Page 35 of Third Time Lucky

Considering that it was Valentine’s Day, and his love life had been in the fucking toilet since he’d caught his boyfriend in bed with another man, his day had already been bad from the moment he’d opened his eyes. It was mid-afternoon now, and he could say with some accuracy that it was only getting worse. Grady was so fucking over the entire day and wanted it to be the end of his workday already so he could go home, drink his weight in whiskey, and pass out on his couch. He wished he could have just skipped the whole day altogether.

Quinn, who was safe and out of the way of the fuckingsludge on the clean grass embankment,was staring with blatant amusement. Of course he was amused. He wasn’t down here in the fuckingriverthat should have been called a swamp. It was the last month of summer, and the heat was still heavy, so it wasn’t as full as it should have been, which was probably why the idiot perp thought he could get across. Grady was now up to his fucking calves in mud, the water a murky brown. There was also a weird smell, and Grady wasn’t interested in knowing what it was. The less he knew right then, the better, because he was already fuckingpissed. He wasn’t even going to try to wash these slacks. They were going straight into the fucking trash when he got home. Not even in the inside one. Straight to the wheelie bin. Wrapped in black trash bags. Three or four of them.

“What the fuck did you think you were going to do, jumping in here?” Grady growled at his perp as he shoved him up the embankment. The fuckingteenagerhad been caught red-handed shoplifting because Grady had the worst fucking luck, and the servo they’d stopped at to fuel their car and grab a quick bite to eat just happened to be where the teenager had decided would be a good place to rob. The idiot had had no idea that a fucking cop had been standing in sight of him when he’d tried to discreetly shovel some packets of chips, pre-made sandwiches, chocolate hearts, and awhole bouquet of flowersinto his ratty backpack. He wasn’t half as subtle as he thought he was. And a Mars bar had slipped out of a hole at the bottom.

Quinn was ready at the top of the incline with cuffs, and once he was secure, they sat the surly teenager on a nearby bench. “What were you doing?” Quinn asked him.

“The fuck did it look like I was doing?” the kid snarled. “These are too tight.”

“They’re fine,” Grady said. He might have believed that ifhe’dput the cuffs on the kid, but since it had been Quinn, there was no way they were done up too tight. He was a soft touch, especially in comparison to Grady. “It looked to me like you were asking to go to juvie. Know what happens to kids that go to juvie?” Grady asked.

“If you’re trying to scare me, you can fuck off,” was the eloquent response.

“The surprise is that it’s not even about juvie,” Grady continued, ignoring the rude remark. “It’s about what happens when you get out. Suddenly, you’re a pariah. People that used to smile at you will look at you like you stepped in dog shit. Your school might have to accept you back, but it won’t be the same. Your social life is basically gone. Oh, well, you’ll make some new acquaintances.” Grady crouched in front of him. “I’d be careful about calling them friends. Because one day, you’ll be lying in a ditch somewhere.” Grady touched the corner of his mouth. “Bit of frothing at the mouth. Dead.”

If anything, the teenager’s scowl deepened, something dark, angry, and somehow sad flashing in his brown eyes. “Joke’s on you, pig. I don’t have any friends or family. If I die in a ditch, they’ll roll me into an unmarked grave and say good riddance. So I don’t give a fuck what you do to me.”

Grady turned to Quinn because being soft and caring wasn’t part of Grady’s makeup. It was Quinn’s turn now. Especially because somewhere in that speech had been a lie; Grady just couldn’t work out which part. Most of it was self-deprecating bullshit.

“What’s your name?” Quinn asked, his brows drawn together as he studied the young teen.

“It’s ‘bite me.’”

“Not very inventive. Your parents couldn’t Google ‘baby names’?” Grady asked. He wanted to ask where the kids’ parents were and what he meant by having no family. It could be a teenager being dramatic, but instinct told Grady that wasn’t the case here. And if he was right, then this needed to be handed off to people more qualified to deal with this kind of thing than them. Was the kid homeless, in foster care, something else?

“They couldn’t be bothered wasting the effort,” the teen sneered.

Grady resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He didn’t have the patience needed to deal with teenage theatrics. “It’s up to us whether you get charged or not, and since you can’t even give us the courtesy of a name…” He trailed off, giving a shrug. “How about we read you your rights and go from there?”

“No, wait,” the kid said, something like warinessfinallyappearing in his eyes. “It’s Riley.”

“What’s Riley?” Quinn asked, frowning.

Grady shared a look with his partner. Was the kid talking about their boss? How the fuck would he even know him?

“My name, idiot.”

Grady shared another look with Quinn. At this point in their career and how long they’d been partnered, they didn’t need speech to communicate. Grady could clearly read Quinn’s every expression. “And your last name?” he asked Riley.

Riley took a deep sigh, like he was in pain. “It doesn’t matter what it is. You can’t call my parents. I already told you I don’t have any fucking family.”

“Language,” Quinn admonished quietly.

“Why don’t you give us a little background?” Grady suggested. “Where are your parents?”

“I just said I don’t fucking have any, moron.”

“Unlike Quinn, most people are born from two parents, not picked out of a cabbage patch. Try again.”

“They’re dead, okay? I get shuffled around foster homes. Idiot foster parents don’t care where I am. A joke even calling them that.”

Jesus Christ. It was like they were looking at what their boss Riley could have become if he hadn’t been adopted by the Sinclairs. Grady rubbed his forehead, wondering what the fuck they were going to do with the kid. The little shit had called his bluff. They wouldn’t arrest and charge someone for such a petty crime, not at his age—he couldn’t have been more than fourteen or fifteen, though it was hard to tell sometimes—unless he was a repeat offender. They’d check his records, but Grady doubted they would have much in them. Riley had the eyes of someone dealt a shit hand and who was angry at the world, not someone born cruel.

“And why were you shoplifting? Are they not feeding you enough?”

Riley shrugged, and Grady knew if his hands weren’t cuffed behind his back that he’d be stuffing them in his pockets. “I don’t like being there, so I don’t stay there. Simple.”

“Where do you stay?”

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