Heat: An Alpha Male Criminal Romance (A Hotter Than Hell Novel Book 1) (5 page)

After my apartment thug walks out, I immediately remove my gun, jam the magazine home, and load a round in the chamber. The gun remains in my hand as I check the apartment. Moon’s phone and my camera remain on the counter in my tiny kitchen. I slipped
my
phone into my back pocket at the beginning of my search.

Now I’m finished, though still angry. I walk to Moon’s phone, holster my gun to keep it close because I’m still unnerved, and start examining the iPhone. No contacts, no old text messages or voicemails—it’s clean. Hell, I can tell it’s brand new. I go through the apps to see if there’s anything on the phone that I need to worry about. Then I check for hidden apps and discover nothing. Last, I turn off the location feature.

Damn him. I don’t want a phone so he can contact me. I owe him nothing and don’t want him to call.

The phone in question buzzes in my hand and I jump. No, that wasn’t a small screech, I swear. I look down and see that it’s a text message.

Private number

Nothing in your home was

touched or examined. The

possibility of Dandridge

finding you was slim but

I felt it important to protect

your home until you arrived.

This phone will not track you

if you turn off the tracking

feature. I’m a very busy man

but I will take the time to

call you.

Lovely. Just what I need. And dammit I shouldn’t trust that Moon didn’t have my apartment searched or bugged. It kills me that I do. Stupid but true. My headache is reaching greater heights, so I down a few over-the-counter pain relievers. The ones Moon gave me helped a bit and I have no wooziness so I know they weren’t a narcotic. Possibly acetaminophen, better known as Tylenol. My choice is ibuprofen so I don’t risk acetaminophen overdose, not a pretty death. I release a long breath into the warm apartment air after swallowing the tablets and walk to the thermostat. I turn the air from ninety to eighty-four and gaze around my small living room.

It doubles as my office. I have a loveseat that I bought at a thrift store, a forty-two inch flat-screen bought on super clearance, and a $10 end table from a garage sale. They’re the only items that give the room an actual “living room” quality. A large desk with a cheap desk chair sit against the far wall and two, three-foot, locked filing cabinets stand to one side. While conducting my apartment search, I checked that the locks weren’t tampered with, but I didn’t check for the hidden keys. No cookie jar or coat pocket for me. For $5.99, I ordered a wall outlet safe that fits perfectly behind the wall plate. It looks like a wall electrical outlet and takes a specifically designed hexagon screwdriver key to open. The screwdriver is in my kitchen junk drawer along with several Philips and flat heads. I walk to the drawer, grab the hexagon, and snag my camera before I walk to the small wall safe. I push my emergency cash aside and grab the cabinet keys. I unlock the cabinet closest to my desk and pull out the file I need.

Penny Dandridge is written at the top. I sit down at my desk and open my laptop so I can download the pictures from my camera. They’re good and complete the job. I copy them to a thumb drive that I’ll give to Penny after I make an appointment with her. I should do that now, at least call her, but I need to lie down. I head to my loveseat and curl up, resting my head on a small throw pillow and close my eyes.

Sometime later a buzzing noise from my kitchen rouses me. I stand and the room tilts. It takes a moment for my equilibrium to return. My headache is thankfully gone. I touch the knot at the back of my head, which is still sore. I’ll live. I head to the kitchen counter and see that Moon texted me again, but this time his number isn’t blocked.

602-555-3142

You have a slight

concussion and need

to be woken throughout

the night. I’ll be checking

in every hour and expect

a return text or you’ll

have one of my men at

your door.

Oh yea? I should make him send one of those men. I refuse to think that this is compassionate or any kind of sweet. It’s control. I haven’t the foggiest idea what to do about it.

I decide to pick my battles. First, I program Moon’s number into contacts under the name aka Criminal.

Thank you for your

concern, unnecessary

but I’ll text back.

He doesn’t bother responding. I head to the bathroom, remove my clothes, and take a lukewarm shower using just the designated cold water. It’s a Phoenix summer thing. Cold water is lukewarm here, so why bother with the hot setting? After I’m washed and feeling better than I have since waking up in Moon’s compound, I head to my bedroom with my dirty clothes, gun, and phones. I pull on my favorite night shirt that I won in a radio contest a few years ago. It’s white with black lettering that says, “Rock-n-Roll Desert Nights,” and has the radio station logo below the words.

I place Moon’s phone, my phone, and my gun on the nightstand beside the bed and then push back the cotton comforter and climb between the sheets. Although it’s after eight at night, the sun continues shining outside. No problem. I’m asleep in minutes, my rackety ceiling fan creating the background noise I’ve grown accustomed to.

I groggily reply to Moon’s texts every hour throughout the night. I type only one word,
Alive
, and then instantly fall back to sleep.

Chapter Six

IT DOESN’T MATTER THAT
Moon woke me every hour; I’m a new person in the morning. All his texts but the last were on point and only asked if I was okay. The last one is making me grit my teeth, and this time it doesn’t hurt.

aka Criminal

Tonight, dinner.

My reply is again short and to the point.

No.

aka Criminal

I’ll pick you up at seven.

My growl is louder than the one Gomez gave me. If Moon thinks I’ll be here at seven, he’s insane. Am I running away? Damn straight and that pisses me off even more. I don’t run away from trouble, I run toward it. But this trouble is of an entirely different nature. It’s colossal trouble with a capital T.

I hit the shower again. This is what we do in the Valley of the Sun. We cool down in a shower at least twice a day and sometimes more. Hitting the pool counts too. Practically everyone has their own swimming pool or access to one. I plan to work out this afternoon after I’ve finished the business with Penny Dandridge, and I’ll shower again before I go to bed. I also have some phone calls to make regarding another case. This one is embezzlement, and no matter how much I hate math, I’ll take on anything and enjoy it more than finding out who’s screwing whom. I haven’t even had a good “Sancho” case recently. It’s all been men cheating on their wives. I’ve become so jaded, and I’m positive that the entire married male population is having sex outside their wedding vows.

I have exactly two cases right now. After I give Penny her pictures, I’ll have one. I dread what needs to be done next, but I have little choice. I’ll go by Terry Lewis’ office to see if he has anything for me. Just the thought turns my empty stomach upside down. Terry Lewis is the epitome of scumbag defense attorney, and going to his office, where he sits behind his behemoth desk in his slimy suit with his greasy hair and slender pointy stick fingers, makes me sick.

Even with thoughts of Terry fresh on my mind, I eat a bowl of cereal and drink two glasses of water before I e-mail Penny. I include the best picture of Harry with his dick swallowed whole and inform her I have the others on a thumb drive. I also mention that Harry was picked up by some goons for a prostitute he roughed up. I do not name the goons or Moon. Penny replies instantly. She’s packing her things while Harry is at the hospital having his broken fingers examined. Apparently she dropped him at the local medical center this morning and high-tailed it home. I’ll find out why he didn’t go to the hospital last night when I see her.

I guess if you knock around one of Moon’s prostitutes, your fingers mysteriously break. I also figure it’s better than dead. I have absolutely no sympathy for Dandridge. Maybe he’ll lose all desire to knock
anyone
around.

Penny is meeting me at Starbucks in an hour. I have just enough time to go by Terry’s office, or Terry the Fairy as I call him. From the way Terry stares at my tits and the rumors of all the women he’s been caught having sex with, I doubt he’s gay. It’s the color of his polyester suits and effeminate nature that gives him the nickname. Truth—Terry gives gay men a bad rep, and they don’t want to claim him either. The last time I saw Terry, he was wearing lime green. Where do you even find a suit in lime green?

I head out to Sally minus one cell phone. I’ll be damned if I carry Moon’s phone around. I have no idea what keeps me from throwing it in the outside dumpster.

I’m dressed in beige BDU trousers, a light blue tee, and my old police boots. My gun is attached to my belt and my cell, wallet, and the thumb drive for Penny are in the mid-thigh pocket. BDUs are the greatest carry-all trousers ever designed; I have seven pairs in assorted colors.

It’s nine in the morning and it’s already hotter than hell. The only good thing is during the early part of the day, Sally is parked in the shade. She’s still warm inside, but not the blistering burn I’ll deal with after visiting Terry’s office. I’m thankful that I can buckle up without squirming to avoid the hot metal of the seat belt.

Sally’s engine turns over without a gargle or choke. She actually purrs. Sally does not purr. Ever. So why, at this very moment, does her engine sound like a different car? I turn on the air conditioner and cold air filters through the vents. Not oscillating fan, barely cool air. No, this is downright chilly. This happens within sixty seconds.

I turn off the engine, march back into my apartment, and go straight to Moon’s phone. I angrily press the only name in the damn phone’s contacts.

I get three beeps for my trouble. No answer, no answering message asking me to leave a name and number. Three stupid beeps. “I don’t know if you will hear my message or not. Either way, I don’t appreciate whatever you did to my car. I owe you nothing. I will not be indebted to criminal drug and gun-running scum. You get me?”

I press the End button and turn on my kick ass cop boot-heels and head outside. If that message doesn’t give Moon a clue that I will not be a part of whatever game he’s playing, then he’s cracked in the head. I will not think about the possibility that my mouth and temper could land me in a six-foot hole. I’ve given up on the cement idea. A deep watery grave is more Moon’s style, or maybe he’ll have me drawn and quartered for speaking to him that way. I have a gun and I can take care of myself. He needs to back off and leave me the hell alone.

I start Sally up again, turn on her air, and pull onto Cactus Road heading east to I-17 south. I then take Dunlap east to 7
th
Avenue, turn left and backtrack north to Hatcher. It’s the quickest route. Terry the Fairy’s office is off Hatcher on the side of a strip mall in Sunnyslope’s Wendell Police District. It’s how I know Terry. This is the district I worked. There are some decent areas in Sunnyslope, but it’s mostly known for its eclectic crazies. I say eclectic because where else can you find a large community of homeless individuals with animal companions. Not just dogs either. Mama Kane has a goat and Cucumber Bill has a desert tortoise who loves Big Macs. Big, the desert tortoise, weighs about twenty-five pounds and should be an herbivore. Not Big, though he does eat some vegetables. It’s a McDonald’s Big Mac that gets his beak, or whatever you call his giant jaws, munching.

After I graduated the academy, I was thrilled about being sent to the Sunnyslope area for my field training. Sunnyslope sees lots of action, and every new cop wants the adrenaline rush that comes with busy shifts. After I passed my field training requirements, I never left, at least not until I was forced to retire.

Usually when I come this way, I bring a few treats for my animal friends. Today, I don’t have time. I’ll make time in the next few days and hit all the old haunts. What I will not do is drop by the station. I am no longer wanted there, which hurts.

I pull into the parking lot of Terry’s building and drive around to the side. As a cop, I hated Terry. He was the dirtbag lawyer who pounded me on my first DUI. I lost the case. Yes, it was my fault because I didn’t keep my eyes on my drunk one hundred percent of the time during the two fifteen-minute deprivation periods. After I was sworn in by the judge, Terry asked if I could have missed his client vomiting in his mouth. He asked this because vomiting in your mouth can cause the breathalyzer to give a higher reading.