Minka
MINKA
I wake with a cold back. With goosebumps racing along my spine and my eyes opening to a new day. Sleepiness makes my brain tick slowly. Exhaustion makes my thoughts sluggish. But then reality comes galloping to the forefront of my mind and realization is like a lightning strike to my mind.
I twist on the mattress and frantically search for my husband.
Because I fell asleep without him last night. And now, as I press my palm to his side of the bed—not entirely cold, but not warm either—I wake up without him, too.
“What the hell?” Grumbling, I sit up and spy the pile of dirty clothes on the floor that prove he was here. Then my ears prick and the sound of the shower answers the rest of my questions.
He went to sleep later than me and woke earlier. Which means he’s mentally sunk into a case and his mind won’t let him rest until it’s done.
Swallowing to lubricate my throat, I glance to my left and find my phone sitting on the bedside table. Already on the charger. And right beside it, a cup of coffee I know I didn’t put there.
But this is what he does.
He’s a fluffer , like Aubree said.
Glancing down at my clothes, I scowl when I find myself still dressed. My tank is twisted and my pants are squeezing. But what becomes most apparent of all is the fact I’m not naked.
Why am I not naked?
It’s literally Archer’s MO.
Cranky, I toss my blankets aside and set my feet on the floor, then pushing off the mattress, I tiptoe through the door and pass an angry, snow-white cat who sits outside the bathroom in the hall, her legs tucked beneath her body and her eyes intent, almost as though she can see through the wood.
I keep my steps silent. My movements, undetected, and padding into the living room, I look over the back of the couch and confirm Cato is still here. Asleep. Completely unconscious and humorously too long for the small sofa. His legs hang off one end, and his hand dangles on the floor.
It’s hardly a suitable sleeping arrangement for a growing athlete. But in our defense, he chooses this. He could stay in Archer’s old apartment just a few blocks from here. Or Tim’s next door. Or hell, there’s a whole Malone mansion in this very city, sitting empty but with a dozen adult sized beds in it.
Shrugging, I spin on my heels and slip back into the hall. Because I want a shower, too, and I have a bone I’d like to pick with my husband.
“You’re not coming in,” I whisper to the cat. My smile turns into a sneer when she breaks eye contact with the door and instead sends her ire my way. “He’s my husband. Not yours.”
Screw you, Mayet. I’m gonna scratch your face to shreds next time you sleep.
I point my finger, like it’s somehow rational and sensible to do so. “My husband!”
Wrapping my hand around the knob and opening the door in silence, I almost groan out loud when the steam of the shower smacks me square in the face and draws me in. I tiptoe, so I don’t alert Archer, but also, so I don’t wake Cato. Then I close the door again with the softest, quietest snick I can muster, only to turn and jump backwards, slamming against the frame when I find Archer’s ferocious stare burning into mine.
He replaces it quickly, determining his intruder is just the wife, and not, say, a knife-wielding psycho. Then he turns his fury into sweet welcome. “Morning, Minnnnnka.” He opens the shower curtain, revealing all of his six feet-three inches of Malone muscle and the ink that litters his chest and tangles up to touch the bottom of his neck. “You snuck in here so you could join me?”
“Why don’t you love me anymore?” Surprising him with my words, his eyes pop wide as I drag my tank off and drop it to the floor .
“Excuse me?” He releases the curtain and turns to face me fully, setting his hands on his hips and presenting his cock—hard, ready, and pointing my way. “What could I have possibly said or done to make you doubt my love?” Unimpressed, he firms his lips. “I’m routinely accused of obsession. So maybe you could clear the confusion between us.”
I push my pants down, and with them, my underwear, then holding the sink with one hand, I use the other to peel the stretchy fabric over my feet. “I woke up alone.”
“I had to have a shower,” he chuckles. “It happens. Usually once a day.”
“I woke up, dressed . After you put me to bed.”
“Which is typically what happens when men move an unconscious woman from one sleeping place to another.”
“ Most men.” I start toward the shower. “Not you . You like to make me naked, and you like to snuggle up to my skin like a creep. But you didn’t undress me last night. Which can only lead me to the conclusion that you no longer love me.”
He grabs my hand and yanks me into the shower, catching me before I ram headfirst against the tile. Then he dips me, practically fucking waterboarding me, until he leans over and presses a kiss to my lips. “You were out cold, and the mornings are getting chillier. Forgive me for trying to be a gentleman.”
“I didn’t marry a gentleman.” I wrinkle my nose and search his perfect emerald eyes. “I married you. And you make a habit of undressing me. If you think now is the time to stop behaving a certain way, I might be inclined to seek an annulment and move on with my next husband. We could enjoy half your fortune and laugh about it while we sip cocktails and vacation in the Caribbean.”
“Your next husband won’t undress you either.” He wraps his palm around the back of my neck and feasts on my lips, as though desperate to taste them after a lifetime apart. “He won’t have hands to use after I cut them off and feed them back to him.”
“You threaten my future soulmate so easily?”
He grins, dragging my bottom lip between his teeth and sliding his hand down to cup the globe of my ass. “I’ll be your future husband, Minnnka. I’ll be every husband you ever have, now, later, and in the next life.” He picks me up, so I choke out a fast, thrilling squeal and wrap my legs around his hips when he tosses me against the wall and pins me.
My breath races already. My heart, pounding in my chest. My vision is half gone from the water in my eyes and a deep, post-infusion sleep. But then he takes my breath away, crashing his lips to mine and stealing every morsel of common sense I thought I woke up with.
“There’s never gonna be a day I don’t love you. But there will be days—most of them—where I think of your best interests over my own.”
“Undress me when you take me to bed.” I reach down between our bodies and hum when I find his cock, thick and needy. Heavy and ready for my body. “Even if it’s snowing and our roof collapses again, I want you to undress me when we go to bed. I’d rather your body keep me warm. Not yoga pants and loneliness.”
“You’re always extra bossy the morning after Factor.” He nips at my bottom lip and releases my thigh to fist his cock instead. He takes control, crushing me to the wall with no care for my best interests in this moment.
A deep, vibrating groan rolls along my throat when he slides the tip of his cock over my pounding clit. But he doesn’t leave me hanging for long. There’s no need to drag things out when we know exactly what the other needs. When we’ve spent almost a year studying each other’s bodies the way we have.
He slams deep inside me, slapping his hand over my mouth when I cry out and risk waking the entire building. Then he pulls back, and barrels forward a second time. He creates a rhythm, pinning me to the wall and bruising my backside with his one, clutching hand. “So fucking tight, Mayet.” He grits out his words by my ear, eliciting a flurry of goosebumps that sprint along my skin and down to touch my toes. Then he nips the warm flesh behind my ear, right where a teeny, tiny, heart tattoo lives.
It was a risk, really. To have someone needle ink into my skin and risk excessive bruising. Infection. Or possibly, if I was truly unlucky, worse.
Just as Archer Malone was a risk. To give someone my heart. My soul. The very key to my life and happiness.
“I’m never giving you up,” he growls, squeezing me, just as surely as I squeeze his cock. “There’s nothing on this planet that would make me fall out of love with you.”
“Undress me.” I bite his palm and cry out when he crushes me to the wall. Then dropping my face to his shoulder, I latch on to his trapezius and sink my teeth in until he snarls. “Every single night.”
“Deal.” He releases me, too fast, too smooth, until my feet hit the floor and my head swims. Then he spins me, slamming my chest to the tile and grabbing my ass, separating the cheeks until he finds what he’s looking for. “Forever, Mayet. Now open up.” He fills me again, but this time, the angle has changed. My back arches, and my feet ache as I spring to the tips of my toes to meet him on his level. My hamstrings fire and my stomach whooshes. But he doesn’t choose caution this morning. He’s not treating me with gentle gloves, all because of a bleeding disorder that rears its ugly head in everything we do.
He treats me the way I beg him to, and wraps his hand around my throat, pulling me back until my legs narrow and my pussy tightens.
“Squeeze my cock and cum on me, Mrs. Malone.” He slips two fingers into my mouth, pressing the pads to the top of my tongue until I bite down. “Now.”
W ith familiarity comes reliability. It means zero wasted time, which might come across as unromantic to those who prefer hours long snooze fests. But to a medical examiner who some people—as in, my husband and my best friend—describe as having a social disability— though I prefer to call it scheduling inflexibility and expedience —and a homicide detective hip deep in a murder investigation, not wasting time is the epitome of romance in my eyes.
Jesus. Maybe I am what they say I am.
Nonetheless, twenty minutes after stepping into the shower, we’re out again, dropping towels and selecting clothes for today.
“Fletch and Moo are coming over for breakfast this morning.” Archer grabs a fresh pair of jeans from his drawer and pushes the ancient, sticking timber closed with a thud. “He was ready to get started on our case bright and early, but considering my next two interviews are right inside this apartment, I figured we could have a soft launch for the day.”
“ Soft launch .” Snickering, I select a blouse from my closet, and a pair of black pants that make my ass look fantastic, and yet, they don’t appear as though I’m trying to make my ass look fantastic. “I’m assuming I’m one of those interviews, Detective Malone. I should charge you out-of-office rates, seeing you won’t even let me have my morning to myself.”
“I just paid you your out-of-office rates.” He looks across and smirks. The glitter in his eyes and the upturn of his lips, proof he thinks I work for sexual favors.
I mean… he’s not entirely wrong, I suppose .
“I also wanna talk to Cato.”
“I was wondering when you’d make that connection.” I slip my shirt on and work on fastening the buttons. “The vic and her friends are all eighteen. They’re all Copeland U freshmen. And two of them are on the same basketball team Cato plays for. He must know them.”
“That’s what I figured. Even if he’s not attending haunted houses and screwing around with them on the weekend, I bet he still has an opinion. He was raised to observe the people surrounding him. If nothing else, he could tell us what he sees when it’s just the guys on the court.”
“Mason Morgan is a solid player,” Cato announces from the hall.
Startling me, I jump in place and half twist toward the closed door. “Cato!”
“You woke me, Doc.” He chuckles, just loud enough to be heard through the thick wood. “A kid is just trying to sleep after a late night, and instead of getting a much-needed eight hours down, he wakes to certain noises his innocent brain really shouldn’t be hearing. It’s damaging to my mental wellbeing.”
Archer looks me up and down to make sure I’m decent, then he snags a shirt from the closet and crosses the room, yanking the door open to find a smug Cato on the other side. “You didn’t hear fuck all. And if you think you did, lemme grab a corkscrew from the kitchen and take care of your memories.”
Cato’s dancing eyes swing my way. “You don’t get to be mad at me because you two are unable to keep your business quiet. I heard my name, by the way.”
“You most certainly did not.” Snarling, I turn on my heels when I finish my last button, and head to the drawers to take out a pair of socks. “I assure you. I have never, and will never?—”
“I meant just now,” he snickers. “Talking about the case. Sheesh, Mayet. What did you think I meant?”
Frustrated, I look at Archer and manage that thing married couples can do. The silent discussion, using eyes only. Though I doubt it’s only he who reads my expression when it so clearly screams, get him the hell out !
“You thought I meant you said my name while you were… Oh wow,” Cato whistles. “That’s awkward. My sister-in-law… speaking my name while she…” He shakes his head. But his smile turns into a scowl when Archer slams a palm to the boy’s chest and propels him away from our room.
“Get the fuck out.” He keeps pushing all the way to the end of the hall and stops only when the younger Malone stumbles into the living room. “You’re banned from entering that hall ever again.”
“You can’t ban me. The bathroom is down there. Using the bathroom is a basic human right.”
“Not killing you is a basic human right. Don’t force me to violate the Geneva Convention.”
Unbothered, Cato glances over his shoulder as I step into the hall and grins when our eyes meet. “I’ve said your name, Mayet.”
“Dude!” Archer smacks his brother’s face, clapping his cheek so the noise ricochets through the room and repeats in echo. “A joke’s a joke, but you take it too fuckin’ far.”
“I was kidding!” He cups his cheek and turns toward the kitchen, and yet, he giggles when a soft growl rolls along my throat. A knock at the door has him re-routing, while in front of me, Archer turns to meet my eyes. Like he’s concerned I’ll take offense to his brother’s bullshit.
“Oh, Detective Fletcher. And Stinky McStinkerson! How are you doing, little girl?”
“I’m not stinky!” Mia noisily stomps into the apartment as I wander down the hall and meet Archer at the end. Then she grins, bright and beautiful when she finds us watching. “Uncle Arch! Good morning, Uncle Arch!”
“Mia Moo Moo Fletcher!” He presses a silent kiss to my temple before spinning and catching the girl when she throws herself our way. He lifts her too high—terrifyingly high when her hair almost skims the doorframe—then crushes her to his chest and blows raspberries against her neck until she howls. “I haven’t seen you in forever! Did you turn eleven yet?”
“I’m four!” She squirms and cackles, fighting his hold and yet, clinging to his powerful frame. “Uncle Arch, I saw you yesterday. I was four then, too.”
“But you’re in big school now!” He strides across the kitchen, ignoring his perverted brother, and plops the girl on the counter. He has to peel her arms from around his neck, folding limbs back and tickling her when she tries to grab on again. Then he turns his back to her and snatches a to-go coffee cup. “You must be eleven by now, Moo. Because you’re in high school.”
“I’m in kindergarten,” she giggles. And when she watches him drop a spoon full of cocoa into the cup, then milk, before putting the whole thing in the microwave, she remains seated. Sensible. Smart. Because the payoff is coming. “I’m still only four, Uncle Arch. You’re being silly.”
“I swear we went to your birthday not that long ago.” He waits for the microwave to do its thing. Meanwhile, redundant, Fletch closes the apartment door and meanders my way.
“Doctor Delicious. You’re looking fresh.”
“She just got out of the shower,” Cato announces. “It’s been a stimulating morning for the married folks.”
Archer pins his brother with an irritated glare while he tears open a bag of marshmallows. The pairing—anger, and fluffy gelatin pieces—contrast each other to the point of ridiculousness. But then the microwave dings and Mia’s excitement turns into a vibration that almost has her sliding off the counter.
“It was my birthday,” she says, completely oblivious to the Malone tension. “In April!”
“Yeah. That’s what I said.” Archer grabs the warm cocoa and drops the marshmallows inside. Then he places the lid on top and offers his gift. “You turned eleven. In April. Stop playing around, Moo. Everyone knows you’re a big girl now.”
“I am a big girl.” She accepts her coffee , like a grownup with her to-go cup. And preens behind the lip, blowing to cool it down, though every adult in the room knows the contents won’t burn her. Then she smirks. “I am in big school now. But I’m still in kindergarten. You’re being crazy.”
“Crazy.” He rolls his eyes. “She’s just out here calling me names, and no one has my back?”
“She gets to call it as she sees it,” Fletch counters. “I promised her breakfast, too. Cooked by the kid.” He meets Cato’s surprised eyes. “Since clearly, he’s got energy to spare and enthusiasm to be annoying.”
“Great idea!” Archer grabs Mia’s hips and sets her back on her feet. Then he selects a bag of pancake mix from the cabinet and thumps it to his brother’s chest, white powder puffing from the packaging. “Pancakes, Malone. And close your mouth unless we’re asking you a question.”
“The disrespect I have to endure in this home.” He moves to the stove and drops a pan on top to get started. “Don’t you people understand who the hell I am?”
The answer is: Felix Malone’s—the don’s—brother.
But in reality, he gets a chuckle from Archer and a sweet offer from Mia as she slides a little step-stool closer and climbs up to help. “You’re Cato Malone,” she answers, since no one else does. “Future NBA superstar.”
According to Cato himself.
“Yes I am, McStinkerson.” He peers over his shoulder. “Yes. I am.”
“So let’s talk Naomi Wallace.” Fletch taps my shoulder with his and wanders to the couch. Cato’s bed is already tidied up, blankets folded and pillows stowed away in favor of regular cushions and a TV remote. “Doctor Delicious? I was promised breakfast and a report from the chief medical examiner.”
I roll my eyes and start toward the coffee table; while in the kitchen, butter melts in a pan. “My part in all this is pretty simple. Two s-t,” I speak each letter to keep Moo in the dark. Which, ironically, is a short-term plan, considering she’s in school now, “a-b wounds. First entered her kidney, though the b-l-a-d-e hadn’t sunk all the way to the hilt. He was rushing. Not really into it.”
“Which makes sense, of course.” Archer moves across to stand behind me. “He was just a kid, playing dress up. He didn’t intend to hurt anyone.”
“Second wound was deeper. Like he was using the first to measure the distance between him and her. Second was more enthusiastic. Though I’d bet, when you watch the security video, both strikes would have happened in a single second. Not long enough for his brain to register the damage of the first. B-l-o-o-d wouldn’t have been gushing from the first, in the second it took to swing again. Eventually, she—them all, really—were covered in it. But that first moment was fast. Minimal mess. Second strike caught her heart. Severed the left lateral ventricle and ended her life. Had she been on an operating table there and then, they might’ve saved her. But she wasn’t, and the additional blood volume inside her body simply made the situation worse. Her veins were pumping faster. Harder. The additional volume could not compensate for the fact her heart was rendered useless.”
“How long from second strike till d-e-a-t-h?” Fletch wonders. “Approximately?”
“Two minutes before she was unconscious,” I guestimate. “If that. Three, before systems shut down. Fortunately, passing wouldn’t have been painful for her. She was unconscious before it was all over.”
“Small mercies,” Archer rumbles. “Anything else you can tell us?”
“I’m here!” Aubree bursts through the apartment door. Blonde hair, pink highlights, purple boots, and a puffer jacket big enough to make her look rounder than she is tall. “Am I late?” She looks at a staring Cato and Mia and grins when she notices their work. “Not too late for food! Yes!”
“She was s-e-x-ually active,” I continue, as though my colleague’s intrusion never happened. “Approximately twelve hours prior to d-e-a-t-h.”
At that, Fletch’s brow pops high on his forehead. “She was?”
“I mean, she wasn’t a kid anymore.” I shrug and pay little attention to Aubs when she crosses the apartment and joins the grownups, plopping her butt on the couch beside Fletch’s and smirking when he offers a fist to bump. “She was eighteen,” I continue. “In a long term, committed relationship. She was pregnant, which implies they have a history of intimacy. It was consensual,” I add. “No signs of distress. His spermatozoa were present during our autopsy.”
“Which makes sense,” Aubs says. “Not like they need condoms at this point.”
“Right.” I cast a quick look past my friends to make sure Mia’s not listening. Since condom probably isn’t a word we want her to know yet. Then I bring my focus back to Fletch. “Fetus was measuring approximately six inches long and weighed a hundred and fifty grams. Just a third of a pound,” I sigh. “Tiny. She was female and would have likely been tall like her father: the length of her femur was slightly above average compared to others with the same gestation. She would have passed a minute or two after her mother.”
Fletch brings a hand up and scrubs it over his face. A tell, I know, that says he’s a dad of a daughter and doesn’t like running these kinds of cases.
“Where is she now?”
“Naomi? She’s in the fridge on level two.”
“No. The infant. Where is she?”
“In the fridge with her mother,” Aubree answers. “We’ll take instructions from Naomi’s next of kin at some point in the coming days. They’ll decide how they want things dealt with.”
“As in,” I murmur. “Two separate funerals and caskets. Or maybe one, and bury them together. Or cremation.” I shrug. “Whatever they want.”
“Will Mason get a say in all that?” Cato turns from the stove, clutching a spatula and speaks, finally, with seriousness in his tone. “I know they weren’t married or anything. But that’s his kid. And give it a few years, and Naomi would’ve been his wife. Does he get a say in the decisions made?”
“Legally?” I question. “No. She was not his wife, and therefore, not her next of kin. And the fetus was not yet a viable human. She never lived outside her mother’s womb. So, in this case, she doesn’t legally actually exist. She’s not his daughter, according to the law. She’s a bundle of cells and skin that belong, technically, to the mother. And the mother’s fate is to be decided by her next of kin.”
“Hopefully he has a decent relationship with her parents,” Aubs asserts. “If they were all friends, and her parents supported what Naomi and Mason had, then they may take his wishes into account. But according to the law… They don’t have to. ”
“They seemed to really love each other.” He gently brushes Mia’s hand away when she attempts to reach into the pan. He’s mature and sensible, really. But he hides it behind a larger-than-life attitude and loud voice. “You wanted my take on them, since Mason and Brent are on the team.” He flips a pancake onto a plate to cool and pours the next lot of batter into the pan. Then, while it cooks, he snags a knife and fork from the drawer, and the syrup from the fridge, before setting it all down on the opposite counter and carrying Mia around so she can eat. “They had their own friendship going since before Copeland U. So it’s not like I wandered across and asked to hang with them. But on the court, they’re solid. Mason is a power forward with the body mass to deal with anyone who gets in his way, while Brent’s more of a runabout.”
Curious, Aubree glances over her shoulder. “A runabout?”
“He’s smaller. Not all that skilled with his free throw. Not even great when he’s standing directly under the basket. But he’s fast, so the coach uses him to get the ball from one end of the court to the other. He passes off to me. Or to one of the others. His skill isn’t in scoring. He’s the mule who does a lot of the legwork.”
“Politics on the field,” I murmur. “Yikes.”
“Court,” he chuckles, leaving Mia with a kiss on her head, before he moves back to the stove. “It’s a court, Mayet. Arena would also be a suitable word. Stadium, even.” He points toward me with his spatula. “Not a field.”
“He probably isn’t as cool as, say…” I gesture his way. “The pointer.”
“Point guard! Jesus, Doc. Don’t you ever listen to me when I speak?”
I snort. Payback is often best served with a watchful crowd and an affinity to play dumb, emasculating those who are so rarely made to feel unimportant. “Point guard. Or the power forward, even. Those are the jock-y positions, right? The star of the show.”
“ I’m the star of the show,” he rumbles. “I’m the best damn player on that kiddie team. But yes,” he amends, “Mason was next best. As power forward, he was taking care of s-h-i-t on and off the court. He was agile, skilled, and big enough not to let anyone get the drop on him.”
“And Brent was the smaller runabout,” I ponder. “Politics matter, whether it’s at the office or on the basketball oval.”
“Stick a knife in my eye.” Cato goes back to cooking our breakfast like a good little gangster should. “He loved her, though. Mason,” he clarifies. “I never heard him talk any shit when she had her back turned. There was no locker room gossip about him hooking up with anyone else. And when she was around, his eyes were on her the whole time. ”
“Like he was controlling?” Fletch asks. “Stalking.”
“Nah, like—” He points blindly our way. “How that puss watches Mayet. It’s love, Detective. He was excited about his baby, and he was planning to marry that girl. He talked about it every damn time he and Brent weren’t actively listening to the coach. He might’ve k-i-l-l-e-d her,” he shrugs. “I dunno. He wasn’t my friend, so I can’t say for sure. But if it turns out that way, then I’ll be surprised as hell.”