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I smiled all the way to the feminine hygiene aisle.
All the while going through the week since we’d arrived back. I sensed that Hansen was not pleased with our impromptu field trip, considering I barely saw Liam apart from when he crawled into bed with me late at night. He fucked me in the darkness.
He whispered things to me in the darkness.
We were living a life that neither of us were meant to have.
And it wasn’t beautiful.
But I had more than three things on my list for the entire week.
So I was thinking of that simple thing and not the other thousand complicated things that were going to come soon.
Until a man in a cheap suit approached me while I was reaching for the Tampax and trying to dissect the fact that I was disappointed that I had my period. Not because that meant Liam and I couldn’t have sex. He showed me just how unafraid he was of blood.
I blushed at the mere thought of it.
And I blushed at nothing. Definitely nothing to do with sex.
But never did I think I would be comfortable having sex at this time of the month. I always thought it would be uncomfortable and messy.
It was messy.
But it sure as shit wasn’t uncomfortable.
It turned out that I was not only unafraid of blood but turned on by it.
“Caroline Hargrave,” the man in the suit greeted.
I grabbed hold of the box of tampons before I turned to him. He didn’t even blanch at the box his eyes touched for a second. Points to him.
“Detective,” I replied, taking in his slightly weathered but not unattractive face. He didn’t have much in the way of muscle underneath his suit, but he had a gun and authority, which surely made him feel like he could bench four hundred.
He raised his brow. “That obvious, huh?”
I smiled tightly. “I wouldn’t be too hard on yourself, I’m more perceptive than most people.”
He folded his arms, casually, like he always had conversations with women he somehow knew the name of while she had her biker guard outside the door and holding a box of tampons.
“Ah, yes, most people are not world-renowned journalists,” he said.
I didn’t act surprised. Because the fact that he approached me, knowing my name, when I was alone told me everything that I needed to know. “I’m not world renowned. You’re flattering me, and men don’t normally flatter women without an ulterior motive.” I regarded him. “Mostly that motive is to sleep with them, but I’m guessing detectives don’t approach women in the feminine hygiene aisle, already knowing their name and their job with the purpose of getting a date.”
He chuckled. The sound was nice. Easy. Which had me on edge. Maybe I was so used to hard, to ugly that I didn’t know how to be around well-adjusted people.
But I had a feeling about this not unattractive—if poorly dressed—detective, who was not put off by tampons and had an easy laugh.
I was usually spot on with my feelings.
“Smart, and not one to mince words,” he observed. “I’m not trying to pick you up, but you’re making me reconsider that.”
The line was smooth, and somehow not creepy.
But it felt wrong.
Just like his smile and light eyes.
I didn’t have this instinct regarding the law before all this. I didn’t generalize them. In my line of work, I’d seen a lot of shitty cops do shitty things. Abuse their power. But cops were people, and there were a lot of shitty people in the world, it was just statistical that some of them would be given a badge.
I’d also seen cops who didn’t start out as shitty people, but a flawed justice system, long hours and seeing the worst of humanity on the daily ground them down to lazy, cynical and jaded people.
There were still good cops.
Just like there were still good people.
We just didn’t hear about them as much.
The man in front of me had all the signifiers of a good cop and a good person, but I didn’t like him.
Maybe I was inheriting the Sons of Templar’s uneasiness toward the law just like I was adopting their lifestyle in a way that a reporter shouldn’t.
“I’m not looking for a date,” I said in response.
He continued to smile. “I guess not. The Sons of Templar keep you pretty busy, don’t they?”
I clenched the flimsy box in my hand. “I don’t like what you’re implying.”
He shrugged. “I’m not implying anything. Just stating a fact.”
“A fact that you’ve got knowledge of because of surveillance,” I countered. “Who are you with?”
He reached inside his jacket to show me his badge.
“DEA, Detective Rickens,” I said, reading it. “In addition to being a world-renowned reporter, I’ve got a hell of a memory. For names. Faces. Badge numbers. You know, just in case anything to do with this is untoward.”
