3. Lee
Lee
One of them tries to greet me with a wave, and I return the gesture with a heated glare. That was brave. Stupid but brave.
I shove open the glass door with my shoulder, coffee in one hand, folder in the other, still trying to blink the sleep from my eyes. I’m already regretting the heels. My mood is a ten out of ten on the fuck-around-and-find-out scale.
A man is in my office. He’s sitting in my chair, at my desk, and he’s smiling like he just won the lottery.
“Morning, kid.”
I blink, but he’s still there. Not a hallucination then. Maybe he went to the wrong office.
“You lost, or just brainless?” I ask, setting my folder and coffee down with a look that could kill.
He leans back, like he’s got all the time in the world.
Does my body language not display that he should know his days are numbered?
God, he looks young. Tousled blond hair, sharp cheekbones, and a sharp jawline. His eyes are a soft brown, almost hazel, and everything about him is too pretty for this department. And his lips? Smirking looks really good on him.
“Relax. I’m Elliot. Your new partner.”
My brain short-circuits.
“No,” I say, spinning on my heel to find Fuller and tell him exactly what corner of hell he can shove this idea into.
Before I make it three steps, Director Fuller appears before me in my doorway like he was listening in on this conversation, waiting for his cue.
“Agent Leighlan, this was cleared last week. Elliot Ryker is here on a temporary reassignment. Consider it a personal favor.”
“For who?” I demand.
“Me.” His gaze shifts briefly to Elliot. “His access is already cleared. You’ll brief him on everything relevant to your current cases.”
Then he walks away before I can refuse.
I stare at the empty doorway, willing myself into an alternate universe where my desk is mine and my peace has not been invaded by dimples and a smug… whatever is really smug. I’m too tired for metaphors.
Elliot clears his throat.
“So, you wanna arm wrestle for the good chair?”
I give him a look.
He grins wider.
I hate him already.
For the next thirty minutes, I attempt to brief him on the Jackson case.
He talks. A lot.
“And then,” he says, flipping through the witness statement, “I told the guy, ‘You can run, but you’re still dumb enough to use your ex-girlfriend’s Hulu account.’ Boom. He was arrested in under six hours.”
“Riveting.”
He leans in. “You always this grumpy before breakfast, kid?”
I grit my teeth.
“I’m not a kid, I’m twenty-five. You look younger than me. Are you old enough to be here?”
“You’re short. And kind of mean. Like the Sour Patch Kids commercials. It fits you.” He flashes that stupid grin. “Twenty-nine.”
Hmm. He looks younger. That plus his good-boy haircut, basically screams cop.
I wonder if he has any tattoos hidden beneath his button-up. I doubt it. He looks like he’s going to sell Bibles. With those hazel eyes, I’m sure women line up for the privilege of hearing every one of his dumb stories.
I roll my eyes, a move I most definitely stole from Marge, and force my attention back to the paperwork.
Then I fantasize about tasing him. Briefly. Fine, it’s actually a vivid and bloody daydream.
By noon, I’m done pretending this reassignment is anything short of a disaster and storm to the break room. My heels click against the scuffed linoleum.
When the door swings open, I exhale. Unfortunately, two uniforms are sitting around the table. I need some space.
“Scram.”
The satisfaction from how quickly they exit makes me feel better.
I drop into a chair and yank my phone out of my pocket. Then I call Marge and vent while inhaling a sandwich that tastes like cardboard.
“He calls me kid,” I grumble around a bite. “Like I’m some rookie intern with a gun.”
“He’s probably flirting with you,” she says, amused.
“He’s probably suicidal.”
She laughs.
“Well, if he’s hot, maybe let him live. Nothing wrong with a little eye-candy at work. I won’t tell your boyfriend.”
“Hush, I would never. Julian is…” I wad up my sandwich wrapper and crush it in my fist. “Ugh. Remind me to never ask you for advice again.”
“You should’ve called Georgie if you wanted sunshine and rainbows.”
She cackles, and I can’t help but join her.
We talk for a while. She fills me in on her latest sewing project, baby bedding. Her life sounds so domestic and sweet enough to make my teeth ache. One of her men calls her, and we make dinner plans before saying goodbye.
After pouting for at least ten more minutes, I head back to my office.
Elliot’s lounging in my chair with his feet on my desk. I slam a file down hard enough to make him jump.
“Get your boots off my desk.”
He raises his hands in mock surrender. His hazel eyes sparkle with amusement.
“Feisty. I like it.”
“You’ll like a broken nose even more.”
His eyes light up.
God, what a weirdo.
“You’re a dick. Make yourself useful and read over this file.”
My glare must say the rest. With that same infuriating grin, he stands, takes the file, and saunters out the door.
At 4:12 p.m., my phone rings, and I’m told the first useful thing anyone has said all day. I’m already reaching for my jacket before the officer finishes the address.
“Armed robbery,” the officer says through the phone. “Possible connection to one of the syndicates we’ve been tracking. It’s on the edge of the city in a steel warehouse we are sure is a front.”
Elliot meets me in the hallway, already pulling on his jacket just as I get the text of the address.
“Finally. Some real fun.”
I narrow my eyes. He knew about the lead before I told him. Interesting as well as annoying. Fuller forced him onto my case, so of course he has access, but who called him before me? I ignore the anger that bubbles up inside my chest at the thought he’s one step ahead of me.
“You stay behind me. Don’t touch anything. Don’t speak unless I say so.”
“Hot.”
“Elliot.”
He mimes zipping his lips.
Then ruins it by winking.
I drive.
When Elliot opens his mouth to sing along with the radio, I cut him a sharp look. To my surprise, he mimes zipping his lips again and tossing the key out the window.
The warehouse is quiet when we arrive.
Rusted and supposedly abandoned, the building rises four stories over the empty lot, all sharp angles and shadows. Every window is boarded shut, the wood weathered and warped. Gravel crunches under our tires as I kill the engine.
My instincts buzz like a live wire. I motion for Elliot to go left. I take the right. We move like we’ve done this before, which is ridiculous because I have and he absolutely has not.
He follows my signal without hesitation, moving so quietly beside me that I almost forget this is his first day at my back. He’s light on his feet. I’ll give him that.
Inside, the warehouse is mostly crates and dust. A shadow cuts across a dirty stream of light slipping between two boards.
“Freeze!” I bark, gun raised.
The shadowy figure turns to run, but Elliot cuts him off. He’s faster than I expected and tackles the guy to the ground before I can blink.
They wrestle. The suspect swings hard, catching Elliot once across the jaw before Elliot drives an elbow into his shoulder and pins him face down.
I could try to help, but I think Elliot deserves a few punches. When he finally gets the upper hand, I bend down and cuff the guy.
“Didn’t know you could move like that,” I say grudgingly.
He grins, chest heaving. “Told you I’m not just a pretty face.”
I roll my eyes. A tiny, traitorous part of me is impressed by how cleanly he took the suspect down. I’m definitely not noticing the way his forearms flex beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt, veins standing out against muscle.
Elliot sings the entire way back. I dig my nails into the steering wheel when the perp in the back seat joins him for the bridge.
Back at the office, we file into the interrogation room that smells like metal and sweat. Our suspect slouches in the chair, arms crossed, and eyes squinted. He looks very tough, or at least he’s trying to be.
Elliot hangs out by the doorway letting me take the lead.
I sit across from him, drop the case file on the table. After a minute of silence, my voice is calm and clinical.
“You were seen leaving the warehouse. We have the footage. It’s over.”
He shrugs. “Wasn’t me.”
I hold his gaze for three silent seconds then push back from the table. He can roast in here for a while until he’s ready to talk.
Elliot is next to me in two strides. He leans in close. “Mind if I try something?”
I raise an eyebrow but motion for him to go ahead. If nothing else, it’ll be entertaining. I step into the observation room, and the door clicks shut behind me.
Behind the two-way mirror, I fold my arms and wait to see what dumbass thing Elliot is about to try.
Elliot sits and smiles at the guy. That same stupid look he gave me when I first saw him.
“You ever get that thing,” Elliot says casually, “where you’re doing something really stupid, and you know it’s stupid, but you do it anyway because you’re just so damn angry?”
The perp blinks without a response, but his posture shifts closer to Elliot.
“Yeah,” Elliot continues, tone still light, “like when your older brother gets out of prison and suddenly starts running his mouth about how you’re still his little errand boy.”
The suspect’s eyes widen just a bit, and his fingers twitch.
“I get it,” Elliot says, drumming his fingers on the metal table. “Sometimes people gotta learn the hard way who’s in charge. Take my partner, for example. You saw her, right? Like she runs the place because she’s older.”
I scoff at the mirror. I am not fucking older.
Elliot’s gaze flicks toward the mirror, and the corner of his mouth twitches.
Fucker.
“Which is fucked in its own way,” he continues. “Why people think age should give you more power never made sense to me. It took a while for her to understand what’s up. Because I get shit done. You know what I mean?”
I huff. Elliot can tell a story, that’s for sure. He should have chosen acting as a career. His shoulders stay loose. His voice never changes from a friendly tone. He gives the suspect something to connect with while being funny.
And then the guy breaks.
“Yeah, well, maybe if they didn’t treat me like trash, I wouldn’t have had to show them.”
My jaw has the audacity to drop. I force it shut.
Elliot doesn’t say anything, just keeps nodding, easy and calm. Like they’re bonding over being pushed around, and the suspect is not confessing to felony assault.
The suspect keeps talking, spilling everything he did and exactly why his brother and girlfriend deserved it.
Later, when we’re alone, I can’t stop glancing at him.
“Okay,” I say slowly. “Maybe you’re not entirely useless.”
He winks. “Careful, kid. That almost sounded like a compliment.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
But I’m already thinking about that moment in the interrogation room. The way he read the suspect, found one loose thread, and unraveled him without breaking that stupid smile.
Who the hell is this guy?