Chapter 2
Guy
Ishove open the glass doors to the police station, giving curt nods to those who wave as I pass.
I used to enjoy the reaction to me walking into a room.
I’ve worked damn hard to get where I am, and I’m not ashamed to say my ego was a little inflated when I finally became chief. Now, I could take it or leave it.
“Hey Chief,” the young officer at the front desk says, shooting out of his seat at the sight of me. “How can I help?”
“A woman was brought in earlier for assault in a grocery store.”
He visibly brightens. “Monty Reid? Yeah, she’s right over there.”
So the fake first name has a fake surname to go with it.
He nods in the direction of the heart of the station, where there are around fifteen desks set up. In the center, sat atop one of those desks, leg crossed over her knee, with an audience—is Monty.
“Let me through,” I growl, and the officer buzzes me into the back.
A gaggle of officers surround her, some standing, some sitting, and she’s gesturing emphatically as she talks.
“—and I said to him, ‘even if you are a lord, nothing you will do will ever make me a lady!” Everyone erupts into laughter, and Monty looks very impressed with herself. Her green eyes lock on me, and she extends her arms. “Here’s my boyfriend!”
Boyfriend?
Winston Parker, a detective who I thought would be able to resist the manipulations of Monty, whirls in his chair to face me. He’s part of her crowd, too.
“You old dog, Guy. You didn’t tell me you were dating again.”
Monty hops off the desk. “I’m his dirty little secret. He’s bothered about the age difference.” I glare at her, and she slips her hand into mine, interlocking our fingers. “But he’s the first man to make me come so hard I saw stars, so age be damned, am I right, boys?”
There are some sniggers, some wolf whistles, and Monty bobs her eyebrows as she grins up at me.
This woman is a fucking nightmare.
I lean close and lower my voice. “Go and wait in the car.”
“Yes, Officer.” She blows me a kiss and walks away, and every single man watches her leave. I snap my fingers at them. “Don’t you all have work to do?”
They scatter, but Winston stays seated.
Winston is an old friend. We used to spend a lot of time together before he married, but now he’s obsessed with his wife, and I can’t blame him. Tricia is great. I miss going for drinks with him, but he made sure to visit as often as he could after Ella “died.”
His smirk says everything, but he speaks anyway. “So. New girlfriend. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“She’s not my girlfriend. Vivien has been bothering me, so Monty just stepped in to make her back off.”
“By whacking her across the face?”
I cringe. It was one hell of a hit. “I’m guessing Vivien is pressing charges.”
“Nope. She scampered after she saw Monty again. Not that I blame her. That woman is trouble.”
“Understatement.”
My gaze travels over the messy desks, officers lounging around, others deep in case files or typing away. The familiar smell of crappy coffee and printer ink fills my nose, and the sound of ringing phones and laughter takes me back to three decades ago.
“Ever miss it? Being behind a desk must be pretty boring,” Winston smiles knowingly at me.
Do I miss shooting the shit in a cruiser, arresting assholes, being in the community and getting to know the people face to face instead of through statistics? Hell yeah, I do. But I’m supposed to at least to pretend to enjoy my job.
“I’m good where I am.”
“With Monty the girlfriend?”
I give him the finger, a less than chief–like goodbye, but he deserves it. When I get back to the truck, Monty is in the driver’s seat. She wiggles excitedly and puts the window down as I approach.
“Can I drive?”
“No.”
She frowns. “Why not?”
“Because this truck is expensive.”
She snorts. “When?”
I yank open the car door and usher her over to the passenger seat. Once she’s settled, I climb in after her.
“Do you even have a license?” I ask.
“Yes.”
I start the engine. “A real one?”
“Oh. Then, no.”
As we pull out of the parking lot, I say, “You didn’t have to hit the woman.”
“If a man were harassing me, what would you do?”
Probably hit him. But discretely.
“I’d at least threaten him first,” I mumble, and she grins. “Just … next time, maybe use a little discretion.”
She wiggles in her seat. “I like that there will be a next time.”
For fuck’s sake.
We ride home the rest of the way in silence, sans the food we picked up because the manager of the store called the police before I could pay for any of it, but Monty doesn’t seem bothered. She saunters into the house happily.
“So, where am I sleeping?”
I take off my coat. “I really think you staying here isn’t a good idea.”
Her look could cut through stone. “We had a deal.”
Yes, we did, and I’m a man of my word, but this is different. I’m agreeing to house a serial killer, which is one thing, but she’s also my daughter’s friend and my daughter’s age. It feels inappropriate.
Monty scowls up at me, clearly anticipating another argument, which is what she should get. People talk, and if they see a beautiful, young woman coming and going, I’ll be the subject of gossip over eggnog and wrapping paper. I’d rather my name not be on anyone’s lips.
But the alternative is Christmas alone. My first Christmas alone in a long fucking time.
“Fine. But you’re gone before New Year.”
She puts her arms in the air. “Yay! This is going to be so fun.”
“Fun” is not the word I’d use.
Monty follows me upstairs, and we pass Ella’s room and mine. The guest room used to be a gym, but I moved all my equipment into the garage this summer and redecorated. No one visits, but it gave me something to do, and now I’m glad I did.
The navy walls are offset by a crisp white ceiling.
The beige carpet is soft, barely even walked on, and the double bed has never been used.
I decorated with blue tartan pillows and throws, because I know Ella loves the tartan look, and when I took a picture to show her the finished outcome, she’d sent back several excited emojis.
I only wish she could stay here.
“This is so pretty,” Monty says, gliding her fingertips across the covers. “Where’s the en suite?”
I smirk at her. “There’s only one bedroom with an en suite, and that’s mine. You get the main bathroom.”
“So … I have to walk across the hall to pee and shower?” She looks appalled. “Can’t I stay in your room, and you stay here?”
I scoff. “You’re unbelievable. No.” I hold my hand out. “Car keys.”
She narrows her eyes. “What are you going to do to my car?”
“I’m going to park it on the driveway and bring your suitcases inside. You do have suitcases, I presume?” Her shoulders dip slowly, and as she places the keys into my palm, her brows furrow. “Is that a problem?”
She shakes her head. “No.”
Her reaction has my alarm bells going off, so I crowd her a little. “Are you bringing something illegal into my home, Monty?”
“I’m not,” she says sweetly. “I swear, Chief.”
I point at her. “If you’re lying, you’re out on your ass.”
She beams in response.
Driving that electrical nightmare is Godawful, but I get it onto the driveway beside my truck. In the trunk are two large suitcases, and I lift them out, grunting at the weight of them.
If there’s a body in here, I’ll kill her myself.
The shower is running when I make it back upstairs, so I put her suitcases in the guest room. For a moment, I consider checking them but think better of it.
Her purse, however, is sitting on the bureau.
It’s not open, but it is right there, and I should know who is staying in my house, shouldn’t I?
The most I know about Monty is that she’s a murderer.
Checking her stuff is just being fucking smart.
I can still hear the shower water from the bathroom across the hall, so I unzip her purse.
Inside is neat. A small firearm in a leather holster, which I can’t blame her for. I insist Ella carries, too. Hair ties are held together by a small clip, and there’s a tube of red lipstick, and a bottle of perfume. Her wallet is tucked away, and I take it out.
Inside is a driver’s license with the name Kelsey Whitfield. It says she’s twenty-nine years old and resides in North Carolina. Definitely fake, but a good fake. She has around five hundred dollars in cash, credit cards in several different names.
And a photograph.
It’s dated, a little worn at the edges. It’s of two young girls. Both are smiling broadly at the camera and are in school uniforms. One is clearly Monty. The other … her sister, perhaps?
“What are you doing?”
I don’t flinch at the sound of Monty’s voice. “Searching through your things.”
“Why?”
“Because your reaction from earlier makes me think you’re hiding something,” I face her, a little unprepared to see her fresh from the shower.
Her hair is wet, body shining with water, and she’s using my towel.
It clings to every part of her body, but I don’t allow myself to stare for too long. I show her the photograph. “Sister?”
She storms over and snatches it and her wallet, returning the photograph to its original place.
“None of your bloody business. I reacted like that because no one has ever offered to carry my suitcases before unprompted. Not because I’m hiding anything.
” She gets to her knees and starts unzipping her first suitcase.
I hadn’t considered that. It’s been drilled into me to be respectful, a gentleman, and I’ve always told Ella to expect the same when dating.
It’s one of the few things I like about Gable.
He protects her, fiercely, and on the few occasions we’ve been together, he’s always attentive, even if he doesn’t smile while doing it.
He’s quietly caring. But I know not all men are like that.
Monty flings her suitcase open, and my eyes bulge.
It’s filled with weapons. Knives, daggers, blades of all kinds. She has zip ties, handcuffs, duct tape, latex gloves.
“Are you fucking serious, Monty?”
She looks up at me. “What?”
“That’s a kill kit!”
“Well, yes, and a girl shouldn’t go anywhere without one.”
I run my hand down my face. “You are a living nightmare. You are not killing anyone while living in my house!”
She waves me off. “I haven’t killed anyone in months.”
Oh, that’s a relief.
“I’m serious, Monty. If you think I won’t arrest you, you’re wrong.”
Monty stands, slowly—silver handcuffs from her suitcase of death dangling from her finger. She approaches me, jostling them, the metal clanging together. “Promise?”
Enough of this bullshit.
I snatch the cuffs, spin her, and pin her hands behind her back, snapping them on with the kind of speed and accuracy that thirty years in a uniform gives me. She squeaks as I pin her face down on the bed and lean over her.
“You see how easily I can do this?” I ask, moving her hair aside so I can see the side of her face. “I could haul you in right now and your life would be over.”
Monty bites her bottom lip. “What would you do to get me to talk?”
This woman is unbelievable. Nothing seems to phase her, not a damn thing, and it’s unnerving. It’s as if she recognizes what she has to lose but doesn’t quite care—or she’s totally sure she’ll never face the punishment she deserves.
Pressing my front to her back, I whisper in her ear, “You’re pushing your luck with me, and it’s only day fucking one.
” She arches her lower back, rubbing herself against my crotch.
My dick betrays me, thickening quickly at the feel of her firm ass, but there’s no way I’m falling for the oldest trick in the book.
I flip her onto her back, and she wets her lips before wrapping her legs around my waist and yanking me close with surprising strength.
We’re pressed together, and now it isn’t only my dick betraying me.
It’s my mind.
The familiar scent of cherries reaches my nose, and I wonder if it’s shampoo she brought with her or the perfume from her bag.
She runs her tongue across her bottom lip. “Please, Officer.” She rolls her hips, and I close my eyes against the sensation, feeling the warmth of her pussy, which means her towel has moved up and the only thing between us is my jeans. “I’ll do anything not to get a ticket.”
Fuck, it’s been too long since I was in a position like this. Since I was tantalizingly close to fucking someone, losing myself in them, forgetting everything but the push and pull of our bodies. It’d be so easy to give in, to—
No.
What the fuck am I doing?
I shoot up, shaking off the feeling, the realization of who this is immediately softening my dick. I point at her. “Quit fucking around.”
She stretches her arms above her head, grinning like a cheshire cat. “Sorry.”
“Wait …” I stare at her hands. “How did you get the cuffs off?”
“Magic,” she whispers.
“Get dressed.” I storm toward the door. “And close that fucking suitcase!”