Page 73 of Make Me Sin (Bad Habit 2)
A muscle in A.J.’s jaw flexes. For a terrifying moment, I think he’s going to snap, but then I see the fleeting depression in his cheek, a stray smile immediately suppressed, and I realize my father is being sarcastic, A.J. knows it, and Officer Garcia doesn’t.
Two peas in a pod, I think, too exhausted and emotionally overwrought to decide how that makes me feel.
With a final, piercing glance at me, A.J. leaves the room.
As soon as he clears the threshold, Officer Garcia says quietly to my father, “When you present the charges to the chief, make sure to ask about any recent disciplinary action Officer Cox has been subject to.”
“Meaning?”
My father is very, very interested in what she’s saying, but he’s playing it cool.
“Meaning the chief might find it extremely embarrassing if it were to be made public that he didn’t act sooner on an officer who’s had multiple Code of Ethics violations, along with failing a recent alcohol test.” Her mouth pinches. “That last one alone should have gotten him fired on the spot.”
Almost indifferently, my father asks, “Why didn’t it?”
Officer Garcia’s pinched mouth twists with a wry, knowing smile. “Because the chief is third-generation U of A, Officer Cox was one of the best running backs the university ever had, and, unlike any of the female officers on the force, they both share a small, brainless organ responsible for most of their decision-making. At least, that’s my humble, unofficial opinion.”
My father looks at her in a whole new light. Respect creeps into his eyes. “Not that you ever shared it, of course.”
Her look is blistering. “Of course. And if anyone suggests otherwise, he might get a traffic ticket every week for the rest of his life.”
My father holds up his hands. “Believe me, Officer Garcia, I long ago abandoned thinking with my small, brainless organ.”
Her smile returns. “I’ve heard that about you.” She glances at me, and her face softens. “Good luck. And try a little Arnica ointment for the bruising on your face and neck. In my experience, it helps.”
In my experience. Those words tell me all I need to know about why Officer Garcia felt compelled to share the information about Eric. God only knows what caused that small, irregular scar on her chin.
I say, “Thank you.”
She nods, then she’s gone.
My father stares after her in unabashed admiration. “Jesus. If we had ten more of her on the force, crime would be eradicated in weeks.”
A.J. comes back the moment she’s left. He walks straight to my bedside and takes my hand, gently threading his fingers through mine. We look at each other for a moment, then he turns to my father, who’s watching us from the other side of the room. In a low voice, A.J. says, “The only reason I didn’t kill him is because I knew Chloe wouldn’t want me to.”
My father seems to take great satisfaction in that statement, because his grim, throw-the-bastard-to-the-lions smile returns. “We haven’t had the pleasure of being formally introduced.” He crosses the room slowly, holding out his hand. “I’m Chloe’s father, Thomas. Call me Tom.”
They shake hands. A.J. says solemnly, “Nice to meet you, Tom. Normally I can’t stand lawyers because they’re such money-grubbing fucks, but your daughter loves and admires you, so you must be all right.”
I close my eyes. If anyone had tried to tell me this would be the first conversation between A.J. and my father—and under these particular circumstances—I would have laughed until I fell over.
Or maybe I would have cried.
Either way, it’s completely out of the realm of what my brain can presently handle, so I simply lie there like a bruised zucchini, waiting for whatever comes next.
It turns out to be an amused snort from my father. “I am a money-grubbing fuck, but only because I want the best for my family.” He pauses. When he speaks again, his tone is as lethal and cold as the sharpened edge of a knife. “There’s nothing more important to me than them.”
I open my eyes to see A.J. slowly nodding. As if something has been agreed upon, my father nods back. An unspoken understanding has just occurred between these two men, and I faintly grasp that my father may have just accepted A.J. as a new fixture in our family, while simultaneously threatening his life.
I feel like I’m in some kind of Tarantino remake of The Godfather.
My father releases A.J.’s hand and turns his attention to me. “You shouldn’t go back to your apartment.”
“Agreed.”
My father continues as if A.J. hasn’t just spoken. “You’ll come home with me—”
“No.” My voice is firm enough to give my father pause.
