55. Thatcher #2
I chug at the beer, letting its iciness force reason back into my mind. Rooke is standing close enough that I can smell something musky on him.
Like sex.
If he were going camping, wouldn’t he freshen up first? He hasn’t shaved, possibly hasn’t showered since someone left their cum on him.
I make it obvious that I’m looking around. “I’m not interrupting, am I?”
Rooke frowns as he takes a small sip of beer. “What would you be interrupting, Fox?”
Fucking ‘ell.
Why did I give him my first name? The way he says it makes it sound like I’m the one who left my cum on him.
“The Land Rover outside.”
Rooke gives me a puzzled smile. “It’s mine.”
He takes another sip, then moves to go sit on the sofa, legs splayed. “Which you would have assumed…if you hadn’t already run my plates.”
I chuckle disarmingly, giving him a shrug. “Awkward.”
He just gazes up at me, taking small sips from his beer, like he could sit there and watch me forever.
It’s hot by the fire. Hot enough that I need to either take off my jacket or step away. But I’m too curious about the dark splotches on the rug to move away, so I reluctantly set my beer down on the coffee table and slide my jacket off.
Rooke checks me out with a slow, lingering scan—not even bothering to be subtle about it.
“It’s a pity you had to leave in such a rush yesterday,” I say, turning my back to the fire and picking up my beer again. “Felt like we were just getting to the good shit.”
If I sound awkward, it’s because I am.
Rooke as a suspect doesn’t intimidate me in the slightest.
Rooke as a man? A man who’s obviously bisexual and made no secret of wanting to fuck me?
Lord, where to begin…
“The good shit being what, Fox?”
Yeah, I definitely shouldn’t have given him my name. If I hadn’t opened this bottle myself, I’d be wondering if he’d drugged me. Else why would I still feel so warm, so prickly, so…
Off center.
I came here thinking we could pick up where we left off. I had all the power last night, because he was propositioning me…but now the roles are reversed, and I’ve given him an upper hand he didn’t fucking need.
I clear my throat, shrugging. “The truth,” I say simply, leaving it at that.
Rooke drinks a little more beer, then sits forward and beckons me with a flick of his hand.
I don’t move.
He tilts his head and beckons me again.
Lord.
I take another swallow of beer—probably too much, but I need something to calm my fucking nerves.
“So I assume this is a quid pro quo situation?” I’m supposed to sound amused, but my voice is too strained.
“You assume correctly,” Rooke says.
Only when I take a hesitant step toward him does he relax—and only then do I realize how perfectly he orchestrated this entire interaction.
So why the hell was he so tense in the first place?
…because the stakes are astronomically high.
He couldn’t turn me away at the door—I’d have grown suspicious, and either stuck around or come back with a warrant. He couldn’t rush me out after a few pleasantries—I’d have known something was wrong.
His only option was to continue yesterday’s dance.
But his heart isn’t in it anymore.
Something’s changed…but I don’t have a fucking clue what.
One way to find out.
“You didn’t mention you were going on a trip.”
“It didn’t come up,” Rooke says, taking a casual sip of his beer.
“You know what else didn’t come up?” My boots are inches from his socks. If he’s daunted by the fact that I’m towering over him, he doesn’t show it. And he probably wouldn’t.
Rooke’s eyes narrow, a small frown creasing the skin between his brows. “Desperation isn’t a good color on you, Fox.”
Fuck this guy.
I lick suddenly dry lips, huffing out a laugh. “Honestly, I don’t have a fucking clue what I’m doing.”
“Or what you want,” he says. If his voice hadn’t been so even, it would have been a taunt.
“I know what I want, and so do you.”
Fuck it. All or nothing.
I take another step until I’m standing between his knees.
“Question is, Bastian…What do you want?”
He leans his head back on the sofa, eyes heavy-lidded as he gazes up at me. His chest rises and falls with each slow, even breath.
“I want you on your knees,” he says.
My body locks up in sheer terror. “Just like that, huh?” I say weakly.
Rooke’s hand slides up his thigh to his jeans. He pops the top button with a flick of his wrist that makes my insides twist like a pretzel.
“Just. Like. That,” he murmurs.
I swallow, and slowly set my beer down on the coffee table without taking my eyes off him. If there was any doubt Rooke was a predator, that he considered me prey, the look in his eyes just eviscerated it.
“I—” I cut off with an awkward laugh. “I’ve never—“
“Sucked another man’s cock?” Rooke’s eyebrow arches. “I’m shocked.”
He slides a hand behind his jeans. Down, down…all the way down.
“There’s really nothing to it,” he says. “Just open your mouth. I’ll do the rest.”
“And then…” I have to stop to clear my throat, because good lord. “Then you’ll answer my questions?”
Rooke tilts his head. His hand grips, and even though I’m not looking directly at what he’s doing, it’s obvious he’s holding his cock.
It’s just as obvious how large said cock is.
Question is…how badly do I want the truth? Am I willing to risk Rooke pulling a bait-and-switch on me again?
Hilarious that that’s the thing I’m most worried about.
The radio on my belt crackles. I hadn’t even thought to remove it.
That was a mistake.
Rooke’s face shuts down. He tugs his hand out of his jeans, jaw tightening.
“My personal life isn’t your concern, Deputy.”
Damn it. All it took to break the spell was a crackle of static. But maybe it’s for the best, because fuck…
I’m struggling to breathe.
“Maybe not,” I force out, taking a quick step back in case just being in his gravity will pull me down to my knees without my consent.
“But Melissa Parker’s kidnapping is. The assault on Ezra Jordan is.
And the fact that everyone connected to those cases leads back to you…
” I let the sentence trail off, watching for a crack in his stony facade.
But this man’s poker face could make a Vegas dealer weep.
“If you have questions, I suggest you speak to my lawyer.”
“Barnes was not helpful.”
“Then I’m afraid we’re at an impasse.”
“You promised me the truth.”
“That was yesterday. Today is—a new day.”
The catch in his voice causes me to frown. Rooke is too good at suppressing his emotions, but something just happened.
Something important.
“Look…” I summon the last dregs of my courage and try for a smile. “We both want the same thing.” I shrug, hooking a thumb behind my belt loop like I seduce men all the time. “Why are we making this so fucking hard?”
Rooke smiles, but there’s nothing sexual about it. It’s a cold, cruel smile, like he’s about to crush a bug under his heel.
“The best things in life are worth fighting for,” he says, but it sounds rote, like it’s a line he uses all the time.
His eyes flicker away from me, and he scrapes a hand through his hair as he tilts his head, like the conversation is boring him.
I’m losing him again, and I have nothing left to lure him back with.
I’m almost thankful when my radio crackles again, welcoming an excuse to gather my thoughts.
I hold up a finger and turn away slightly to check the transmission. It’s mostly static, the dying storm fucking with the signal.
Until a few fragments burst through.
“—all units—10-54—23 Pinnacle Lane—”
Possible dead body.
23 Pinnacle Lane.
I know that address. I wrote it down in my—
My hand pats my empty pocket.
Damn it.
“—multiple victims—”
“Everything okay, Fox?” Rooke asks from the sofa. He sits forward, elbows on his knees, hands meshed and dangling down.
“—Jordan residence—”
The bottom drops out of my stomach.
I spin back toward the room, hand moving to my sidearm on instinct—
—but it’s not there anymore, because I left it in the fucking car.
Rooke’s already moving. He closes the distance between us in two strides, and I barely get my arms up before he’s on me.
His first punch glances off my forearm. The second catches my ribs—hard enough to steal my breath, controlled enough not to crack bone.
He’s not trying to kill me.
Yet.
“Should have stayed away, Deputy.” His voice is calm, almost conversational, as he drives me back toward the kitchen island. “How desperate you must be to tempt fate like this.”
I swing at his jaw. He slips under it easily, catches my wrist, twists.
Pain lances up my arm.
I grunt, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a scream.
“Funny,” I grit out, “I was just thinking the same thing about you.”