Page 8 of Control (Everyday Heroes 3.50)
Is that why I’m pissed? Because he proved to me there’s no way I could handle myself if I were attacked?
Or is it because he stood there, confronting and frustrating me, making me so angry I totally missed the opportunity to admire how freaking hot he is with his shirt off?
Because what I remember of him…damn.
Get a grip.
He’s nothing.
You’re fine and can handle yourself.
But when I start the car, there’s a niggling feeling deep down that I know all of those are lies.
All three of them.
Chapter Three
Reznor
The beer is cold, the bar is crowded, and the music is some twangy shit that makes me feel like I’m back in the South…when I left its humid heat and sweet-talking women years ago.
Sweet talking. That sure as hell isn’t what comes to mind when I think of Desi from last night...and yet, she’s been on my mind more than I care to think about.
I nod subtly at the woman eyeing me and then shift to survey the local cop hangout, Hooligan’s. There are definitely boys in blue in here—you can tell by their walk, their attitude, their need to blow off steam—and it feels so odd to be on the outside of the unspoken bond between the men when I’m usually right in the fucking middle. The nucleus. The one they come to when they need advice, to talk, anything…
But this isn’t San Francisco.
This is Sunnyville, California. Home of grapes on the hills, wine in the cellars, and my temporary home for the next few months.
“Reznor fucking Mayne, is that you?”
Talk about a small world.
&nb
sp; I turn to see an old friend from the Academy moving across the space. He’s a little over six foot. Dark hair. Light eyes. The fucker has filled out since being in the same graduating class with me—when he knew this was what he was made to do, and I questioned whether I’d be able to stay on the right side of the law.
“Grant Malone? No shit.”
We shake hands, and he takes a seat beside me. The bartender slides a beer to him within seconds without him asking.
“Thanks, Timmy,” he says with a nod and then turns back to me. “You look good. What happened, did you have a run-in at a tattoo parlor?” He laughs as he takes in the sleeve covering my right arm.
“You know how it goes. We all have to tell our stories somewhere...mine just happens to be on my arms. Hell, if I’ve gotta be straight-laced, I might as well look like a badass while doing it.”
“You haven’t changed one bit.” Grant lifts his beer to his lips and shakes his head.
“And your skin is still art free,” I tease. “Still a cop?”
“Detective.”
“No shit?”
“No shit.”
“You like it?”
“It’s a smaller beat but—”
