Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 94076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
And now, I have a police escort. Perfect.
“Crime’s up since you got into town,” he jokes. “Gotta make sure you get there safely.”
This fucking day.
I end up in an interrogation room, facing the two detectives, for the better part of the afternoon.
“Just to be clear,” Diaz says, sitting across from me with a Styrofoam cup between her hands. “You were sleeping in your townhouse the whole time. You didn’t hear anything.”
I had a feeling someone else was in the room. But how can I explain that?
“Yes, that’s correct.” I don’t let myself wince at how ridiculous this all sounds.
“And your doors were locked?” Jacobs asks. She’s leaning against the wall behind her partner, pretending to be bored with this line of questioning. Even though I’ve memorized the whole good cop/bad cop routine and seen it at work a thousand times, it’s still unnerving. Especially knowing how often it does work.
“I always lock my doors and windows and set my alarm.”
“Are you normally a deep sleeper?” Jacobs presses.
I fight the urge to rub my hands over my face. Or press on the sore marks on my back to get a wave of pain that will carry me through this. “I had a long night.”
“The assault,” says Jacob. “Right.”
Diaz leans back in her chair to meet her partner’s gaze. They seem to communicate without speaking.
“Let’s take a break.” Jacobs is out the door before she’s done suggesting it.
I want to faceplant on the scuffed and scratched metal table. The sooner I get done with this, the sooner I can do some investigating of my own.
But where to start? It’s so bizarre. Between the scene with the dom last night, the assault, and the unwelcome door package this morning, my brain is fried.
I can’t tell them that I keep having the sense that someone’s watching me sleep. Or that in my dreams I felt safe, like someone was watching over me. The mystery dom with a soft voice I can sink into.
I’m confused. I need more sleep. And this cup of coffee isn’t cutting it. Diaz must have poured me the bitter dregs from the bottom of the pot.
The door swings back open, and Jacobs stomps in. “We’re done here, Ramos. You’re free to go.”
What?
“We’ll contact you when we have more questions. Let us know if you remember anything.”
I rise to my feet to leave before they change their minds. Something’s up.
I walk into the hall and almost trip over Diaz. “Chief wants to see you,” she says. She doesn’t look gleeful, but I’m sure she’s happy about delivering this nasty surprise.
I thank her and head upstairs without giving any reaction. It’s not every day someone gets called up on the carpet.
But for me, these calls come like clockwork.
I pause in the empty stairwell to press on the bruise on my hip, needing the pain to stabilize me. I brace my hands on the ugly concrete wall and close my eyes, summoning the memory of last night. The blissful moments with my mystery dom before everything went to shit.
He’s a stranger to me, and yet I know him. I know his scent and the timbre of his beautiful voice. I used to be able to go to a club, get what I need, and leave it all behind to focus one hundred percent on my job, but now I find myself longing to be in his arms again. The lines are blurring, my lust bleeding into the rest of my day.
I don’t want to, but I need him. He’s the only thing solid in the topsy-turvy world.
I settle my weight on the balls of my feet, pressing into the tender spots. He took care to make these spots as if he knew I would need them to ground me later. Pain zings up my calves. Weakness precedes a surge of strength.
I can do this. I jog the rest of the way to the Chief’s office.
Talks with the brass fall into two categories. The first usually comes at the beginning of the case, and it’s full of bluster, a pseudo-motivational talk that hides a hint of a threat. “We need to solve this quickly,” being the gist.
The second usually comes later, after I’ve solved the case. The tone varies from scolding to blatant discomfort and derision with a hint of disbelief, but the overall message is “WTF?” It usually comes with both an award in service of the department and a dismissal.
This conversation should be a hybrid of both. It’s still early in the Martin case, and they need me to solve it.
The Chief’s HQ is a world apart from the bullpen. Sixteen floors up with sleek and sophisticated decor, it’s nice enough for big wigs and politicians to visit. I’m halfway down the hall when a deep voice rumbling through the walls makes me freeze. It’s the same rich sound I’ve heard when blindfolded in the club and echoing through my dreams.