2. Derrick
2
DERRICK
M y jaw clenched as Rachel Arya skated back into my office. The rookie who had taken her statement had just left, and irritation simmered beneath my skin.
I wasn’t expecting this whirlwind tonight. Rachel was a friend of Eva Bailey, an ex-employee. I’d seen her flit in and out of the office over the years, always with a quip or a smirk, but we’d never had more than a peripheral acquittance.
She’d been Eva’s spirited friend who liked to give me grief, and I assumed she’d vanish with Eva. So, her sudden reappearance tonight caught me off guard.
“What happens next?” Rachel’s hazel eyes locked onto mine.
“The report will be filed when the officer returns to the station.”
“And forgotten about,” she replied, her tone flat.
I started to shake my head, but she cut me off.
“Don’t bullshit me.”
A humorless chuckle escaped me. “You’re right. Unless this creep does something illegal, there’s not much they can do. That’s the system. But I’ll follow up and dig deeper if I have to.”
“Thanks, Derrick,” Rachel said, pulling a sucker from her bag. She popped it into her mouth and started skating circles around me, her energy a chaotic force that made my already frayed nerves twitch.
During our few interactions, Rachel was always in motion, like she was chasing something—or maybe running from something. For the first time, I wondered which it was.
“I don’t think skating and sucking on that is a good idea,” I blurted out.
“Thanks, Dad,” she retorted, shoving the lollipop further into her mouth. She twirled on her skates, making a wide loop around the desk. “But I’ve been adulting for a while now. I know how to keep myself alive.”
Just as she rounded my desk, showing off, her skate caught on the leg, and she tumbled face-first into one of the armchairs.
“How’s the adulting going?” I asked, deadpan.
Her head wedged in the seat cushion, Rachel flipped me the bird behind her back, and a smirk tugged at my lips.
As she tried to dislodge herself, she wiggled her barely covered ass, and I quickly averted my gaze, feeling like a deviant.
Rachel was young. About twenty-six. Too young for me. Even if she were my age, forty-five, she was too chaotic for my taste. But having a vibrant young woman in my office, half-dressed, was a stark reminder of how long it had been since I’d been with a woman.
The reality of it had hit me this weekend, sitting by myself in the living room of my townhouse, watching the city come to life outside my tall windows…
I was really fucking lonely.
A tough guy wasn’t supposed to admit that, but I was doing my best to challenge toxic masculinity, both on my podcast and in my personal life. I’d started Dreamary several years ago with my friend and colleague Isaac Pillon after our podcast, Missing Girls , became an international sensation.
We’d wanted to do something noble with the money and fame that came with the success, and so we started a media company that supported other socially conscious podcasts.
Rachel used to come to the office several times a week, always a burst of chaotic energy, a force of nature impossible to ignore.
“Why are you here anyway?” I asked.
She shrugged her shoulder in the direction of a filing box with Eva’s name scrawled on it. “To get Eva’s stuff. But now I don’t have time to bring it to my place before the bout. Can you make sure it doesn’t get trashed? I’ll come get it next week.”
“Sure,” I said, sliding my tote over my shoulder. “Grab your bag. I’ll take you to your match.”
Rachel slung her backpack over her shoulder, tossing the ruined sucker into the trash as she followed me out. Her skates clattered over the hardwood floors as we headed toward the elevators.
My stride was unhurried, but my protective instinct flared up, unbidden. Twenty years on the force had made it second nature. It was in my blood, even if I wasn’t wearing a badge anymore.
“You sure you don’t know that guy?” I pressed, unable to shake the concern gnawing at me. The thought of her being followed, possibly threatened, had me on edge.
Rachel tapped on her phone, barely glancing up as we stepped into the elevator. Upbeat music blared from her phone’s speaker, and she held it up, bopping her head to the beat.
“Pretty sure,” she said, spinning in a tight circle around me, her thigh brushing against mine, sending a jolt of awareness through me. I tensed, trying to ignore it.
“Where’s your game?” I asked, stepping back and pressing against the wall. The confined space felt even smaller with her energy filling it.
“Brooklyn.” She grinned, skating closer, her pink-dyed braids bouncing. “And you’re not escorting me there.”
“Alright,” I conceded. “But I’m walking you to the train. Nonnegotiable.”
“Fine,” she huffed, though there was a smile playing on her lips. She flicked her braid, nearly hitting me in the chest.
Every time I saw her, her appearance was different—whether it was her hair, her style, or some wacky accessory she’d clipped in. Her wardrobe was just as unpredictable, always colorful, always unique. She was like a walking carnival, full of fun and magic, a breath of fresh air in a city that could often feel suffocating.
It could get fucking depressing when I reported on the cases for Missing Girls . It was easier when Isaac was here, but he wanted to focus on his investigative journalism and had been away researching a book for the past year. Now, he did the podcast remotely, and I barely saw him.
Somehow, everyone in my life had drifted away, off into their own worlds. Half of my sisters had families of their own, the other half were living busy lives outside the city, and my parents were preoccupied running their deli in Bedford-Stuy, where I grew up.
“Why are you so protective? Is it from being a cop?” Rachel asked as we made our way down the sidewalk to the subway entrance.
“It was instilled in me from a young age,” I replied, memories of countless nights spent watching over my sisters surfacing. “My parents always worked. My dad runs a deli, and back then my mom was a bookkeeper and a substitute teacher. They’re Catholic—Italian and Dominican—so lots of kids. I was the oldest, and I took care of my six younger sisters.”
Rachel halted at the top of the subway stairs, her wide eyes blinking up at me. “You have six sisters?”
“Yeah.”
“Brutal.” She wrapped her hand around my forearm as she walked sideways down the steps on her skate toes, steadying herself.
At the turnstile, she pushed through but stopped just on the other side, her dark eyes gleaming with mischief, glancing at an old woman behind me.
“I’m good from here.” She leaned forward and planted a quick kiss on my mouth. “Thanks, Daddy.”
My jaw tightened, irritation prickling under my skin, and the old woman gasped. I’d be shocked too if I saw a twenty-something-year-old kissing a forty-five-year-old man and calling him daddy.
Rachel giggled, skating backward with a playful wave. To her, it was all a big joke—a game she was playing to shock people, or maybe just to amuse herself.
I stayed on the other side of the turnstiles, my eyes glued on her until she was safely on the train, no weirdo in sight. But as I watched the train pull away, a cold knot of unease tightened in my gut.
Something about this whole situation didn’t sit right with me. And as much as I wanted to shake it off, my instincts told me that whatever was going on with Rachel wasn’t over.