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And even though I still want that lingerie I keep eyeing, I suddenly want to spend it all on this little guy.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Pulling out my cell phone as I make my way toward my desk, I pull up the contact number the chief supplied me with one week ago today. If it weren’t for the fact that all law enforcement cellular devices issued by the state department start with the same prefix, I’d think Chief made a mistake and gave me the wrong number. But it’s definitely police issued. It still could be the wrong number and an explanation why I’m not getting an answer or a call back.
There’s a small ache in the center of my chest as I stare at the ten-digit number. I don’t want to admit it to myself, but I am growing too comfortable with Gabriel in my life.
What’s not to like after all? Steph is right, he’s a good baby. And now that I’ve figured out the right formula to feed him, he’s had a lot fewer spit-ups. He’s more content and doesn’t cry as often. Hell, other than the middle of the night feedings and diaper changes, I can’t recall any little frets or cries in days.
Irritation and disgust settle in my stomach. I swear to God his mother needs to be strangled for abandoning him. Who the fuck does that? In all of my father’s faults—and there are a lot—he never left me or my brother. He worked a lot, still works a lot, and even though he wasn’t around for most of the important things, I never felt abandoned. Unloved? Sure, but never alone. Of course, I had Jackson.
I finally sigh, resolved. I don’t want to call this number. A part of me hopes I don’t get an answer. Gabe has already been abandoned by one person, I don’t want to give him over to just anyone.
“Hey, Andrews.”
I pause before pressing the call button, dropping my hand with my phone in it to my side. When I look up, Ronnie pushes back from his desk and stands. A smile graces his lips as he snatches something up and heads toward me.
“Whatcha got?” I ask.
Ronnie is a veteran detective that has been on the force nearly as long as Mike. And like Mike, age and the stress of the job is starting to mar his face. Where Mike is only just now starting to gray at his temples, Ronnie’s former head of golden-brown hair is nearly covered in salt.
He smiles, flashing his white teeth. For an older man, he isn’t bad looking. He’s still in shape. He came in second at the 10k run last month. I’d say that’s pretty good for a man in his forties. I came in tenth after all, but I don’t run daily like he does.
“Candy!” he beams. “Jess’s yearly school fundraiser.”
“Ah. I should’ve guessed,” I laugh.
He and his wife started their family late, and Jessica is the only child they have. I know they both wanted another one, but after years of trying they finally gave up, and so they pour every moment of their free time into their daughter.
Ronnie is a good dad. He spoils his kid too much, but then who am I to judge? Jessica is lucky to have warm, loving parents who want to give her the world.
“I can count on you to buy one, right?” He turns a set of brown puppy dog eyes on me for good measure.
If I didn’t know him like I do, if I hadn’t been in countless rooms when he’s interrogated criminals and pulled out confession after confession with sheer intimidation, I’d never think he was the same man selling his daughter’s chocolate-covered almonds.
“I’ll pay you for two, just let me grab my wallet from my desk.”
Side-stepping him, I set my smartphone on top of my desk then retrieve five bucks from my purse that’s tucked into the bottom drawer of my desk.
“Here,” I say outstretching my hand. “But you keep the chocolate. I don’t need it.”
“I don’t eat that fucking junk.” He laughs.
“No, you just peddle it on the rest of us.”
“Well, yeah.” He grins then turns serious. “Thanks, Bri.” Ronnie tips his chin.
“Anytime.”
When I plop down into my chair, I sign in on my computer and come face-to-face with the same photograph I was staring at earlier today; the one I had Miss Carlisle email to me last week. I’ve looked at this shot more times than it would be considered necessary. Not that any of my colleagues would know. I have a corner desk, so someone would have to be behind me or next to me looking over my shoulder to know what was on the screen of my computer.
There’s something about Drago that I haven’t quite put my finger on. And I’m not sure if it’s a good something or a bad something.
My eyes slide over to Brandon. He most definitely rubs me the wrong way. It’s not because of all the things I know he’s done or had a hand in at Sebastian Diaz’s command. It’s his eyes. They’re flat and the darkest of dark, like tar. And like Diaz, Brandon looks the part of someone capable of evil.
Maybe that’s my problem with Drago; he doesn’t. Before I can ponder that thought, my cell phone chimes with an incoming text message.
Looking down, I let out an annoyed groan. Fucking Houston.
