“Please.” There couldn’t possibly be a better way to wake up than that.
He kisses the top of my head, and I take that as a yes. I hope it is, anyway. I’m sliding into sleep too quickly to get clarification. Ifall into slumber with a smile on my face, knowing that he’ll take care of me.
Chapter eleven
Grady
Thebottomdrawerofthe filing cabinet won’t close. It’s fucking mocking me. Kicking it with force until it clicks into place is supremely satisfying.
“We need to replace that,” I grumble, returning to my desk with the file I wanted. It wasn’t where it was supposed to be because apparently, we all need to relearn the alphabet, but excellent sleuthing skills meant I found it anyway.
Dropping it on my desk, I collapse into my chair and wish I was anywhere else. It’s only ten minutes past eleven in the morning, and I’m already exhausted. I want some takeout noodles and Lake in my lap. I don’t work weekends if I can getaway with it, but even when I do, they never dragged quite the way it’s doing today.
I can’t lie to myself and say that it’s the workload. I know it’s not.
Lake left the house around the same time as me because he’d made plans to grab a coffee with his ex. A friendly, totally fine coffee that he didn’t try to hide from me—even invited me along, which I could have accepted but didn’t—and there wasn’t any overdone “it’s just a friendly catch-up” that always makes something way more suspicious. He wasn’t cagey, or edgy, or anything but his ridiculous self as he kissed me before we left. He’d dragged it out long enough that I was more interested in taking him back inside and fucking him than going to work and dealing with homicides all morning.
I shouldn’t be this tense or unable to think about anything else.
I trust Lake. Implicitly. His ex is getting married to someone else, for fuck’s sake. They’d been nothing but friendly when they saw each other. Lake is allowed to have friends, no matter who they are. I have no right to think anything extra about any of it.
Except that it’s been hours, and I haven’t heard anything from Lake. I’m used to getting messages every hour when he’s not flying. The radio silence is disconcerting.
And completely innocent and fine.
“So, we got the video surveillance from the servo,” Quinn says, interrupting my extremely unhelpful thoughts. “The idea of going through it right now makes me want to pour some of your strongest alcohol into my coffee. Rain check for Monday?”
I grunt in response. Not like I’ll be able to concentrate on anything either, so postponing seems like the smartest plan. We’d have to rewatch it Monday anyway. No use doing a task twice if we don’t have to.
All I can think about right now is my phone. And how silent it is. Sitting there inconspicuously,notvibrating because of a new message.
“You got somewhere to be?” Quinn asks, glancing at my phone, a different kind of question in his grey eyes. “Waiting for something?”
“No.”
Judging by the look on his face, he doesn’t believe me. That’s the downside of working alongside someone almost every day for so long. He reads me too well. It’s great when it’s work related. Not so great when I want some privacy.
Quinn rolls up his sleeves and checks the time on his watch before leaning back in his chair and lacing his hands behind his head. “Seb and I are meeting Jericho for lunch; do you want to join us?”
The question’s basically the same as if he’d just said, “Want to stab your eye out with this pen?” What is he expecting me to say? Hell yes, sign me up? I don’t think so. “That’s even worse than being a third wheel,” I settle on instead of a bunch more insulting things I could say. I should get wings for that. “Hard pass.”
I have no idea how long the “honeymoon period” is supposed to last, but I can safely say it’s not almost twelve months. Quinn and his men haven’t hit that threshold yet, and it’s nauseating. Okay, so I haven’t hit that threshold with Lake yet either, but I keep my mauling private, and Quinn has about six months on us, so it makes more sense that he’s going to slow down first.
Maybe I can finish up and get the fuck out of here before anyone shows up.
My luck isn’t that good: Sebastian shows up five minutes later, looking weird as fuck in dark jeans and a white button-down. Since he’s shacked up with Quinn, I’ve seen him in more thansuits. Doesn’t make it less weird, after so many years of only seeing him dressed up and ready to fuck us dry in court.
At least Quinn doesn’t make me play nice. There’s something to be said for small mercies or what-the-fuck-ever. He lets me sharpen my claws on the lawyer as long as neither of us goes too far. As if there’s a line. If Sebastian can’t take it, then he’s entered the wrong profession. And I’ve seen him in court: he hasn’t.
Pointedly ignoring them, I bury myself in reports, gruesome pictures, and so many files that eventually all the faces and words start to blur together. When someone leans against my desk, almost brushing their thigh against my shoulder, I know my luck isn’t that good, and that Quinn and Sebastian haven’t left yet.
“What do you want?” I ask Sebastian. If it were Quinn, he’d have said something. Or given me some fucking personal space and sat at his own bloody desk.
“Just checking in on you,” Sebastian says, an amused lilt to his voice that makes me want to throat punch something.
Without looking up, I shoot back, “If I really look that pathetic, I might as well throw myself off the Sydney Harbour Bridge.”
“I’ve never been accused of being a bad friend, and I won’t start now, so if you need a push, you know where to find me.”
