Page 25 of Shield
But I was a mess, tired, still three hours away from picking the girls up from their after-school club, and although I loved that the girls were happy in their new school, I felt at loose ends.
Bewildered by all the thoughts running through my head.
I exited the hospital, my mind still partly with Joe and Gemma, but as I made my way to the parking lot, a familiar figure caught my eye. There was Jackson, standing near my bike, looking every bit the detective off-duty, yet undeniably himself.
He seemed lost in thought, his gaze fixed on my Ducati. It wasn’t until I was close enough that he shook off his reverie, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. “Hey,” he said, his voice casual, but his eyes betraying a hint of intent. “Was just visiting a witness from another case and saw your bike. Thought I’d hover for a bit, see if you were around.”
The sheltered bike bay felt like a world away from the rest of the hospital. It was quieter, more intimate, a private meeting place for us.
Or was that only my wishful thinking of what I’d love to happen right here, in front of my bike, over my bike? Fuck. Against the wall.
I leaned against the bike, crossing my arms. “You recognize it, huh?” I replied, feeling a mixture of pride and curiosity.
Jackson took a step closer, his eyes still on the bike, but clearly not talking about the machinery. “Hard to miss. It stands out, just like its owner,” he said, his voice low.
The tension between us was crazy, a current buzzing in the quiet space of the parking bay. And before I could think of anything else to say, anything clever or witty, Jackson closed the distance between us.
His lips met mine in a deep, confident kiss. It was as if all the questions simmering beneath the surface found their answers in that contact. There was no hesitation, no doubt, just the shared understanding that this was right—perfect, even.
My hands found their way to his waist, pulling him closer as I surrendered to the kiss. Every bit of uncertainty about life, about moving on, about taking risks—it all melted away. At that moment, it was only Jackson and me.
When we finally parted, the look we shared spoke volumes.
“I needed to do that,” Jackson murmured.
I reached up and cradled his face, loving that he had extra height on me, loving that I had to lean back to gaze up at him. I wondered what he’d be like in bed—was he growly and grumpy, would he order me around, would he make me come like I’d never done with a man before?
“I’m glad you did,” I whispered back.
The slamming of a car door echoed from the parking lot, but it was enough to startle us both.
“I have to go,” he said and stole one more kiss before turning smartly on his heels and leaving.
Taking his sexy self away from me before I jumped his bones in public.
Probably a good call.
ChapterTen
Jackson
Sleep was nonexistent.
No matter how I tried, or how many glasses of Wild Turkey I poured myself, my eyes were not closing. That kiss. Jesus, Mary, and Ralph. What a kiss. I could still feel the tingling on my lips. Or maybe that was the whiskey. After a couple of shots, I rose from my sofa, gathered up the booze and my dead orchid, and went out onto the patio. The sounds of the inner city met me as I plunked my ass down on cold concrete. I had no furniture out here. Why would I invest in a patio set when the view consisted of the back of another apartment building? Also, people who had little tables with umbrellas, matching chairs, and flowering things in ceramic pots were like Oliver. Who had a house, and flowers, and kids, and a live-in friend, who I still didn’t think was trustworthy.
I’d see if I could touch base with Interpol tomorrow. No, that would be today. Christ. I sipped my warm whiskey, the orchid resting between my legs.
“I’m sorry I let you die,” I whispered to the flower as it sat there. “If it’s any consolation, I tend to let most things in my life wither and die. I don’t know why.” I took another sip, then reached into my front pocket for a cigarette. Only there were none. I was quitting. Again. Motherfucker. I tore off the patch on my biceps, got to my feet, and did the hunt of shame. Anyone who has tried to quit smoking knows the hunt of shame. It’s where you rummage and toss your house in search of a cigarette. I found none between couch cushions or in jacket pockets. So, I sunk lower and pawed in the trash in hopes my housekeeper hadn’t dumped it. She had. So not one stale butt was to be found.
“Motherfucker,” I repeated just because it felt good, then went to find another patch. After that was stuck on, I returned to the patio and my lonely orchid, and proceeded to drink myself into a state of misery. Thankfully, I did doze off, but my phone alarm had me up at seven. My ass was numb, my head felt like a rhino had sat on it, and my mental state was still a wreck. I got to my feet with a moan, carried the empty bottle and dead orchid back inside, and showered.
Mack had court today. That left me on my own to sort out a shit-ton of paperwork and touch base on the slew of cases we were buried under. The county could not get new blood in this unit fast enough to suit me. I’d stopped on the way to the precinct for coffee and two slices of breakfast pizza after filling up my Buick. I’d not stopped thinking of Oliver’s lips and the way he had felt pressed against me since our mouths had parted.
I had kissed a lot of men in my twenty-eight years. None of those lip-to-lip meetings had dug into my soul like tasting Oliver Cowan had. Even now, several hours later, my body was humming with residual lust. Not a good thing, as I had case files up the ass. So, shoving a certain sexy hockey player out of my mind—or trying to—I got back to work and checked the internal server to see what had come to the top of the cesspool overnight. I had a shitty system for organizing tasks. There were three categories. Super Important Shit or SIS. Medium Important Shit or MIS. And Not Important Shit or NIS. One of the cops I had partnered with before I’d gotten my detective badge had taught me that system. Barclay Pressman. Good man. Good cop. Dead now. Shot while investigating a noise complaint. Left a wife and three boys. I’d attended far too many funerals for law enforcement officers in my time on the force. And sadly, there would be a lot more before they gave me a gold watch. Given I chased down and incarcerated the mob, Mexican cartels, and feral street gangs, I’d probably be in the ground way before I got that Timex.
Nothing that had my name on it, nor had anything to do with any of my active cases. I started working on follow-ups on the guy we’d found behind the dumpster a few weeks ago. Seemed he had been traced back to one of the lower echelon pushers on the east side. The only odd thing about the shooting was that it wasn’t your typical gangland execution. This guy had been carved up in a particular fashion that had deranged monster written all over it. Homicide was working that one, so I closed it out after touching base with Paul “Peanut” Williams—Peanut due to the small size of his head—and moved onto more mundane tasks, such as gathering admissible evidence, making phone calls, and other things that did little to keep my pickled brain from drifting.
With my partner in court for the day, I knew I should keep my ass in my chair, but this office, this building, was growing cramped. I needed some air. Somewhere clean. Somewhere I could sort through the mess inside my skull. Somewhere calm and peaceful. Maybe the beach. Cap would totally buy that I felt sick. I looked like death warmed over. Yeah, some time on the sand with the sun on my face and my toes in the surf would do me wonders.
