Page 18 of Hey, Daddy

I wasn’t sure if he was talking about the lawyer or Shasha Semyonov, but both were very bad.

The woman probably didn’t register on his radar, but she sure did register on mine.

“Fuck,” he grumbled. “That lawyer is a goddamn shark.”

She was.

Elianora Bates was known in these parts as the end all be all to police cases.

She had this weird sort of sixth sense that helped her get every single one of her clients out of tight binds.

And of course, she would be walking up with who I assumed owned the car that we’d just found a dead body in.

The three individuals came to a stop just outside of the police line.

My gaze went to the woman who should have on a fucking jacket and didn’t.

Forty fucking degrees out and she was in a t-shirt dress.

What the fuck?

“Gentlemen,” Elianora called. “What seems to be the problem here?”

“Is this your car?” John asked her.

“No, this is my client’s car,” she said. “What’s going on?”

As quickly as possible we gave her the bare minimum that her hatch had been open and it was investigated.

She’d find out eventually, and when she did, she wouldn’t be nearly as cooperative.

“Whose car is this?” I asked, expecting it to be Shasha’s.

It, of course, wasn’t.

Because how else could my day get any worse but for the car to belong to the woman that I had just fucked in the bathroom thirty minutes ago?

“It’s mine,” she said in a quiet voice.

“And what’s your name, ma’am?” John asked carefully, trying to appear to be nice.

He wasn’t.

We were partnered together for a reason—no one else could stand working with us.

But since we were good at our jobs, they didn’t want to let us go because of our personalities.

However, that was the best thing they’d ever done, because the two of us had bonded.

Both of us fresh out of hell—i.e., Iraq—and neither one of us too certain on the civilian world now.

We’d bonded, albeit slowly, and now I couldn’t imagine my life without the grumpy bastard at my side.

But nice was something we’d never been accused of being, and John was usually the one that pretended because he was better at it than I was.

“Nastya Semyonov,” she answered, not falling for his fake nice act.

My stomach sank.

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