Page 25 of Diesel’s Desire

I think about Morris finding out. I think about the department, about Johnson’s face if he ever heard, about every single officer who’s ever made a joke about somebody sleeping their way into a conflict of interest, and how I’ve laughed along at those jokes before, comfortable, superior, certain I’d never be the punchline.

I think about the ring in the evidence locker and the Halvorsen file. If either case leads to the Wicked Sinners, my relationship with their VP gives a defense attorney every reason to question my judgment. And they’d be right to ask.

I can’t untangle it sitting on my floor with a headache coming on.

I did this anyway. That’s the part that keeps circling back, cutting me every time it passes. I knew exactly what he was, exactly what it would cost me if anyone found out, and I let him walk me to my door and kiss me against the wall and stay until morning, like every rule I’ve built my whole life around suddenly stopped applying the second his hands found my hair.

I pull my knees tighter against my chest, and Thunder shifts closer, warm against my side, and I let myself sit there in the quiet a while longer, replaying every second of last night against every second of this morning, unable to decide which part of this I regret.

The cop who told him to leave.

Or the woman still sitting here on the floor, wishing he hadn’t listened.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand, and I know before I even check it that it’s going to be work. It’s always work. Ten past eight on a Saturday morning, and there’s no other reason for my phone to light up unless something’s gone wrong somewhere in this county that needs my particular brand of showing up and pretending I’ve got everything under control.

I get up, robe still tangled around me, Thunder groaning his displeasure at being abandoned, and I look at the screen.

Morris. New development on the county robbery. Call me.

Of course.

I sit on the edge of my bed, the same bed that still smells like Evan’s cologne and something warmer underneath it, and I stare at that message for a long moment before I make myself dial.

How am I supposed to walk into the station and look Morris in the eye?

But I know exactly what I’ll say if anybody asks, because I’ve had seventeen years of practice lying to myself about exactly this man, and apparently I’m still not done.

Nothing happened.

I press the phone to my ear and wait for Morris to pick up, and somewhere underneath the dread, underneath the shame already settling cold in my stomach, there’s a small, stubborn part of me still tasting his mouth on mine, still feeling his hands on my hips, still wondering how long I’ll manage to keep telling myself that lie before it stops working altogether.

15

DIESEL

The gravel lot’s still wet from last night’s rain when I pull in, tires kicking up that fine spray that gets everywhere, and I’m grinning like an idiot before I even cut the engine. Been grinning like that since I left Penny’s driveway, actually, which is a stupid thing for a grown man to admit even to himself.

I park next to Ryder’s bike and head for the clubhouse, boots loud on the gravel, still tasting her on my mouth if I’m honest about it, still feeling the ghost of her nails on my back.

The second I step through the door, something’s off.

Can’t put a finger on it right away. It’s not silence, exactly—the place is loud as ever, TV blaring some game nobody’s watching, somebody racking balls on the pool table—but there’s a shift in the air, a kind of attention that wasn’t there yesterday. Ace looks up from the bar. Doesn’t say anything. Just looks, and then looks back down at his beer like he’s suddenly really interested in the label.

Gunner’s the one who breaks first.

“There he is.” He’s got that grin on, the one that means trouble’s coming whether I want it or not. “Officer Friendly himself.”

I stop halfway to the bar. “The fuck did you just call me?”

“Heard you had a hot date last night.” Gunner leans back on his stool, arms crossed, entirely too pleased with himself. “The Depot, no less. Fancy.”

“Word travels fast,” I mutter.

“Word travels at the speed of Brenda seeing your truck outside a certain cop’s house all night,” Ryder pipes in from the pool table, not even looking up from his shot. “And Brenda called her sister. Who works the desk at the station.”

Christ. Of course it did. This is Briar Fork. A man can’t take a piss without three people knowing what color it was by sundown.

“So it’s true,” Ace says, finally looking up all the way, something more careful in his expression than Gunner’s teasing. “You and Penny Carpenter. Again.”