“Afraid not, Beau.” He rolls his eyes. “You should know I can’t take guests to a crime scene.”
I pout and he shakes his head. “I only want my car.”
“I’ll tell Reg you’ll be there to collect it tomorrow, if it doesn’t interfere with the investigation.” He slips an arm around me and leads us toward the door, something he’s probably done hundreds of times before. His presence is calming, but it doesn’t feel right for him to offer me comfort. “Anyone would think you’ve forgotten how to be a cop.”
“I’ve tried,” I admit, and immediately regret it. I can feel Ollie looking down at me with concern. I always noticed things other people wouldn’t notice. Saw things other people didn’t see. Unraveled irrelevant things and made them relevant. I achieved 98% in my Phase 1 Test. That would have made me a pretty sharp agent. I’ve always prided myself on reading characters well, knowing when to trust and when not to. When to avoid danger.
And yet I’ve just spent two days with a man who seems dangerous.
Oh how the mighty—the once wise— have fallen.
14
BEAU
For the first time in as long as I can remember, I don’t jump out of my skin when I start Dolly. “She purrs,” I say, smiling, and Reg laughs.
“She’ll never purr, Beau. And it’s only a secondhand engine, so don’t expect any miracles.” He walks off, his coveralls blending nicely with the oil-covered scrapyard.
“I heard you had company last night,” I call.
“Swarming with cops,” he yells back, throwing an arm in the air toward the end of the yard, where police tape seals off the back end. “Turned the crusher on yesterday and the damn thing spat half an arm out. An arm!”
Don’t do it, Beau.
But before I can stop myself, I’m out of Dolly, leaving her running, and walking across the uneven ground toward the back of Reg’s scrapyard. I duck under the tape and round the corner, coming to a grinding halt when I’m intercepted by a uniformed officer. He doesn’t get a chance to warn me away. He recognizes me, and his stern police face softens. “Beau? Fuck me, it’s Lara Croft.”
“Hi, Jed,” I say on a forced smile, looking past him.
A forensics van and endless police cars—marked and unmarked—swarm the area. “How have you been?” I ask mindlessly.
“Yeah, great. You?”
“Good.” I stare up at a hydraulic arm of a machine, where blood stains the metal, my brain beginning to whirl, my old eyes searching for more.
No.
God, no.
I turn and walk away. “Great to see you, Jed,” I say to the ground, refusing to relent to my curious mind. Refusing to go there. Refusing to be lured back by a damn good mystery. It used to fuel me. Inspire me. The unknown. My curiosity. But that’s not where I can allow my head to go. I’m no longer a cop. No longer an upcoming FBI agent. I’m just a painter, and James Kelly is today’s mystery. He’s a safe bet for my attention. The FBI is not.
I get out of Dolly and admire her for a few moments. Good old Reg. He’s even polished her rusty paintwork. “If I could take your keys,” the pierced, bearded guy says as he joins me on the sidewalk.
“Why?”
“You’ll get a ticket there, Beau. I can put it in the parking garage.”
“There’s a parking garage?” I ask, handing him my keys.
“Underground.” He slides into Dolly and starts her engine. Her new, non-banging engine.
“What’s your name?” I ask, watching as he yanks and pulls at the stick shift.
“Otto.”
“Thanks, Otto.” I look up the face of the building to the very top. The glass box that’s perched atop is hardly visible.
Otto chugs off in Dolly, and I enter the lobby to find Goldie by the open elevator. “Waiting for me?” I ask as I approach her.
She says nothing, holding the doors open, and the moment I’m inside the elevator, she keys in a code and sends me to the glass apartment. My cell chimes, and I look down to see a text from Ollie. Sounds about right that he’s just gotten home from a callout.
It was good to see you. Don’t be a stranger. x
A stranger is exactly what I am. I’m not the Beau he met. In fact, I’m sure he would hate the woman I’ve become. I don’t reply, not wanting to fuel any lingering feelings he might have. Might? I shouldn’t have accepted his offer of coffee. It was cruel and selfish, but in that moment, I was a robot, and I was happy to be stripped of all control. To not think. To have the long-lost feeling of a man’s arms around me. And now I’ll pay for it.
More guilt.
When the doors of the elevator open, I scan the space, bracing myself for another day suffocating in James Kelly’s presence. I head up the stairs, pass the bedrooms, and enter his office. He’s already at his desk, every screen on the wall alive, a coffee in his hand. He gives me his eyes for a few moments before returning his gaze to the TVs. No hello. Nothing. I’m good with that.
I get my ladder out and set it up, climbing to the top and pulling off an encasement on another spotlight. I look across at him when I feel my skin being licked by the flames of his stare. He’s lost interest in the TV.
I descend the steps. Move the ladder. Climb back to the top. Remove another encasement.
I glance at him again. He’s still watching.
On an inhale, I descend, shift the ladder, climb back to the top, and remove another spotlight, my teeth now grating. Don’t bite. We’re adults playing a childish game of who can stand this tension for the longest. He’s won. I admit it. He won days ago. “Stop it,” I breathe.
“Stop what?”
“Looking.” I take the steps back down and lean on the ladder, facing him. “Stop looking at me.”
“Why, does it make you uncomfortable?”
My eyes narrow. “No, it just pisses me off.”
He smirks. “I’m just wondering why you’re going up and down that ladder like a yoyo”—he motions to the steps I’m leaning on— “when we both know you have a faster way to remove those spotlights.”
I scowl at him.
His face remains impassive. Thoughtful. Accusing. It shouldn’t be attractive. And yet here I am, attracted.
“Got any other tricks up your sleeve, Beau Hayley?”
“I was a champion gymnast until I was eighteen.” It’s the truth. I won’t tell him that I also aced karate, judo, and kickboxing.
“Interesting,” he muses.
“Why? Why is it interesting, James?” I’m done. He’s exhausted me, worn me down. I feel like I need a big argument with him to clear the air.
He stands slowly and rounds his glass desk, coming toward me. I’d back away, but my body locks up. I’d breathe, but my lungs have shrunk. And then he’s close, his dress shirt pushed into my chest, breathing down on me. I look up. I inhale. God, he smells so good. Spicy. Creamy. Manly. “Why is it interesting?” I ask, my words quiet but firm.
He gives me a few moments of the warmth of his chest before he breaks away, retreating. “Did you have a nice evening last night?” His question comes out of the blue, and I’m as confused as fuck by it. Why does he care?