Page 3 of Concealed

“With all due respect, sir, I’m aware that my dad called in a favor–”

“Several of them,” Grant interjects. “Usually, when the Mayor of Los Angeles calls, you don’t ignore him. And I didn’t, exactly, but I did tell him that I’d make my own decision.”

I raise my eyebrows, and Grant chuckles. “I know that William isn’t used to pushback.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” I agree.

“Nepotism happens, and we both know it,” Grant acknowledges. “But I care about my force. And I wasn’t going to just hire a hot-headed rookie with a trigger finger because he told me to, consequences be damned.”

I squeeze the armrests so hard, that I’m surprised they don’t pop off. My legs are itching to stand and walk right out of this room, but I don’t. It’s not like I have anywhere to go or any other employment options.

Deep breath in.

Deep breath out.

“That’s not a fair statement,” I reply tightly.

“I know it isn’t, or you wouldn’t be here. But you immediately wanted to punch me, didn’t you? Regardless of all the good you’ve done, you have a temper problem. And you won’t get anywhere – hereorin LA – with an attitude like yours. Unless you want to be the kid whose dad keeps bailing him out of trouble?”

My eyes narrow because Grant is pretty good at finding – and pressing – sore spots. “None of this is what I want. Believe me.”

So much for my game face.

“Tell me about when you received the Medal of Valor.”

I run my tongue across my teeth and coach myself not to outwardly react. No doubt about it – he’s read my file – but he wants to hear the story directly from me.

“I was driving home from night shift and heard shots being fired. Three members of the 78thStreet Gang were battling it out with two members of the Anarchists.”

Grant nods. “So, you stopped.”

“Of course, I did. There was a kid in the crosshairs. He shouldn’t have even been outside – it was late – but there he was. There was only one working streetlight, but I could see he was clutching a teddy bear in his small fist.”

Like it always does, the image hits me straight in the gut like a sucker punch, and I swallow over the golf ball in my throat.

“I can still picture the goddamn teddy bear with the red bowtie. The same color as the blood the gangbangers were going to spill. And so…” I pause as my breath hitches, immersed in the memory.

The deafening crack of automatic weapons.

The familiar acrid and sour burn from breathing in gunpowder, but I sure as shit wasn’t on the range anymore.

The flashes of light in the darkness as shot after shot was fired.

The cacophony of angry male shouting that was indiscernible other than being loud.

The pounding on the pavement as passersby ran to get away.

The screams – so many screams – that launched my heart into my throat.

And the kid. The crying little boy clutching his teddy bear with the red bowtie.

“So?” Grant prompts, bringing me back to the present.

I shrug, brushing it off. “I saved him. That’s all.”

“That’s all?”

I could tell him that it all happened on autopilot. My brain switched into protect and survive mode, and I would have done absolutely anything to make sure that little boy lived.

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