Page 12 of Beautiful Rush
In my periphery, I watched the four guys outside the bodega next to The Candy Store, a basement club where we’d done a buy-and-bust sting operation last year. Rap music blasted from an old-school boom box on the sidewalk, too loud for a Tuesday night but I doubted any of them cared about the noise disturbance. “Yo Mamacita, what’s shakin’?” one of the guys cat-called to a girl who had just come out of the club. Danny Vargas. He must be out on parole. Scumbag. He used to be Connor’s dealer. I averted my gaze, thankful he hadn’t recognized me and kept walking.
Raised voices drew my attention to the basketball courts on the other side of a chain-link fence and I immediately recognized the suit and the set of his shoulders. Max Cooper was built like a linebacker and his suit jackets never fit him right. He was too cheap to have them altered and not vain enough to care.
His eye caught mine for a split second, but we both looked away without acknowledging we knew each other. Cops and drug dealers didn’t make the best bed buddies.
He was cuffing a guy and fending off a girl who was shouting obscenities at him. The girl spit at him. “Why you taking my boyfriend in? He ain’t done nothing wrong.”
“You keep it up and you’ll be coming along for the ride.”
I chuckled under my breath. The glamorous life of a law enforcement officer.
I’ve gotten in fights with junkies—meth heads were the worst. I’ve been kicked, punched, spit at, called names. Had knives and guns pointed at me. One time I was busting a dealer and he unleashed Cujo on me. The dog sank his teeth into my left calf and took off a good chunk of my skin. I still had the scar to prove it. The pay was low, the hours sucked, I’ve missed more family holidays than I can count. And yet, I fucking loved my job. I couldn’t imagine doing anything else. Sometimes it was boring as fuck. Hours of surveillance and mountains of paperwork. But there was nothing I liked better than the heat of danger when you’re running on adrenaline and your heart’s pounding and your survival instincts kick in. Maybe I was a sick mofo. Chasing a cheap thrill under the guise of being noble.
I had no business being in this neighborhood. Or going to her apartment. A decent guy would have stayed away from her, starting from the day we met. I wasn’t always a decent guy. Slipping into the role of drug dealer was surprisingly easy for me. Slipping into Keira’s apartment building via the laundry room in the basement to avoid the security cameras and the doorman was even easier. I had yet to meet an alarm system that could keep me out. If I hadn’t become a cop, I would have made a damn good criminal.
As I crept up the stairs to the fifth floor, treading softly so my boots didn’t make a sound, I questioned my sanity for coming here.
Could she be trusted? Keira Shaughnessy was a wild card. When she’d dropped that little tidbit that Sasha Petrov was her first boyfriend, I shouldn’t have been surprised. She liked to live on the cusp of danger. But then, with a ruthless criminal for a father, she probably traveled in the same circles as Ivan Petrov’s son.
I pushed open the metal stairwell door and quietly closed it behind me. She lived in a new-build with good soundproofing, the sound of my footsteps muffled by the beige carpeted hallway. It smelled like fresh paint and industrial carpet cleaner. Plastic plants in brass pots flanked the elevator doors and I wouldn’t be surprised if they piped soothing, New Age bullshit music into the elevator. Some Kenny G, maybe. This building, and her sparsely furnished monochrome apartment was devoid of color and life. Generic and mildly depressing. The opposite of her.
I stopped outside her door and pressed my ear to it. I heard the low hum of voices, but they sounded like they were coming from the TV. What if she wasn’t alone?Turn around and leave. Despite all the valid reasons why I should do just that, I rapped my knuckles against the door.
What the fuck was wrong with me?
Keira intrigued me. That was the only plausible explanation for why I was here. Keira Shaughnessy had so many layers that I never knew which version of her I’d be getting. Sometimes she reminded me of a tragic heroine from a Russian novel. Sometimes she was playful and funny. Shy and unsure.
She was tough with a hint of vulnerability. She was a risk taker. Daring. Strong. Reckless. Sometimes plain-ass crazy as she demonstrated that night of the street race. But she wasn’t as fearless as she liked to pretend. Intimacy scared her.
The door opened, and she stood there in flamingo-print boxer shorts, pink on black, and a muscle tee that said: Not Today Satan. Her face was clean of makeup, wild waves of honey brown hair framing her perfect face. She had the kind of beauty that could be wielded as a weapon. Jagged and dangerous. Instead, she chose to use it as a shield. Which made her infinitely more appealing.
Whiskey colored eyes studied my face, trying to figure out what I was doing here at eleven o’clock on a Tuesday night. Good question.
My eyes lowered to the slogan on her shirt. She wasn’t wearing a bra and I could see the peaks of her nipples straining against the pink cotton. Fuck me. I lifted my eyes to her face and grinned. “Should I come back tomorrow?”
She raised her perfect eyebrows. “Are you the devil?”
“In disguise.”
“In that case, come on in.” She opened the door wide and ushered me inside, her lips tugging into a smile. It was her genuine smile. I already knew the difference. And just like that, any doubts I’d had about coming here vanished. One smile. That was all it took.
As she sauntered into the kitchen, my gaze traveled down her toned body. Tall and lean, built like a supermodel, with the longest fucking legs I’d ever seen. I envisioned them wrapped around my waist, my cock buried deep inside her. Then I tried to erase the vision from my mind.
“Do you want a drink?” she asked, her head disappearing inside the open refrigerator while I leaned against the doorframe and checked out her ass.
“What have you got?”
“Hmm,” she said, her face hidden behind the refrigerator door.
The kitchen was spotlessly clean. Not so much as a smudge or fingerprint marred the stainless-steel stove and refrigerator or the glossy white kitchen cabinets. The granite countertops were bare except for a Keurig coffee maker. Stools were tucked neatly under the breakfast bar separated from the living room by a half-wall. If I had to guess, she rarely if ever cooked, and barely used her kitchen.
“I have water. Or water.” She laughed that husky laugh of hers that made me think dirty thoughts.
Relax. You’re not here for a booty call. Stop thinking about all the dirty things you want to do with her.
“Water’s good,” I said.
She smiled and gripped her plump bottom lip between her straight white teeth as she handed me a bottle of water. My fingers brushed against hers when I took it from her. She quickly snatched her hand away, feeling the same electric current I did when our skin touched. “Thanks.”
