Page 9 of The Wedding Party

We chat through the travel arrangements and a few minutes later, I climb into my car and crank up the heat. I don’t know about the fun Lana has predicted, but she’s right. I need a break, and not from my job or the press. From the me that only I know, which is a little too like my father. I need to get my head back on straight.

Chapter Seven

I don’t know how to talk to people if it’s not about dead bodies, murder, and alibis. I just don’t. I don’t pretend otherwise. That’s why Aiden and I get along. After years in law enforcement, he’s like me. Translation: he has no social skills. Date night to us is takeout and a murder file. In other words, why, why, why did I agree to attend a party of any kind, let alone one in another city that ensures I’ll have to travel with a friend I haven’t seen in years? My resistance and second thoughts are so extreme that I don’t start packing until thirty minutes before Lana will be at my house.

At present, I’m staring into my closet, wondering which of my numerous dresses fit and don’t fit since I’ve worn none of them in far too long. The idea of dressing up is not such a bad thing. I like dresses. I like being a woman. And truth be told, it’s been a long time since I was a woman, not just an FBI agent. And I’m certainly not worried the dresses will soften me up and hurt my job or backbone. There’s no reason I can’t be a woman and do my job and do it well. I’m actually thinking that maybe, just maybe, I need to be a bit more human right about now. Which, I remind myself, is why I need this weekend.

The doorbell rings and I grimace. Lana’s early and I’m not even close to done packing. I abandon my hunt for dresses and race down the stairs, but I don’t fling the door open as many would, not when I know all too well how many monsters who look like average men and women walk this earth. Instead, I pause, glance through the blinds covering a small window at the right of the door, and find Carson Whitlock standing on my porch. Whit, as I call him, and not to his liking, worked the Spider Man case with me. I have a love-hate relationship with him for about a hundred reasons, which he’ll probably make me list before he leaves.

He has a short memory.

I do not.

I open the door to bring him into view. He’s a big, broad, fit man with dark hair and a goatee speckled with a hint of gray.

“What are you doing here?” I demand.

“Don’t hate me,” he says, holding up two cups. “I brought Starbucks. White mocha. Your favorite,” he singsongs.

“I can’t be bribed.”

“This is Starbucks. Yes, you can.”

He’d be right any other time. But not this time. Not after he went all Eddie Castle on Spider Man by beating the shit out of him, and kept on beating him, even after he was unconscious. He made me lie for him and say we found him that way. Okay, he didn’t make me. I did it on my own, and too easily.

When I don’t move, he says, “I fucked up, Castle, but he killed six people, and one of them was a kid. The kid got to me. Let me come in.”

I hesitate, but damn it, we were friends. I think we still are, but I just don’t know. And he has saved my life, and vice versa, more than once. I take the cup. “Only because you have coffee.” I sip the warm, sweet beverage, which hits the spot oh so well. “And I have to pack for a trip, so follow me to the bedroom.” I turn and start walking, leaving him to shut the door.

I’m back in the bedroom when he catches up. “Where you headed?” he says, leaning on the doorframe.

“Estes Park,” I say, walking into the bathroom and grabbing several items before returning to the bed and my bag. “A bachelor/bachelorette combo party, whatever that means. A friend convinced me to go.”

“Hell yeah. Sounds fun. I’ll go with you. Lots of drinking and stumbling back to the hotel room and shit. I’m in.”

I give him a side-eye. “You’re not going with me.”

“Whatever. I’ve got a case anyway. That’s why I’m here. To get you to profile this asshole for me.”

“How do you have a case?” I challenge, straightening to study him. “We’re on forced leave. Remember?”

“How can I not remember that stupid counselor asking me all about my feelings, like I’d let Spider Man get in my head.”

“He did get in your head.”

“And yours. I’m cleared to go back to work anyway. I don’t know why they’re making me take off two more weeks. You cleared?”

“Yeah, I’m cleared,” I say, and just like him, I had to do the whole feelings thing with the counselor. “And yes, I have to take off two more weeks.” I get back to the real topic at hand. “How do you have a case?” I repeat.

“About that,” he says in that tight, thin-lipped way he speaks when he knows I won’t like what he has to say. “It’s a side gig. Contract job.”

I lower my chin and pin him in a stare. “My father,” I accuse, because he worships him. All of law enforcement worships him. “You’re working for my father.”

“Yes, but—”

“Are you kidding me right now? Acting like my father is what almost got us both fired.”

“I need to work, Castle. You might not need to work, you might want to luxuriate in Estes Park, but I need to work. When I don’t work, I drink, I fuck around. I get in trouble.” He motions to his head. “I get in my own head too much, and I lose my mind.”