“Uh-huh,” Ciara responds, raising a knowing eyebrow. “You’re glowing. Then again, I would too if I had full access to a millionaire’s bank card.”
“It’s not about the money; I mean, yeah, I’m not going to lie and say that it isn’t amazing to be so spoiled by him. Anything I want—hair, makeup, clothes—I don’t think he’d even bat an eyelid if I bought myself a new car. I mean, his bike alone is nearly the same price as I paid for my house!” Getting to my feet, I round the kitchen island and get to work making us coffees. “But he didn’t need the money to make me fall for him. He could be broke, and I’d still love him. I’d still want to be with him.” Locking eyes with my sister, I ask, “Do you know he is the first man that I’ve ever opened up to? I told him everything; all my crazy just laid out in the open. I gave him ample chance to run like the wind; instead, he stayed and held me closer.”
My phone buzzes again with a text from Aiden. I finish making our mochas and click into the message, a smilespreading across my face as I see the photos he’s sent.
There are four different, very provocative outfits that he wants me to choose from for our date night.
Katie:Are they crotchless panties?”
Aiden:They’re the serving platter for my dinner;)
Katie:Babe, I think they go better on girls with a neat slit, not my ham roll.
He takes a moment to respond. I watch the dots dance across the screen, vanish, and then start dancing again.
Aiden:What is it every guy wants after a night out? A big, juicy kebab! Now shut up and pick a colour so you can sit on my face when I get home.
I bark a laugh, almost dropping the phone before I respond.
Katie:The blue one.
Aiden:The same colour as my balls right now; good choice! Xx
My god, he’s an idiot. A beautiful, powerful, dangerous, sexy idiot. Though he only ever acts this way around me, he’s a bit laid back with Robbie, more so when they’re alone. I get Aiden, while the rest of the world gets AJ Quinn.
While I’m lavished with flowers, lingerie, jewellery, and anything else my heart desires, the rest of the world gets a scowl, missing person advertisements, and possibly a dead body or two if he wants them found. He is my prince charming mixed with a touch of darkness, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
31
MOORE
Words escape me as I find myself staring at the lumpy form under the plastic shroud. Forensic investigators scurry about, tagging evidence, one is photographing the scene while another is taking measurements. The grill of the car sports an obvious dent, with cracked paint peeling away from the impact point and shattered glass scattered across the pavement. I glance in the direction of the tyre marks, spotting another body bag among the sea of high-vis jackets, flashing lights, and twisted metal.
“What are you doing here, Moore?” Jonathon McGrath, a garda on the brink of cashing in his pension, struts over from the wreckage. “When did a road traffic accident become homicide?”
Scanning the scene once again, thinking about the poor pedestrians and passersby who witnessed the event unfold, I ask, “David Walsh’s lads?”
“Yeah,” McGrath says, tilting his chin in acknowledgement. “Two of them; mowed down.” He sighs, straightening his tie, his forest green eyes drift to the lump that the shroud iscovering.
“The driver?”
“In the wind. The car was reported stolen two days ago.”
Of course it was, leave no tracks. I doubt forensics will get so much as a partial print from the car. It’s obviously bad news for McGrath, who will be up to his tits with paperwork, not to mention the media attention that will follow. Two dead in a hit-and-run. I can see the headlines now. “How bad is it?” What I really want to know is: how mangled are they? Are they identifiable? Are they beyond recognition?
McGrath hesitates before answering, “It’s not pretty. Definitely not a scene for the faint-hearted.”
“Good thing I work homicide; I’ve got a strong stomach,” I reply, trying to mask the unease creeping up my spine. It’s never pleasant, but after working the job for over two decades now, I’ve learned to compartmentalise and focus on the task at hand.
“Forensics are still picking up teeth and bone fragments,” McGrath adds, gesturing to the nearest black shroud. “The best part of his face is grated along the pavement, his jaw broken. The good doctor hasn’t had a look yet, but I’m going to say several cracked ribs and a punctured lung at the very least.”
I swallow back the saliva pooling in my mouth. He opens the shroud, and I catch a glimpse of the man’s eyeball hanging out of its socket. The metallic scent of blood and burnt rubber lingers in the air. “It would have been quick, at least. Dead as soon as he hit the ground.”
“Yeah,” McGrath nods solemnly. “This one over here,” he says, leading me to another body a few feet away. “Doesn’t look as fucked up.” Pulling back the shroud, McGrath reveals abody twisted into positions beyond what a human body should be able to achieve. “It is safe to say his neck is broken.”
I grimace. “You think?”
“Definitely not a yoga pose,” McGrath replies with a grim chuckle. “I’m guessing the first lad got the brunt of the car; this one caught more air before hitting the ground.”
