Page 134 of Dancing in the Dark

51

FLETCH

I glance across at the opening conference room door and watch Archer stalk across the threshold. His eyes move momentarily to the left, where Fabian and Bower stood for a while, but now they’re gone, locked up in Fabian’s office while they discuss the myriad ways they could screw my life and career.

Though I suppose a healed, mature, accountable man might acknowledge he screwed his own life up. They’re simply the guillotines perched perilously above his head.

“I have no clue why he’s always so damn grumpy.” Drake grins in my peripheral. “He should smile more. It would make him prettier.”

“Shut the fuck up, Banks. Fletch, let’s go.” Archer rips open his top drawer and takes out a set of car keys. “We’ve got places to be.”

I stare at my computer and the email inbox void of the bay footage we need to close our case.

“Fletch!”

“Yeah.” Groaning, I lock my screen and push to my feet. “On my way.”

“Trouble in paradise?” Drake leans back in his chair and tosses a tennis ball four feet above his head. “Never thought I’d see the day you two stopped wagging your tails for each other. Do you share toothbrushes, too?”

Fury beats in my veins as I cross the space between our desks and catch his ball on the next upward arch.

“Hey—”

I lob the fucker straight over the top of a dozen cops’ heads, skimming the toupee of a four-decade veteran detective and almost knocking him out.

“You know what your problem is?” I bring my eyes back down to Drake’s. “You lack adequate social skills and have no clue how to be an actual decent friend. You’re a damn good detective, and foisting the kid onto you might’ve been one of my best ideas ever. But you suck at maintaining genuine friendships, and I think that’s because you have almost no experience. Because you have no friends.”

“Fuck you. I do so!”

“Nah. You have acquaintances. Your father groomed you to go deep undercover the minute you were old enough to wipe your own ass, so the friends you had back then resulted from lies stacked on lies. Now you’re a forty-year-old man trying desperately to convince those same guys to like you, but you’re so out of practice, you think cracking jokes is a good way to go about it. Except your jokes suck, too.”

His eyes narrow to slits. “Miss me with the brotherly advice, Detective Fletcher. I’m good with my social connections the way things are.”

I point directly at Officer Clay. “What’s his momma’s name?”

“He— I…” Drake looks to his deathly pale rookie. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You know his pertinents because that’s the job. Age, race, height, and weight. I bet you even know his blood type.”

“So what if I do?”

“I guess I’m just curious if you know his momma’s name. It’s all fun and games for you to teach him how to be a damn good cop. Everyone knows you’re up to the task. But don’t discount his ability to teach you how to be a decent human being. Friends give a fuck about each other. They know things about each other. They share about their private lives.”

I didn’t tell Archer my secret.

And that’s why there’s trouble in paradise.

“Officer Clay’s mom’s name is Maisy, by the way. She’s young enough to still fall into your dating age bracket if you weren’t already head over heels for Ms. Swanson. His birthday is coming up in a little over a week, and he really enjoys going to Copeland Condors games. There, I got you started.” I feel a little bad for the way Clay’s face burns beet red, but my friendship is in trouble, and this is how I make myself feel better about it. “Smile more, Detective Banks. It’ll make you look prettier.” Spinning on my heels, I drop my shoulders and jog across the bullpen, past Fabian’s office and onto the escalators that cut through the belly of our building. I spy Archer’s back as he passes through the doors at the bottom and into the sun outside, so I skip every second step and leap to the crappy linoleum landing, then I push through the doors and search the long line of cruisers parked in a row.

“This way.”

I swing my gaze to the right and find him already walking, so I release the door and race along the sidewalk, sweat beading on my brow and trickling down my spine. But fuck, it has nothing to do with the late summer sun, and everything to do with my best friend.

“Arch—”

“Don’t talk to me yet.” He drops his hands into his pockets and charges forward, his jaw flexing and his eyes trained ahead.

“But, I wanna⁠—”