Page 171 of Detectives in Love
I’m deep in my head when her voice cuts through. “Sir?”
I blink.
“He’s in. Third floor. Here’s your badge.”
I take it and head for the elevators, anger settling back in my veins as if it never left. The ride up is agonizing—every second stretching too long, my thoughts too loud.
When the elevator doors open on the third floor, I step out, push through the glass doors, and walk past the guard into the open-plan office, where white cubicles stretch along the windowed wall.
I hear the guard behind me—”Sir, I need to see your guest badge”—but I don’t slow down.
Because there he is.
Fred Collins.
Leaning on someone’s cubicle, coffee in hand, grin on his face.
I move toward him without thinking. The guard is still calling after me, but his voice fades.
Fred turns when I’m close—and has the audacity to smile.
“Hey there, Newty,” he says. “That’s a surprise. What brings you here?”
There’s half a second before I reach him when his smile falters—like he knows what’s coming. I don’t hit him. I just step into his space and shove him back against the cubicle wall. It’s not violent, but I’m close, hand pressed to his chest, leaving him no room to move.
Fred lets out a panicked little noise, like I’ve pulled a gun on him.
“Hey!” he squeaks, hands flying up in defense. “What happened?”
“You tell me,” I say, pulling my hand back but not stepping away. We’re still inches apart.
“What’s going on here, guys?” says a woman standing up from one of the cubicles—a journalist, probably.
I don’t answer. All my focus is on Fred, who’s glancing around in a quiet panic, like he’s hoping someone will step in and save him.
“You bugged me the night we went drinking,” I say through clenched teeth. And when Fred meets my eyes, I know I’m right. There’s a flicker of guilt before he looks away.
“Let’s talk,” he says quickly, but his gaze flicks past me—just before a heavy hand lands on my shoulder.
“Sir, you need to leave,” the guard says, voice firm. “Or I’ll have to call the police.”
I don’t even look at him. My eyes stay on Fred.
“Yes, let’s talk,” I say, daring him to handle this face to face instead of hiding behind a security guard. “Outside.”
Fred nods, and only then do I step back.
“It’s fine,” he tells the guard. “Just a misunderstanding.” Then he heads toward the elevators, and I follow, feeling the weight of every stare in the room trailing behind us.
I didn’t plan to cause a scene. But after the fight with Xavier—and honestly, the whole damn week—I don’t have any patience left. Just anger.
And I can’t say I regret it.
We step into the elevator without a word. I glance at Fred, ready to start something—but then the guard steps in after us. He catches my eye with a look that says he’s just waiting for a reason to throw me out.
I don’t give him one. We ride down in silence, the three of us, like he’s the prison guard escorting us out for yard time.
At reception, I hand over my guest badge. The guard shoots me one last look, clearly meaning: don’t come back. I ignore it and keep walking, right behind Fred, who already looks like he’s resigned to whatever’s coming.
