Page 5 of Issued

Jim turns, and I step forward. “My stuff is still outside. Mind if I park my bike in the driveway?”

Hand on the doorframe, Jim’s head cranes around and for the first time, his piercing green eyes are completely visible. His gaze lingers, traveling up and over the length of me, and my body clenches.

“I’ll meet you outside. I, um, need to use the restroom.” My fingers drum against my outer thighs as I wait for a response.

He nods then walks away, leaving me standing in the room struck by a pink tornado. So, after inhaling a long breath, I head toward the bathroom. Why the hell is there only one bathroom in this freakin’ huge house?

A minute or so later, I dry my hands and head downstairs. The sun kisses my cheeks when I step out the front door, and I welcome the warmth. While the air is crisp and refreshing, I miss the blare of sirens and the backfire of passing buses. Virginia Beach is too quiet. It’s not home.

I don’t know if I’ll ever have a real home again.

Jim is standing by his pickup, staring up at the sky. When the door closes behind me, he turns my way, then walks over to the driver’s side door and climbs up into his truck. So much for a goodbye. With a shrug, I head over to my bike. A moment later, a grinding noise fills the air and I look over my shoulder to see the garage door lifting. When Jim pulls out, he stops next to me and rolls down his window. “Park in the garage. Looks like it may rain.”

I glance up at the blue sky with hardly a cloud in the sky. A smile finds its way to my lips. I appreciate his show of kindness, even if the concern for my bike seems misplaced. Guess he knows something about the weather I don’t. Can he be any more like my dad?

My smile turns bittersweet as I look back at him and nod. Once he drives off, I pull my bike up the driveway and into the garage, fling the two duffel bags over my shoulder and press the button to close the garage door before heading back inside.

No sooner do I make it back up the stairs and into the guest room when the annoying chimes of my phone go off. I really need to change that ringtone. But the sound is loud enough to be heard over the roar of my bike’s engine. Dropping the bags onto the floor, I pull the phone out of my back pocket.

A blocked number.

Crap. Did Marco find my new number? My hand trembles as my finger hovers over the green answer button, but on the third ring I answer. No sooner do I put the phone to my ear than an annoying recording starts about ways I can make money working from home.

Seriously? I’ve had this number less than two weeks and I’m getting telemarketing calls already? What the hell? I groan, end the call, and plop down on the bed. Oh my God, I’ve landed in a pile of marshmallows. Or maybe after the eight-hour ride on a motorcycle from New York, any mattress would feel like heaven.

The house emanates pure masculinity, with testosterone practically seeping out of the walls, except in my room. A burst of laughter escapes the depths of my throat as I glance around the room once more. I can’t even imagine Jim going shopping for all those items. He put a lot of thought into setting up the room, although he might as well have been shopping for his grandmother’s arrival.

I snicker. If he thinks all women are uber-feminine and love nothing more than pink and flowers and hearts, I must have given him a heart attack when I drove up on my bike.

Lifting my phone, I open up my photo gallery. Thumbing through the pictures, I select a bunch of Marco and hit delete. My chest tightens and my pulse thunders in my ears with each image of my former best friend that loads onto the screen while my free hand clenches the blanket, strangling the puffy cloth beneath me. Maybe I should’ve just gotten a new phone.

But then I’d lose the pictures of my dad and Lyons.

I pause on a photo of Lyons, Marco, and me. For years, we’d been the closest of friends. Lyons is the jokester while I’m the risk taker of our crew. Marco was the grounded one, the one I would count on to tell me the truth, no matter how blunt. Like the time I asked for his opinion on my prom dress, and he told me I looked like a poorly wrapped, silver Christmas present. They were like the big brothers I never had.

My throat spasms. Somewhere along the way, Marco had changed, had gone to work for Santoro, and used his family’s bakery for illegal activities. He started lying and then one day he used me to get to my father. My fists clench and unclench. No way some random guy robbing a convenience store got one up on Dad. Especially for a head shot. Dad’s death was a hit and it was my fault. I’m the reason Santoro found out about the investigation.

My jaw clamps tight against the tears blurring my eyes, and the force hurts my ears. Dad was a great cop and he would’ve been able to collect enough information on Santoro to have the bastard locked away for good. My stomach roils. If only I would’ve kept my mouth shut, he would still be alive.

After the funeral, I found a box full of evidence hidden amongst my deceased mother’s belongings in Dad’s storage unit. And after I turned it over to Lyons, who worked in the 104thPrecinct just like my father, I packed up whatever belongings survived the fire, changed my number, and disappeared to Virginia.

Pain rips through my heart, so strong that I can barely suck in a breath. I turn on my side and tuck my knees to my chest. Tears flow down my cheeks. Marco and Santoro are still free to walk the streets while the only family I had left in the world lays under six feet of dirt. My chest heaves as I force air into my lungs to try to gain control, but it’s no use. A strained cry escapes my clogged throat and I let the tears stream freely until all that’s left within me is the coldness of the city I’d left behind.

Chapter Three

Jim

The sharp, metallicbang snaps my attention to the rear of the truck. My hands ball into fists as air forcefully exits my nose. Why can’t people respect my stuff? Like gently closing the tailgate, not flinging it shut with all the herculean force one can muster. My blood pressure skyrockets, and I strangle the steering wheel. “You’re kiddin’ me, right?”

Bear tilts his head forward as he climbs into the passenger seat, his eyes barely visible behind Oakley frames. “Check yourself, brotha.”

I turn the key and my truck roars to life. My pulse pounds against my temples and I take a deep breath. I want to vent, let out how this whole situation, being stuck stateside and being treated by my superiors like I’m broken—useless—is bullshit, but I don’t want to say words I don’t mean.

The sight of the manila envelope resting on the dashboard, its contents a prickling reminder of my current circumstances, jacks up my heart rate, and I think I might explode. So, I shift the truck into drive and head toward Little Creek’s base gate, barely able to keep driving under the speed limit. I slam my foot on the gas the moment we’re off base, and the truck’s exhaust thunders. The sound of freedom. But who am I kidding? No matter how fast I drive, there’s no escaping.

Bear grips the grab handle as I whip the steering wheel to the left and skid onto Shore Drive. “Figured you’d take your sweet-ass time getting home.”

“You know leaving a stranger—Taya—in my house unsupervised for the past twenty-four hours is driving me nuts. God only knows what she’s doing. If she’s moving things around. Or not putting things away in their proper places.”

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