Page 11 of Triggered By Love
Whirling around, Jason kicked the bouncing ball into traffic.
“Hey, what you do that for?” A tattooed tough with stringy blond hair growled at him. “Oh, it’s you, the cop.”
“Too hot out here for you?” A chubby guy with curly brown hair jeered while a third guy smashed a giant cup of ice water over Jason’s head. “Rough me up, cop. Let me have the video.”
Raw anger blew from Jason’s veins, but he was fully aware of the gathering crowd pointing their camera phones at him. He swiped his hand through the cold liquid dripping from his hair and forced himself to walk away with as much dignity as he could.
New York City wasn’t a friendly place for policemen.
A wolf whistle caught his attention, and he turned toward it, catching a flash of honey-blond hair, a lavender T-shirt, and pair of long, tanned legs, right before Avery skidded to a stop in front of him.
“Jason, what happened?” She touched his partially soaked T-shirt.
The guys who threw the ice water were still there, laughing and jeering. “Hey there, pretty lady. Stay away from the pig. Oink. Oink.”
“You going out for a jog?” Jason asked Avery.
Her eyes narrowed, and she lifted one corner of her lips. “Smart guy. Of course, I’m going for a run. It’s next on my schedule, which I’m sure you already knew.”
Great. She’d no doubt caught on to his stalking, and the neighborhood toughs knew he was a cop. Nothing wrong with a little deterrence. It kept Avery safe, and as an off-duty cop, he packed his piece in the holster underneath his shirt.
“Let’s go, then. I’ll race you, friend,” he said as they crossed the street and headed into the park.
“You can cut the friend thing, Detective. I think we’re already coffee buddies.”
“Coffee mates,” he countered and headed toward one of Central Park’s many hills.
Neither talked much while they ran, and Jason found himself trying not to gasp for breath. He was carrying more weight than her, and his thigh muscles cried out for relief as they crested the hill.
Avery slowed and turned to say something to him, but out of nowhere, someone shouted, “Fuck the police.”
A mountain bike clipped Jason and sent him sprawling onto his hands and knees.
“Are you okay?” Avery offered her hand.
Jason had too much pride to take it. He bounced back up, brushing off the gravel, and gave chase to the mountain biker. It was a lost cause. The long-haired creep went underneath a bridge and disappeared.
“Wow, you’re a walking accident or a magnet for cop haters,” Avery said. “What did you do? Rough someone up?”
“Me? You think I’m the problem?” He slashed his hand across his sweaty face and glared at her. “I’m the guy busting my butt out here keeping the public safe. I’m all that stands in the way of violent criminals on a killing spree.”
“I appreciate all you’re doing, but don’t you think you have a public image problem? Why are people so up in arms against the police?”
“Because they want to commit crimes and not be held accountable.”
“I didn’t mean the criminals,” Avery said, walking at his side. She was breathing harder than she had while running. “I meant ordinary citizens. They don’t seem to back the police anymore. They see you guys using excessive force.”
“You don’t know if force is excessive until after the fact.” He bottled up his fury and tried to soften his voice. “I might have slammed you to the ground, but I didn’t want you to get shot, and I had to shoot first and take out the threat before asking questions.”
“I’m not talking about you.” She quailed and turned white, gaping at him. “I’m sorry. I’m on your side. I didn’t mean what I said.”
“But you did,” he muttered, turning away from her. “You side with the poor, oppressed criminals because you want to feel good about yourself. Feel charitable. Let them out of jail. No cash bail. No arrests. Let them go because they’re down on their luck. They’re misunderstood. But do you care about the victims? Do you see the victims?”
He felt the punch on his back. “Dammit. Don’t talk to me about victims. I was meant to die, but Brando took my bullet. I know why you’re hanging around. You haven’t caught the real killer, and you’re bandaging up your guilt. If you’re so tough, leave me alone. Don’t come around unless you’ve caught the guy who wanted me dead.”
He remained standing with his back turned. He refused to turn around and confront her. Every word she spoke was the damn truth. He was guilty. If he’d left the shooter alive, he might have found a lead. He might have gotten the guy to talk. A two-bit hired shooter had no loyalties, and if he was too scared to talk, that said a lot too about how high up the order to kill had come from.
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