Chapter 11
ELEVEN
MAVEN
Boston is uncomfortable.
He keeps checking his watch, like time will go faster the more he does it.
I make sure to stay right next to him so if he tries to escape, I can pull him straight back.
I’m actually surprised he agreed to come in with me.
I know he has an ulterior motive for doing it, but I don’t care.
There’s no way he’ll find out what I do for work.
I glance past him to look at the bar, the low amber glow of the hanging lights, the dark wood paneling, the worn leather stools. The smell of fried food mixed with cigarette smoke hanging in the air.
“How’s work?” Antonia asks me, pulling my attention back to her. Her dark hair is down, and she’s wearing a cute little dress that fits her perfectly. I feel Boston tense next to me, and I know he’s listening. Antonia knows I work for myself, and that’s about it.
“Good, thanks. And how is the bank?” I answer, glancing at Boston to see him checking his watch again.
“Busy as always, but I got a promotion,” she says happily.
“What is it you do for work exactly?” Boston leans in and asks me.
“I’m a freelancer. Surely you know that after all the digging you did on me.” I wink at him. His back straightens, and his eyes narrow.
His focus never leaves me, not even when I join in on the conversation with Antonia, or when I walk to the bar to get another drink. He studies me, as if I’m a complicated math problem he’s trying to work out.
When I’m on my fifth drink, a man stops next to me, and I know what he’s about to do without even guessing. Being able to read someone’s intentions is a skill I’ve perfected. He leans in a little too close, and my gaze flicks to Boston, who is watching.
“So, care for another drink?” he asks. I turn to face him. The first thing I notice is that he’s not as tall as Boston. His hair is unkempt, and his white shirt looks like he spilled something on it. But he has a nice jawline and a kind smile.
“How about you just ask me to dance?” I reply, then take a sip of my drink. He raises a brow, places his drink on the bar, and offers me his hand. I slip my hand into his, leaving my drink there, and he pulls me to the small dance floor. He rests a hand on my hip, and I place mine on his shoulders.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
I ignore him and glance at Boston. He’s clutching his glass, which I know contains water, as his assessing gaze stays locked on us.
He catches me staring but gives no indication of what he’s thinking.
The guy’s hand slips lower, almost to the top of my ass, and that’s when Boston breaks eye contact with me to track the movement, his jaw clenching.
I smile to myself.
“Do you come here often?” the guy asks, but before I can answer, Boston appears beside us.
“Time to leave,” Boston says, glaring at where the guy’s hand is.
“Hey, man, no. Fuck off.”
I smile as Boston looks up. He reaches for something, and I see the flash of his badge.
“Get your fucking hands off her before I arrest you.”
The guy, whose name I didn’t catch, drops his hands and immediately steps back, retreating to the edge of the dance floor.
I turn to Boston and ask, “Care to dance?”
“On your grave,” he replies.
“Oh, come on, sweetheart, you know you want to,” I tease.
He turns and walks off, heading to where Antonia is standing.
“Lovely to meet you,” he says to Antonia, tone polite and formal.
Much nicer than he ever talks to me. Of course. I roll my eyes and head for the door after waving goodbye to my friend, sensing him behind me. Outside, the night air is cool, the streetlights casting long shadows across the pavement.
When we reach his car, he automatically moves to the passenger side and opens the door for me.
I pause. Not because I’m impressed, but because it gives me a perfect view of the gun in the holster at his hip.
It’s angled incorrectly. Without thinking, I step closer, instantly feeling the heat radiating off of him.
My throat tightens, and I find it hard to swallow before I reach down to adjust the holster so it rests properly against his side.
Raising my head, I notice the way his jaw has locked at my closeness, and I stand here, waiting as his gaze lifts from my hands to my eyes.
The look on his face is somewhere between disbelief and irritation.
“You should never touch a cop’s gun,” he grits out.
I shrug. “I adjusted it for you. You’re welcome.”
His brows knit together. “You know the proper positioning of a holster?” he asks, like the idea personally offends him.
I lean in, invading his space on purpose. Popping up onto my tiptoes, I bring my mouth close to his ear, my breath brushing against his skin. I feel the exact moment his body goes rigid.
Good.
“I know how to do a lot with a gun,” I murmur. “Maybe one day I’ll show you. I could teach you a thing or two.”
He steps back sharply, putting distance between us. Those slate-colored eyes hard and unamused.
“You’re drunk,” he says.
The accusation lands flat.
Offended, I straighten, flicking my hair over my shoulder. “Please. If I were drunk, you wouldn’t still have that gun.”
His jaw tightens. “Don’t touch my weapon again,” he warns, his voice dropping into something close to a growl.
I tilt my head, studying him like he’s a puzzle I might enjoy breaking. “Do you want me to disarm you?” I ask sweetly.
His jaw clenches harder. The man clearly does not want to play this game with me.
Unfortunately for him, I’ve already decided we’re playing.
“You wouldn’t be able to.” The words have barely left his mouth before my hand moves. The holster pops open with a practiced flick, and the weight of his gun is suddenly in my hand.
Smooth, cool, and now mine.
His hand shoots up to stop me, but he’s too late. It lands on empty leather where the gun used to be. For a moment, neither of us moves, and I fight the smirk pulling at my lips. When I look at him, I’m not sure, but I think I see a reluctant flicker of pride in his gaze.
I glance down at the weapon in my hand like I’m inspecting a new accessory. “You’re slow,” I say lightly.
His breathing goes heavier beside me. “I could arrest you for that,” he says, his voice low and tight.
I lean in closer, lowering my voice so the words brush against his ear. “Do it,” I whisper. “I like being handcuffed.”
For half a second, the air between us goes completely still.
Then I slide the gun back toward his hip.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t try to stop me, just watches.
I clip his gun back in place, my fingers lingering for a moment longer than necessary.
When I lift my head, his face is inches from mine. Too close.
“You’re like a stick of dynamite,” he mutters roughly. “Ready to fucking explode.”
Something in his voice almost sounds like a warning, and I flash him a sweet smile.
“Thanks, handsome,” I declare. “Now, take me home.” Before he can respond, I slip into the passenger seat of his car. The door slams shut behind me a second later. He circles the front of the car, tension rolling off him, and climbs into the driver’s seat.
“That wasn’t a fucking compliment,” he growls.
I buckle my seat belt slowly, taking my time. “Of course it was.”
He starts the engine, pressing the button with more force than necessary, and I glance over at him, smirking.
“We’ve made progress tonight,” I say casually. “You even gave me a nickname. It’s cute.” The look he gives me probably could start a small fire. Good. That means I’m getting under his skin.
“Cute,” he mutters.
“Yes.”
“I’m not fucking cute.”
I reach out and touch his shoulder. He doesn’t move a muscle as I do, just continues to drive.
“The cutest,” I say, squeezing his shoulder.
“You are insufferable,” he says, and I notice the way his hands grip the steering wheel a little too hard.
“Thank you. I would hate to be boring.” I pull my hand back but can’t take my eyes off the way his forearms flex, or the way he shoots quick glances at me as he drives the rest of the way in silence. When we reach my apartment, he turns to look at me.
“Is she still in there?” he asks.
“I don’t know what you mean.” A smile tugs at my lips as I move to open the car door. I pause, and I know his gaze is pinned on me. I enjoy the way he looks at me, the thrill it gives me, and the way my heart beats rapidly. “Goodnight, Detective,” I toss over my shoulder before I finally climb out.
Before shutting the door, I lean down, my cleavage on display as I lock eyes with him. I see the fight in them. Whether it has to do with me or his feelings toward me, I may never know. “Next time, bring me roses for our date,” I say, slamming the door and then walking off.
“It wasn’t a date!” I hear him shout.
When I reach my doorstep, I look back, my hand resting over my heart. “Don’t go breaking my heart. I had a great time.” I wink and then let myself in, not looking back before I shut the door behind me.
“Where have you been? I’ve been pacing for hours,” Carrie says.
“You know where I was. It was Antonia’s birthday,” I remind her. “How long did you sleep?”
“Not long.”
“Have you eaten anything?”
Her expression tells me she hasn’t. “No.”
“Okay, well, let’s go to bed and watch a movie. We can sort out what we need to do in the morning.” I reach for her arm, and she lets me lead her to the bedroom.
She has dark circles under her eyes. I don’t know exactly when everything changed, but I always thought she was the one person I didn’t need to be on guard about.
I didn’t have to track her every movement, but she’s been different lately, getting involved with random men.
How long has she been doing all of this?
Am I a shitty sister for not noticing sooner?
“Things are going to change, aren’t they?” she whispers.
“Yes, but for the good,” I tell her, and I mean it.
I don’t run because I like fitness; I run to clear my fucking head and get fresh air.
It’s been chaotic up there all night and morning.
Thankfully, Carrie slept through the whole night, and was still asleep when I decided to get up at five a.m. I’ve been running for at least forty minutes when I make my way back to my apartment.
I notice Boston’s car almost immediately. I didn’t look to see if he was parked across the street when I left, being too focused on getting my headphones to work, but now his car stands out like a sore thumb.
Jogging over to it, I rap on the window with my knuckles. He jumps, causing his coffee to spill onto his hand and all over his pants.
“Fucking hell,” I hear him mutter before he opens the car door.
“Well, good morning to you as well,” I say, hand resting on my hip.
He lifts his head, giving him his first glimpse of what I’m wearing—very small, tight shorts, and a crop top that showcases my tits amazingly with a little bit of cleavage—and then his gaze snags on my midsection, which is covered in ink. His jaw clenches as he grips his now half-empty coffee cup.
“Do you want to search me?” I hold up my hands, and his eyes snap up to mine. His hair is messy, as if he’s been running his hand through it.
“I’d rather search your apartment.”
“No, my body,” I offer, stepping closer to him. His jaw clenches, and the coffee cup in his hand makes a crunching sound as his grip tightens. “I’ll let you if you promise you’ll handcuff me after.” I wink at him and then step back to see that the coffee cup is now fully squashed in his hand.
“Should we get breakfast?” I ask, knowing the game I’m playing with him is dangerous. But, man, is it fun. “Though, I am disappointed there aren’t roses for our second date.”
“No,” he says, then gets back into his car.
“You’re breaking my heart here, Detective,” I say with mock sadness, my hand going to my chest. His focus is pulled to my cleavage, and I drop my hand away, but his gaze stays there. So I make sure to lean in and place my elbows on his door. “How about a kiss, then?”
His jaw sets hard, and he looks away before starting his car.
I can’t help the smile that tugs at my lips.
Maybe now, with all my teasing, he’ll leave Carrie alone and stop stalking me.
The last thing I need is a police officer snooping around.
That could end very badly, and truth be told, I wasn’t made to be locked up. I like dick too much.
“Have a splendid day.” I wave as he shifts into gear, and he doesn’t look back as he drives off. I stand in the middle of the road until his car is gone before I jog back to my apartment.