LifeoftheParty

Trudy Doyle

Crimes & Misdemeanors, Book
2

Detective Doug Welland never got
over the sexual obsession that was defense attorney Gina Bardone, even taking a
bullet to numb her rejection two years earlier. Now the fiery Gina is
Congressman Jack Falco’s chief of staff, and she’s back from D.C., in trouble
and begging for Doug’s help.

The last thing Gina ever wanted was
to destroy the love of her life, yet faced with divulging a sordid truth that could
crush them both, she chose to walk away.

Suddenly they’re given a second
chance while chasing down a cyber-stalker, and Doug must once again confront
their mutually erotic yet potentially fatal attraction. Gina knows she needs to
bare herself in every possible way to get Doug past his bitterness long enough
to give her the protection she so desperately needs, hoping the promise of love
will make it all worth the risk.

A Romantica®
erotic romantic suspense
from Ellora’s
Cave

Publisher’s Note: This title was
previously published elsewhere in 2009, and has been revised extensively for
Ellora’s Cave.

CAMDEN, NJ

TUESDAY 29 OCTOBER

7:42 A.M.

La Boca looked up from atop the peach crate, her mouth
crooking around flashy whites. “There he is!”

“What’s up,
chica
?” Lieutenant Doug Welland tipped
back his flask, the john scrambling past him and out of the alley. “So sorry to
break up the party.”

“You should be,” she said, ambling over. She swirled her
hand against the front of his trousers and smiled, licking crimsoned lips. “
Aii,
es enorme, chico! Enorme!
”

“So all the girlies tell me.” He brushed her hand away and
leaned into the brick wall as the whore reached into her satchel. “Cocktails
after cock, sweetheart?”

“Oh you so know me by now, doncha?” She took a slug of
Listerine, swishing before shooting a stream into the alley. “
La fórmula
original
,” she said, snapping off rubber gloves. “Cuts the nasty-nasty. Not
that
your
billy wouldn’t taste like
azucar
without it, hmm,
chico
?”

“The original Blow Pop,” he said, taking another pull from
the flask. No one gave head like La Boca Rodriguez, made doubly convenient
because the whore had a germ phobia. He glanced over as she worked her routine.
Rubber gloves, antiseptic rinse, preceding a dick duly swabbed. All for a
throat as deep as the Grand Canyon. Another quick swig.
So they say.

“You know, you just lost me twenty dollars,” she said.

He snorted. “I just saved you ten times that in bail.”

Her laugh sounded like gravel. “Aw, as if.” Then she peered
at him, squinting. “Hey, Mr. Doug—you okay?”

“Aces, sweetheart,” he lied.
Christ, my head hurts.

She dropped her toothbrush into her satchel. “I don’t think
so. I think you’re lying. And I think
mami
has to get tough.” She leaned
into him, her body warm and soft against his. “I think she gotta give you what
you need.”

Doug stared at her.
What I need.
He closed his eyes,
squeezing back the pain, knowing no matter what, it hardly ever eased. Not when
all he could do was think of
her
.

Then don’t think of her!
he told himself, but he did
anyway, and the next thing he knew his hand was easing around the back of the
whore’s neck and his mouth was seeking out La Boca’s
boca
. It would be
easy, and by the look on her face he knew it wouldn’t cost him a dime. Her
chest heaved, her lips parted on a sigh, her hand fell to his hip.
God, this
would be so easy.
Or would it? To fuck real pussy again?

As if he could. He let her go.
As if
was right.

“Okay,
chico
?” La Boca asked.

He smiled. “
Muy bueno
, sweetheart.” He pulled a
twenty from his pocket. “Here. For the trick I cost you.”

La Boca shoved it away. “Oh no. You know I can’t take no
money from you. I do that and
boom
, I’m riding in the back of your
police car.”

“What good would it do to arrest the best little cocksucker
in Camden?”

She beamed. “You said it,
chico
. And that’s why I—”

“There you are, Dougie-boy.”

Doug turned.
Oh Christ. Stewart.
He ran a hand
through his spiky blond hair. “Didn’t know they were flushing the sewers this
early in the morning.”

Lieutenant Wade Stewart tilted his gleaming brown head, lighting
a smoke as he leaned against the wall. “And look what they washed out. My ol’
pal.” Stewart caught the whore’s arm as she tried to slip past. “Hey,
cucaracha
,
where you going? Dougie ain’t the only one on the squad who needs his pipes
cleaned, you know.”

La Boca smiled sweetly. “You jumping over to my side of the
fence now,
mi chocolate
?” She slid her hand inside his jacket and up his
broad chest. “Let La Boca be the first.”

He grinned, pinching her cheek. “You’re missing my meaning,
hot pants. I’m just thinking all the dollars I could make off of you.” He
spanked her spandexed ass. “Now go on, get out of here.”

“
Con mucho gusto,
” she chirped, scuttling away.

“So, what you doing doggin’ me in alleys?” Doug asked.
“What, the boys holding out on you?”

Stewart’s mouth quirked, smoke shooting from his nostrils.
“You’re a sick motherfucker, you know that?”

Doug jabbed Stewart’s shoulder. “That’s what they’re saying,
sweet pea. And I’m kind of inclined to agree.” He walked to the curb, surveying
the line of boarded-up houses—the street so much meaner with the autumn leaves
half gone. “So what do you want, anyway?”

The detective flicked his cigarette to the sidewalk,
crushing it. “Not to put a damper on your buzz, but the captain wants to see
you. And since you’re not answering your phone, he had the brilliant idea that
maybe, just maybe, his partner might know where you were.”

Doug pulled out his phone, pressing it on. He scrolled,
seeing three messages from the captain, two from Stewart, one from a squeal and
one more from…he had no idea.

“Since when are you turning off your phone?” Stewart asked.

Who the hell was 609-387…? All it said was
New Jersey
.
“Aw…did you miss me?” He slid the phone into his pocket, scanning the street.
“Where’s the car?”

Stewart looked at him. “Where’s yours?”

Doug stepped into a gutter full of broken glass. “On a
gorgeous day like today? I’m out for a stroll.”

“Jesus,” Stewart said, aiming toward the unmarked Crown
Victoria. “You really don’t give a fuck, do you?”

“All part of the package, my boy,” Doug said, swinging
himself into the passenger seat. “Unlike you, I’m exactly what I seem.”

“Dude, my days on the down-low are ancient history. The
difference is I know it.”

Doug leaned back, took one more swig, then closed his eyes.
“Let me know when we’re there.”

“Asshole,” Stewart muttered, pulling into the street.

* * * * *

FIFTH DISTRICT, CITY OF CAMDEN POLICE DEPARTMENT

DETECTIVE UNIT

8:17A.M.

Doug looked to his partner, the squad room raucous with
uniforms, staff and witnesses, plus the random handcuffed suspect. “So what’s
he want?”

“I have no idea,” Stewart said, pouring a cup of hours-old
coffee. He glanced toward Captain Halchak’s glass-walled office. “Let me know
when you find out.”

Doug popped an Altoid. “You’re not coming?”

“Wasn’t invited.” Stewart smiled. “Give him my best.”

Doug turned toward the office. “Just what I fucking need.”

“That better be you, Welland,” he heard when he got there
and, straightening his tie, went in.

The captain glanced up from his computer, his index fingers
tapping away. “Your phone broken?”

Doug leaned against the door, hands in pockets. “No sir. It
must have accidentally shut off when I dropped it.”

“Really.”

He shrugged. “You know. Things happen.”

“Yeah. Like me, accidentally dropping you off the roster.”

“What?” he said, straightening.

A few more taps and the captain looked up. “Sit.”

After a moment or two, he did.

Captain Alex Halchak leaned back in his chair, assessing. A
thirty-year veteran, the captain was nearly unflappable. Except for a little
gray around the temples, he belied his fifty-four years with a fitness absent
in many men half his age. He took one more look at the computer screen then
turned to the detective thirteen years his junior.

“You’re officially on leave,” he said.

“You’re joking.”

The captain laughed. “I don’t joke. And you don’t have shit
to say about it.”

“I sure as hell do. I passed every physical they gave me,
even passed the psycho.”

“All except one.”

“Which one’s that?”

He leaned in. “Mine.”

Doug started to say something, then dropped it. He wanted to
punch the wall.

“Look, this isn’t easy for me. You’re a good cop and a smart
one too, and I’ll tell you why. You never let bullshit get in the way of common
sense. I mean, hell—take that partner of yours. No one wanted to work with him,
but you saw right away what he is doesn’t mean shit to the job.”

“Because I had my asshole sewed up.”

The captain laughed. “More like he could kick that ass six
ways to Sunday.”

“Well, that too.”

“The thing is,” Halchak continued, “it’s been two and a half
years, Welland, and still you’re dragging those chains. Normally I’d leave your
personal life alone, but unlike Stewart out there, it
is
screwing with
the job. Your judgment’s shot to hell.”

Doug felt his insides tighten. “Don’t tell me you’re talking
about the shooting again.”

“Oh now there’s a brilliant deduction.”

He’d never let it go, would he? A gang-banging two and a
half years earlier, he and his old partner. Each took a bullet, his partner a
round in his armor, Doug two inches from his heart.

“Drop it already,” said Doug, stiffening. “I have.”

“The hell you have. Face it, you should’ve never gone in
there.”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“You always have a choice. The thing is, Carmelli went in to
stop some bad guys. You went in to stop a bullet.”

Doug’s fingers clawed into the armrest. “Meaning no
disrespect, sir, but you’re way out of line.”

“Am I? Then explain to me why one of the best cops I ever
knew is becoming the worst. Who cares more about getting his drunk on than
protecting the innocents from the crazies, or about how many shitbuckets he can
piss off bad enough so they’ll pop him and get it over with. Listen, I’m all
for you proving me wrong, and if you want to do that, then here’s the thing.”
He pushed forward a slip of paper. “Call this number.”

Doug glanced at it. It was the same mystery number as on his
phone. “Who is this?”

The captain leveled his gaze. “Gina Bardone.”

It hit him like a sucker punch. “You can’t be serious.”

“That’s the second time you questioned my veracity, Welland.
You’d think by now you would’ve guessed I’m not playing here.” The captain’s
face hardened. “Listen, if I had put you on leave after it happened maybe we
could’ve skipped this whole drama, but I’m gonna fix that now, so get this.
Call the woman and face the damn thing once and for all, or spend the next six
months on the psycho couch. She’s in some kind of trouble and you’ve been
recommended to help her.”

He flew out of the chair, slamming it against the wall. “Who
the fuck in their right mind would ever recommend me for that?”

Captain Halchak turned back to his computer. “Only your old
partner. And he already knows you’re crazy.”

Carmelli.
The room went red.
Roark Motherfucking
Carmelli.
Doug might just have to kill him.

* * * * *

ADMIRAL WILSON BOULEVARD, CAMDEN

10:46 P.M.

Doug remembered a time when even a glance down Admiral
Wilson Boulevard would get him hard. Titty bars, peep shows, Live Nude
Dancing—everywhere a veritable cornucopia of hard flesh and fantasy. Now ever
since the Republican National Convention a few years back, the bridge road to
Philadelphia was as white-bread-boring as a church lady breakfast. Razed
buildings gave way to a tree-lined avenue with riverwalks, jogging trails and
monuments, though luckily enough, a few holdouts remained. Doug parked his
battered ’87 Dodge Aries and staggered into the LuLu Lounge, his mouth dry and
his brain seething.

The bartender looked up as a thonged and topless blonde
humped a pole to hip-hop behind him. “Hey, Dougie, whassup? Scotch?”

“What a lucky guess,” Doug said, scanning the dimly lit bar,
the couches, the curtained alcoves at the far end. “Tracy here?”

“Upstairs,” the barman said, pouring out a double. Doug
downed it, waggling his finger for another. “So, how’s things at the squad?”

Doug snatched the glass, downed it, then waggled for one
more. “It’s Disney World every day, Sal,” he said, snatching the glass and the
bottle before turning toward the staircase.

The bartender sniffed. “For you, I bet it is.”

The stairwell smelled of piss and perfume and Doug climbed
the steps two at a time, the pulsing music below giving way to the low thrum of
closed-door sex. He had known too many women like Tracy over the last couple of
years, used them like tools to get through the job, a necessity like water for
washing. He stopped at her door and knocked. When she said, “Come,” he could
almost take that for a given.

Tracy’s room was plush with pillows and scarf-filtered
light. She pushed up from a nest of sheets and tangled blankets, her chestnut
hair spilling over her naked back. “Hey, sugar,” she said in her Georgia drawl,
her voice still thick from sleep.

Doug leaned against the doorjamb, sipping scotch. “Got some
booty left for me?”

She jolted, flipping over, her surgically enhanced breasts
perking like two ripe cantaloupes. “Dougie! What’re you doing here!”

He set the bottle and the glass on the bedside table and
plopped heavily to the bed as Tracy sprang from it, kneeling to pull off his
shoes. He loosened his tie and slid off his jacket, revealing a holstered
semiautomatic. He shrugged it from his shoulder, tossed off his shirt and
slipped his holster back on.

Tracy thumbed the leather strap. “This makes me hot just
looking at it,” she whispered and, sliding a manicured hand up his tautly muscled
chest, urged him back onto the bed.

He stretched out on the mattress, gripping the brass bars of
the headboard. He could hear her breath intake sharply and he laughed to
himself at this effect he seemed to have on all the ladies, whores or not. He flexed
his arms, making his muscles bulge, and Tracy responded by stretching out next
to him, her pointed nipples pressing against his side.