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Only an idiot would tell Keltan that. He’d likely protest me doing such a thing as driving myself home when in the presence of such a strong, capable male as himself.
Another fossil, a different kind than Roger, one who was easier on the eyes, didn’t smell of cigarette smoke and throat lozenges, but a remnant of time gone by just the same.
A caveman who wanted to beat his chest with passion and make sure the woman he owned was not burdened by such things as independence.
Problem was, he didn’t own me anymore.
He never did.
Or at least that’s what I was telling myself.
“I got you,” he said firmly, his eyes flickering with something that made my stomach dip in an entirely unpleasant way.
That simple sentence, like everything with him, was so far from simple even Einstein would scratch his head trying to figure it out.
I retrieved my bag, ignoring the statement for the time being and focusing on the two men who had been easy to lie to and get rid of. “Officers, it’s been a pleasure. Let’s really never do this again,” I told them.
“Remember, anything else you remember, keep in touch. And we’ll do the same. Your testimony might be needed if we catch the perpetrator,” the older detective replied.
I smiled at him. “Well I do hope you catch him. The Old Spice and moustache were crimes in themselves. The murder too. Obviously.” I gave the body another glance, my stomach rolling once more at the realization that despite my blasé attitude towards it, knowing a woman had lost her life in such a grizzly way was getting to me.
Compartmentalization. That’s what people did with this stuff to get through the day, right? Put it in a box, lock it, swallow the key and get on with life. Keltan’s box was rattling with ferocity that chattered my teeth, but it was still locked.
It would stay that way. Because I had to get through this day. And every one after it.
I focused on the older officer. “I’d be glad to testify. Tell me the time, place and dress code, and I’m there. You’ve got my number. Now I’ve got places to be that don’t include dead bodies or any sort of blood.”
When I turned my back, intending on strutting out of the place as fast as my secondhand Louboutins would take me, a gentle but firm hand on my wrist stopped me.
“I said I’ve got you,” Keltan murmured, the words curling themselves around the box that was still rattling.
My eyes went to the large tanned hand circling my pale skin, staring at it just to make sure it was not, in fact, on fire like it felt it was. Not the fire that had erupted in that very same arm when I’d broken it what felt like a lifetime ago. No, a gentle burn that was somehow an inferno at the same time. One I was rather too tempted to burn in.
My hand yanked itself back, despite the carnal urge in me to let the touch remain there.
My eyes met his, blank and hiding any reaction to his touch. I hoped. “No, Keltan, you don’t.”
My meaning was more than clear on just how much that statement encompassed as I moved towards the door. It was a considerable effort—all the effort I had left, in fact—to make my gait unhurried and confident.
I heard him swear and then mumble something to his buddy who was lingering, as he had been during the entire interview, doing his best “menacing hot guy statue” impression. It was impressive, I’d give him that. And it also gave me an urge to go to New Zealand purely to conduct ethnographic research on this strange and fucking inhumanly hot species of male that existed there.
“Lucy!”
He caught me by the elbow just as I was leaving the apartment.
Yellow crime scene tape now kept out the various residents and spectators craning for a view of the body.
This may have been a nice building with tenants who prided themselves on their utter “betterness” in accordance to bank accounts, but that didn’t mean they weren’t as nosy as their “uncouth” counterparts when it came to a murder.
Murder scenes in L.A. were treated like spectator sport. Not just by journalists and police, who had become a little jaded by something as common as a garden-variety murder, but the bored and desensitized public who watched too much CSI.
I glanced down at the hand at my elbow, then up to the eyes that I’d only just begun to banish from my dreams. “Let me go, Keltan,” I said through gritted teeth.
“No,” he replied. “I’ve done that too often. Wasn’t too keen on the results.”
I stared him down, the box rattling so loud that the roar almost took up my ability to hear myself think.
Almost.
Self-preservation had those words, the stare, the mere presence of this man bouncing off my shield.
