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He eyes the pile of stuff on the bed before looking back at me. I don’t give him an explanation. The kiss I was obsessing over a couple of hours ago seems like a distant memory. How easy it is for one’s perspective to change in the blink of an eye, or in this case, the firing of a gun. Deep down I know that first bang I heard was the dead man getting shot.
“Where’s your luggage, love?”
I swallow, unsure if I can speak without stuttering.
“I don’t have any. Just the bags all the stuff came in.”
“Are they in the closet?”
I nod, knowing he’s trying to distract me, and I’m grateful for that, but I can’t keep my eyes from darting to the closed bedroom door. I move my body to the chair Deacon slept in my first night here. From this vantage point, I won’t be able to see out into the hallway if someone opens the door.
Flynn doesn’t blush or miss a beat when he begins folding my clothes and placing them with care into the bags. He doesn’t bat an eye as he matches each thong with the coordinating bra either. He’s clearly a professional, but it’s still embarrassing to see a man who will never put his hands on my body in a sexual way touch my undergarments.
I take deep breaths, closing my eyes all the while willing my heart rate to slow down. Just as I’m relaxing, the bedroom door swings open and the trembling doubles again.
Deacon walks in first, and it takes more energy than I can spare not to jump up and rush to him. I want to thank him for saving me. I want to make sure he’s okay since I selfishly internalized what happened tonight rather than immediately concerning myself with him being forced to kill someone to keep me safe.
Behind him is a stern-looking man in a white button-down shirt and khaki slacks. The gun and badge clipped to his belt leads me to believe he’s a detective, but until I know for sure, I watch Deacon in order to know what to do next.
“Coleman,” the newcomer says with a nod in Flynn’s direction.
Deacon watches Flynn folding my things for a long while, his jaw clenching and unclenching before he looks away.
“This is Detective Mendoza,” Deacon says as he hitches his thumb over his shoulder. “He’s got a few questions for you.”
Detective Mendoza takes a few steps toward me but stops when it’s clear that Deacon isn’t going to allow him to get between us. Deacon does turn to face the bed, giving me his back, and I’d pay good money to see the look on his face as he watches his friend and employee folding my belongings before placing them in the retail bags.
“Ms. Grimaldi, I work for the St. Louis Police Department. I’d like you to tell me what happened here tonight.”
I glance toward Deacon, and Detective Mendoza tracks the move.
“The truth,” he says with a hint of annoyance in his voice.
Deacon’s back stiffens, but he doesn’t turn back around.
I don’t know if it’s because it’s the middle of the night and they both wish they were still sleeping or if there’s bad blood between these two, but neither one is happy right now. Just that thought is ridiculous. There’s a dead man in the hall. Of course they’re not happy.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“I was sleeping,” I begin, somehow feeling like I’m already under interrogation even though I’m sitting on a French silk-covered chair in a posh hotel room. “I heard a bang.”
“There’s a man lying dead in the hall.”
I nod, swallowing again. “I know.”
“You know?” Mendoza looks over at Deacon, but Deacon doesn’t even turn his head to acknowledge the guy. “Mr. Black assures me you haven’t left the room.”
“I haven’t. He came in here and I saw the guy before he could close the door.”
“Do you know the man in the hallway?”
“Don’t fucking be ridiculous, Mendoza,” Deacon snaps.
“I didn’t really look at him. The blood,” tears begin to stream down my face, “all I saw was the blood.”
“So you’ve never heard of,” he looks down at the small tablet in his hands, “Sebastian Wilks?”
I shake my head.
“Ever heard of the Crips?”
“Everyone has heard of—”
“How much time do you spend in Benton Park West?”
Confusion draws my brows in, but it’s Deacon that emits a wild growl. “Wrap it up, Mendoza.”
The detective scowls, but he flips his notebook closed without another word. When he pulls a business card from his pocket, Deacon takes it rather than letting him get close enough to hand it to me.
“Call me if you think of anything else,” Mendoza mutters before walking back out of the room.
“Fifteen minutes,” Deacon tells Flynn before leaving as well. Once again, he doesn’t even look back at me before he leaves.
