Chapter 17
MAVERICK
Professor Davi is trying to kill me today, I’m sure of it. After he throws me on the floor for about the hundredth time does he say that my grappling technique is passable. Somehow, he makes passable sound like a real achievement.
I’ve burned so many calories my arms feel shaky. It’s a good thing I’ve got a protein bar at the bottom of my duffel—gridlock on Lamar is no joke this time of day.
As though there aren’t dozens of restaurants within a five-block radius, including that food truck park just up the road.
Mm. Tacos and churros. Yeah, that’s the ticket.
Besides, I can’t complain about being worked to the bone since I was the one who asked Professor Davi to amp up my training. I’ve had a lot of pissed off to work out lately.
For one, I still haven’t been brought into the family business, even after it became clear that something huge went down the day Truett was kidnapped. They all came back a little worse for wear, and the only thing I could get out of them was that the problem had been solved, permanently.
After that, we went back to rooftop pool parties and not talking about whatever it is we’re not talking about.
Fine. I’m used to this bullshit. People assume I won’t understand because I have reading difficulties and because, unless I’m really, really focusing, processing conversations can sometimes be difficult.
What they don’t seem to get is that, yes, shit is hard, but since every fucking thing is hard, I’ve learned how to do the hard work.
Which is why I tripled down on trying to join Uncle Jake’s WhiteHat group. And because I’m good at doing hard shit, I created dozens of different accounts, providing a variety of different personas and skills until the mods found something they liked.
In the end, they approved user booneyruney819, which is…admittedly cringey.
Shut up. I was feeling nostalgic and a little drunk when I created that one.
Anyway, I’m pretty sure Jake thinks it’s really Boone who holds that account.
To my surprise, the group is not that bad.
Sure, it’s full of basement nerds and weekend warriors, but no one’s in it for the money, or even the prestige.
They’re just going after bad actors who are using the app to harm people.
It pisses me off to think that no one in my family thought I’d be useful on any of those fronts.
I’m talking more and more with my cousins about what they can share about what they do.
Rami thinks he sees a lot with his social media pull, but my accounts are at least ten times the size of his, and I see so much more.
He’s helping Truett go after shitty influencers, which…
I guess. But the influencers are like the little runners that grass sends out.
They’re missing the entire fucking lawn.
I mean, yeah, the prison and law enforcement reforms of the last decade have been nothing short of a miracle, but money still trumps everything.
There are entire systems dedicated to catering to the whims of horrible rich people, and Rami’s little influencer op isn’t doing much to stop it.
Which is another reason I’m letting Professor Davi dial up the intensity of our training sessions. I don’t just want to be dangerous. I want to be lethal.
He seemed happy to oblige, even though I think he’s trying to kill me first.
“I can barely raise my arms,” I whine, changing into my street clothes. “I hope you’re proud of yourself.”
Professor Davi, standing at the ready with his arms crossed behind his back, shakes his head. “No, Mav. You’re the one who needs to be proud of yourself.”
Shoving my gear into my duffel, my lips tip up at the rare compliment. Quietly, he approaches and slides a purple belt into my line of sight.
I turn to him, wide-eyed and gape-mouthed. “Wait. Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack.” He grins, and I don’t ever think I’ve seen him do that before. “You’ve more than proven yourself. Whatever’s been motivating you, keep it up. Your takedowns are brutal, and your strategy is incredibly advanced. It’s getting harder and harder to keep you on your toes.”
I take the purple belt from him and just…stare at it.
I’ve been to places where a mid-level belt wasn’t anything to write home about, but I’ve never worked so hard for something before.
Some places do these big ceremonies, and you know you’re getting it beforehand, but that’s never been Professor Davi’s way. And now I kind of get it.
A sense of accomplishment I’ve never felt before flares in my chest.
“I may hug you,” I finally say, looking up with tears in my eyes.
“I may let you,” he responds, opening his arms.
I give him a brief, hard hug, then step back and give him a more traditional bow.
He returns the gesture.
“I…” I shake my head. “Thank you. It feels like you’re the only one who believes in me right now.”
“I’m not the only one, I assure you,” he says, then steps away to greet his incoming students.
I’ve never worked so hard before and almost quit so many times.
It took me a long time to understand that Professor Davi isn’t hard on me just to be a dick. He genuinely wants me to master these skills.
There are plenty of rich students with black belts in—name your martial art here—who couldn’t take down your average grandma with a heavy purse, let alone anyone with actual street skills. Even with all the defensive skills my dads taught us, it’s taken me years to get to this moment.
Mostly, I’m touched that Professor Davi has faith in me. That’s a little light on the ground these days, and it means more than he could possibly realize. Something about this accomplishment, though, also makes me feel lonely.
Fuck it.
I grab the belt and take a quick selfie, sending it to Ru. His response is immediate.
Ru: Holy. Shit.
Ru: Dude.
Ru: You hafta tell the rest of the family. This is really special, and you should be celebrated.
Me: You might be right.
It would be nice if more than one person in my inner circle were proud of me.
I carefully slide the belt into my duffel, then send Professor Davi a salute as I walk out the door, which he returns by bringing his hand to his chest.
Walking outside into the falling evening, the wind whips around, loosening several coils from my haphazard bun.
As I retie my hair, my stomach growls. The shock of the purple belt distracted me from my plummeting blood sugar, but now I’m digging frantically in my bag for—ah, success.
A protein bar to dull the hunger until I can go to town on Raul’s tacos.
Leaving my car while I forage for sustenance, I take the sidewalk down Lamar and turn at the first side street, dragging my overworked body uphill against the fucking gale force wind, fumbling with the bar and the zipper on my duffel, trying not to lose either in some we’re not in Kansas anymore scenario.
I zip the bag, triumphant, just as my text notification goes off.
Checking my watch, I finally just use my teeth to rip open the wrapper.
Liam: Your uncle’s been in Austin for three days, and there hasn’t been one food delivery charge. I sent him dinner and scheduled a lunch delivery, but can you take him some food tomorrow? Maybe stick around long enough to make sure he actually eats it?
I bite through the slightly out-of-date bar and smile. Hop tends to get hyperfocused when he hits his stride with a project, and Liam couldn’t come with him this trip, so there’s no one to make sure he eats, sleeps, or showers.
Using my knuckle, I tap “Sure” from the preset options.
Liam: And bring a project to work on. He’s been a hermit.
Liam: Then, when you’re ready to pack it in for the evening, drag him out of the warehouse.
That’s the danger of the artistic process. I learned a bit more about bronze casting, and when Hop’s working the clay, he’s usually in that big warehouse all by himself unless one of his buddies is using the equipment for one of their own projects.
I love my uncle to death, but that’s not a man who should be puttering around in solitude.
I hit the thumbs-up right as my bag catches the wind, whacks my face, and I lose the wrapper.
Shoving the bar in my mouth, I toss my phone in the duffel and race after the bit of trash. The wind has it out for me, though, and the wrapper catches a current, taking it beyond my grasp.
And now…it’s stuck up in a tree.
“Littering, Maverick? Really? Haven’t we had this discussion before?”
I do a little shoulder shimmy and turn around, holding the protein bar like an old-timey cigar.
“Boo-ney,” I sing-song.
He’s wearing workout clothes and his shoulder holster, sweat dripping down his neck. Fuck, I’m so happy to see him.
And I wonder about the shoulder holster. He was wearing it the night of the fountain. Does he feel like he needs to wear it all the time?
“Stop smiling and turn around,” he says, failing to hide the twinkle in his eyes. “Hands behind your back.”
I chuckle, practically happy dancing as I do what he asks, keeping the smack talk going. “You must get some sort of sick pleasure out of putting me in handcuffs.”
“I don’t need your commentary, just your cooperation.” He takes the half-eaten protein bar from my hand and carefully slides it into my front pocket before snapping the cool bracelets around my wrist.
“You know, I could tell my fathers about this.”
He leans in, a noticeable bulge against my ass. “What, exactly, would you tell them?”
“That I’m being falsely detained.”
“Did you or did you not litter?” He gestures to the building. “Right outside of my apartment.”
“Wait,” I say, ignoring the cuffs as I turn to take in everything. The old complex. The abandoned complex next door. The overgrown trees. “This is where you live?”
“Like you didn’t know that.”
“I didn’t.”
I don’t know why Boone cuffing me turns me on so much. This is harassment, and my cock needs to behave.
Not even my brain buys that one.
“Also, Detective, littering is a misdemeanor and implies intent. I had no intent to litter. I have no say about what the wind decides to do.”
“Then failure to keep control of your trash.”
“Which is not an actual statute.”
He stands in front of me, shorter, but no less powerful. Deliciously disapproving as he takes in my body.
“Like what you see?” I ask, expanding my chest.
Oh yeah. The good detective likes my muscles.
He bites his bottom lip. “I’m just doing my civic duty.”
“I’m surprised you managed to do so without an entire camera crew,” I snark, reminding him that his arrest of Brantley Whitaker nearly derailed my cousin’s big gala.
He rolls his eyes. “That wasn’t even my case. The lead detective broke his ankle in a bike accident, and we had too much pinned on going in that night.”
“So they tagged you for the big bust?” I ask, admiring his physique. No weak calves here. “Pretty impressive for a junior detective, no?”
Boone looks away. “It was kind of a hazing situation. No detective wants media attention.”
Oh.
“Well, if you don’t want media attention, may I suggest you figure out a way to talk to me in a way that doesn’t involve handcuffs.”
He looks surprised, as if he’s just now figuring out this could go viral.
Interesting.
“Tell you what, if I agree to buy your dad’s department two…no. Three new police cruisers, will you let me go?” I ask, the wind teasing out a few coils.
He steps back, his brows meeting in the middle.
“What? You thought I wouldn’t look into you, Detective Hitchens? Son of Officer Loyal Hitchens of the Canyon, Texas, police department?”
His confusion and wariness are…ugh. So attractive.
“Are you trying to go down for bribery?” he asks, barely audio over the wind.
“Not if I can go down for free,” I say, stepping into his space, hands still trapped behind my back.
Boone’s breath catches. His strong hands go to my waist.
“Stop that,” he says, his breath hot on my neck.
“Stop what?” I ask, drifting a little closer as I send him a wide-eyed look of pure innocence.
He’s not buying it.
“You’re flirting with me,” he accuses, but there’s no weight to it.
“And this isn’t flirting?” I ask, batting my lashes as I wiggle my hands enough to jangle the cuffs. “You mean you haven’t been flirting with me since you saw me in my underwear at the fountain?”
He goes quiet, then circles around me. Seconds later, the cuffs fall from my wrists.
Stifling a grin, I tuck the loose hair behind my ear as I turn around and look down at him. He’s avoiding my eyes, working his jaw like it owes him money, his usually neat hair ruffling in the violent breeze. I stick out my hands without commentary and he examines my wrists.
“Just in case it wasn’t obvious, I like the flirting,” I say, my voice soft as his thumbs swirl around the sensitive skin.
I’d probably be more nervous if my life were less of a shambles, but mostly I’m just tired of wanting the feel of his body against mine. Tired of wishing I could taste him again. Wishing he could taste me.
Tired of missing those dominant hands on my body.
He stills his thumbs, and I lean in.
“C’mon, Detective. You’re clearly off-duty,” I say, lifting my chin at his sweat-soaked attire. “And I’m not sixteen anymore.”
“You were fifteen.”
I nod, grinning that he took the bait. “I was. But I’m not anymore.
And you’re allowed to be attracted to me.
You’re allowed to flirt with me. Maybe invite me up to your place.
” Eliminating the finite distance between us, I continue, “And if you’re worried about possibly abusing our little power dynamic, I’ll remind you that the dividends from my trust fund pay me more in one month than you make in five years on your cop salary. ”
His eyes slide to mine, and something hot and complicated passes through them.
I wink.
His chest rises and he shakes his head, rocking back.
Shit.
I took it too far.
Only…he’s still holding my wrists.
“Rune…”
When I was in school, the kids made fun of my “girly” name, and I grew to hate it. I’ve never heard someone say my first name like he does. With respect and…sigh. Heat.
He slides his grip from my wrists to my fingers. On a sharp breath, he turns my hand, pulling it toward his lips, brushing a soft kiss along one set of knuckles, then the other.
He blinks, dropping my hands. “I…shit.”
“You what?” I ask, pressing my palms into his chest.
He drops his chin, sweeping it across my fingertips.
“I shouldn’t,” he whispers, flipping my hand over to lay a kiss on my inner wrist. “There’s so much going on right now…”
“Me too,” I say, quick to interrupt him. “I mean, the shit going on in my family…”
Er. That’s true, actually. I know Hedy didn’t tell me half of it, and the half she didn’t tell me… I’m pretty sure that part’s not exactly legal, or whatever.
But they didn’t trust me with the truth, and Boone’s holding my hands, staring at them like they hold the secret to the universe.
Let him be the one who finally lets me in.