Despite our bestefforts and backup, the guy gets away. The maze of alleys and side streets in West Harlem gives too many escape routes, allowing him to vanish into the night.
With a lot of frustration, I steer the car back to headquarters. Every so often, I glance over at Clay, who’s trying to keep a brave face, but I can see the pain in his eyes—both from the physical injury and the sting of letting the robber get away.
As we pull into the headquarters’ parking lot, Captain Swanson comes over, having heard about the incident over the radio. “You guys all right?” he asks, his brow furrowed.
Clay nods, though his swollen eye makes it clear he’s seen better days. “I’ll live. Just a little souvenir from our friend.”
Swanson grimaces. “Let’s get that looked at,” he commands, guiding Clay inside and toward the medical room.
Inside, Officer Patel, trained in first aid, examines Clay. “It’s going to be a nasty shiner,” she comments, gently applying a cold compress. “You were lucky. A bit more force and he could’ve done some real damage. It will bruise, but I don’t think you need stitches.”
I watch from the doorway, guilt gnawing at me. “I can’t even tell you what he looked like. He wore a mask. But he was maybe a head shorter than me and had an Italian accent,” I mutter.
“Metro Milanesi?” Swanson asks, and I shrug.
“Could be. Seems likely. But he was nervous, maybe even scared,” I recount.
“New recruit?” Swanson asks, tilting his head.
“Possibly,” I muse, looking over at Clay. “Would explain why there are so many of them again. They are all new members. Fuck, we should’ve had him.”
Swanson places a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “You did your best. Sometimes, they just slip through. The important thing is you’re both more or less okay.”
Clay manages a weak smile, his eye already darkening. “Thanks, Sarge. We’ll get him next time.”
Swanson nods. “We always do.”
TWENTY-THREE
The lab door bursts open.
I’m lost in thought, sitting at my desk and not really doing anything. I glance at my phone when I hear Joshua’s laugh and realize it’s already past five.
I haven’t seen either of them since dinner last night. They worked later than I did at the bar because of some robbery, and they had to do paperwork afterward.
Joshua texted me, saying he didn’t want to wake me up because they got home late. So, he slept in his room, but I didn’t like sleeping by myself.
I was up most of the night, tossing and turning. Being alone isn’t good for me. It makes me overthink things, causing my brain to be too wound up to sleep.
I spent the whole day in college and now working, thinking about what could have upset him.
Did I do something?Has he had enough of me? Or maybe he didn’t want to share a bed with me because he’s tired of how I behave around Clay and Xander?
Just as I’m thinking this, Clay comes over to my desk. I look up and see a cut under his black eye, then quickly stand and round the desk to stand in front of him.
“What happened?” I ask, gripping his face and pulling it down to me.
“Ouch.” He winces, and I think I might’ve grabbed him too hard. But then he gives me a smirk. “It’s just a little scrape, but you might send me to the hospital at this rate.”
“Hospital?” I ask, panicking a bit as I turn his head to get a better look. “What happened, Clay?”
“That robber I texted you about? He hit Clay over the head with a gun because Clay’s a fucking idiot,” Joshua interjects from beside me.
I glance at Joshua, seeing clear frustration on his face. But my concern is focused on Clay, who looks terrible. “Does it hurt? Are you okay?” I ask, my pitch a little too high as I search his face.
“Hey, it’s just a bruise,” he reassures me, his gaze softening.
His hand reaches up to touch mine, gently stroking the back of it.
