Chapter 4 – LISA
LISA
The walk of shame back to my car and the drive home take longer than they should, my eyes scanning the route for a glimpse of Whisky, even miles outside of town on narrow winding roads that no sane person would dare walk.
When I turn the key in my front door, the big, old house my grandmother left me is so quiet, that for the first time in my life, it feels lonely.
Too tired and raw to dwell on exactly why that is, I go straight to my room, strip and crawl under the covers, but I can't sleep.
Instead, I lie staring at the ceiling in my cold empty bed, the ghost of his touch still lingering on my skin as I replay every moment of the evening in torturously vivid detail.
By morning, I feel like death warmed up.
I shower for too long, standing under the hot spray, trying to wash away the dirty feeling I have at reacting so badly, at spewing out my panicked thoughts in such a thoughtless way.
It doesn't work. When the water finally runs cool, I climb out and dress, putting on my most professional blazer like armour, mainline some coffee, and then drive to the precinct.
The bullpen is quiet when I arrive with most of the day shift not due in for another hour. I settle at my desk with the Reeves file, the case nobody else wants to take seriously, but I can't get out of my head and start trying to build a timeline.
Three hours and two coffees later, the bullpen has filled with the usual morning chaos, and I’ve made no progress pouring back over all of her phone and bank records, trying to spot anything out of the ordinary we might have missed before.
I'm rubbing my eyes, trying to focus on a column of credit card transactions, when the doors to the street slam open, and there’s commotion at the front desk.
"Move."
That voice. My stomach flips before I've even looked up.
Beau has a man in handcuffs by the back of the shirt, shoving him through the doorway. The guy is enormous. Six-foot-three, at least, with a tattooed bald head and the solid build of a boxer, he lifts his head, showing us his busted lip and a fresh bruise blooming across his cheekbone.
I recognise him immediately.
James Murphy. He’s got three priors for assault, two of them from his ex-girlfriend, and one outstanding warrant for skipping his last court date after she finally got a restraining order, and he promptly broke it trying to break into her house.
The last time we hauled him in, it took Holt, Reilly, and Dawson to get the cuffs on him, and Dawson ended up with a bloody nose for his trouble.
"Skip surrender," Beau says to Martins at the front desk, voice flat. "Murphy, James. Bond was posted three weeks ago. He failed to appear last Friday."
Murphy thrashes against the grip, face almost purple with rage, snarling something I'm too far away to catch.
Without even looking at him, Beau says, “Are we going to have to have this discussion again?”
The transformation is instant. Murphy goes completely still, the fight draining out of him, as his shoulders sag and head drops. He nods once, slowly, and Beau straightens.
“Good. Now sit." Beau jerks his chin at the bench against the wall.
Murphy sits, albeit reluctantly, and stares down at his hands.
The entire bullpen has gone quiet, watching this interaction in stunned silence. Anytime he’s been in here before, Murphy’s been like a raging bull. Now, he looks like a sad puppy.
I'm staring. I know I'm being obvious, and I can't make myself stop.
Beau is wearing a black T-shirt, the sleeves stretched tight around thick biceps.
There's a smear of blood on his knuckles, and his jaw has a slight shadow along it making me think Murphy might have gotten one good hit in before Beau found a way to talk him into submission.
Martins slides a clipboard with some forms on it over the counter to Beau, who fixes Murphy with one last warning glare before starting to fill it in, tanned hands moving quickly across the page, veined forearms flexing with every flick of his wrist.
There's a low, slow heat building between my thighs that I'm fairly certain isn't appropriate for the workplace in broad daylight.
I shift in my chair, pressing my legs together to ease the ache, and Whisky's head snaps up.
His nostrils flare. Across the bullpen, he locks straight onto me, a muscle ticking in his cheek. He holds me there for a long, awful moment, and I could swear he knows about the damp spot in my underwear.
My face flames despite the idea being ridiculous. I jerk my gaze back down to my screen and pretend to be utterly absorbed in Amber Reeves's phone records like the coward that I am.
The shuffle of paperwork at the front desk seems to go on forever. Martins asks his usual unhurried questions. Beau answers in clipped sentences, polite but short. Murphy stays exactly where he was put, hands folded in his lap and eyes downcast.
Eventually, two uniforms come down to escort him to booking, standing back, afraid the fighter will kick off once he's away from his captor, and Whisky is left at the desk, signing the custody transfer.
I look around. Everyone else’s attention has gone back to their work. This is my chance. Possibly my only one. I stand before I can chicken out and cross the bullpen on shaky legs.
"That was a hell of a catch."
He doesn't look up from the form, just continues to fill in the required sections. "Detective."
I clear my throat. "How'd you find him? Or even get him to come with you?"
He pauses, then shrugs. "It might surprise you to hear this, but I'm actually pretty good at my job." His pen scratches across the paper. "Was there something you needed?"
Feeling distinctly unwelcome in my own station, I lower my voice. "Beau. Can I talk to you?"
He goes still. Just for a second. Then he keeps writing. “Go on.”
Pressing my lips together, I make sure we’re still alone before continuing. This isn’t what I meant. I was hoping for some privacy, but it’ll have to do.
"I wanted to apologise. Properly. About last night."
He smells so damn good, it’s hard to concentrate. I’m struck by the thought that I want to smell like that again too, with his manly scent all over my body. On my tongue. In my mouth.
I clear my throat and blink rapidly to drag my thoughts out of the gutter and focus. I need to choose my words carefully.
"Apologise for what, exactly?" He still hasn't looked up, one strand of dark hair falling across his forehead as he carefully scans the papers to make sure he didn’t miss any questions.
"Accusing me of using you? Suggesting I must be a criminal because of my last name?
Or just generally being a bit of a bitch? "
Ouch. I’d love to argue, but I deserve that.
"I may have overreacted," I say quietly. He doesn’t argue with me. "Beau, I…"
"I'm working, Detective." He signs the bottom of the form with a vicious flourish and straightens, finally turning to face me but staring at a spot over my shoulder instead of meeting my eye.
I’m struck by a longing so strong it nearly takes the legs out from under me.
"You’ve apologised. So, if there’s nothing else, are we done here?"
No.
The panicky word echoes around inside my skull. I don’t want it to be done. And yet, I know it has to be. This is just prolonging the agony.
"You have to understand how it would look for me." The defensive words spill out before I can stop them as I take a step closer, desperate to be near him.
“Do I?" Now he does meet my gaze, but his eyes are so cold, so wrong, it stops me dead. "Go on. Tell me why I have to understand why I’m not good enough for you to be seen with."
I can't. My mouth opens and nothing comes out even though that’s not what I think at all.
"That's what I thought."
Martins returns to the desk, and Beau folds the paperwork, sliding the top copy to Martins before tucking the rest into his back pocket. "See you around, Detective."
Martins gives him a salute with the paperwork and disappears back inside, casting an odd glance between the two of us standing there awkwardly.
Before the door shuts behind my colleague, Beau has already turned and walked away, again, but something twists in my chest, sharp and frantic.
I haven't made it right. Not even close.
He’s just stepped outside when I catch up to him, reaching out to grab his arm.
"Beau, wait. Will you just stop—"
He turns so fast, I gasp and stumble back, my ass hitting the wall hard with his hand braced on the now closed door beside my head, his big body looming over me.
I'm pinned between his intoxicating smell and the cold, painted concrete behind me, with maybe three inches of air between us.
"What do you want, Detective?"
He's not touching me, but he’s close enough that I can feel his breath against my temple, and an all-consuming desire for him hits me all over again. His other hand comes up to brace on the wall on the other side of my head, caging me in completely now against the back of the station.
"What do you want?" he asks again, softer this time, and I know he’s not just referring to right here, right now.
I open my mouth, ready to tell him exactly what I want. Him. But nothing comes out.
He tilts his head and inhales against my hair, eyes closed. Slow and deep, he pulls the scent of me into his lungs, and a sound I don't recognise as my own slips out of my throat.
His voice has dropped to something low and rough. "Tell me something, Red."
"What?" The word comes out embarrassingly breathy as I nod eagerly.
"You liked me last night. And I can tell you like this version of me, too, the one with another man's blood on his knuckles."
Heat floods my cheeks, and my pussy throbs. I more than like it.
Nostrils flaring a fraction, his knuckles brush, light as anything, against my hip, and the breath punches out of me. Beau’s lip curls in satisfaction, his thumb now sliding over my hip bone.
Oh god.
"Yet, you want me to understand why you can't be seen with me," he says, mouth a fraction from my ear. "Why there’s something shameful about having me in your bed because of my last name. And even though you’re saying sorry, you haven’t changed your mind. So, explain to me, Red. What do you want? For me to tell you that I’m okay with that? Because I’m not."
I close my eyes briefly, trying to gather my racing thoughts. “Of course I’m not ashamed, and I never said you weren’t good enough. It’s just… tricky… my job… they already hate me.”
The rich girl who they think doesn’t need to be here, who’s just playing detective until she gets bored.
"Tricky?" He repeats with a frown, thumb skimming, just once, along the curve of my hipbone.
I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from making another humiliating noise.
"Well, you stopped me, Red. So how about we make it simple. Which is it? You want me or you don’t."
I should answer, tell him that of course, I do. I should say something, anything, to salvage this situation.
Instead, trapped by paralysing fear, I say silent.
And fear is exactly what it is. Fear of what might happen to my career, what people might say, of risking it all for a man I barely know and then being humiliated when he moves on.
I glance up, panicking, and my gaze lands on the small black dome of the security camera that covers the car park out back and the exit we’re standing beside.
He follows my line of vision then he steps back. “How about I make it easy for you? I’m out.”
The loss of his warmth is so sudden, I sag against the wall.
"Beau, I like you," I say, and I hate how thin and weak my voice sounds. "Can we at least be friends?"
He shakes his head once, bitterly. “No, Red.” There's no anger in his expression anymore, he just looks tired, maybe even defeated. "I can't be friends with you. I think it’s best we just stay out of each other's way."