His eyebrows shot up. "What..."
I was already moving. Retreated to my bedroom. Closed the door with careful restraint. Fought the urge to slam it. Leaned there, breathing hard like I'd run a mile.
This was ridiculous. Adolescent. A grown man. A detective with years of experience. I'd faced down armed suspects without flinching. Yet here I was, hiding in my room because my temporary roommate walked around half-dressed.
The tightness in my groin was impossible to ignore now. I pressed the heel of my hand there. A reflexive attempt at relief that only made things worse.
I could take care of it. Quick and clinical. Release the tension and move on.
I slid my hand beneath the waistband of my sweatpants. Hated myself for the weakness. For letting him affect me this way.
What would I even think about? His sleep-rumpled hair? The way his boxers clung to his thighs? The hollow at the base of his throat where his pulse beat visibly?
What is wrong with me.
No. This was pathetic. I yanked my hand away. Disgusted. Better than this. Stronger. I just needed to get through this temporary assignment without losing my mind or my dignity.
Back out there. Take another cold shower. Get dressed. Put on the uniform and the professionalism. Forget the way he appeared in the half-light of early morning.
From the living room, a phone rang. The shrill, generic tone of his cell. My muscles tensed instinctively. Calls this early were never good news. At least it had the effect of calming me down.
"Detective Carlson speaking." His tone carried through the thin walls. Suddenly all business. The transformation was jarring. From sleep-soft to sharp professional in seconds.
"Yes, sir. We'll head there now." Footsteps approached my door. A quick knock. "Hawley? We've got a call."
Relief washed through me, cold and clarifying. A case. Something real to focus on instead of this... whatever this was.
I pressed my forehead to the door. Listened to his retreating footsteps. My heart still hammered, betraying me even as my mind regained control.
The case. That's all that mattered now. Whatever had happened in that kitchen was irrelevant. A momentary lapse.
At least that's what I told myself. But the warmth lingering under my skin suggested otherwise.
Chapter 10: The Door That Wouldn't Open
Luke
I pushed the car door open as the last raindrops spattered on asphalt. The storm had passed. Heavy clouds still hung low, casting everything in gray. The family-unit complex rose in front of us. Not fancy, but well-maintained. Flower boxes lined some of the windows. Someone here cared about appearances.
Carlson fussed with his tie in the passenger mirror. He smoothed the silk with practiced fingers, and my jaw clenched. We were here about a missing teenager, not a photo shoot.
"Nice neighborhood." He finally abandoned his reflection. "Clean."
I grunted agreement and looked the building over. Six units. Modest but respectable. "Third floor, unit 305."
We climbed the concrete stairs. They smelled faintly of disinfectant. I knocked, firm and once, and heard immediate movement inside. Heavy footsteps, fast.
The door opened on a man in his forties. Arms crossed over his chest. His eyes narrowed as they looked us over.
"About time you showed up." Clipped. Hostile. "Though I still say he's just acting out."
Behind him, a woman hovered. Her face was pale and drawn, her eyes red-rimmed from what looked like hours of crying. Trembling fingers clutched a school photo against her chest.
"Detective Hawley, 51 Division." I showed my badge. "This is Detective Carlson. We're here about your son."
"Stepson." The correction came immediately. "Come in if you must."
The apartment was clean. Orderly. Almost too perfect. I took the space in methodically. Details started to tell a different story than the pristine surface. Framed certificates partly hidden behind newer decorations. A gaming console unplugged in the corner, gathering dust. A basketball trophy turned to face the wall.
