“Absolutely not.” Drake stalks back a step, dragging Rory with him. “I don’t need a puppy. I don’t want a puppy. I will not have a puppy.”
“I don’t need…” Clay’s face practically fucking glows. “It’s okay, Detective. I don’t?—”
“I’m not asking,” Fletch counters. “Drake’s getting the dregs of whatever cases no one else wants, because he’s new and has no partner. He’s an asset to our precinct and should be utilized appropriately. You’re a bundleof massive potential, wasting away without direction and consistent leadership. We have a one and a one, now we make a two.”
“I said no,” Drake snarls. “It’s not happening.”
“But he took Rory’s bullet.” Too sweet, too perfect, Minka flutters her lashes. “He saved her life, Detective. Is that not something you’re thankful for?”
“No—I—You…” Drake’s eyes swing desperately to Rory. “It’s not like that, I swear. It’s just?—”
“It would be a shame to leave such a gifted officer without adequate leadership, don’t you think?” Rory grins, smug with the hook she expertly threads through his lip. “He saved my life, Drake.”
“Isaved your life, woman! I did it.”
“I mean…” Finally, Clay speaks up for himself. “Only one of us took a bullet for her, sir…”
“It would mean so much to me.” Rory turns and stands toe-to-toe with the fumbling former undercover agent, fearless despite the very real danger he poses to most others.But not her.“Detectives Malone and Fletcher already have partners. But Brady is left to those Midtown knobs.”
“Knobs?” He sputters. “Don’t say knob!”
“I worry for him,” she sighs. “He was so brave when I needed help. So strong and kind. And I believe he was on track for a partner back then. But then he got hurt…for me.By the time he got back from medical leave, that partner was passed on to someone else.” She holds him by the lapel of his shirt and inches up until she’s high enough to press a kiss to his lips. “It would make me immeasurably happy if you taught Officer Clay all the things he needs to know.”
“Rory—”
“I could kissyou.” She does so a second time. “Thankyou. Appreciateyou. Or…” She lowers to flat feet and peeks my way. “I could ask Detective Malone to find someone else, at which point I’ll thank him. Appreciate him. Perhaps even a congratulatory kiss on the cheek.”
“I’m not dealing with the paperwork.” Drake burns Fletch with a glare that promises pain. “The kid isn’t even a downtown officer, which means you motherfuckers have all that red tape to deal with first.If, in the future, his lieutenant and Fabian come to an agreement and rubber-stamp that shit, I’ll consider letting him ride in my car.”
“Excellent.” Fletch claps his shoulder, loud and just heavy enough to shuffle the man an inch to the side. “I got the green light on Thursday night.”
Drake’s face drains white. “What?”
“I’m a forward thinker, Detective, and I knew, even without you, Officer Clay needed out of Midtown.” Turning to Brady, he extends his hand. “It’s official, Pup. You’re one of us now. Shift starts at nine o’clock Monday morning. Detective Banks will run you through orientation, find you a locker, snag a desk, and shove it against his, and then, by nine-fifteen, you’ll have your first case to run with your brand-new big brother. Don’t be late.”
“Er…” Clay gulps nervously. “Th-th-thank you.”
Fletch meets my eyes and flashes a blinding grin. “Nailed it.”
MINKA
Iswitch the faucet off inside the hotel’s ornate bathroom and walk to the paper dispenser on feet that ache beyond comprehension, tugging two sheets out and wiping my hands dry while I eye myself in the mirror. My makeup remains flawless, thanks to the setting spray the artist smothered me in countless hours ago. My hair remains almost as perfect as it was when I left the salon, my dress is beautiful, and my knee is holding up. But my eyes… there’s not much a woman can do to conceal the red where they should be white, or the shadows forming, even under caked-on cosmetics.
Tossing the paper towels in the trash can, I catch sight of a clock on the wall above the door—twelve-oh-three—and release a long, tired sigh. This will end soon, right? Wedding guests will leave, the bride and groom will sneak out, and eventually, Archer will take me home.
Whichever home. Wherever. I don’t even care anymore.
I turn toward the door and hook my fingers around the glittering silver handle, but just before I pull it open, a toilet flushes further along the line of cubicles.
Heelsclip-clip-clipagainst cold tile, then the door opens and a woman in green steps out. “Oh.” She startles and drops her gaze, pasting on a small, fake smile as she moves toward the sink. “Sorry. Surprised me.”
She speaks with an accent. South Slavic, maybe. Which isn’t entirely different from the accent my Polish mother exhibited in my youth.
“You’re here with Anthony Agosti, aren’t you?”
She jolts a second time, her eyes flickering to mine in the mirror’s reflection. “Do I know you?”
“No. And I don’t know you.” I release the door handle and meander closer to the woman with yellowed bruising on her arm, right above her biceps. “I don’t know Anthony, either. But I saw you at the wedding. You were standing with him, so I assumed…”
