I hear her clear her throat before I see her. She’s standing just in her bedroom doorway. She turns her head to her right. We all look at the man standing behind her. Goddamn Kent Jones.
“Ms. Parker?” he croaks.
“Um, yeah?” she responds.
“I’m Detective Kent Jones. Chicago PD. I hear you had a break-in?”
“Jones?” I interrupt. “What are you doing here? This isn’t a homicide.” I literally hate that guy.
Detective Jones pushes MacKenzie out of his way so he can enter the room. He’s like a bull in a china shop.
“MacKenzie, would you do us a favor and get us some water?” asks Officer Martinez.
Smart. She shouldn’t be in here for this shit storm.
“Oh, sure,” she says as she turns to leave the room.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
COMFORT FOOD
I walkinto my kitchen to get water for the four men. I only have two actual glasses, but there are a couple of coffee mugs that will work. I use tap water and then plop an ice cube in each one. I take two in hand and walk back into the bedroom just as one of them says the two scariest words in the English language: serial killer.
I drop one glass on the floor and screech, “What?” Shit, now I’m down to only one glass.
“Goddammit,” shouts Sam. He comes to me and takes the remaining glass from my tight grip. He hands it back to Martinez, and then he picks me up in his arms and carries me out to my sofa. Setting me down, he adds, “Bare feet, babe. Gonna get cut. Point to the broom.”
I point to the tall, thin cupboard that sits between the stairs and the kitchen. There’s just enough space in there to hold a broom, dustpan, and a mop. Pops designed it like that. I feel the sting of tears again, but I push them back down inside. I’ll think about him and the medals later.
I wait on the couch in a sort of a coma. I haven’t moved since Sam tossed the broken glass into my kitchen garbage can. I did notice when Officers Sawyer and Martinez left. They waved asthey took my steps out. I gave them a chin lift. I decide it’s time a find out what’s going on. I tiptoe toward my bedroom, knowing Sam and Detective Jones are still in there. Without being seen, I lean in so I can listen.
“Jesus, Stone. You let your woman live in this neighborhood?” chuckles the old guy in the trench that matches mine.
“She’s not my woman. We just met. Hell, I just fucked her last night. This isn’t anything long-term.”
My head rears back in shock. I feel the damn burn of tears, but I force them back again. I recall him saying all sorts of things to me last night that led me to believe we were starting up something—not just having a fling.
“If she’s not your woman, why are you here?”
“Heard the police scanner. Recognized the address. Just thought I’d make sure she was okay.”
“Uh-huh. Well, I’m sure both Martinez and Sawyer will be thrilled to hear she’s not taken. They were smitten. Heard they like to share.”
A roar sounds. I know it’s Sam’s voice. “Fuck you, Kent. Stay the hell out of it.” I hear the stomping footsteps coming my way, but I don’t have time to move, so when he rounds the corner, Sam’s eyes meet mine. I see regret in his immediately. Hopefully, he sees a pissed off woman in mine because I’m looking at him like he’s dog shit as I turn into my bathroom. Slamming the door, I lock it and sit down on my toilet.
Bang. Bang. Bang.“MacKenzie. Open up.”
“No,” I shout back. “Go home, Sam. I’m all right.”
“MacKenzie. Let me explain,” he says, sounding desperate.
“No need. I’m fine. I’d just like to have some time to myself. I’ll call you later.”
I hear voices outside my door, and it’s Jones sounding sort of snide. “Thought she wasn’t your woman, man. Why do you care if she heard us?”
Sam doesn’t respond, but I hear him growl like some kind of wild animal.
Detective Jones chuckles. “I’ll see myself out.”
