Page 26 of Sirens
“Huh,” Maggie said as they followed McGarvey to his police car.
“Hey, uh…Trent?” Maggie ventured as he opened the back door of the cruiser, her voice soft with urgency. “Could we maybe talk about this for just a minute?”
“Sorry,” he sighed, shaking his head. “Any further conversations between us will need to be officially documented.”
Her gaze found McGarvey again as he opened the driver’s side of the cruiser. His clean-shaven nape gleamed under thedome light, revealing a flawless stretch of skin that looked tantalizingly warm and touchable.
Suddenly the warmth of Trent’s lips, the feel of his strong hands at the small of her back, and the intoxicating scent of his aftershave flashed in her mind, weakening her knees. The delicious intensity of it was almost enough to erase the memory of why the kiss had happened in the first place.
Because Trent McGarvey suspected she was running from something.
And he was right.
FIVE
JDLR
JUST DON’T LOOK RIGHT; EXPRESSION USED BY POLICE OFFICERS WHILE VIEWING A SUSPICIOUS CIRCUMSTANCE ON A HUNCH
Trent followedthe trio of trespassers as they trudged down the walkway to where his patrol car hugged the curb. He tried to keep his gaze anywhere but on Maggie Michaels, as her abundant, distracting curves were hugged by skintight black leggings and a t-shirt that could’ve been painted on. Beneath the nearly full moon, she stood out like a siren against the hotel’s crumbling façade. Her fiery hair seemed to capture the moonlight, a beacon of rebellion that Trent found both infuriating and intoxicating.
He allowed his gaze to linger for a moment before remembering he was on duty.
And she was on his shit list.
Myrtle, on the other hand, was making a spectacle, fluttering around like a deaf bat who’d just discovered caffeine, while Gabe leaned casually against the patrol car, his tattoos telling stories Trent wasn’t sure he wanted to read.
“Hey, McGarvey,” Myrtle chirped, dramatically slamming herself against his vehicle and assuming “the position.” “There’s only so much frisking you can do in public, so—and I know this is usually your line to say— keep your hands where I can see ’em and no one gets hurt.”
Gabe snorted out an unhelpful chuckle. “You’ll have to commit police brutality to get me to bend over for you like that.”
Trent very carefullydid notlook toward Maggie, or his brain would produce an image he wouldn’t ever be able to let go of.
“Come on, Myrtle,” he said. “I’m not trying to frisk an old lady who broke into a construction site. What would you steal, drywall nails? What I need to know is what you three were doing there in the middle of the night.”
Gabe’s mouth tightened.
Maggie’s dropped open as if to reply.
Myrtle beat her to it. “Old lady?” she screeched. “Do I smell old to you?” Reaching up, she peeled her top off and threw it at Trent, who caught it with his astonished face.
It smelled like peppermint and pralines.
Snatching it away, he blinked over at the woman in pure shock, relieved to find she’d dressed in layers on a freezing February evening, and still had a skintight thermal on.
“Ms. Le Grand, I really?—”
“I smell like the taut, teenaged clavicles on those sparkly models in the perfume ads. Eat your heart out, Dior!”
“Who watches ads anymore?” Trent blurted before berating himself for being drawn into this ridiculous conversation.
Myrtle’s sharp chin jutted out, disturbing her impressive wattle. “I don’t know, Five-Oh, but I’m feeling a little less guilty when I think about what my generation has done to yours and the climate. I hope you die in a wildfire.”
“Myrtle! You don’t mean that,” Maggie said.
“She doesn’t,” Trent replied. “Last week she threatened to melt me with holy water when she was caught stealing some from the Catholics.”
“It was for science!”
