Page 5 of Redemption
Pulling into a parking spot, I leave the engine running as I swivel to get a better look at MJ.
Daggers fly from her eyes, but I throw on a casual smile, not letting her see how much she gets to me. “One last chance to back out. You’re going to lose this bet. You might as well give up now.”
Her eyes narrow, and I know that her stubbornness won’t let her back out—not now, at least.
“You’ve got a little blood there on your nose, Hayes,” she says, wiggling her nose. The glimmer in her eye is pure trouble. “Maybe you should worry about the fact that you have to tell people that you were beaten up by a girl instead of worrying about me.”
I know she’s lying because the bleeding stopped before I put her in the car, but I swipe under my nose out of paranoia anyway. The girl knows how to get under my skin—a skill she likely gleaned from her momma.
My smile stays frozen, but my brows narrow as I glare at her—a look that makes most criminals cower, but MJ merely laughs. It’s light and airy and does something to my chest that I refuse to analyze. Instead, I jump out of the car to avoid it, taking my time as I walk to the passenger side to open the door.
Pulling on the handle, I lean down to help MJ out of the car, crowding her.
“Okay, Princess. Time for you to lose a bet.”
She’s wearing a sports tank top, so my hand slides against the bare skin of her arm as I guide her out of the car, and for a millisecond, it’s all I can concentrate on—the roughness of my hand against the smoothness of her arm. My thumb glides against the outside of her arm—an involuntary motion—and her breath hitches.
The noise stirs something in me that’s been dead for six years, but it has to stay that way. So I crush it down, refusing to let it see the light of day.
Once she’s standing, I let go of her arm and step back, needing to put space between us.
“Oh, Hayes,” she says, batting her eyelashes. “I bet you sweet talk all the ladies. Tell me, are they all handcuffed, so they have to talk to you?”
Irritation flits through my veins, causing a slight disruption to the blood flow into my brain because, before I can stop myself, I say, “No, MJ, some girls like to stick around. They don’t run at the first sign of trouble.”
I regret the dig as soon as it’s out of my mouth—even more so when a mask slams down over her features. She turns her back to me, blocking me out.
“Listen, I’m sorry—”
She cuts me off, “Come on. Let’s get inside so you can take these handcuffs off me already.”
Looking down, I wince when I see the red marks on her wrists where she’s fidgeted in the cuffs.
I could claim that my actions when she hit me were a reaction to the situation—a response to my training—but I would be lying. It was a reaction to her.
That hit scrambled my brain. I’m slightly proud and a little more terrified of her now.
Letting my hand hover over the small of her back and careful not to touch her again, I guide her to the steps of the precinct. The building is older than I am, but the brick steps and ivy growing up the sides ironically make it one of the most charming buildings in town.
Once we reach the top of the steps, I step in front of her and hold the door open, waving her inside. She studiously ignores me as she steps through the door into the coolness of the air conditioner.
Five people are standing at the front desk, mouths agape as they stare at us. One face stands out amongst the crowd, and he’s the only one not staring at us in shock.
Campbell Richards was the only other friend I had in high school outside of Langston.
Wearing a smug grin and mirth lighting up his eyes, he tilts his head slightly towards MJ as if I don’t see her standing right there. When I roll my eyes, he bounces his eyebrows and points at his nose—asking for the story behind the bruise that is quickly seeping into my eyes, but I pretend to be obtuse, shrugging my shoulders in response.
Campbell is about to make some other obscene gesture, but I glare at him, shutting down his antics before MJ catches on.
I’m resigned to the fact that it won’t be the last I hear about it, though.
Turning my back on the five faces whose stares have not left us since we walked in, I guide MJ to my desk.
“You can sit here while I make that phone call. Before I do, let me get those handcuffs off.”
She turns around, and I make quick work of them, careful not to touch her. She rubs her wrists as soon as they are off, and guilt floods my chest.
“MJ, I’m—”
