Frisk Me

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First, to the team at Grand Central—this series is absolutely yours as much as it is mine. Thanks for being there every step of the way, from conception to model photo shoots to final comma tweaks. To Lauren Plude, especially, for being the kind of skilled editor who knows exactly what this book needs. Ava and Luc thank you, as do I.

As always, to my agent, Nicole Resciniti, who single-handedly got me “un-stuck” when this book went off the rails right halfway through, and patiently brainstormed how to get it back on track.

For Jessica Lemmon and Kristi Yanta, my constant iMessage companions who were always there to talk me down from a panicked state of “This book will never get done! Ever!” You were right, of course. It got done, and it’s extra fabulous thanks to your help in nudging me in the right direction.

For my family, especially my husband, for their unflagging patience when I drop off the face of the earth for days at a time when I get on a roll.

And lastly, a huge shout-out to my fabulous in-laws, Tony and Patty LeDonne, for your insight into the inner workings of an Italian family. From the typical Sunday family dinner to what’s cooking on the stove, your input was invaluable. Your support of my career is much appreciated—so grateful to be Italian by marriage!

H
oly crap! You’re like,
that
guy! You’re
the
cop!”

Luc Moretti deliberately ignored the high-pitched squeal.

He took a slow sip of his much-needed coffee and threw up a silent prayer that for once, the women would be talking about some other cop.

“Tina, it
is
him! The cop from the YouTube video!”

Shit.

Pray as he might, it was
never
some other officer who was subjected to overenthusiastic hero worship. Not these days, anyway. It was always
Luc
who couldn’t do so much as get on the A train without hearing some form of,
hey, aren’t you that guy…
?

Yes
. Yes he was that fucking guy. Unfortunately.

“Can we get a picture with you?” one of the women asked as they both closed in on him.

“Actually, I—”

Luc’s ready protest was interrupted by the deep voice of his partner.

“Ladies, ladies, let’s give Officer Moretti some space! The man likes to refresh his makeup before a photo op. Moretti, did you bring that special lip balm you like to use? The one you say makes your lips all rosy?”

Luc’s eyes narrowed at his partner as he reached up and scratched his nose with his middle finger.

Both women had already pulled cell phones out of their purses, ready for a shot with New York’s latest hero.

Luc shot another
fuck you
glare at his partner, but Sawyer Lopez was already reaching for the girls’ phones, gesturing his hands in an “all-together-now” motion.

Two curvy blondes flanked Luc on either side. Their too-sweet perfume was ruining his caffeine buzz, but he smiled for the picture anyway. The grin was habit, if not exactly genuine.

Once, Luc’s smiles for pretty women had been easy and authentic. Now they were reflexive, born out of a month’s worth of misplaced hero worship.

Sawyer Lopez, on the other hand, had no such hang-ups, and was in full charm mode.

“So where you ladies visiting from?” Lopez asked, handing the girls back their phones.

Luc took another sip of his increasingly cold coffee and rolled his eyes. At least
someone
was profiting from Luc’s brush with fame.

“Little Rock,” the taller blonde said, her fingers moving rapidly over the screen of her phone.

Luc had no doubt that his face had just been plastered all over every possible social media site. Again.

“Ah, that explains the cute southern accent,” Lopez told the woman with a wink.

Uh huh. It
also
explained what the women were doing wandering around Times Square—a place no New Yorker would be caught dead in unless someone paid them to be there.

In Luc and Lopez’s case, that
someone
doing the paying was the NYPD.

Crowd control in midtown wasn’t exactly the sexy part of being a New York cop, but it was a necessary one, especially on days where the latest teen pop star was giving a concert at 47th and Broadway.

Times Square was every cop’s least favorite gig. But when there was a concert, parade, or holiday, it was all hands on deck.

“How long you here for?” Lopez asked, still trying to get the women to notice that he was giving them his best smile. They barely responded, still busy on their phones, and Luc nearly grinned at the irritation on his partner’s face.

A month ago, Sawyer Lopez could have gotten the attention of just about any woman he wanted. With the dark skin and jet-black hair of his Latino father, and the pale blue eyes of a Norwegian mother, he was never short on female company.

Then Luc had become an overnight sensation, and now Lopez had to work twice as hard for his share of female attention. Luc would be gloating if the whole situation hadn’t been so damned annoying.

“Excuse me, Officer, could you help us for a second? We’re trying to find the Hilton—”

Luc turned to the tired-looking couple dragging around enormous suitcases and a cranky-looking toddler. Their expressions were more exhausted than star-struck, and he smiled when he realized they didn’t recognize him.

He’d nearly forgotten how good it felt to be anonymous.

By the time Luc pointed the tourists to their hotel, his partner had finally managed to recapture the blondes’ attention.

“Oh
God,
no,” Lopez was saying. “Listen, you want
real
New York pizza, you’re going to walk a bit. I’d recommend—”

Ah, shit
. Once Lopez got started talking about pizza, he could go on for hours.

And since Lopez only shared his “pizza secrets” when he was trying to get laid, experience told Luc he was on the verge of being roped into a double date with a couple of Arkansas tourists.

“Lopez. Let’s move out,” Luc snapped.

The two women blinked in surprise at Luc’s sharp tone, and he felt a sting of regret for being a complete and utter dick.

He used to be good around women. Back when women had liked him for
him
. Back when he’d been just regular Luc, not Super Cop Moretti.

But then everything had changed. Thanks to a couple of tourists with camera phones and impeccable timing, Luc’s life had become a damned carnival.

Luc gave a slow smile to soften the blow of his irritation. “Sorry, ladies. Duty calls.”

His partner grunted something that sounded like
horseshit
.

Lopez had a point. Luc’s excuse
was
a load of BS. The only duty they had at the moment was making sure Broadway didn’t turn into a stampede.

But the women nodded in wide-eyed understanding at Luc. “New York’s so lucky to have a cop like you.”

Luc heard the words like a jab to the jugular, although he forced himself to smile through the wave of darkness that rushed over him. These women didn’t have a clue just how undeserving of praise he was. Nobody did.

Pushing the haunting thoughts away before they could fully take hold, he gave the women a wide smile before dragging his partner away.

“I need a disguise,” Luc muttered.

“Nah. Embrace it, man. Get yourself a cape. I’m thinking velvet,” Lopez said. “I bet Clark Kent knows just the place to get that shit dry-cleaned.”

“Hilarious. I haven’t heard a million superhero jokes from my brothers, so please, bring it on.”

Lopez grinned unabashedly. “I bet the Moretti cop clan is loving their little
bambino
being all famous and shit.”

“You have no idea,” Luc muttered.

Luc was the youngest in a family of cops. He couldn’t even get in the door to Sunday dinner without his brothers bursting out of the bushes, pretending to be the paparazzi.

Generally speaking, his
bambino
status was hell, but he’d happily go back to taking shit about being the baby over this latest brush-with-fame crap.

Lopez skidded to a halt beside Luc, his eyes boring through the crowd as he slowly extended a warning finger. Luc followed his partner’s glare to a sulky teen boy in saggy jeans and greasy hair parted down the middle. The kid was seconds away from attempting to ride his skateboard down a very busy midtown sidewalk.

Lopez said it all with one finger and look.
Not cool, kid. Don’t make me come over there.

Luckily the kid correctly interpreted the warning and had enough sense to keep his board tucked under his arm until he got to a less crowded part of the city. Or at least until he got out of sight of cops.

“Wish they were all that easy,” Luc said as they resumed walking.

Lopez grunted before turning his attention back to Luc. “So how’s your dad reacting to your newfound celebrity? I bet Big T’s either disgusted at the circus or thrilled at the prestige.”

“A little of both,” Luc said, tossing his coffee cup in the trash. “He’s always thought cops were supposed to be unsung heroes, but he’s not above wanting the Department to look good.”

“Even now?” Lopez asked. “He’s retired. He’s not supposed to care about anything other than sports and annoying your mom.”

“
Especially
now,” Luc replied.

“Ah,” Lopez said, nodding in understanding. “He bored?”

Luc grunted as he surveyed the crowd out of habit. “Just last week he threatened to take up paint-by-numbers if one of us didn’t go over there to watch the game with him.”

“Can’t be easy for the guy,” Lopez replied. “One day you’re head of the fucking NYPD, the next day,
bam
, you’re looking at a future of mundane arts and crafts projects.”

Lopez had a valid point. Just a year ago, Tony Moretti had stepped down as police commissioner. The adjustment to retirement had been a rough one, made easier only by the fact that four out of four sons were cops to carry on his legacy.

Or so Tony liked to claim.

What Luc was pretty sure his father
actually
meant was that Luc’s three older brothers were carrying on the family legacy. But Luc…Luc suspected that deep down, his father didn’t expect much out of Luc. Not since the Shayna Johnson case had gone to shit.

Luc’s brothers may push the envelope on respect for authority, but none of them had had their partner die on the job.

No,
that
horror was Luc’s private torture. Private, because nobody talked about it. Ever.

But at least the rest of the Moretti siblings were on a clear path toward securing the Moretti family name as NYPD royalty. Despite his brothers’ penchant for bending the rules, all had made a name for themselves as some of the city’s best.

Luc’s oldest brother, Anthony, was next in line for captain in his zone.

Vincent was one of the city’s best homicide DTs.
The
best, according to Vin. Modesty had never been his strong suit.

Marco had taken his fair share of crap for moving to California to follow his girlfriend, but he too was moving up the ranks of the LAPD at an obnoxious rate.

And then there was Luc. Luc was just lowly Officer Moretti. The one with a dead partner. The responding officer on the Shayna Johnson case.

Until now. Now Luc was
that
cop. The hero. The one who couldn’t get a cup of coffee without the barista doing a double take and writing her phone number on the paper cup of his Americano.

For most cops, the attention would have been flattering at best, a nuisance at worst.

But for Luc, it was pure torture.

Because only he really understood that Luc Moretti was as far from
heroic
as it was possible to get.