we’ve been speaking privately long enough to draw attention to ourselves, so I go a different direction. “I’ve been staying out of trouble. You have the voice mails to prove it.”

  It might be my imagination, but warmth seems to wink in his eyes before they go cold again. “That I do. You’re taking the commitment seriously.”

  “Guess that makes one of us.”

  That got his undivided attention. The suggestion that he’s not doing his job correctly brings one eyebrow shooting up the surface of his forehead. “Excuse me?”

  Courage, young one. “You said ride alongs were part of my probation.” I shrug. “Maybe you didn’t mean it.”

  His unwavering stare might send a smarter person sprinting for cover, but I force myself to remain unblinking in the line of fire. “Be outside the Ninth at six tonight.”

  Shoot. “Can we make it six-thirty? I have to run to the West Side to bring a prescription to my dad after we’re dismissed.”

  “Send me the address.” His chin is set. “I’ll pick you up there.”

  “At my parents’ place?”

  Has a sigh ever been more withering? “I’m not coming for Sunday dinner. I’ll wait for you outside.”

  What would that be like? Walking out of my parents’ building and having Greer waiting for me at the curb. I guess I’m going to find out. “Done.”

  “Don’t be late,” he grunts.

  “You either, Grim Reaper,” I let sail over my shoulder on the way to join the group.

  It’s a challenge not to turn a cartwheel on my way to the mat. Although, I have no idea if I’ve won a victory with the lieutenant . . . or set myself up for more disappointment.

  Chapter 14

  Greer

  Gridlock on 23rd Street made me late. And fuck, she’s going to make it sting.

  When I pull my police vehicle into the fire hydrant space outside the building, I expect Danika to be waiting at the curb with a smirk on her face, but she’s not. This is going to be my penance, huh? Going upstairs and picking her up like this is some kind of date?

  Fine. I throw the car into Park and hesitate a second before reaching for the glove compartment and removing a tin of Altoids. I’m only popping a breath mint because I had tuna fish for lunch. No other reason. If I check out my mug in the rearview and grimace over three days’ worth of five o’clock shadow, it doesn’t mean anything. So why am I still sitting here?

  There’s absolutely no way a fishing hook should be tugging on my gut right now. Since when do I care about making a good impression on a girl’s parents? I bought the Elvis stamps so I wouldn’t have to rely on words to make up for being an asshole to Danika. And I accomplished the mission—end of story. The sparkle was back in her eye when she spoke to me in the gym this afternoon. But nothing is going to come from what happened in her bedroom Saturday evening. Nothing except a lot of inappropriate fantasizing about it happening again, day and fucking night. Enough that my dick is rubbed raw and I’ve had to change my bed sheets twice.

  Throwing myself into work Sunday through Tuesday helped occupy my mind, but seeing her today at the academy brought it all back with interest. The taste of her mouth, her pussy, her voice in the dark. The half-fascinated, half-ferocious way she frowned at me when I cleaned off her makeup. That stubborn tilt of her chin, teamed up with vulnerable eyes. Her invitation to stay, followed by her quiet embarrassment when
I turned her down.

  The fishing hook in my gut pulls hard.

  Enough. My brother might be young, but he made a lot of sense. If you can’t offer her anything, leave her alone. That’s what I have to do.

  My eyes are drawn to the small photo taped to the right of my two-way radio. Griffin used to hate that picture. Which is obviously why I taped it up in the first place—to torture him. That was how my partner and I rolled. In the snapshot, he’s posed in his uniform with a mean expression. Since I’m the one who took the picture, I know Griffin laughed immediately afterward. He wasn’t a serious person, except when it came to the badge. That was the only thing he and I had in common. We just took it seriously in different ways. I did everything by the book, while Griffin rode his impulses like a wild horse. He didn’t want to be a quiet hero, he’d wanted to be a loud one.

  When we went through the academy together, everyone called him “Cowboy,” and the nickname had stuck. He’d been paired with me, his exact opposite, in an attempt to rein him in. After a rocky feeling-out period, though, we’d become best friends. We remained that way right up until his pressing need to be the big hero had gotten him killed.

  My attention swings from Griffin’s photograph to the building where I’ll be meeting Danika. And for the first time, something occurs to me. Danika has a little cowboy inside her, too. Or cowgirl, as the case may be. The way she flouts the rules by breezing into the men’s locker room, her cockiness, her fierce need for independence, that stunt she’d pulled at the yogurt shop by not calling the police. Cowgirl. Getting involved with someone who’s twice as likely to find trouble or tragedy would be mental suicide. Even if this job wasn’t my life, I’m not leaving myself open again to being the last one standing.

  What am I thinking even doing this ride along? Every second I spend close to her, the harder it is to stay away.

  If you can’t offer her anything, leave her alone.