CHAPTER 2 - LISA
The door slams, and the silence that follows is deafening.
I stand frozen in the middle of the wrecked hotel room, my heart pounding, my skin still flushed, the taste of him still on my lips.
The sheets are tangled. One pillow is on the floor.
My underwear is somewhere near the bathroom, and there's a beard rash blooming on my collarbone that I'll have to cover with concealer tomorrow if it doesn’t fade.
My hands are shaking.
I sink down onto the edge of the mattress, trying to catch my breath, trying to convince myself I did the right thing.
He's a Lennox. And a bounty hunter.
The kind of man who makes his living skirting the edges of the law, and I'm a detective who's already fighting tooth and nail for respect in a department that treats her like a secretary with a badge.
So why do I feel like I just made a big mistake?
I squeeze my eyes shut, but that just makes the memories sharper.
The way he kissed me like he was drowning and I was air.
The way his hands knew exactly where to touch, how much pressure, like he'd been learning my body his whole life.
The way he looked at me after, soft and wondering, like I was something precious.
And asked me for my number, changing the rules of how this night had been going. Stating an intention.
And then I accused him of using me. Of running a con. Which part of me still wants to believe because otherwise, I’ve just ruined my chances with a sex god who actually wants me for me.
The phone screen lights up in my hand, as another notification pops up. I should delete my number, if I really think this was some master plan. And that all Lennox’s are criminals.
My finger hovers over the button before, in a moment of madness, I press save, and the screen changes to the contact entry. He gave me a name. Not my own, because he doesn’t know it yet. But something adorable and heartbreaking all at once.
THE ONE.
My throat closes and I stare at the words until they blur. Rattled, I close the phone and set it carefully on the nightstand where he'll find it when he comes back for his things.
I get dressed slowly, fixing my buttons with fingers that won't stop trembling.
The drive home takes twenty minutes that feel like hours.
I don't sleep. I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, the ghost of his touch still lingering on my skin, replaying every moment of the evening in torturously vivid detail.
By morning, I feel like death warmed over. I shower for too long, standing under the hot spray and trying to wash away the dirty feeling I have at treating him so badly. It doesn't work. I mainline coffee, put on my most professional blazer like armor, and drive to the precinct on autopilot.
The bullpen is quiet when I arrive, most of the day shift not due for another hour. I'm at my desk reviewing the Reeves file, the case nobody else wants to take seriously, when the front door opens.
"Can I help you?"
Officer Martinez is working the front desk, his voice carrying through the open bullpen. I don't look up, too focused on the timeline I'm trying to construct, until I hear the response.
"I'm here to apply for a PI license."
My head snaps up. That voice.
He's standing at the counter in fresh clothes, the leather jacket replaced by a flannel that does nothing to hide the width of his shoulders or the muscles underneath. His hair is slightly damp, like he just showered, and there's a tension in his jaw that wasn't there last night.
Our eyes meet across the bullpen and the floor drops out from under me.
Martinez is saying something about paperwork and processing times, but neither of us is listening. The air between us crackles with the same electricity that made me lose my mind last night, and for a moment I'm back in that hotel room with his mouth on my throat and his hands gripping my hips.
Then his expression shutters closed, and any lingering warmth vanishes like it was never there.
He turns back to Martinez, accepts the paperwork, and moves to the chairs along the wall to fill it out. His posture is rigid, every line of his body radiating cold fury as he rushes through the pages.
So he’s not just passing through. He’s going to be working in my town, legitimately. Not a crook as I suggested.
FUCK.
I should leave it alone, but I'm on my feet before I consciously decide to move.
"Detective Harris." He drawls, but doesn't look up from the forms, his pen moving in sharp, aggressive strokes. "Something you need?"
His voice is ice. None of the charm from last night, none of the tenderness or raw honesty from when he told me what we had was spectacular.
"I wanted to apologize." The words come out stiffer than I intended. "About last night." Glancing around to make sure nobody’s watching, I clasp my hands together to stop them from shaking.
Now he does look up, and the indifference in his eyes makes me want to vomit.
"Apologize for what, exactly? Accusing me of being a con artist? Treating me like a criminal because of my last name? Or just generally making me feel like shit for daring to ask you out?"
Each word hurts. I deserve them. I know I deserve them.
"I may have... overreacted."
"May have?" He’s not giving me an inch and my guilt morphs into embarrassment at my behaviour.
"You have to understand how it looked from my perspective." The defensive words spill out before I can stop them, old habits rising up despite my best intentions. There’s no excuse for what I said or did, but I’ve never been able to just apologise.
"Do I?" He cuts me off, returning his attention to the now completed paperwork as he flips the pages back over and adds his own documentation to the pile.
I open my mouth to speak but he stands, towering over me, and brushes past, heading straight toward the counter.
He hands Martinez the completed forms, and waits while they're processed.
The silence stretches, thick with everything we're not saying, while I stand there awkwardly, my hands shoved into my pockets.
"You're staying in town?" I finally ask, hating how small my voice sounds.
"Don't." He meets my eyes one final time, and beneath the anger, I catch a flash of something wounded.
He heads for the door.
“I’m sorry, alright? But there’s no need to be a dick.” Another stellar apology to add to my collection.
He pauses, hand on the door. “See you around, Detective.” Then he's gone, the door swinging shut behind him, and I'm left standing in the middle of the bullpen feeling like I just made everything worse.
“Fine,” I call after him. "Welcome to Black River."
Martinez is staring at me with raised eyebrows as I flip off his retreating back.
"Friend of yours?"
"No." I turn back toward my desk, toward the Reeves file. "Definitely not."
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