Chapter 12
I block the punch coming at my face and grab Grace’s fist in my hand. In one fell swoop, I flip her around and twist her arm behind her back.
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” I hiss in her ear as I snatch her other wrist and cross it with the first. “You can’t punch a cop.”
I scan the crowd. We’ve gained attention.
Phones out, vultures waiting for action.
Either for Grace to resist and land her next shot, or for me to use enough unnecessary force to make me go viral on the internet.
Likely the latter, which means despite the desire to show this woman exactly who she just took a swing at, I gotta do this by the book.
Grace doesn’t fight me when I hold her wrists together and reach for my cuffs.
“What can I say, Decker?” she chirps. “You’ve got a really punchable face.”
“Yeah, I’ve been told,” I mutter.
When the cuffs are in place, I grasp her upper arm and tug her through the hordes of people towards my cruiser.
She’s quiet as we walk. Shoulders back, pretty face pulled into that signature Donovan scowl.
I can’t help but stare at her. At that tight tank top stretching across her chest, the tattoo poking out from the hem of her skirt.
I haven’t noticed it until now, the ink staining her thigh.
Last time I saw her in a skirt, she was aiming a gun at me, so I was otherwise occupied.
Now, I take my time studying the thin, intricate black lines.
They disappear under that little skirt swaying low on her hips, then curl out the top and stop just below her waist. It takes effort not to tug down the fabric so I can get a better look.
Grace is fucking infuriatingly gorgeous.
She arches an eyebrow, looking at me like this is somehow my fault, like she didn’t just try to assault a police officer in front of dozens of people.
Her focus shifts sharply to the crowd, as if she’s looking for someone.
Maybe for one of her big brothers, hoping they’ll muscle their way in and stop this.
There’ll be none of that. Grace chose violence tonight, and I’m about to come through with my promise to let her sit in a cell and pay for it.
I’ll enjoy the hell out of watching her squirm on that hard wooden bench until sunrise.
The crowd thins out as we near the alleyway where I parked.
“Got any weapons on you?” I ask as I lean her against my cruiser.
She scoffs. “No.”
“Given how many guns I’ve pulled off you the last few days, I’m gonna check anyway,” I say. “Legs farther apart.”
Grace sighs, but she complies with my order and widens her stance.
I slip my hands under her arms, feeling the band of her bra, and then move lower to her waist. This tiny top couldn’t hide much, but I follow procedure and check anyway, running my hands down her sides, patting lightly until I get to her exposed midriff.
I avoid touching her skin and do a quick feel of her waistband before dropping lower.
She watches, eyes trained on me, bottom lip pulled into her teeth like she’s biting down on a smile.
I drag my hands down her hips, pausing at her hemline.
The skirt is a problem. A big fucking problem.
And these legs aren’t helping. Because I have to search them, make sure she isn’t hiding a weapon up that skirt.
And I have to do it without picturing them wrapped around my waist, heels digging into my ass, demanding I go harder, faster.
Or maybe Grace likes it slow. Long and drawn out.
Maybe, if I were fucking her, hand around her throat, body slamming against hers, she’d want me to take my time.
Either way, I want to know how she likes to be fucked.
So it’s a hard thing, touching these legs.
My resolve fraying, I skim a palm over her inner thigh, left leg first, then the right, ignoring the goose bumps rushing over her skin, the ink that I’m dying to investigate now that I’m this close.
Her throat bobs. “Satisfied?”
“Not yet.” I drop lower and dig my fingers into the back of her left boot, then the right. When I press against a hard metal object, I sigh.
“Really?” I push to my full height and flick open the knife. “Switch blades are a prohibited weapon.”
She rolls her eyes. “Meaning what?”
“Meaning they’re illegal.”
A small, mocking smile tilts up at the corners of her mouth. “Oh. I didn’t know that.”
“Sure you didn’t.” I pocket the knife and pull open the back door. Placing my hand on the top of her head, I angle her into the back seat, and once I’ve secured the seat belt around her hips, I slam the door shut, circle the car, and jump into the driver’s seat.
“You gonna make this a habit?” I ask as I tilt my mirror until I can see her dark eyes staring back at me. “You haven’t been home a week, and you’ve already seen the back of a cruiser twice. Might even go as far as saying you enjoy being in a cop car.”
“Or maybe you just like seeing me in handcuffs.”
My hand slips as I’m pulling on my seat belt. Her tone was teasing, suggestive. Like she wants my mind to go there.
Grace on her back. Naked. Cuffed to my bed.
With a harsh breath out, I fasten my seat belt.
Slowly, I drive out of the alleyway and onto the busy street.
We crawl through downtown South Bay, stopping frequently to let groups of people cross, sluggishly rolling behind the unusually thick traffic heading towards the waterfront.
We don’t speak, but every time my focus drifts to my rearview, she’s staring, and twice I’ve almost rear-ended the car in front of me because I can’t help but stare back.
Rather than turn left into the PD parking lot, I continue down the road, through town, towards the South Bay back roads.
“Taking me on some kind of field trip, Decker?” she asks, her deadpan expression morphing into one of unease.
I fix my attention on the road again. “Something like that.”
“I’d prefer you take me to my cell.”
“What you prefer isn’t really my concern, is it?”
She rolls her eyes, the move barely visible in the dark. When I get to my usual spot near the town line, I pull to the side of the road and kill my engine. We’re thrown into darkness, the road ahead lit up only by my headlights.
Resting my head against the seat, I close my eyes and exhale, willing the aggravation to drain from my body.
Feast Fest is the fucking worst. Every year, for an entire week, South Bay is met with an onslaught of loud, mouthy, drunk tourists.
They fight, leave their trash everywhere, clog up the main arteries going into town, and make it impossible for me to get lunch or even a goddamn cup of coffee without waiting in line for a half hour. It’s fucking torture.
“What are we doing here?” Grace asks, her voice grating on my nerves.
“You and I are going to have a chat,” I say, eyes still closed. “But first, it’s quiet time.”
“A chat about what?”
“I gave you a task, and I want an update.”
“First of all. It’s been a day. So how about you chill the fuck out and dial back the stalker-level text messages you’ve been sending me? And second, as I told you. I don’t know anything. And Axe isn’t exactly my biggest?—”
The annoyance I’m trying to tamp down on threatens to flare back to life. “I’m not stalking you. And I said quiet time.”
This time of year—with all the noise and chaos and…
people—seeking refuge in the dark corners of my town is all I can do to not blow my fucking brains out.
This kind of hustle and bustle should be reserved for big city life.
I’m not built for that kind of grind. I need calm.
My late-night sandwich while I sit in my car on a dark road, Miller sitting silently beside me, music on.
These days, the only time I feel peace is when I’m on shift.
There’s no Donovan ordering me around, no bodies to bury.
Grace lets out a deep, irritated breath as she squirms.
“Why can’t you sit still?” I snap.
“Because I don’t want to be back here. Let me out.”
“No.”
“Come on, Linc,” she pleads. “It’s all hot and stuffy. At least let me stand outside while you have your little meltdown.”
“I’m not having a meltdown. I’m just trying to relax.”
“You’re breathing all deep and heavy. It feels… meltdown-y.”
“Deep breaths calm the body,” I say. “It’s how I stop myself from punching everyone in the face.”
“Sounds like you need anger management.”
I rough a hand over my face. “Where you think I picked this up?”
She snorts. “I can’t see you going to therapy.”
“Not willingly,” I say as I unbuckle my seat belt. “Chief mandated it.”
Her eyebrows hit her hairline. “Seriously? What did you do?”
Turning in my seat, I smile. “Like I said. Stops me from punching everyone in the face.”
And Jesus, that’s been a chore lately. I swear God himself is fucking testing me.
The chief, Allen and his band of OPP shitheads, the Sinners.
Now Grace. Everyone is trying my fucking patience.
I’m dangerously close to reverting back to the man I was after Emily died.
The man who lost his temper and broke his ex-partner’s jaw.
Who put two other cops in the hospital when they tried to pull me off him.
I don’t want to be that man again. Filled with rage, drinking all the time, always looking for a fight.
I got off easy with the therapy. They could have fired me instead. Or thrown me in jail.
The anger I mastered back then is close to the surface now. Clawing at my chest. It’s why the dreams have gotten so bad, why Emily’s face has taken centre stage in my nightmares. Donovan has been playing on my last nerve, which is why I need Grace to help me nail him.