Deserve (25 page)

I stare at the picture of Maggie on my phone. She’s laughing
into the camera, her curls a deep red, her green eyes sparkling with mirth. The
freckles on her nose are almost invisible under the glare of the summer sun.
The photo was taken a few weeks after she moved to New York, when we visited
the Bronx Zoo. I hadn’t been there since I was a kid.

She made the day so damn fun. I smile, remembering her
excitement as she saw the Siberian tigers playfully wresting with each other.

I turn on my side and sober at seeing the empty space next
to me on the bed. I haven’t been able to sleep worth shit since she left, her
absence a black void in my life. It has been two nights, but it feels like an
eternity since I’ve seen her. Her words haunt me.

I should find someone
who loves me more than anything in the world... I deserve to find someone who
loves me.

Abruptly, I throw myself out of my bed onto the floor. I
start doing push ups, hoping the physical exertion will divert my thoughts.
When my arms threaten to give out on me, I roll onto my back and segue into
sit-ups. Even as my abs
are
burning, I still can’t
turn off my mind. On the verge of desperation, I pull on my running gear and
head out the door. The icy air is crisp and clean, a harbinger of snow for the
city.

The apartment is only a few blocks away from Central Park.
Even at five in the morning, there are plenty of New Yorkers going about their
business. At times like these, I am reminded of the resiliency of the city.
Regardless of all the bullshit and insanity, life carries on here.

I put one foot in front of the other, letting the rhythm
take over. The impact of each step makes my swollen jaw throb, but I embrace
the pain. I run until my lungs are burning, until the taste of copper coats the
roof of my mouth. Only when my right leg seizes up in a cramp do I stop and bow
at the waist, resting my hands over my knees, gulping in air. Underneath my
jacket, my base layer is drenched with sweat.

I can’t settle for
less, Sean. I want everything.

Tell me why you won’t
go see James.

Tell me why you don’t
get along with your father.

All her words crowd into my brain until I want to crack my
skull open to let them escape.

Everything that has meant anything in my life is suddenly
gone. There’s nothing left for me to lose. I look into my bleak future, a long
stretch of loneliness, and snarl in disgust.

I stand up, my spine ramrod straight, and clench my fists.

It was past time I take fucking control of my shit.

When I get back to the apartment, it’s already eight
o’clock. Without giving myself time to rethink my actions, I tap out a text to
Leslie.

Can we do dinner this
week?

The reply comes immediately.

Of
course.
How about tonight?

Yes.

***

“Mac asleep?”

“Yeah, no thanks to you,” Leslie complains, dropping onto
the sofa with a sigh.

“Hey! I just brought him a few toys.”

“Buying out the entire Lego section of your superstore does
not qualify as a few simple toys,” James says as he walks in with three mugs of
coffee, his right foot dragging slightly. After handing me a cup, he sits next
to Leslie and throws his arm around her. He looks good. His waist has expanded
slightly since he left the force, but overall, he looks healthy.
And more importantly, happy.

“I haven’t seen him for a while,” I mutter.

“And whose fault is that, dumbass?” Leslie nudges my knee
none too gently with her foot.

“
Ow
!”

“Seriously, it’s good to see you,” James’s brown eyes are
somber. “So what made you finally pull your head out of your ass and come see
us?”

Leslie examines me like I’m a circus freak and proclaims, “I
bet this has something to do with the pretty redhead, Maggie.”

I keep my lips sealed. Just the mention of her is enough to
make my chest contract painfully.

“What pretty redhead?” James asks.

They exchange one of those looks that only married people
share and that single people hate.

“Oh!” James turns to me and raises a brow. “About damn
time.”

“Cut it out,” I gripe.

“Well, tell me what made you call us up when you’ve been
avoiding us for the last few years.”

“I wasn’t avoiding you.” It’s a lie. Every time I see James,
I feel a massive wave of guilt and self-loathing.

Leslie stands up. “I’m going to check on Mac.” James’s eyes
track his wife until she leaves the room.

He turns back to me. “Tell me asshole. Who’s this chick?”

“She’s a…”
What, Rowan?
Ex-lover? Ex-friend? Woman who hates your guts?
“It’s complicated.”

He barks a laugh. “That’s a first for you. If I remember
correctly, you always went for the uncomplicated ones.”

“I’m sorry I haven’t been around.” I sit forward with my
forearms on my thighs and my fingers laced.

Irate eyes clash with mine. “You damn well should be. Where
the fuck have you been?”

I take a deep breath and take the plunge. “Avoiding you,
like you said.”

His expression softens. “Sean.”

I hold up my hand to stem his familiar speech. Restless, I
stand up and pace. “I know. It wasn’t my fault. You take full responsibility
for your own actions. But I keep going over that night in my head.”

“You know that’s a zero-sum game.”

I rub the back of my neck. “James, you didn’t see me. I…I
hesitated to pull the trigger. I didn’t want to shoot him. I saw him take out
his gun and I was paralyzed. If I hadn’t been such a coward, you’d still be on
the force. You would’ve made detective.” I halt in front of him and let the
torment in my soul show. “You should be in my shoes.”

“Is that what has your thong twisted between your crack?” He
flings himself out of his chair and shoves his face into mine, his breath hot
and fast. “Who fucking made you God, asshole? Who gave you exclusive rights on
guilt? Don’t you think I torture myself with what would have happened if I
stopped to think about things for half a fucking second?
If I
hadn’t forced my partner to shoot a human being for the first time?
To
have done anything differently so that I didn’t have to put my fucking
wife through the hell of watching me undergo
endless
surgeries and gut-wrenching sessions of physical therapy?”

I stagger back from the heated lash of his emotions. His
eyes are dark with regret and guilt. Except for the color, I could have been
looking into a mirror.

James blows out a deep breath and sits wearily back on the
sofa. “It’s something I live with every damn day, but it doesn’t make me push
people away. Like you, fucking pansy-ass
dickwad
.”

I slam my pansy-ass back into the chair, never taking my
gaze off his face. “I didn’t know you felt that way. That night…you were only
doing what was right. You have nothing to feel guilty about.”

“Pot, meet kettle.”

That pulls a reluctant smile out of me. Sobering, I stare at
him intently and admit, “There’s more.” And I let the rest of the poison out of
my system, expecting him to kick me out of his home any second. I wouldn’t
blame him if he took out his gun and put a bullet into my forehead.

Instead, he shakes his head sadly and says, “You’re such a
fucking douche. Is that what you’ve been carrying around all these years? Don’t
let the guilt eat at you, Sean. I can’t tell you how fucking happy I am to be
alive. I have Leslie and Mac and a new career I love.”

The tension drains from my shoulders and I lean forward. “You
don’t blame me?”

“For what?
For helping out a friend?
I would have done the same thing if I were in your shoes. And what would the
outcome have been had you not been my partner? Have you thought about that?” He
reaches over with one hand and clasps my shoulder. “You may not believe it, but
I’m glad I’m out of the force. The rules always chafed me. I was too
hot-tempered to have gone much further up the ladder, unlike you. I don’t fool
myself that I would have made detective. I’m happy with my life. Now I get to
live in a world where there is justice at the end of every goddamn book.”

Feeling lighter than I’ve felt in years, I exhale a long
breath, pushing the guilt out of my system. It will come back, but James’s
forgiveness has given me the antidote to banish it when it returns. I lean
back, feeling a glimmer of hope for my redemption. “I meant to ask you about
that last book. Joe Sherman, hero cop, was obviously based on me. Shouldn’t I
get a share of the royalties?”

“You wish, megalomaniac. He was slick, debonair, and had a
ten-inch dick. It was clearly a self-portrait,” he says smugly.

Our laughter must have reached upstairs because Leslie comes
downstairs and stares at us with her arms crossed over her chest. “It’s about
damn time. Dumbasses.” She walks to the sofa and sits next to James.

“Leslie, are there any new developments in the case?”

Lips turning down, she shakes her head. “No, I used every interrogation
technique on Poole, but he insists he wasn’t responsible. He claims he lied because
he knew he would be the prime suspect and he panicked.”

“Now there’s a real dumbass,” James mutters with a sneer on
his lips.

“Do you believe him?”

Her frown
deepens
as she looks
inward. “I don’t know. He seems like a sniveling coward to me, but he could
also be a sociopathic liar.”

Fuck, if it’s not him,
who the hell is it
?

***

Eyes burning from staring at the report, I look up and note
with surprise that the office is deserted. A glance at the clock reveals that
it’s already ten p.m. Normally, at the station, things would still be hopping,
but I am currently at headquarters. After a late meeting with some of the other
squads, I had opted to stay here to go over a few reports and lost track of
time.

I run a hand over my face tiredly and wince when I graze my
swollen jaw.

“Fucking Mack truck,” I mutter under my breath.
Unsurprisingly, all my calls to
Cael
have been
ignored.

As much as I dread going back to the apartment—even
emptier now since I’ve had the ruined furniture hauled away—my body is
telling me it needs rest. If I drink enough scotch, I can at least get a couple
of hours of shut-eye. Sighing, I get to my feet, shrug into my winter coat and
take the elevator to the garage.

My steps echo loudly in the empty underground lot. Automatically,
I scan my surroundings, searching for any anomalies. There are only a few cars
at this time of night. The garage is barely lit by low wattage fluorescent
lights, but from yards away, I already see the damage.

“Motherfucker!” I follow that with a string of obscenities
as I stare at my slashed tires. I go down on one knee to look at the cuts.
Neat and precise.
These were not done in a fit of rage. The
hairs on the back of my neck rise. The threatening message is loud and clear
and I know who sent it. “The fucker’s got balls to come to the parking lot of NYPD
headquarters and vandalize my car.”

Rage pumping through my veins, I spin around, taking my
Glock
out of my inside pocket in one smooth motion. “Come
out, you fucking coward! I’m not afraid of you.” I swear I hear a mocking
cackle, but there’s no movement and no reply. Even knowing he’s probably long
gone, I check all three floors thoroughly, but find nothing.

Swearing a blue streak, I walk back into the building and
head straight to the security room.

Manny Cortez opens the door before I can knock. The short,
stocky man has been the head of security for the building since before I joined
the force and I’m not surprised he saw me coming.

“Rowan, what are you doing running around the garage with
your gun drawn,” he asks, confirming my suspicion that he has been tracking my
movements. Behind him are numerous screens displaying the various parts of the
building.

“Manny, I need a favor. There was an intruder who got into
the lot downstairs. I need access to the video footage.” I describe what
happened and where I am parked.

His nostrils flare in anger at the idea of someone slipping
past his eagle eyes. “You got it, man.” Sitting behind his computer screen, he
taps in a few keystrokes and pulls up the camera feed closest to my car. “I’m
backlogging it to six o’clock.”

“Yes, perfect,” I say. The time is a good starting point. If
the crime had been committed before quitting time, somebody would have reported
it.

Sitting down, I hit fast-forward on the footage. This is a
huge building and there is a lot of in and out traffic, but I keep my eyes
focused on my car.

“There!” I hit pause as a shadowy figure saunters
purposefully to my car. He’s dressed unremarkably in jeans and a long coat.
His head and face are hidden by a rimmed hat
. I assess his
build and narrow frame and I’m ninety-nine percent certain it’s Bleed.

The time stamp is 8:58 p.m.

“We change shifts at nine. Somehow this guy knew about our
operation,” Manny says angrily. The most vulnerable moment is when one crew
clocks out and another comes on board. There’s a hard glint in Manny’s eyes and
I know he will turn his team upside down to get to the bottom of this.

I play the video on normal speed.

“Cocksucker!” Manny shouts as the lean form bends over my
tires, his knife glinting in the faint light.

Cocky bastard doesn’t even look around as most amateur criminals
would. He goes about his business coldly and methodically—like a consummate
professional—always keeping his face angled away from the cameras.