2. Draven
Chapter 2
Draven
After knocking back a glass of scotch, I tap two fingers on the bar. Once an operation ends with the bad guys locked in a cage where they belong, the team likes to go out, sink several tall glasses of beer, and get laid. In other words, they like to party hard. Me? I crave silence and solitude to help quieten the voices raging in my head.
Goddamn Rick and his holier-than-thou attitude. Sure, my methods might not be entirely legal, but Rick knows the score. I push boundaries, but I get fucking results. It’s one of the reasons Rick and I work well together. I’m not constrained by the limitations placed on serving police officers like he is. I left that shit behind me a few years ago, and I’m glad for the freedom I get in this job. The company is growing fast, and we have a team of ten investigators supporting Ciaran and me now.
But for Rick to threaten me is a step too fucking far. Moretti deserved the rough takedown. He asked for a busted nose and a heel-stamp on his undoubtedly tiny fucking dick. Sex traffickers like him merit brutal treatment. It’s language they understand, and I’m all too happy to speak in their tongue.
In the future, I’ll make damn sure there are no witnesses.
The bartender refills my glass, and I pick it up, swirling the amber liquid around. The high of catching Moretti dissipates, leaving me with an emptiness the scotch will only temporarily fill. Tomorrow I’ll wake up with a sore head, a hunger to move on to the next case, and for a while, the hollow feeling in my belly will ease.
The door to the bar opens, the breeze ruffling my hair. The chair next to mine scrapes along the wooden flooring, and the scent of a woman’s perfume reaches my nostrils. Eyes facing front, I take another swig of my scotch. If she has any sense, she’ll read my body language and keep her trap shut. I’m not in the mood for small talk.
“What can I get you, miss?” the bartender asks.
“I’ll have whatever he’s having.”
I pause, the glass halfway to my lips, because I know that voice. Eight years might’ve passed, but time is irrelevant when someone you trusted sticks the knife in.
Slowly, I pivot, hoping I’m wrong.
Motherfucker.
Rhodes.
The rookie cop my superiors had tasked me with babysitting when I worked for the New Jersey State Police. Mentoring, they’d called it. What a crock of shit. She’s been fresh out of the academy, all wide-eyed and innocent, with impossibly high ideal, unaccepting of the savage reality she’d stepped into, where law enforcement was at war with several crime gangs. She’d had fun judging me every time I walked the line between right and wrong. Except, in her naivety, she didn’t realize that was the game we had to play to give us a chance to take down the bad guys.
Our testy professional relationship had come to a head one night when we’d received a call to a domestic. A nasty fucker called Tony Callides, who thought sexually abusing his fourteen- year-old stepdaughter was his God-given right. That evening, something inside the poor girl had snapped, and she’d stabbed Tony in the hand with a fork while eating dinner. Tony retaliated by beating her half to death. A neighbor had called it in when she heard the bloodcurdling screams coming from the apartment on the floor above.
Louise and I were the cops dispatched to deal with the situation.
Result: Tony’s face had gotten nice and friendly with a door. He might have suffered a broken arm, too. In my opinion, he’d gotten off lightly. The bastard should have been skinned alive and strung up for what he did to that innocent child. Let the rats feast on him.
Louise hadn’t uttered one word on the way back to the station. The first I’d heard about her complaint was when my sergeant called me in the next day and hauled me over a hot bed of coals.
The result? They’d placed her with a more suitable mentor. One who wouldn’t offend her “let’s treat the scum like human beings” sensibilities while they’d “encouraged” me to take a transfer to the NYPD, where, to quote my sarge, “We’re sure you’ll fit in better.”
Fuckers.
Am I still pissed that, because of her, I’d had no choice other than to leave behind my home, my family, and move to a city I’d never aspired to live in?
You bet your fucking ass I am.
In all fairness, I should have read the situation better. Her type followed the rules, regardless of whether or not the rules sucked. We’d been mismatched from the start. It had only been a matter of time before it came to a head.
But what pissed me off more was the way she scurried off to the boss like a fucking narc instead of telling me to my face what she thought. If she had, we could have had an adult conversation. Instead, she’d gone behind my back. I’d reacted by going ballistic on her ass—something she hadn’t taken lying down if my memory serves me correctly.
I also recall the argument giving me one of the biggest hard-ons of my life.
“What the fuck do you want?” I growl, raking her with a disdainful gaze.
She squares her shoulders and sets her jaw. “Nice to see you, too, Draven.”
The bartender plunks down a glass of scotch. Louise picks it up and knocks it back, swallowing it in one go. She hadn’t touched alcohol when I’d known her. Regular Mother fucking Teresa back in the day.
She turns her glass upside down, indicating to the bartender she doesn’t want a refill.
“I need your help,” she tells me.
I choke out a laugh. “That’s fucking rich, coming from the woman who tried to have me fired.”
She grimaces. “Still sore, huh? Don’t you think it’s time to let it go?”
I open my wallet, slam down some bills on the bar, and stand.
“Wait.” She clamps a hand on my arm, and my leather jacket squeaks as her grip tightens. “Please. Just listen.”
“Why should I? I don’t owe you shit.”
She nibbles on her bottom lip, which shows her discomfort in being here, but her eyes, they’re still defiant. “That’s true, you don’t. But this isn’t about me. Please just sit down and listen. Five minutes. You can spare me that amount of time, can’t you?”
“No.”
I stride to the door, my heavy boots thudding against the wooden floor, aided by my six-foot six frame. All I wanted was some goddamn peace to celebrate my latest triumph, and an unwanted ghost from my past had to turn up and ruin my pitiful party-for-one. How the hell had she found me, anyway? I originally planned to head back to New York tonight, but I’d promised to visit Mom before I got embroiled in the next case. It makes more sense to spend the night in Newark, then drive down to Camden in the morning to see my family, rather than have to come all the way from Manhattan on another day.
I throw a leg over my bike, jam on my helmet, and start the engine, but Louise follows me out of the bar and heads over to me.
“Draven, please. God damn you.”
I rev the engine, holding a hand to my ear. “Sorry, I can’t hear you.”
Kicking the bike into gear, I roar off, my back tire sending stones and gravel into the air. I catch a glimpse of her in my right-hand mirror throwing her hands out to the side, then settling them on her hips. Her eyes fix on me until I turn the corner at the end of the street.
A sliver of contrition crawls into my chest. Maybe I should have given her five minutes. If she’s come looking for me, something must be off. Unless she’s expecting me to have mellowed with age.
I snort a laugh behind my helmet. If anything, I’m worse than I was back then. Ciaran keeps me somewhat in check, but I was born a rebel, I grew up a rebel, and I’ll die a rebel. It’s who I am, and I’m not in the market to change. My family takes me for me, and so does my best friend. As for the rest of society, I couldn’t give two shits what they thought.
The motel I’m staying at comes into view. I pull into the drive-thru of the fast food joint next door and pick up a triple-stacked burger, extra-large fries, and a big-gulp soda. Managing to balance the food on the handlebars of my bike, I then park in front of my room, secure my bike, and head inside. I’ve stayed in worse places, but I can’t say I’ll be sorry to leave here. I’m craving my own bed, my own sheets, and my own shit around me.
Once I’ve flopped onto the bed, I switch on the TV and wolf down my solitary dinner for one. I’m so sick of fast food. I can’t wait to tuck into a few homecooked meals. Not made by me, though. Fuck, no. I can barely boil an egg. But Ciaran’s better half, Millie, always makes sure my freezer is stocked with casseroles and lasagnas, and I’m craving a gigantic bowl of her beef in ale, with a stack of crusty bread on the side.
After finishing my burger, I jump in the shower. Bracing my hands on the tiled wall, I let the hot water cascade over my back, washing away the scum that dealing with filth like Moretti always leaves on my skin. My long hair drips water all over the floor when I climb out and wrap a towel around my waist, so I roughly towel dry it, and run my fingers through to tease out the knots. I’ve just pulled on a pair of sweatpants when some brave soul knocks on the door. Maybe it’s Rick returning my handcuffs. If it is, he’d better have brought an apology, too.
I pad across the room and press my eye to the spyhole.
You have got to be fucking kidding me.
Flinging open the door, I glare at my unwelcome visitor. “You got a fucking tracking device on me?”
Louise stands there, her mouth slightly parted, and eyes trailing down my body, slow in their descent, then even slower on the way back up to my face. Her tongue darts out to cool her lips, and a telltale flush of desire colors her cheeks.
I almost laugh. Priceless. Louise Rhodes still has the hots for me and is no better at hiding her feelings now than when we worked together. Either that or she hasn’t been nailed in so long that a quick screw against the wall with me is a tempting prospect.
“Eyes up here, sweetcheeks,” I drawl.
Her cheeks turn from a dusting of pink to bright crimson. “Can I come in?” she asks, keeping her attention firmly on my face.
“If I didn’t want to talk to you at the bar, what makes you think I’m interested in a conversation in my hotel room?” I look her up and down, running my tongue along the underside of my top teeth. “Unless talking isn’t what you’re interested in.” I give a cursory glance at my watch. “I guess I got ten minutes. Quick fuck do you?”
“Screw you, Draven,” she rasps, the sound low in her throat. “Talking is the only thing I’m interested in.”
I lean in nice and close, aiming for intimidating.
To give the girl credit, she stands her ground. I’ve come across many men who wither under one of my formidable stares, but she holds my gaze without even blinking.
“Better have a word with your body, then, sweetcheeks, ’cause it’s sending out a completely different message.”
She inhales a lungful of air, blowing it out slowly through pursed lips. “Don’t flatter yourself. If I wasn’t desperate, I wouldn’t be here.”
I snort a laugh. “You’re really fucking selling it to me.”
She runs her fingers through her bangs before fisting her hair at the roots. “You always were a frustrating ass.”
“Good to know neither of us have changed in the past eight years.” I go to shut the door.
She sticks her foot in the gap. “Please, five minutes. That’s all I ask.”
“Move it or lose it.”
She chooses the former.
I slam the door in her face.
Dropping onto the bed, I close my eyes, but an almighty crash from outside has them snapping back open. I launch upright and stride to the window, drawing back the drapes. My bike is on the ground while Louise ‘bitch-ass’ Rhodes kicks the shit out of it.
I storm outside, barefoot, cursing when I stand on a sharp stone. “What the fuck are you doing?” I roar, grabbing her by the arm. She wrestles to free herself—an exercise in futility, given my vastly superior strength. “Touch my bike again and?—”
“And what?” she yells. “You gonna break my arm like you did to Tony Callides?”
My eyes widen, but if she thinks reminding me of the reason for our shared hostility will force me to loosen my grip, she has the wrong fucking guy. Instead, I squeeze harder, drawing an unwilling wince from her.
“Don’t push me, sweetcheeks.”
She twists around, and the next thing I know, she brings up her knee, her aim dead-on. Waves of pain hit me, intense, mind-numbing, the throbbing in my balls shooting up into my stomach. I release her, my vision blurring as I bend over double. Eventually, my knees give way, and I crash to the ground.
“Fuck,” I wheeze.
“I hope that hurts, you absolute jerk-off. I hope your balls turn black and shrivel up like prunes. You think it was easy for me to come here after our history? And you won’t even give me the courtesy of five goddamn minutes. Well, fuck you, Draven. I’ll fix my own problems, and you can slink back to New York. New Jersey is better off without you, and so am I.”
She storms off, giving my bike one last kick as she passes. Getting into her car, she floors the gas, careening out of the parking lot and onto the highway.