The problem is that they don’t see my confidence and passion for what it is. My personality's misconstrued because of how I look. I’m a bad ass bitch when I need to be, but I don’t want to come off that way all the time. I haven’t proven myself to be strong in their eyes.
I’m pushing the bad bitch to the surface and repressing every other part of me. All that’s left after getting rid of the frilly shit I love is just a tough girl trying to fit in, so I can do what I came here to do. But I’m failing, and that fucking sucks, because I don’t fail at anything, and this is the only thing that matters anymore. I have to work twice as hard, to be considered half as good.
When I hear the guys talking shit about being tough, all I can think is that they're talking about tough actions, not appearances or words. Maybe they're just trying to convince themselves that a petite woman with a penchant for pink couldn’t kick their asses. I’m happy to prove them wrong though.
A part of me wants to prove them wrong. I want to show them I’m a bad ass bitch when I need to be. But another part of me is tired of fighting their prejudice. I didn’t come here to win their approval. They can talk shit about me. They can assume I’m going to fail. I don’t give a fuck. All I need is to be on this case. It’s the only reason I put up with this shit.
It hurts though. I’m woman enough to admit it. I want companionship. I want to feel like I belong. But right now, I have no one. I try to call my mom every once in awhile, but that’s just depressing as hell. I’m most concerned with the fact that I don’t know what happiness is anymore. I don’t know what I expected. But this isn’t it. I was so shortsighted with wanting to get here that I didn’t think things through all the way.
The reality is a swift kick in the ass.
Harrison pushes past me just as I get to the door to the interrogation room. Fucker holds it open for me though, like he’s a gentleman. I give him a tight smile and walk in first.
I almost stop when I see the hulking man in the metal chair. An air of power surrounds him. His hands are clasped in front of him and they're resting on the table. He doesn’t bother to look up at us. His dark, thick hair is longer on top than it is on the sides, just long enough to grip onto. It tempts me; it excites the wilder side of me that I usually keep suppressed.
He’s in a simple white t-shirt that stretches tight over his shoulders, and faded blue jeans. I’ve never seen a man who could make those casual clothes look so fucking hot. His arms are all thick, corded muscle, and they flex as Harrison walks in front of me and stands across from him. Dark tattoos scroll down his left arm. I find myself itching to touch them, and wonder how much of his body they cover.
The younger me would have drooled over this man, but I know better now. Men like him cause more trouble than they’re worth. And he’s a member of the strongest familia on this side of the country. He’s a Valetti. He’s trouble.
“Valetti.” Harrison’s nose scrunches as he sits in the seat across from the sexy-as-fuck suspect. I stand with my back against the wall. I don’t want to go near those two knowing what Harrison is up to. I’m not afraid to get into it if I have to. I can hold my own, regardless of how big and how scary my opponent is. But I’m not fucking stupid. I avoid physical altercations if I can. And Harrison has a smart mouth and likes to push people.
He likes to take advantage of these situations and get them to act out so he can put them in the cells and threaten a heavier sentence. It’s not a move I’d make. But I try not to judge other officers' tactics. I try. Never said I was perfect though.
The man, Thomas Valetti, raises his head slowly. His full lips tip into a slight smirk and his blue eyes hold a hint of humor. “Detective. Nice to see you again.”
His voice sends a throbbing need to my clit, and for the first time since I’ve taken this job, I question if I really am cut out for it. I’ve never once been attracted to the fucked-up criminals that come and go in here. But right now, right here? Fuck. He’s hot. My body can’t deny that. I have to work really hard to keep the embarrassment off my face. I’m a professional. I’m a cop now. I need to put my hormones in check.
I try to ignore the pulsing need between my thighs and I clear my throat to help settle myself.
The action causes both men to look at me. Thomas’ eyes roam my body, but not in a way I find rude or offensive. He’s just sizing me up. I half-expect him to make some sexist comment, like most thugs do. I can feel my defenses go up.
His eyes reach mine and I wait for it. I wait for the dismissal. The demeaning comments I’m constantly used to getting.
Instead Harrison interrupts, “I won’t stop until you go away for life.”
The corners of Thomas’ lips kick up slightly as he turns to face Harrison, leaving me with nothing. “Sorry, Detective. I’m just waiting for my lawyer.”
Harrison looks at me from the corner of his eyes like it’s my fault that Thomas isn’t talking. I grab the folder from the desk and move to sit in the seat next to Harrison and square my shoulders.
I know in the pit of my gut Thomas Valetti is one of the people who saved those women. But he also has information I want. Now’s my chance to make everything I’ve worked for up to this moment worth it.
He’s my only lead.
Tommy
“Mr. Valetti,” begins the gorgeous woman who’s all curves and sweetness. She’s looking back at me like we’re on good terms. Like she can talk to me as though I’m an old pal of hers. She’s either fresh blood, or she’s damn good at what she does. This good cop/bad cop routine would be easy enough with detective Harrison being the jackass he is. It’s not the first time I’ve run into him, and I’m sure it won’t be the last.
Judging by her body language when she walked in here, and the pissed-off looks Harrison keeps throwing her, I’m guessing she’s new. I wouldn’t mind having her try to cuff me. Wish it was her who'd brought me in, not that fuckface from earlier.
“We know you were at the scene of the crime after it occurred based on the fact that your prints were found covering the prints of Lucas Mikhailov, a man found dead on sight.” She reaches into the manila folder and slides a photograph of a doorknob across the table. Her small hand holds it in place. She doesn’t move it, and I find myself eyeing her chipped nail polish. It’s a soft cream color and it makes her appear even more dainty that she already looks. What the hell is this little thing doing trying to play cop? She interrupts my thought as she takes her hand away and asks, “Would you like to explain how that could’ve happened?”
I meet her gaze and love that she’s not intimidated by me. Her eyes are the most beautiful shade of green I’ve ever seen. And they’re staring back at me waiting for an answer. I’m real fucking sorry to disappoint her. But even a sweetheart like her can't get me to talk. I’m not saying shit.
I almost apologize--almost call her love, or sweetie. But I keep my mouth shut and remind myself that this is an act. These cops like to set the scene. It’s all lies in here. I give her a simple shake of my head and answer, “I’m just waiting for my lawyer.”