Chapter 8
I glare at the stretch of people in front of me and huff. I’ve been standing in line at Kuppajoe for five minutes, but my desperation for a strong hit of caffeine is making it feel more like an hour.
Triss insists this place has the best coffee in town.
Apparently, everyone agrees. The small shop deep in the heart of downtown South Bay is packed with all sorts of people this morning.
Professionals heading to work, students home for the summer, a few construction workers dressed in dirt-covered steel-toes and orange vests.
There’s also a dark-haired girl I think I might have gone to high school with, but we weren’t friendly enough back then for me to consider waving hello.
As the line inches forward, I study the decorative chalkboards behind the counter listing out specialty coffees, cold brews, lattes, and smoothies.
The thick aroma of espresso mixed with fresh-baked pastries fills my nostrils, and a deep growl rumbles from the pit of my stomach.
It’s been hard to put food in my mouth lately.
With the constant anxiety wreaking havoc on my digestive system, I haven’t been able to stomach much.
But I think the lack of calories and excessive levels of caffeine have finally convinced my body to overrule my nerves.
A breakfast burrito sounds damn good right about now.
The bell attached to the door jingles loudly, signalling another customer’s arrival.
The hair at the back of my neck jumps to attention.
I’m on edge this morning, and I’m tempted to look behind me every time someone steps inside, expecting to see an unfriendly face, a leather jacket adorned with a skull and crossbones, maybe the glint of a sharp blade.
Instead, I keep my focus trained ahead. When the woman in front of me grabs her coffee and a small brown bag with her food, I step up to order.
“Hi. Yes, I’ll get a”—I peer up at the board again—“fiesta breakfast burrito and a?—”
A man shoulders his way in front of me and cuts me off mid-order.
“Hey, dick?—”
Before I can say more, the dark blue uniform and the gun holstered to his side register, and I snap my mouth shut.
He turns and smirks at me, and I grit my teeth. Decker.
“Morning, Gracie.” His words are casual, but the way he looks at me is anything but.
He studies me, assessing, his attention lingering too long.
Like he looked at me last night. Before Sergeant Dickhead showed up to steal my bike.
Before Decker took what he was there to acquire for me and kept it for himself.
Before all that, he kind of looked at me like he wanted to see me without my clothes on.
And for a second, I thought the same thing.
More than a second, actually. Under that truck, exploring him.
All hard, rippling muscle, that trail of hair inviting my fingers lower.
I may not have done all that much perusing, but already, it’s obvious that Decker’s body feels just as good as it looks.
Any other situation, and I might have let myself enjoy those abs a little longer.
I’ve always gotten a little stupid around drool-worthy men. It’s how I’ve gotten myself into so much damn trouble. And men who look like Decker, who are insanely hot and fucking know it, are trouble.
I jerk my thumb over my shoulder. “Back of the line is that way, Officer. ”
“I know where it is.” He leans against the counter, angling closer to the pretty blond-haired barista. “Hey, Ange. You having yourself a nice morning?”
She flushes instantly.
I roll my eyes. It’s the face. And the eyes. And those biceps bulging out of his perfectly pressed uniform. Asshole.
“Hi, Linc,” the barista—Ange—says. “Yes. Very nice, thank you. The usual?”
“Please.” He glances back at me. “And whatever she’s having.”
I fix him with a glare. “You can’t just waltz up to the front of the line like some entitled asshole and expect the rest of us to be okay with it. Wait your turn.”
He shrugs. “I’m on duty, Grace. I got shit to do. And no one else seems to mind.” He nods at the queue of people behind me.
Sure enough, not one person in line is paying attention—eyes on phones, casual small talk, one woman who’s tapping her foot and glaring at me as if I’m the one holding everyone up.
I cross my arms and throw him a look. “Whatever shit you’ve got going will have to wait. That badge doesn’t give you the right to butt in line. And neither does that face.”
His smirk morphs into a full grin. “What about my face?”
I choke back a curse. “You know what you look like, Linc. But I was here first. Now move.”
“Mmm. No. But I’m paying. What was it again? Black with three sugars?”
Asshole.
With a forced smile, I nudge him aside with my hip and step closer to the counter. “Actually, I’ll have a triple shot mocha with extra caramel drizzle and extra whipped cream,” I tell the barista. “Please and thank you,” I add with a smile.
Decker scoffs. “You wanna little coffee with all that sugar, Grace?”
“That’s what the triple shot is for.”
He hums, that cocky little smile still playing at his lips. God, I want to smack him.
Ange quickly punches in the order, then with a finger hovering over the keyboard, she peers up at me, brows knitted. “Did you still want the fiesta burrito?”
“Yes, he’ll be paying for that too. And ah”—I make a show of giving him a once over—“a donut for the boy scout.”
Decker barks out a laugh. It’s easy. Casual. Like we’re friends. Like last night didn’t happen. Like I didn’t try to blackmail him and he’s not currently in possession of a big brick of cocaine and a whole lot of dirty money. Two things I’m going to be needing back.
“I’ll take the pink one with all the sprinkles.” He throws me a wink.
Once Decker has paid and we’ve shuffled along the counter to wait for our orders, we stand far apart, not speaking. I do, however, keep my eyes glued to him, shooting invisible lasers at his face with my mind.
“Got something to say?” he asks, voice low as he nods hello to a middle-aged man in a suit waiting in line.
I drop my voice to match his. “I’ll get it back, you know. One way or another. I will make you give it to me.”
Chuckling, he sidesteps towards me. His spine snaps straight and he folds his arms across his chest. Making himself bigger, buffer, a little more threatening. “Exactly what do you intend to make me give you ? I can think of a few things, but I’d like to make sure we’re on the same page.”
“Hmm. Funny.” I snatch my order from the counter, and when another barista sets his coffee beside mine, I swipe that too, and then back away before he has the chance to take it from me.
With an irritating smile on his face, he advances slightly, cocking his head, sizing me up like a predator does its prey in the second before making a meal out of it.
I quirk a brow. “So you know, the intimidation thing you’re trying to pull right now doesn’t work on me.”
“That’s too bad.” He lowers his head, his eyes darkening. “I practiced this look in the mirror all night. Just for you.”
“You thought about me all night?” I say, even as I tamp down on the thrill that thought brings with it. “I didn’t realize I had such an effect on you. What were you thinking about?”
He grins viciously and plucks his coffee from my hand. “Wanna take a guess?”
I scowl. As usual, my sleep was restless.
And not just because of smoking hot Officer Assface.
Though my thoughts drifted to him more than I’d have liked.
Specifically how that big hand of his felt around my throat, the squeeze of his fingers, the hardness of his body against mine.
Those thoughts are easy enough to ignore.
It was all the other stuff I couldn’t push from my mind.
For weeks now, my dreams have been haunted by wide eyes. Images of my fist wrapped around the hilt of a sharp knife, stabbing down. Blood on my hands. And then running. An invisible threat stalking behind me as I searched for what I stole, what I needed to give back.
I’ve woken up in a sweat more than once. It was barely sunup when I rolled out of bed this morning, knowing I’d need a big dose of caffeine to stay alert. Hence the triple shot.
I very much doubt Decker lost any sleep after our run-in. If he did, then based on how he’s looking at me, my guess is that his thoughts were a lot dirtier.
“You’re despicable,” I mutter into my cup.
Tentatively, I take a sip of my mocha. Ange definitely took my request for extra whipped cream seriously, and I know as I pull my drink away from my mouth that there’s a thick, white line of fluffy goodness edging my upper lip.
I make a move to wipe it away, but before I can, Decker’s thumb is there, tracing my lip, touch slow and deliberate, his eyes locked with mine.
The smile doesn’t leave his face as he rubs the cream from my skin, then brings his thumb to his mouth and sucks it off.
My breath stalls out, and there’s a good chance my mouth drops open a little.
Leaning close, lips to my ear, breath heating my neck, causing a wave of goose bumps to erupt, he says, “You got no fucking idea how despicable I can be. And as for what you think you’re gonna get back? Go ahead and make me give it to you. I’ll enjoy watching you try.”
He pulls away, snagging the small paper bag from the countertop. Eyes still on me, he tugs out his donut and takes a big bite. Pink frosting and sprinkles coat his lips as he throws me another wink. “Have yourself a nice day, Grace.”
As he exits, his shoulders back and his chin high, I seethe.