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Chapter Six
CONFESSION
I’d rather be pulled over by a cop
than have to talk to a priest.
OF ALL THE cops in the city, I had to get pulled over by the one I stood up? Really? Henri thought, as he stared into the arresting blue eyes he hadn’t been able to get out of his head. Arresting, ha, now there’s a joke.
“Can I please see your license and registration?”
Shit, okay. So we’re really doing this. “Sure thing…officer.” Henri looked up at the still-rumbling sky before returning his attention back to Blue. “You want to come around and get inside out of the rain?”
Blue—Bailey—looked at the empty passenger seat and frowned. “I don’t think so. How about you just give me what I need?”
Henri had to bite down on the inside of his cheek to fight back the urge he had to make a sexual comment, and wondered what it said about him that in a situation as fucked up as this one was turning out to be, his cock was still reacting.
“Sometime soon would be fantastic, Henri.”
“Yeah, right. One second.” Henri picked up his leather jacket off the seat beside him, dug out his wallet, and located his license. Then he flipped open the glove box, ready to grab the registration, and froze.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. This was not good. In fact, he’d been so caught off guard by seeing his almost one-night stand in front of him, accessorized with handcuffs, that he’d completely forgotten one of the main reasons he was super fucking careful not to get pulled over in this car.
“There a problem? Do you not have your registration?” Bailey shined the flashlight toward the open glove box, and Henri gritted his teeth, wishing that was the problem he had right then. “Henri?”
Knowing there was no way out of this, Henri grabbed what he needed and slammed the glove box shut, and as he handed it all over to Bailey, he flashed a tight smile.
He’d been wondering if this morning could get much worse as he’d driven across town in such shit-tastic weather, and when Bailey aimed his flashlight at the documents in his hand, Henri had his answer: yes, it could get much, much worse.
“Joel Priestley owns this car?”
“Kind of.”
“Kind of?” Bailey repeated, and Henri thought, Please, God, don’t let him call Joel.
Henri tried for his most winning grin. Maybe he could charm his way out of this somehow. “Yeah. He knows I have it, though. You don’t need to worry him about it.”
“Wait here.”
Or maybe not.
With the rain not easing up, and the water now sliding down the sharp angles of Bailey’s face as he headed back to his vehicle, he looked like a pissed-off version of Zeus about to strike Henri down with a bolt of lightning.
Henri watched him go in his rearview mirror, and with the water now soaking through Bailey’s rain jacket, the material molded to his body like a second skin.
Henri wasn’t sure what was about to happen next, if Bailey was going to call Priest. But one thing Henri did know: he might’ve been the one to leave that night in Oshkosh—something he now regretted even more after seeing Bailey again—but unless he was thrown into a jail cell tonight, Henri would find a way to finally have the man who’d been haunting his dreams.
BAILEY CLIMBED INTO his patrol car and yanked the door shut with a hard slam, his eyes glued to the back of the Aston Martin as he tried to make sense out of everything he’d just learned.
First: Henri lived in the same city he did. Second: he was driving around breaking the law in Priest’s car. And third: even though he might have to ticket the man, all Bailey could think about was why Henri had left that night. Why had he changed his mind when it was clear, even now, that the two of them wanted the same damn thing from one another?
It was official: his dick was now thinking for him, and not very clearly, apparently. Bailey took his hat off and ran a hand over his buzzed hair, then he gripped the back of his neck as he sat there for a minute and tried to remind himself he was a professional. An officer of the law, for God’s sake. But that was difficult when all his frustration and annoyance over the past couple of weeks was sitting in the car up ahead of him.
He stared at the photo on the license he was holding, and it annoyed him that Henri even managed to make that look good.
Henri Boudreaux. Even his last name was sexy. But then again, so were his eyes, his mouth, his voice— No, those things don’t matter. Bailey needed to stop getting sidetracked. He had a job to do, and while he knew he should issue a ticket, Bailey wanted to confirm that Henri’s story about Priest’s car was true.
