Chapter Four
Win fucking hated traffic. But what hereallyfucking hated was drivers in flashy, expensive, big-ass cars, who thought they had the right to cut in front of him. Stuck in a logjam on Flatbush Avenue, he grimaced at the Lexus attempting to nose its way in between his Jeep and the truck he was waiting not very patiently behind.
“Fuck you, asshole. Wait in line,” Win snarled, inching forward until he nearly kissed the truck’s bumper. He glared at the Lexus, daring him to keep trying. All the assholes on the road came out after midnight. Working nights was a pain in the ass, but as a detective on a special narcotics task force, he didn’t exactly have a choice. He went where the bad guys were, where they were doing their dirty deeds, and that night it happened to be in an unassuming house in the Fort Greene section of Brooklyn. It was at least a half-hour drive home to the opposite side of the borough, and even this late, the traffic was a miserable bitch.
He glanced in the rearview mirror and almost didn’t recognize himself—tangled, longish hair that looked like he hadn’t brushed it in a week, a two-days’ growth of stubble shadowing his jaw and cheeks, and an earring. That had hurt like hell, but part of working undercover meant you needed to fit in. Apparently, that meant sticking a hoop in his ear, so he’d gritted his teeth and taken one for the team. His partner, Forrest, got grief from his wife over the goatee he’d grown and the temporary tattoos he sported. Claudia claimed he was scaring the kids. Win couldn’t help laughing to himself over that. Claudia was the classiest woman Win had ever met, with never a hair out of place or even a chipped nail. Having her husband look like a street thug must annoy her to no end.
The only jewelry he’d ever worn was his wedding band. It had taken him five years to take it off, and the lingering faint circle around his finger had faded as well. All gone. He’d put the ring in the drawer next to his bed and hadn’t looked at it since.
“I can’t believe I’m wearing a ring.”
Win held his hand up to the light, and Kevin laughed, happy. “Guess I’m stuck with you now if you agreed to wear it.”
“Damn right you are. Now and forever.”
Forever hadn’t lasted as long as he’d planned.
Win pressed his forehead to the steering wheel, awash in memories of what he’d had, what was lost, and always…what might’ve been. A horn blared, and he jerked up and wiped his face.
“Fuck off, dickhead.”
Traffic started moving again, and with a sneer at the Lexus, Win accelerated and continued on Flatbush. His side ached, the result of a nasty blow from one of the perps when he was taking him down, and Win looked forward to a nice hot bath and a whiskey, not necessarily in that order. He hadn’t been home much in the past two months while working on the case, which was fine by him. The less time alone, the better. Forrest had asked if he wanted to come over and have dinner, but Win had gently refused. He knew it would be a question-and-answer session as to what had happened between him and Royce.
Block after block fell behind him, and the scenery changed from dense stores to apartment buildings, but Win barely noticed as he wrestled with his personal fiasco of a life.
He’d thought he and Royce had connected, and the fact that Royce wasn’t around much had seemed like the perfect solution. That should’ve been his first clue. Shouldn’t he have wanted more time with the man, not less?
They’d gone out every time Royce was in New York, had progressed from good-bye kisses to sweet-hello ones. On several dates they’d gone to bars, where they’d touched each other and kissed passionately, so when Royce had suggested taking it to the next level, Win might’ve broken into a sweat, but he agreed.
All of which proved to be a disaster of epic, limp-dick proportions. When you’re naked in bed and the man has his tongue down your throat, you shouldn’t be soft and wondering if you remembered to fill up your car with gas. Embarrassed, Win had mumbled something about working overtime and not enough sleep, but it wasn’t true.
The last time Royce had been in town, they’d tried again with similar results, and no matter how Win tried to explain or excuse it as anit’s not you, it’s me, it didn’t make the end result any better. When they said good-bye, Win knew he wouldn’t be seeing Royce again. Both of them deserved better than a compromise when it came to love.
At the corner of his street he waited in his car, postponing the drive down the block and that moment of entry when the darkness overwhelmed him. He hated being alone. Detective work meant learning to be dependent on your partner for your very life, and in Forrest he had the best of the best. And for ten years, he’d had a life partner who made all the ugly at work fade away the moment Win stepped through the door. When that was snuffed out, Win found himself in the unexpected position of going through life solo, and he hated every second of it.
But he’d rather be alone than force himself to be with someone. He couldn’t fake it. Ever. And being with Royce proved it. His parents and Forrest would have to understand that he wasn’t ready. Not yet.
Angry at himself for stepping into that minefield, he blinked hard at the burning in his eyes and prepared for another long, restless night. Maybe two whiskeys or three were called for. He deserved it. Having decided that, he resumed driving.
Approaching his neighbor’s house, something didn’t look right, and his pulse picked up speed as he cut the lights on the Jeep and slowed to a crawl. Then he spotted it—the front window was open, and the torso of a person lay over the windowsill. Black-clad legs kicked, and in a flash, the burglar dropped inside the house and disappeared from sight.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered and pulled into his driveway. Heart pounding, Win jumped out and ran across the lawn. He entered through the same open window, removed his weapon from the holster, and keeping it at his side, started a reconnoiter of the downstairs. After walking around the three rooms and finding them empty, Win soft-footed it to the front of the house and up the staircase. He’d never been in this house, but like the others on the block, it wasn’t a large layout—around eighteen hundred square feet, a center-hall Colonial with the kitchen in the back, a living room and dining area on either side of the staircase, and the bedrooms upstairs, which was where Win headed, assuming the burglar was looking for valuables.
At the top of the steps, the first bedroom door was open, and a floorboard creaked. Incensed, Win glided silently behind the dark figure, who’d brazenly pulled the nightstand drawer open, unfazed by the person who lay sleeping in the bed.
“Freeze, police,” Win called out, weapon drawn, crouched in his stance, and the burglar, bent over the nightstand, spun around.
“I said freeze, asshole. Put your hands up.”
The man in the bed bolted awake, eyes wide with fright. “What’s going on? Oh, my God. Shit. Who are you? Oh, my God.”
“Get on the floor,” Win yelled at the burglar, ignoring the man babbling questions. “Hands where I can see ’em.”
Luckily, the burglar listened, and within a minute, Win had the man’s hands secured with a zip tie. He holstered his weapon and put a knee right above the burglar’s kidneys, then began rapid-fire directions toward the man still freaking out in the bed.
“Call 9-1-1. Tell them you need to report a burglary and that Detective Winston Rogers from the Thirty-Fourth Precinct is on the scene and has the area secured. They should send backup.”
Nodding vigorously, the man fumbled with his phone but managed to follow his instructions in a halting voice. Still pale and visibly shaken, he scrambled out of bed on the opposite side from where Win held the perp, and wrapped his arms around his waist, hugging himself.
