8. Louise
Chapter 8
Louise
I tighten my hold on Draven’s waist as he weaves us in and out of the heavy traffic on the way to interview Sally Fowler again. Even through my helmet, and with the whipping wind as we hurtle down the highway at eighty miles an hour, the smell of his leather jacket mingled with a faint whiff of bodywash tickles my nostrils. I breathe in deeper, savoring the underlying scent of his skin.
Because we can’t talk, the journey gives me time to hash out my feelings. Draven keeps sending me signals that he might not be quite so pissed with me as I’d originally thought, then in the very next breath, he pulls away.
Case in point: the gentle caress on the street back there.
I’d almost leaned in and placed my hand over his, but the chance had gone as quickly as it arrived. Eight years was a long time to mourn a life I’d never had, but every time I think about what might have been, regret—for my actions and his—weighed me down.
Even now, all these years later, I still don’t agree with what he’d done to Tony Callides, but I can understand why he did it. Sexual abuse of anyone, especially of a minor, is a trigger for most people, and when faced with an abuser who’s just beaten his victim half to death, believe me, I’d wanted to batter him, too. The older, more mature me would have taken Draven to one side and had a stern word—told him if that was the way he conducted his business he should find another partner. Except my rookie status and inexperience dealing with difficult characters meant I’d handled the whole situation badly.
He’d been in the wrong.
But so had I.
And now, years after that dreadful night, fate has conspired to bring us together once more. Except Draven has never shown any romantic interest in me. Even back there outside the bakery, when he’d extended me a sliver of kindness, the attraction I felt had been completely one sided.
Yet he keeps making these jokes and innuendos, pushing my buttons. What would he do if I called his bluff? Am I even brave enough to attempt making a pass and risking rejection, no doubt with his special brand of sarcasm thrown in?
He slows the bike, coming to a stop outside a small one-story house. The brown paint is peeling, and the tiny front yard is overrun with weeds and litter. We dismount, secure our helmets to the bike and, with Sally Fowler’s statement in hand, walk up to the front door.
“Let me ask the questions,” Draven says. “I want you to watch and assess her body language.”
“Okay.”
Draven makes a fist and raps on the door twice. A few seconds later, Sally appears. A flicker of recognition lights her eyes at seeing me, and her smile is welcoming.
“Detective Rhodes. How lovely to see you again.”
“Ms. Fowler.” I gesture to Draven. “This is my… associate. Um, Mr. Draven. Do you have a minute to speak with us?”
“Of course.” Ms. Fowler gives Draven the once over. “Anything to help our hardworking police force. Do come in Detective, Mr. Draven.”
“Just Draven, ma’am.”
I roll my eyes, glaring at him. Could he not have just gone along with it? I’ve never found out why he only goes by a single name, and back in the day, I’d been too in awe of him to ask.
Sally squints. “Like Madonna? Or Cher?”
I suppress a snort of laughter.
Draven’s lips twitch in amusement. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Well I never,” she says, leading us down the hallway and into a cozy kitchen—the space instantly dwarfed by Draven’s tall, broad frame.
“Do have a seat,” Ms. Fowler says. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“No, thank you,” I say. “I’m afraid we can’t stay long.” I’m already crossing the line by being here. If my boss finds out, I’m toast.
A flicker of disappointment flashes over the woman’s face, and I get the distinct impression she’s lonely. A quick glance around shows no signs of family. There are no pictures of kids or grandkids on the walls, or childish drawings pinned to the fridge.
“A piece of cake, then? Or a cookie?”
“Ma’am, we’re here about the missing persons’ cases,” Draven says, barreling straight in. He clearly hasn’t picked up on her situation.
I kick out at his ankle. He ignores me.
Ms. Fowler sighs. “Terrible business,” she says, flicking a crumb from her blouse. “Just terrible. Have you found them yet?”
“Not yet,” Draven says. “Ma’am, we have a query with your statement.”
“Oh?” She clutches a silver cross hanging around her neck, zigzagging it back and forth along the chain. It’s a clear sign of discomfort, but that could just be because of Draven and his blunt manner. “What would that be?”
“You said you saw the woman, Darla Adams, being forced into the back of a blue van, correct?”
“Yes.”
Draven briefly looks down at the sheath of papers in his hand, but his actions are for effect. He already knows her statement by heart.
“And you identified a Caucasian man with spiked, blond hair, and a second man, who you thought to be Hispanic, correct?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“And you saw all this from outside the pharmacy on Bolder Street. You clearly saw the victim leaving the bakery and being taken by the men?”
“Yes. I’ve already told the nice detective all this.” She shoots a wavering smile at me, Draven’s direct questioning making her uncomfortable. I lean closer, noticing the woman’s fingertips plucking at her skirt, her rapid blinking, dilated pupils—all telling signs of her growing anxiety.
“I’m aware, ma’am,” Draven says. “But it’s important we get everything absolutely right. These women’s lives could depend on it. How are you so certain you were outside the pharmacy?”
She rubs her hands down her legs, smoothing her skirt. “Because I’d called in for my heat patches.” She gestures to her lower back. “I suffer terribly with back pain, you see, and those patches are a lifeline. I stepped outside, stopped to put my purchases in my shopping bag, and that’s when I heard a kerfuffle across the street. I looked over and saw the woman being snatched.”
Draven nods, lulling her into a false sense of security before he deals the hammer blow. “But here’s my problem with your statement, Ms. Fowler. You can’t see the bakery from outside the pharmacy.”
And there it is.
Draven slots Ms. Fowler’s statement into the inside pocket of his leather jacket and sits back, waiting, while Ms. Fowler’s hand flutters to her neck, and her legs bounce as if she’s dancing while sitting down. Draven’s direct statement leaves me in absolutely no doubt. The woman lied in her report to the police. But why? What could she possibly hope to gain?
“I-I, no, that’s wrong. You can.”
Draven shakes his head. “I’m afraid you can’t.” He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees, his hands dangling between his parted thighs. “Would you like to change your statement, Ms. Fowler?”
He speaks so quietly, so calmly, and so unlike him, while I have a storm brewing inside me. This woman sent the police searching for a red herring. There was no blue van, no blond man, no Hispanic with a scar over his right eyebrow. Despite the information leading us nowhere, that didn’t excuse the lie. She’ll have to go over everything again. Evidence might have been discarded based on Ms. Fowler’s statement. When she came forward after they made a public appeal for witnesses, she caused major excitement in the team as the first potential eyewitness to an actual kidnapping. With the previous three women snatched before Darla Adams, no one had seen a thing.
And now, we’ve discovered it’s all been a lie.
Well, Draven has.
A scream of frustration fills my lungs, and I struggle to maintain my professionalism. My gaze hardens, my eyes boring into Ms. Fowler, who still hasn’t uttered a word in her defense. If Kiera doesn’t make it through her ordeal because of this… this…
I draw a slow breath in through my nose. “Well, Ms. Fowler?”
Draven’s hand briefly squeezes my knee, the action meant to warn me to remain calm, the tremor in my voice a sign I’m dancing on the edge. A jolt of electricity fires through my leg, the powerful energy surge shooting to my core. He withdraws, leaving my feelings in tatters from one exquisite touch.
“Ms. Fowler,” Draven says in a soothing tone. “Don’t worry. You’re not in any trouble.”
She fucking is if the case was compromised because of her lie.
“We just want the truth. Now, be honest. Did you or did you not witness Darla Adams being taken by two men against her will?”
Ms. Fowler bites down on her lip, wincing. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers.
Heat flushes through me, my body tensing as anger swells within me. “Why did you do that, Ms. Fowler? What did you hope to gain?” My question comes out sharper than I intend, and Ms. Fowler winces.
“It’s okay,” I hear Draven say, and I turn toward him to offer a grateful smile, his support meaning the world. Instead, I find him patting the other woman’s hand. “It’s all going to be okay, Ms. Fowler. Try not to worry.”
A rush of blood pounds in my ears, my vision clouding. Has he lost his fucking mind? I glare at him.
“A word, please,” I say, my tone dripping with ice. “Outside.”
I march to the front door, wrench it open, and wait for him in the tiny front yard. Draven takes his time, probably offering more platitudes to the lying woman inside. When he finally appears, I cock my head, indicating he should join me, then reach around him to close the door.
“What the fuck are you playing at? She lied to the police. That’s a criminal offense.”
“So what? You gonna throw her in a cell for the night, write up a ton of paperwork explaining what the hell you were doing here in the first place when you’re not supposed to be working the case, then gripe like hell the next morning when she gets released without being charged? Would that make you feel better?”
I glare at him, my hands on hips and stance wide. “Thanks for your support.”
Draven rolls his eyes. “Cool your fucking jets, Lola. I’ll deal with this.”
With that, he marches inside and slams the door, leaving me outside in the cold. Literally.
I pace, my blood boiling, heart pounding, and hands clenched. How dare he? This is my case. I get to decide what happens. I’m in charge.
Except it isn’t my case. I was removed from the investigation, and now the FBI is in charge. I’m overstepping my boundaries enough to get written up on a ton of citations. Not to mention the second I brought in Draven as my partner he inserted himself firmly as the man at the helm, exerting his natural dominance, taking over, commanding, directing. Hell, if it hadn’t been for him figuring out the discrepancy in a witness statement, we wouldn’t even be here.
That does not excuse him cutting me out, though. I want answers, and damn it, I’ll get them, with or without the infuriating man inside this house right this second questioning my witness.
After fifteen minutes of stomping around, my jets far from cooled, the door to Ms. Fowler’s house opens, and Draven appears.
“Let’s go,” he says.
I block his path. “Let’s not. First, we’re going to redraw the boundaries. I’m the serving police officer here, not you, and while you are correct in stating that I’m not supposed to be working the case, I still have more right to be here than you.”
Almost as if I hadn’t spoken, Draven swans past me, grabs his helmet off his bike, and thrusts mine at me. “With any luck, a half hour ride will lower your blood pressure, Lola.”
“Didn’t you hear a word I just said?”
He looms over me with a helmet in each hand because I still haven’t taken mine from him. “Yes. Now, get on the fucking bike, or I’m leaving you here to make your own way home.”
“Just tell me why you didn’t read her the riot act.”
“What good would it do?” he says, his calm tone having the opposite effect on my raging insides. “She’s just a sad, lonely woman who liked having a bit of a fuss made over her. She knows she shouldn’t have done it, but me going to town on her won’t achieve anything.”
“What about the investigation? They still believe she’s a key witness.”
“The FBI will go over everything again, anyway, and they’ll discover the falsehood. As for us, we discard her statement and move forward.” He thrusts the helmet at me again.
I ignore it. Again. “You’ve turned into a pussy, Draven—a weak, cowardly asshole, who allowed a middle-aged woman’s crocodile tears to cloud your judgment.” I snort. “You’re such a disappointment. You’ve lost your edge.” I chose my words carefully, each one meant to rile him and draw a reaction.
I get one.
He wraps his large hand around the top of my arm and hauls me down a narrow alley to the side of Ms. Fowler’s house before he pushes me up against the wall, his big body crowding me. His fingers grip my neck, pressing a little tighter than feels comfortable.
“Don’t push me, Lola.” He bends his head so close to mine, I can smell coffee on his breath.
“Screw you.”
“You wish.”
My anger morphs from rage to a different kind of heat, a physical yearning for the man I shouldn’t want, but do. He sweeps his tongue over those full lips, drawing my eye. Hot fucking damn, he has terrific lips. An unwelcome image of him squeezing my throat like this while he drives into me over and over spins through my mind. The heat from his body warms my blood, sending a rush of pleasure straight to my core. I clench my inner muscles, drawing cold comfort from the pressure, but it isn’t enough. I need… him.
Here. Now.
I finally admit it. Eight years of denying he even existed, then two days back in my life, and bam! I’m slobbering like a starving woman at an all-you-can-eat buffet.
My tongue darts out to dampen my lips, and I shift my posture, my legs parting in silent invitation.
Touch me.
“You’re giving away the prize, Lola,” he murmurs, the tip of his tongue tracing my ear lobe, with that big hand of his still clamped around my throat. “I know what you need. You’re desperate for me to stick my big, fat dick in your pussy and fuck you raw. To suck on your clit until you come so hard you pass the fuck out. And then, when you think you can’t take any more, you want me to flip you over and fuck you in the ass. That’s what you want isn’t it, little Lola? You act tough, but what you really need is to be in control in life, then be controlled in the bedroom. Just say the word. If you’ve got the chops, I’ll do you right here, right now.”
Jesus, I’m soaked from his words alone. What kind of a fucked-up situation is this? How can I be turned on when my sister is suffering incomprehensible horrors? How can such crude language send me into raptures of pleasure? I do want him, but not like this. Not with him having the upper hand.
Needing to reassert myself, I slam the heel of my hand into his shoulder. He squeezes my throat harder, and I grip his forearm, digging my nails into his flesh. “Get the fuck off of me,” I wheeze.
He drops his hand and steps back, a smirk tugging at his full lips.
“You’re a bastard, Draven,” I rasp, my throat aching from his grip. I send a wild kick at his shin, but he easily shifts out of the way. “I hate you.”
He sneers. “Yeah, but you also fucking want me.”
Faced with the awful truth, I storm off in the opposite direction. There isn’t a chance I’ll ride back home with him. I need space and time to come to terms with my powerful attraction to a man I’ve always thought I despised. An attraction I’ve suppressed for so many years, and ignored because I never expected to see the bastard ever again. It had been a mistake to go to him for help. Not for Kiera—Draven is my sister’s best hope—but for me. He’ll never find it within himself to truly forgive me for what I did, and by crawling to him, begging for his help, I’ve opened the door for him to torture me and seek his own version of retribution.
If I dared to hope for one second that Draven would follow me and try to persuade me to return home with him, I’m sadly mistaken. Shortly after my stomp down the road begins, his bike roars past me, disappearing into the distance within seconds.
I fist my hair and kick a stone against a wall. Goddammit all to hell. Every single time I think we might be making progress, something happens to derail the peace talks. On this occasion, that something happened to be me.
I slide my phone from my pocket and order a ride. The app allocates a driver in seconds, arranging a pick-up within five minutes. Thank God for technology. When I go to put my phone away, though, it rings. I glance at the screen and groan.
Here we go.
“Boss,” I say, “Good morning.”
“Get your ass to work, Rhodes,” he bellows, almost bursting my ear drum. “Or so help me God, I’ll make it my mission to ensure you’re so miserable, you’ll pray for death or retirement—whichever comes first.”
I steel my spine and ready myself for battle. “I can’t,” I say, deciding to say as little as possible and just let him blow himself out like a tornado whose source of power is suddenly snatched away.
“Wrong answer. We have crimes to solve, and the state of New Jersey pays you to do your goddamn job.”
“Crimes to solve,” I parrot. “Hmm, that we do, sir. That we do.”
A hiss of breath comes down the phone line the moment my barbed comment hits its mark. “For fuck’s sake, Rhodes. I’m sympathetic to your family troubles. I’m not a robot. I get how devastated you must be that your sister is missing. But if you get in the way of the FBI, that’s your career over. Finished. Is that what you want?”
“I’m not getting in anyone’s way, sir,” I say, keeping my voice low and steady despite the knot in my stomach doubling in size. “I’m simply requesting some long overdue vacation days.”
“Denied,” he hits back.
“Then, I’ll take my request to the captain. I’m sure he’ll understand how difficult it’s been for me to continue as normal since my sister went missing.”
A long pause sends my pulse skyrocketing. I picture steam coming out of his ears at my bold threat.
“You listen to me, Rhodes, and listen good. I’ll sign off on your vacation, but if you cross even the thinnest line, I’ll throw you to the wolves. Get me?”
“Yes, sir.”
The line goes dead without another word, so I prop myself against a nearby wall and wait for my heart rate to slow.
I have a week to find Kiera and pray that my career remains intact in the meantime.