Bite My Fire: A Biting Love story. Page 2

  Viking Guy’s eyes chilled to ice blue. “None of your business.”

  He spoke in a dark rumble and radiated intensity. Ultra-alpha. I tamped down frissons of arousa…annoyance. One-handed, I whipped out my badge. “This says otherwise.”

  He barely glanced at it. “A cop?”

  “A detective. Tell me what you’re doing here. Now.” I underlined the word with a tiny push of my gun.

  “If you must know, I was patrolling. For my neighborhood watch. Please don’t shoot me—Detective.” He raised his hands and stepped back, though honestly, he didn’t seem all that worried.

  But he was cooperating. Slowly I holstered my gun. “Word of advice, buster. Don’t sneak up on people like that. It might get you killed.”

  He arched one blond brow, all arrogance. “Like the little man in the parking lot?”

  “What?” My hand snapped back to my holster. “How’d you know about that?”

  “The yellow tape does rather stand out.” The guy’s voice had smoothed down. When he wasn’t channeling Christian Bale his voice was dark silk, stroking my flesh like black satin sheets and lazy summer loving.

  Shit, suspect. Not bedroom material.

  Except thinking of that golden body, that satin voice in bed…I inched my hand from holster to jeans, surreptitiously adjusting the crotch.

  The guy’s eyes followed. His lips started curving.

  Part of me was annoyed, but part was struck dumb at what the curve did to his lips. Like a gently swelling sea, that half-smile could lap my shores anytime.

  Fuck, I was getting horny over a suspect. I had to get laid. I yanked out my notebook. “I’ll need your name and address. Then you and I are heading to the station for a chat.”

  “Ah. That might be a little difficult. I patrol until dawn.”

  That’s exactly how he said it. Not “until five” or “third shift”, but “until dawn”. I gave him my best cop glare. “Let’s start with your name. We’ll see about dawn.”

  He shrugged—I goggled. He was a big guy with massive shoulders, and that delicious, sinuous motion showed me he was all muscle. Acres of luscious, corded muscle.

  When he plucked the notebook from my hand, it was a good thing, because the pages were starting to rattle.

  Some blond men look pale and effeminate. There was nothing girly about the large dark hands engulfing my notebook. Handing him the pencil, my fingers brushed palms hard as iron.

  Great galloping Krispy Kremes. Touching him was as exciting as palming my gun. My thighs were fast slicking up, and it wasn’t sweat.

  I clamped my eyes shut in frustration and mortification. Years of unconsummated sexual foreplay were finally taking their toll. Apparently I wanted to jump the bones of anything wearing boxers and a blush, murder suspect or not.

  There was some scribbling, then the notebook and pencil were pressed into my hands. I took a deep breath, cooling my unwanted arousal. “Thanks for your cooperation. Now, if you’ll just come with me to the station…” I opened my eyes.

  He was gone.

  “What the hell?” I tore out my flashlight and panned the area, staring indignantly at empty streets and blank buildings.

  Where the heck was he? Viking guy wasn’t a small self-effacing dude who could disappear easily. Just to make sure, I touched my Spidey-sense. Nobody and nothing.

  How could he have gotten off my radar so quickly? He must have run like the wind. I flicked off the light, then flicked it back on at another thought. But no, he’d written a name and address in my notebook. The handwriting was bold and oddly runic.

  Bo Strongwell. Address on Seventh and Lincoln. Looked familiar…oh, shit.

  It was the address of my sister’s apartment.

  I marched up the river toward Lincoln, fueled by a prick of anger and a Viking-sized stabby sword of worry. Even at its largest, my entire family had fit on one five-by-eight photo. Dad, wife Brita, me, sister Gretchen, brother-in-law Steve, their daughter Stella.

  Half were dead now.

  My sister and niece were my only living relatives. Six months ago, after her husband Steve was killed, Gretchen moved to Seventh and Lincoln and became almost a recluse. She never invited me to her new digs, so I knew next to nothing about the apartment building where she lived. Since Steve had been her soul mate, I thought she was hurting bad and didn’t push. Now I wondered if I should have.

  My cell rang. Stifling a curse, I flipped it out. “O’Rourke.”

  “Elena, it’s Alice. Robbery in progress, the AllRighty-AllNighty convenience store. I need you to check it out.”

  “Can’t Keck do it?” Graveyard shift was two detectives, one car and one foot patrol. Or I guess with Ruffles, quack patrol. Keck drove our car.

  “He’s on a domestic disturbance.”

  “Blatzky?”

  “Still in the can.”

  “Shit.”

  “Good one,” Alice laughed. “Shit, shitter. Maybe you’re finally loosening up a bit.”

  “I didn’t mean… Oh, never mind.” A fricking robbery. Why me? I had a murder and a vanished suspect who lived at my sister’s address. But who else was there to handle the robbery? Not to mention it was my job. My sister had lived in that apartment the last six months without incident, and this time of night she’d be locked up safe and tight. I hoped. “Okay, Alice. I’m on it.”

  The AllRighty-AllNighty was a converted corner gas station on Ninth and Eisenhower. From my townhouse it was a two-minute walk, forty-nine seconds if I was jonesing for a pint of chocolate chip cookie dough. I checked my gun and backup piece and broke into a trot.

  The store’s empty two-car lot was lit bright as day. Peering through the big plate-glass window, I saw the Great Pyramid of Cheops.

  Oops, just a tower of MGD six-packs. But the Great Beeramid was between me and the checkout. I edged over to see the robbery still in progress.

  Trembling behind the register was owner Kurt Weiss. Wiry and blond, he resembled a poodle in pants. He was shaking so hard that if he really were a poodle, he’d have peed the floor.

  Threatening him was a hundred thirty pounds of ripped jeans, hooded sweatshirt and bad attitude. Magnifying the attitude about a thousand times was the bulge poking in Hoodie-man’s sweatshirt pocket.

  The distinctly gun-like bulge.

  My heart broke out thudding. The perp was possibly armed and dangerous, so I didn’t crash in, Miranda Rights blazing. Not with the innocent poodle…civilian in the line of fire. Best to get the robber out of the store before I took him down.

  But the downy-faced, gangly robber looked about fifteen. My heart kicked up a notch. Newbs were highly unpredictable. I needed to get inside in case the kid got violent.

  I drew my XD, muzzle grounded, and tiptoed toward the door. Silently I slid onto the old-fashioned pressure mat.

  The automatic door whooshed open with a shht, a duet with my startled shit. Of all the idiotic moves. The kid must have heard. I held my breath, ears straining.

  And winced. The Volka Polka radio station blasted my eardrums at open-road volume. Yeah, this was Meiers Corners—more German than bock beer and schnitzel. The mayor yearly petitioned the president (Reagan through Obama) to change the official national anthem to the “Beer Barrel Polka”. Both our radio stations were All Polka, All the Time.

  The automatic door was barely audible over the omnipresent oompa. Neither Kurt nor the kid paid any attention as I slipped in behind the beer display.

  A short stack of bills lay on the counter. Kurt’s mouth was moving. I pricked my ears. The “Clarinet Polka” clog-danced happily over my cochlea. Concentrating, I filtered through reedy deedles to pick out Kurt’s words.

  “That’s all the cash I got, kid. Really.” His voice was high and tight, but that was normal. He yipped like a poodle too.

  The kid pressed forward in his pocket. “How ’bout you look again.”

  “Please! Monday nights are slow. Just take the money and go.”

  “No w
ay, asshole. Look again.” The kid pressed harder in his pocket. “Or else!”

  Things might get messy. I grabbed my gun with both hands, flexed my fingers. Focused. My focus was so tight, the sudden electronic tweedle-tweedle drilled straight through my skull.

  Damn! What peckerhead’s cell was ringing? I was gonna slap that phone onto a mixer, stuff it up said peckerhead’s ass and hit purée. I was gonna…why was my hip buzzing?

  The “oh-no” second from hell hit me. I was the peckerhead. I dove for my pocket. Robbery in progress, and my cell phone was ringing. Two idiot moves in two minutes. This never happened to the CSI: Miami guys. Where was my head that I hadn’t powered off before going in? Big murder, sure. Escaped suspect living at my sister’s apartment, yeah. But still. I flipped the phone open to jab off the power.

  Heard a small “Elena? It’s Gretchen.”

  Speak of the devil. My sister. Just bend me over and spank me with a waffle iron. This didn’t even happen on Reno 911.

  Popping the phone to my ear, I whispered, “Gretch, now’s not a good time.”

  “Don’t you dare hang up.” Gretchen’s tone was strained, but as a six-month widow, she probably needed to get laid too. “You promised.”

  “Gretch—”

  “You said you’d babysit for me. No matter when.”

  There was a robbery going on. There was a robbery and my sister was asking me to babysit. This couldn’t even happen to Barney Fife. “We’ll talk about this later.”

  “You promised. It’s just a couple hours.”

  Kurt was digging under the counter for cash, stirring great clouds of dust. The punk shifted nervously from foot to foot, almost like he was going to pee. Why me? What demon of stupidity had I pissed off? Normally our biggest crime problem was amateur hookers.

  “Elena, you promised. Any time.” Her tone changed, softened. Became my baby sister. “What if I say please? Pretty please with puke on top?”

  Oh, for Pete’s sake. Worked on me every time. Still. “Okay,” I whispered. “Sure.”

  “You’ll do it?”

  “Yes.” I needed to talk to her anyway, not to mention corner Mr. Bo-Suspect-Strongwell. What better way than with an invitation?

  “Great! Six tonight.” She hung up.

  “Wha—?” Why tonight, of all nights? I checked my mental calendar. August eighteenth. Nope, hadn’t imagined it.

  Tonight was Gretchen’s wedding anniversary.

  Hoist the red flags. If I weren’t working…but I was. I punched off my phone, shoved it into my pocket.

  Another peek showed Kurt pulling the cash drawer and upending it on the counter. Dimes, nickels and quarters plinked and rolled.

  The kid fell to his knees, scooped up coins. When he got back up he clinked. “Fifty bucks and five forty-three in change. That’s piddling pathetic.” He pointed to a carton of cigarettes behind the counter. “If you can’t come up with the cash, gimme that.”

  Kurt gasped. “You want merchandise? I can’t do that!”

  “What are you yapping about? This is a fricking robbery!” The kid poked the thing in his pocket. I really hoped it wasn’t a gun. “C’mon, asshole. Hand over the butts.”

  I had to derail this, pronto, but without rushing the kid into doing something stupid. I cast through my mental Golden Book of Police Procedure, came up empty.

  Until a non-regulation idea leaped to mind. Not regs, but I was desperate. I holstered my gun, hoped like hell Kurt’s nerves hadn’t affected his brains. I pulled my driver’s license from my wallet. Popping my head around the beer display, I waved. When I had Kurt’s attention I flashed my license.

  Kurt blinked at me. Slowly, he turned to the kid. “I can’t sell cigarettes to a minor.”

  Praise the Great Donut. He got it.

  “I’m not a minor!”

  “I believe you,” Kurt said, “but I have to follow the rules. No cigarettes. Unless you’ve got some form of ID?”

  “Uh…yeah.” The punk groped around in his sweatshirt. “Yeah, of course I have ID. Just let me dig it out.”

  I nearly snorted. A law-abiding crook. Only in Meiers Corners.

  He fumbled out a nylon bifold. “Here.”

  “Albert Zeit.” Kurt’s voice was loud enough to carry over the still-noodling clarinet. “Nine-oh-one West Grant. Yeah, okay. You’re eighteen. Here’s the cigarettes.”

  “About damn time.” The kid swept up cash and carton and swaggered out the door, jingling like all eight of Santa’s reindeer. I made for the door after him.

  “Bad Girl Sex Tricks” caught my eye. Hey, all right. Kurt had stocked my favorite magazine, Sass-Cgal. I edged closer. “Five Naughty Positions Sure to Wow Him.”

  Ooh. That article looked mighty interesting. I reached for it, only to snap back. I had a job to do. Sucking up my celibacy, I hit the pressure mat and slid outside.

  The oompa slid out with me. Before I was halfway, the kid spun. Yanked his hand out of his sweatshirt.

  Pulled a gun.

  Time slowed, telescoped. In a year-long second, I went for my own firearm.

  Before I could reach it, a blast of wind came out of nowhere. Roaring and whirling, it caught my ponytail hard enough to pop the barrette. My hair flew into my eyes.

  I was totally blinded.

  My hair attacked me. Driven by the wind, my wild spirals became a writhing, carnivorously curly mass. My hair put me in a wrist lock and forced me to my knees. My own fucking hair.

  The wind roared louder, lashed like hot breath on the back of my neck. I thrashed to see. Vague shapes fought before me. I caught the impression of the kid—

  And another male, warrior hard. My whipping hair seemed to form a body strong and lithe as a racing clipper. Huge muscles pumped like steel cannonballs.

  My pussy did a slow, wet smile.

  Fuck. Just whap me with a billy club. In the middle of a robbery gone bad, and I was getting horny over the wind. I really needed to get laid.

  I pawed through my tresses. They stuck like slimy seaweed. An eternity passed before I finally fought clear.

  The wind was gone, the night eerily still. The kid lay on the sidewalk in front of me in fetal position. His wrists were tangled in his shoelaces.

  A squirt gun lay next to him. A damned squirt gun.

  The kid wasn’t moving. I fell on my knees beside him to check his pulse. He started wriggling. “Don’t! Don’t hurt me.”

  I patted his forearm to reassure him, pulled my hand back. His wrists hadn’t just gotten tangled in his shoelaces.

  His fingers were tied to his shoes.

  Bemused, I contacted dispatch. The domestic disturbance must have been resolved because Alice sent Keck. Then I got to work on the laces. It took me ten minutes to free the kid. A wind that tied Scout knots? Huh.

  When the patrol car rolled to the curb I ducked Zeit in and recited his name—and home address. Yeah, I sent the kid home. Robbery is a felony, sure. But this was Meiers Corners.

  We had the ultimate discipline. Pissed-off parents.

  –—

  It was now almost five a.m. I could have chased down Gretchen or tried to interview more suspects. But first shift came on at six and I shared my desk. If I wanted to start my paperwork, I had to do it before Lieutenant Roet claimed my space.

  Hoofing it toward the cop shop, my Spidey-sense kicked in. Not threatening, exactly. But letting me know I wasn’t alone.

  I slowed. The tingling had an odd overtone, something like danger, but not quite. Hand to gun, I stopped. “Who’s there?”

  The darkness swirled. When it resolved to the large, lithe body of murder suspect Bo Strongwell, I was more than a little disturbed. If he wasn’t dangerous, I didn’t know who was. I glared. “What’re you doing here?”

  Big blond and menacing glared back. “I was about to ask the same thing. I leave you alone for ten seconds and you get balled up in an armed robbery.”

  “The kid wasn’t armed…damn.” I hadn’t meant to give awa
y info. I planted fists on hips. “Hey, buster. I’m the cop.”

  Amusement touched his lips. “Not just cop. Detective.”

  So he remembered what I said when we first met. So what? It didn’t mean we were destined for each other or anything. “Yeah. Glad you remember it. Now, you’re here, why?”

  “As I told you, I’m on patrol.”

  “Right, until ‘dawn’. Where’d you run off to, before?”

  He gave me a slightly pitying look. “Patrol means ‘walking around’, Detective.”

  “I know what patrol—never mind. Listen, buster. You’re coming with me to the station.”

  “Certainly, I’ll walk with you.” He held out his hand, indicating I should precede him. The perfect gentleman. In an invincible, muscle-y sort of way.

  I jutted my own hand out, smiled like Freddy Krueger. I was not having a murder suspect at my back. He shrugged and sauntered off. I followed, and got an eyeful.

  Strongwell wore a pair of faded jeans that had been worn until they were maybe a molecule thick. And what they revealed…holy donut, the man had thighs like tree trunks and an ass like a stallion’s.

  Zero fat on his waist, back flaring into shoulders broad as a boulevard. His tight black tee showed off arms the size of Moscow. Lots of sleek, perfect skin mounding over muscles like small Volkswagens. The man could have made a fortune selling anabolics. “Do you wrestle?” I blurted without thinking.

  He turned his head slightly, one brow raised. “Are you offering?”

  “What? No.” Although wrestling with Mr. Mounds-o’-Muscle here, grabbing and bumping and writhing… “No, I was just, well, making conversation.” Embarrassment propelled me up alongside him.

  “Certainly. Then in the interests of making conversation, tell me about your case.” He ambled along next to me, hands in pockets, an expression of mild curiosity on his face.

  Hey, someone interested in my work. Nobody had asked me about it since Dad, so I opened my mouth to spew…and caught myself just in the nick. “I’m not able to divulge anything at this time.”

  “How professional of you, Detective. Am I a suspect?”

  My face heated. His lips curved, which made him so handsome my heart flipped. When his blue eyes joined in with a twinkle, my stomach melted and slid into my pudendum with a hot splat.