Chapter 11 Levi
ELEVEN
Levi
I spent the whole morning at the precinct pretending I was fine, forcing myself into the routine of paperwork and procedure as if that alone could keep my head straight.
Paperwork usually helped. Assault reports, an incident log from a bar fight, a follow-up on a domestic that should’ve gone to Family instead of Homicide but somehow landed on my desk.
I stared at the forms for the other patients of Oscar Dryden-Wells, recognizing way too many names from files connected to my dad, until the words blurred, then forced them back into focus. Line by line. Box by box.
I had the Cave hunting down Alex Dryden-Wells, but he’d vanished, which was concerning, with no social media trail and no financial activity. My gut told me we wouldn’t find him, but Caleb and Sonya remained optimistic that he was sunning himself on a beach somewhere.
I was trying to concentrate on anything except Alejandro, because every time my mind wandered, it went straight back to him and the heat of that alley, the weight of his body, and the sound of his voice in my ear. His hand clutching my shirt. His body hard. Spanish in my ear.
I signed my name in the wrong place twice and cursed loudly.
“Jesus, you’re in a mood,” Frank said.
“Fucking forms,” I snapped.
He raised an eyebrow before snorting, but he didn’t push, choosing instead to give me space, although it was apparent I wasn’t using it well.
The bullpen was quiet, half the desks empty, the low hum of phones and the occasional printer the only sounds.
It should’ve been the perfect morning to catch up on my real job.
Instead, I was counting the hours since the wall incident.
I checked the clock.
Again.
My skin itched with restlessness I couldn’t shake, and when I shifted in my chair, the way my body reacted reminded me far too much of the shower that morning—of the way I’d gritted my teeth and gotten myself off fast, pretending it was stress when I knew damn well what had set me off.
“Levi?” Frank prompted.
“What?”
“You’re doing that thing.”
“What thing?”
He raised his eyebrows. “The thing where you’re staring at the same page for ten minutes and not turning it.”
I looked down. Same report. Same paragraph. I hadn’t processed a single word.:
“Go get coffee,” Frank said. “Or, I don’t know, blink.”
“Stop your worrying, old man,” I muttered without heat, and smiled at him as I pushed back from the desk anyway. I needed movement, hell, I needed air.
I got coffee from the cart outside—one of those battered metal setups catering to overworked cops who lived off caffeine and whatever snacks they could grab without leaving their desks for long—letting the warmth ground me for a moment.
Still, I didn’t go back into the break room because the last thing I needed was company while I spiraled.
Instead, I found an empty bench in the courtyard, opened my phone, locked my screen, waited three seconds, then unlocked it again as if I was checking something.
Habit. Cover. Then I opened the closed system that connected me to whatever the Cave was working on, helping me dig deeper than the usual background checks.
Doc.
Alejandro.
I tried them all. Variations. Cross-references in the database. Anything I could think of. The system spat back the same answer every time.
Nothing. Not even a hint of a paper trail I could follow. Before I could try another angle, my phone rang, and I answered as soon as Caleb’s name lit up the screen.
“Why are you rooting around in my data?” he asked without a hello.
“There’s not even a low-level, forgotten, traffic ticket ten years ago,” I answered, never naming names.
Caleb hummed. “Ah, our elusive Doc.”
I listened as Caleb rattled off what he had managed to find out about Doc, which wasn’t much.
“Rosen!” Someone snapped and startled the shit out of me. Stanton was right there in front of me as I listened to Caleb. Jesus—where was my situational awareness, and just how long had he been standing there? He stepped closer than necessary, voice low enough that no one else could hear.
“Fuck off, Stanton, I’m on a break,” I lied, and ended the call to Caleb as he leaned over me, squinting at the screen.
I tabbed out to a boring, safe grocery list before he got a good look.
He didn’t move, hovering in that way he had when he thought he was being subtle about wanting to dig, and of course, he had more to say.
“Wanted to give you a heads-up,” Stanton added, lowering his voice like we were conspirators, but he was smug. “IA asked me directly for an update on the MC/Cartel situation.”
My jaw tightened. “And?” I dared him. I didn’t blink. I wanted him to feel it.
“And nothing,” he said, too fast, too bright. “Just thought I’d give you the courtesy of a warning.”
A warning, my ass. The bastard sounded gleeful—IA’s attention on me for things I had nothing to do with had lit him up like Christmas. I stared at him, and he finally shifted, looking uncomfortable for once.
He added, “Just passing it on.”
Yeah. Right. The man didn’t warn out of courtesy; he warned because he’d worked with my dad, hadn’t seen what was happening, had been embarrassed, and now liked watching me squirm and hoped I’d give him a show.
“I’m. On. My. Break,” I repeated slowly, and waited for him to leave.
He did, eventually. Or maybe I stopped hearing him.
Was it wrong that the first image in my head was me pulling my service weapon and putting a bullet somewhere non-vital—like a toe?
Something to stop the smug bounce in his walk? Surely no one would judge me.
He bristled. “You’re a liability, Rosen.
You think you’re bulletproof because Davis likes you?
One day, your name is going to bury you…
and anyone dumb enough to trust you.” He held my gaze a second too long.
“Watch yourself.” When he walked away, I imagined a target on his back and how easily it would be to aim right at it. Fucker.
I didn’t reopen the secure link on my phone, talking myself out of digging deeper, because I knew exactly how far I’d go if I didn’t stop myself now.
If there was one thing Frank had taught me, it was how to recognize when I was about to step off an edge.
Too bad he didn’t know about Doc, and I’d already stepped.
By the time my shift ended, my brain was fried, my nerves were raw, and I’d decided three separate times I was going to cut this thing with Alejandro off.
I wasn’t going to see him again. I wasn’t going to let him put his hands on me again.
I wasn’t going to let myself be the kind of idiot who’d let a man like him crawl under his skin.
The decision didn’t feel real, but I clung to it anyway.
Frank was talking shit with one of the uniforms near the elevators, and he shot me a knowing wink as I grabbed my jacket and headed out without bothering to say goodbye.
He knew damn well I wasn’t going home. He might not have details, but he understood me well enough to recognize when I was clocking out on paper and clocking right back in the second my feet hit the street.
Outside, the air had that late afternoon chill, the sky a flat, pale blue that said we were in for a colder night. My car was three blocks away. My apartment was fifteen blocks in the opposite direction. I walked home.
Every step was an argument with myself.
I’m in too deep.
I knew what Doc was the second I’d seen him at the warehouse. I recognized his vacant expression as that guy bled out.
You put your hands on him anyway.
By the time I hit my street, I’d worn a groove into the inside of my head that felt like a headache. I stopped at the corner and scanned the block reflexively. Habit. Training. He wasn’t there. Good. My chest loosened a fraction.
I climbed the stairs, keys in my hand. The hallway was quiet, the kind of quiet that used to soothe me and now just reminded me how empty my life was outside the job. It hit me sometimes—the silence, the emptiness, the way the apartment waited for me and no one else.
I told myself that was fine. I’d made it fine. No partners. No one to lie to. No one to lose.
The key was halfway to the lock when it happened.
“Detective.”
The voice was low, familiar, coming from the shadows near the far end of the hall. I went cold and hot at the same time.
Of course, he was here.
I turned, hand already dropping toward my holster. Doc stepped out of the dim space between the stairwell and Mrs. Henderson’s door, hands shoved in his pockets, hood up, acting as if he belonged anywhere dark and inconvenient.
“Get inside,” I ordered, because this was my hallway, my neighbors, my world, and I didn’t need a man like him standing out here where anyone could see. “Now.”
I opened the door and went in without waiting to see if he’d follow.
He did.
Of course he did.
The door clicked shut behind him. The apartment felt smaller immediately, the air thicker. I shrugged off my jacket and dropped it on the chair by the door, then turned to face him.
He’d pushed his hood back. His hair was damp from a shower, curls flattened in places, a few strands clinging to his forehead. His eyes tracked over me once, quick and controlled, as if he was checking for injuries.
“Big risk, coming here again,” I said.
“Big risk letting me in,” he countered.
He wasn’t wrong.
Anger flared, and that was an emotion I understood. “What are you doing?” I demanded.
He watched me in that flat way he had, as if he could see right through my skin. “You tell me, Detective. I followed you. You opened the door.”
I crossed the space between us in three long strides and shoved him back against the door. The impact rattled the frame. His breath left him in a huff, but he didn’t lift his hands. Didn’t fight. Just looked at me, eyes dark and steady.
“Don’t turn this on me,” I said, although I was the one doing all the touching.