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Gabriel has no place here unless it’s behind bars.
I grit my teeth and slam my elbow into the bag hard enough for the reverberations to rattle my teeth.
The precinct, sucking for cash the way we are—my personal opinion is that Ashcroft won’t take any of the higher-up handouts like some of the other captains and so our department is being punished—has space for staff to work out in a dingy first floor of the old converted warehouse.
No. It’s not the boss who makes sure we’ve got no money and have to throw things together.
It’s because of people like Gabriel. People like him and his boss who run the city. Funding for the police is not a priority for people like that, with their slippery palms. For obvious reasons.
Jerry and his punk-ass partner Clint sidle up to me under the guise of warming up, Clint going so far as to grab his ankles for a deep quad stretch.
“Looks like someone is trying to work off some serious sexual frustration,” Jerry teases.
I ignore the jabs and keep working out, moving from the punching bag to an open space on the stinky mat and doing crunches.
Jerry, who does not know how to take a hint, looms over me and smiles. “What’s the matter, Layla?” he asks. “I’m right, aren’t I?”
“If you are, then it’s a look you know too well,” I grunt. Pushing out a breath and focusing on sucking in my lower ribs. “Since it’s a look you no doubt see whenever you have sex.”
When I’m sick and tired of the two of them staring down at me like vultures with fresh road kill, I push back to my feet and head back to the bag, ready to imagine their faces instead of Gabriel’s. Clint takes the bag and leans against it to keep it from being used.
“Apparently the chief’s pet got one hot case,” Jerry says.
Clint chuckles like a fucking sideshow clown.
“Let go of the bag or I’ll resume on your face,” I tell him.
Clint goes wide-eyed, and I swear his light-blond hair stands on end at the threat.
“You’ve got three seconds to go away.”
Jerry can’t help himself from goading. “Come on, he’s just a kid.”
“One.”
No movement.
“Two.”
Clint smiles, but it’s nothing like Jerry’s grin; maybe the pretty boy thing can turn off, if I push him far enough. Because the look on his face is less fear and more of a taunt, egging me on to do it, to give him a black eye and see what happens. I recognize the coldness.
It’s like looking in the mirror for a brief second.
“Three.”
I rear back to wail on him just as Devan calls out, “Sinclair!”
His voice echoes loudly enough through the empty warehouse space for everyone to stop what they’re doing and stare.
I grimace, ducking my head so that a loose piece of hair hides my face.Fuck this.
“How about you run along to your owner now, like a good little bitch,” Jerry taunts.
My fist accelerates toward his face, his weak chin practically begging me to do him a favor and add a little character. Suddenly Devan is there, grabbing my forearm to halt the movement.
“Let someone else deal with the garbage around here,” he mutters. “It’s beneath you.”
Jerry blusters and turns a delightful shade of purple at the comment. Before I have a chance to offer a much-needed retort and claim the last word for myself, Devan steers me out and up the elevator toward our office space.
