Chapter 9
ADRIAN
It’s the first time I’ve worn a tux since my older brother’s wedding, which took place nearly a decade ago.
And I haven’t spoken to him since.
A frown tugs at my lips as I shake the memory off and focus on adjusting my bowtie. It’s very…not me. But sometimes work calls for desperate measures, and well, I have nothing better to do with my life except work.
And watch Liliana Wilson.
My dick twitches at just the thought of her name, as per usual. I’m slipping headlong into something I know isn’t good for me. I need to get back on my fucking app and work it out with a random woman with the hots for masks or something…
But that’s a fucking turn off for some reason.
I roll my eyes at myself in the mirror, and then double-check my Glock under my tux jacket. I might get to see Liliana, but I also need to focus on more than just her. I need to figure out who the fuck killed the lowlife attorney.
I grab my phone on the way out of my townhouse, my mind running through the proper protocol of this kind of event. My goal is to look like I’m just another gala attendant, but let’s be honest… I’m going to stand out like a fish out of water.
I always do.
My Uber is already waiting at the curb, and I slide into the backseat, like I take these dumb rideshare services all the time.
Honestly, I’d rather fucking walk than rely on some stranger to give me a ride across town, but you know, I also have to keep my hair in good shape to blend in—and my unmarked SUV will still stand out in a crowd of the elite.
“I’ve done quite a few rides to the Monroe Street Gallery,” the driver, a young woman who is braver than most, says to me. Her pretty blue eyes meet mine in the rearview, and usually, they might’ve done something for me.
But not tonight.
“I guess it’s a popular place.”
“That people don’t want to drive to,” she snorts, shaking her head. “All the others were picked up in the rich part of town, and they totally could’ve just driven themselves.”
“Maybe they’re intending to drink.” I shrug, suddenly more annoyed with the woman’s chatter than anything else. I don’t give a shit why the rich folks chose to Uber. For all I know, the parking is shit on gala nights.
I lean back against the seat and drum my fingers against my thigh, peering out the window as the car makes its way across town.
My mind is already conjuring up images of Liliana in some sort of sexy black dress, her caramel-colored locks in some kind of curly, red carpet updo.
The thought of her pretty little neck exposed has my cock rock hard.
What I’d fucking give to wrap my fingers around her throat.
I wouldn’t squeeze too hard, just enough to make her think I might steal her breath away forever. I shut my eyes then, trying to will away the boner that’s now painfully hard against my pants.
It’s highly unprofessional, the reaction Liliana Wilson gets from me.
“Have a good night, sir,” the woman’s voice jerks me back to reality. I realize the car has come to a stop right outside the gallery. I take in the crowd outside, all of them dressed to the nines.
Maybe I will fit right in.
“Thank you,” I tell the girl, giving her a nod before sliding out of the car. I slide out into the cool evening, my eyes already scanning faces. None of them are familiar right off the bat, which doesn’t surprise me.
I’m not sure that Blueson’s killer is the type to come and show face at an art gala. Of course, that’s working under the assumption that it was a crime of passion, and not some sort of calculated trip where some psychopath got off on the whole thing.
But my guess is it’s not the latter. I’ve been doing this long enough to make solid, educated guesses. Sometimes I’m wrong. Most of the time, I’m not.
I join the others in entering the gala, taking in the sheer number of bodies. I don’t see Parker anywhere, and I wonder if he already made it in, or if he’s fucking Alice in the back alley.
Probably the latter, on this one.
I try to shove down the disgust. I get having urges. I have wild ones. But you don’t see me giving in. It’s all about control and doing things when the timing is appropriate. That’s how you avoid ending up in the fucking pen, which is where most of the people I arrest have gone wrong.
You gotta be in control, always.
With that, my dick softens to a manageable half-hard on, and I adjust my cuffs, like I’m supposed to be here. The group of men in front of me booms with laughter, discussing some sort of art I don’t understand, nor do I care to.
Still, I note the way they hold their egotistical shoulders erect and their eyes all appear dead as they talk to each other. This is the kind of man Blueson was, and I do not, for one minute, feel sorry that he got bludgeoned to death with a paperweight.
The world would be way better off without these kinds of men.
I focus on scanning the unremarkable crowd until I finally make it to the door. I recognize Marissa, the intern, as the one working the door. She peers up at me with wide eyes as soon as she sees me, clearly remembering.
“Um…” Her voice trails off. “This is a list-only event…”
Aw, how cute. She thinks law enforcement can be kept out of these things.
I discreetly flash my badge. “Let’s not make a scene.” I keep my voice low as I do a quick sweep, instantly spotting Liliana.
Good fucking God.
She’s in a tight, calf-length black dress with sheer sleeves and a plunging neckline. Her hair is up, just like I imagined, all business, except for the stray ringlets slipping out perfectly in front of her ears.
“Um, sir?” Marissa grabs my attention back. “I guess… I should… I should probably clear this with Liliana …”
Okay, this little girl really is dense.
I sigh, pissed off I have to rip my gaze from the fucking snack I’d like to devour. “Look, Miss…” Shit, I can’t remember her last name. I lean in, meeting her gaze. “It’s in your best interest to let me into this event.”
“Well…” She audibly swallows, and someone behind me grumbles something I can’t clearly make out. Her eyes drift to where Liliana is standing. “Okay.”
“Good,” I give her a nod, and then slip into the gallery, relieved I didn’t have to make a scene. Honestly, she could’ve denied me entry, but the scene that would’ve been made would’ve been bad for business.
My eyes drift to the spot where Blueson’s body was found, and despite the brand-new flooring and wall of shitty art surrounding it, I can still visualize the blood, the body, and everything it was.
My memory is both a gift and a crutch.
“Detective,” a sultry, eccentric tone cuts right through my psyche. “What are you doing here?”
Oh, she sounds annoyed.
I turn to see Liliana, glaring up at me, her pretty eyes rimmed with something that is so much hotter than the dress she’s wearing. “We’re just here to keep an eye on things, see who shows up.” I keep my tone cool, as she visibly seems to vibrate in front of me—signaling something is off with her.
She looks…antsy.
“This is a private gala,” she says, still holding my gaze as her arms fold across her perky little breasts.
“Oh?” I shrug. “Well, your front door girl didn’t seem to mind letting me in.”
Something flickers in her eyes but disappears quickly. “It’s a max capacity issue, not a guest issue.”
“I don’t think the fire marshal will kick me out,” I chuckle, unable to stop myself from smirking.
Her jaw tightens, and she shakes her head. “Just…stay out of the way.”
I tilt my head, noting the way that her body tenses as the words leave her lips. “Everything okay, Miss Wilson?”
Her red lips press together, creating a flat line. “Yes.”
Lying. She’s lying.
I take a step toward her, leaning in until I’m sure no one else can hear us. “Are you holding up okay after trying to follow me home?”
Her breath catches, but she seems to swallow it. “I’m just fine, Detective. I happen to be fine at handling things,” she pauses, frowning, “Like that.”
“I won’t disagree with you,” I say, letting the words hang without explanation.
She clears her throat, her eyes suddenly looking everywhere but at me. I’ve hit a nerve, I know I have. I’m sure Liliana is aware of what I know about her past, but I won’t be the person who brings it up.
Call it common courtesy.
Or an experiment.
“Enjoy the gala,” she finally mutters, shaking her head and looking at me. “Please let the guests enjoy the event. Don’t make a scene.”
“Of course.” I give her my best smile, and something about it causes her to frown even deeper, as she steps away.
Her body angles away from me, and I get a chance to take in the way the dress accentuates the ratio of hip to waist to ass, and I swear I could fucking explode just staring at the shape of her.
But fuck, to see underneath…
I back up a few steps, spinning enough to do a quick adjustment of my cock, hating the fact that I even have to do such an immature task. Once my dick is up in the waistband, however, I go back to casually keeping an eye on Liliana.
Should I be watching the other attendants? Probably.
But there’s also a nervous tic in Liliana tonight, and that, in and of itself, is enough of a professional reason to watch her. She does have a history that could cause suspicion. The murder happened in her gallery. And we got a note the footage is fucked up from the night a couple of hours ago.
It could easily point to her.
Which is why I can’t fucking have her.
I chew the inside of my cheek, taking in the slight tremor through her fingers as she speaks with Marissa, who steals a glance in my direction. The two of them are talking in hushed tones, and suddenly, my detective personality is piqued.
They’re discussing something, and I think that something is me.
And that is fucking suspicious.
No matter how much I want to just focus on the curvature of Liliana’s perfect little ass, I can’t ignore the way the two of them are acting—in a professional sense.
I bite down on my lip, ignoring the pure irritation thrumming through my chest. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I fish it out, expecting it to be Parker, wanting to know where the hell I am in the sea of people.
But nope.
That would’ve been too fucking nice.
Instead, when I pull it out, I’m met with the one number I can’t stand more than anything else in the entire world.
The Department of Corrections, North Institution for Women.
“Damnit,” I mutter, shaking my head. I already know what the reminder from my mother is for, and I completely fucking forgot.
Our annual visit.