Shattered Glass(36)

Peter’s fingers pressed under my chin, lifting it up. Using a bandana he pulled from nowhere, he dabbed away the blood under my nose. My heart beat like we were still on the run. “I don’t like you,” he muttered. “You’re a closet case, and you’re only interested in my ass.” He rubbed my bruised nose. I whimpered. I was fairly sure he pressed harder than necessary.

“Sadist,” I groaned. I was so hard right now, I could probably come if he accidentally rubbed my knees. Not the best time, since I saw Luis pull the car up across the street.

“You’re too pretty,” he murmured. I’d have grinned if my nose wouldn’t protest.

“You want me,” I joked.

“Against my better judgment,” he admitted.

My fingers brushed against his stomach as I rested them on the ridge of his waistband. The shiver that I elicited thrilled me. “Hi,” I said with a stupid grin and a wince of pain.

“So eager,” he said, wetting the bandana with his tongue and wiping at my nose again. I cringed, immediately regretting the gesture as pain shot into my forehead.

“I like you,” I said honestly. “Even though you’re probably a criminal and are going to get me thrown off the force. And you kicked me. Broke my nose. Made me gay and refused to kiss me.”

“You don’t even know me,” Peter reiterated, stuffing the bandana in my pocket, and contemplating me for a few seconds. He stepped back and released my chin. “You need a name, I guess?” He popped a brow at me.

“Yeah,” I said, because that was the only coherent thought I had besides unf unf unf.

“I wish I could give you one. Even if I had it. Which I don’t. I just get calls for favors.” He shoved his hands into his pockets again, whipping the flop of hair out of his eyes. “Iss knows things. I can’t risk it.” The thought of him risking anything broke my heart a little. But it also made me more alert to my behavior. I was definitely more suspicious of his mannerisms at least. “But I might know someone who has more to give on Iss.”

“I need something from you. Something that justifies my not arresting you.”

He nodded once. “I’ll talk to my friend again. That’s the best I can do.”

“Okay. And, Peter? Don’t leave town,” I said. “Next time it won’t be me cuffing you. Joe’s not around to keep your record clean.” I was normally ruthless at my job. For a while Peter had clouded that instinct. Perhaps I’d see a bit more clearly now. “Besides, for our date Saturday? I was thinking less cell block and more movie house.” I said brightly.

His lips twitched, but he didn’t say no. I took that as ‘Oh, you sexy devil, Austin, I want to do you right here, but I’m super-duper excited about our date so I’ll wait’.

I was paraphrasing, of course.





Dave

Luis chewed me out the entire ride back to the station and continued his tirade for an extra fifteen minutes in the car after we arrived. I convinced him that Peter was going to come through with a name for us. That, combined with reminders that my law enforcement career, at least up to this point, had been impeccable and my standing in the way of him taking another bullet, finally shut him up.

I grew up Catholic. I was not above guilt trips.

He dropped me off at my Jag in sullen silence and left without a word. I turned on my car, and with nowhere to go, no one special to see, I drove aimlessly through the city.

For the hundredth time since Saturday, I wondered what the fuck I was doing. Apparently what I was doing was getting off on being lectured because I called Dave.

Knowing that he had spoken with Angelica. Knowing that he would not talk about Jesse—maybe even had purposefully forgotten him, like me—I still called.

“Buchnanan home, I’m Asa,” a bright soft voice greeted me.

Asa was almost five and insisted on doing things like answering the house phone and helping her mom with dinner.

“It’s uncle Oz, Asa. How’s my girl.”

“Mom says she’s mad, and it’s not nice for you to call her fat.”

I cringed again, making a splinter of pain rocket into my skull. “You’re right, Asa. That wasn’t nice. And Uncle Oz thinks you have the most beautiful mommy in the world.”

“Mom. Mom. Uncla Oz says you’re the most beautiful mom in the world.”

“Give mummy the phone, sötnos. Oz, the booties were perfect, but you didn’t have to.”

“Am I forgiven?”

“Always, Oz. I just teach you a little way to hold your tongue, yes?” Only the Buchanans used the nickname. I never told them how much I hated it. It didn’t matter, when they said it, it was different.