Nostrils flaring a fraction, his knuckles brush, light as anything, against my hip, and the breath punches out of me. Beau’s lip curls in satisfaction, his thumb now sliding over my hip bone.
Oh god.
"Yet, you want me to understand why you can't be seen with me," he says, mouth a fraction from my ear. "Why there’s something shameful about having me in your bed because of my last name. And even though you’re saying sorry, you haven’t changed your mind. So, explain to me, Red. What do you want? For me to tell you that I’m okay with that? Because I’m not."
I close my eyes briefly, trying to gather my racing thoughts. “Of course I’m not ashamed, and I never said you weren’t good enough. It’s just… tricky… my job… they already hate me.”
The rich girl who they think doesn’t need to be here, who’s just playing detective until she gets bored.
"Tricky?" He repeats with a frown, thumb skimming, just once, along the curve of my hipbone.
I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from making another humiliating noise.
"Well, you stopped me, Red. So how about we make it simple. Which is it? You want me or you don’t."
I should answer, tell him that of course, I do. I should say something, anything, to salvage this situation.
Instead, trapped by paralysing fear, I say silent.
And fear is exactly what it is. Fear of what might happen to my career, what people might say, of risking it all for a man I barely know and then being humiliated when he moves on. I glance up, panicking, and my gaze lands on the small black dome of the security camera that covers the car park out back and the exit we’re standing beside.
He follows my line of vision then he steps back. “How about I make it easy for you? I’m out.”
The loss of his warmth is so sudden, I sag against the wall.
"Beau, I like you," I say, and I hate how thin and weak my voice sounds. "Can we at least be friends?"
He shakes his head once, bitterly. “No, Red.” There's no anger in his expression anymore, he just looks tired, maybe even defeated. "I can't be friends with you. I think it’s best we just stay out of each other's way."
5
LISA
The precinct smells like burnt coffee and greasy dinner leftovers. The Styrofoam containers are stacked on top of the bin and not in it, because none of the men in this office will lower themselves to empty it, so the smell is making my stomach roll.
Despite getting a solid eight hours of sleep last night, the headache I can't shake continues to tighten its vice-like grip until my temples throb, and my eyes burn. I’d walk to the pharmacy to pick up some cold medicine but that means walking past Beau’s office. And even though I have seen more than the back of his head walking down the street since the last time he was here, I can’t risk it.
"Why the long face, Harris?" Morrison taps his knuckles on the corner of my desk as he passes. "You didn't want to join us for breakfast. Now you're too busy to come and say goodbye to Tony?"
Lifting my head, I force myself not to wince as the pain increases. Any sign of weakness or illness will be pounced on, not empathised with.
"I'll be over in a minute. Just want to send this off before I forget."
“You’re not helping yourself,” Morrison mutters, giving me a weary look before sauntering back over to the circular table in the corner where my colleagues have been camped out all morning, apparently to use Tony's retirement as an excuse to take the day off and neglect their mounting workload.
Like the Amber Reeves case, which they’ve all but abandoned. Every time I mention it, I get eye rolls and deep sighs, as if reminding them of their obligation to keep looking for her is an inconvenience.
Ignoring the urge to glare at my chuckling colleagues, or march over there and tell them all to get back to work, I return my attention to my screen, scrolling through incident reports from last night while the bullpen hums around me with the usual phones ringing, keyboards clattering and raised voices drifting through from the reception area. Nothing out of the ordinary yet today, and every sound is like nails on a chalk board to my sensitive brain.
Sitting back, I sigh, tossing my pen onto my desk in frustration, and rub my eyes.
Nothing. Every day, I scour the reports from the shift before me, looking to see if there's anything that might give me a clue about her location, but it's like she’s disappeared off the face of the earth.
My colleagues insist she’s already dead, that too much time has passed now, and the only way her family will get closure is the accidental discovery of her body. That’s too bleak and defeatist for me, so every spare moment I have, I continue to search, despite my chief insisting I move on and give my other, newer cases, my undivided attention.
Picking up my pen again, I tap it on my desk, my agitation rising. I need to get up and move, get the hell out of this place.Dosomethingbesides this busy work I keep getting assigned. Stolen bicycle. A dispute about a gate. It’s insulting. Do they think I can’t see how the boys get all the juicy stuff?
My headache builds as I let their bullshit rile me up. At first, I thought it was just a right of passage as the newest detective, but it quickly became clear that no, they just think I’m doing this as some kind of hobby to keep me entertained instead ofneedingthe job like they do.
