Which, in a police officer, is either pretty sweetorhe’s not made for this job.
“I’m…” I pause, hesitate, shiver. “…fine.”
That has his jaw clenching. “Let’s get you your phone call.”
“Bathroom first, please?”
“Of course.”
He leads me to the restroom and surprises me by standing outside. I’m still cuffed, but the privacy is so wonderful after those assholes that I almost weep.
I do my business, relieved that I didn’t have to use the bucket again.I held it in for too long, but I wasn’t about to demean myself in front of those perverts unnecessarily.
Once outside of the cubicle, I take a second to clean up, but there isn’t much I can do with water and the scantest amount of soap left in the dispenser.
He knocks on the door as a gentle reminder and, not wanting to take advantage of his kindness, I hurry out.
After a slight dip of his chin, we carry on down the corridor. He pauses in front of a vending machine and buys a bottle of water and some candy and passes the water to me first after breaking the seal.
“You must let me reimburse you.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
When the first flush of water touches my tongue, my eyelashes flutter. But I pace myself because the urge to glut is strong and I can’t afford for the detectives to refuse me use of the bathroom.
I take the candy next, relieved for some sustenance. The glucose hit to my brain makes it whirl to life like an engine in terrible need of oil.
When we approach the phone, I stare at it for so long that the officer clears his throat.
Who do I call?
Brennan or Maxim?
Maxim, who I’m not sure…
No. Iamsure.
Right?
But Brennan…
O’Donnelly backing…
Irish Mob contacts…
The Russians…
Fuck.
“Miss?” the officer rushes. “You need to make your phone call.”
My hand shakes as I reach for the receiver.
I start to dial.
TWENTY-NINE
WHEN THE RUSSIAN AND IRISH MOBS DECIDED TO PLAY NICE
