Point of No Return (13 page)

I damn near came right there.

He laughed, and I went back to work with an aching dick. I told the boys my sessions were longer because I'd started kickboxing on top of my usual boxing, and they didn't even blink an eyelid. Instead, they told me I was a sucker for punishment and couldn't believe I paid good money to get beaten up.

Still, they never suspected a thing.

I wanted to tell Mitch. I wanted to share it with him, but we were tired and stressed after such a busy week, and I didn't need to blindside him with news of exactly just who Kira was.

The next week wasn't much better. Not only was the case sucking up all my time, it was always on my mind.

On Thursday, after not seeing Kira in what felt like forever, I got to his place a little after eight with Chinese food and apologies.

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"You don't have to keep saying sorry," Kira told me. "I know you didn't become one of the best cops in LA without long hours." But the disappointment on his face betrayed him.

"I'm sorry, babe," I said again, but he kissed me quiet, pressing his warm soft lips to mine.

Then I told him I wouldn't see him all weekend, and I watched his face fall.

"See?" I cried. "This is what I meant when I told you my job is hard on relationships!" I was scared of what this meant and just exactly where this conversation might go.

"Hey," he said, holding my face. "It's not the hours that bother me." Then he admitted, "It's the psychopathic drug dealers you hunt down that bother me."

"Oh."

He smiled sadly. "I just worry, that's all."

This time I kissed him quiet before I smiled and told him, "That's why I have the awesome kickboxing trainer."

He didn't smile at my joke, so I swept the hair off his forehead and reassured him. "Kira, baby, please don't worry. I'll be fine."

Looking down between us, he asked, "Do I even want to know what psycho you're chasing down this weekend?"

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I didn't want to worry him, so I shook my head.

"No."

He fisted my shirt and pressed his forehead to mine.

His eyes slowly closed, fanning his dark lashes across his cheeks.

A sudden
need
came over me. I needed him. I needed him to have me.

I pulled him against me, relishing the feel of his body, his heat. I breathed in his scent, and when I kissed down his neck, I could taste him on my tongue. I needed to taste more… I took his face in my hands, kissing him for all I was worth.

He understood. He always did. Because he knew

just what I wanted, what I needed, he took me to bed, whispering how much he loved me. And he made me his.

Twice.

* * * *

Mitch and I waited until Friday night before we headed back to the docks to find Ferret.

He was there. Skittish and as high as a kite.

He told us Tomic's men had been around and how the drug cartel was still in order. "In fact," he said, looking around nervously, "it's stronger than ever."

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We reminded him again that Tomic was still behind bars. Ferret blinked, scrubbed his hands over his face, and rambled on about keeping track of days, but he could have sworn he saw him just last week.

"That's what you told us last time," Mitch told him.

Ferret blinked again. "When did I see you?" Then the little guy twitched and shook his head. "He's gone underground," he mumbled. "Something's about to go down." He rambled on about how there was a new shipment about to hit the street and about Tomic's men, his henchmen. They were more violent and unrestrained than ever and people were disappearing.

I sighed. It seemed Ferret was a lost cause. I paid him his money for his trouble but doubted we'd be calling in to see him again. As we left, Ferret scurried out before us as always. Mitch shook his head at me, silently telling me our snitch was a lost cause, and I nodded. As we headed out along the side of the dock, we saw two men confront Ferret, grabbing him.

"Been blabbing again?" the first guy asked.

"Did you rat us out, Ferret?" the second guy said.

The men were a fair size, street tough, with cold hard eyes, and Ferret squirmed in their grasp, denying blabbing about anything. "I didn't rat on anyone, I swear."

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We couldn't just leave him outnumbered.

"Gentlemen," I interrupted.

The two men looked at me, and they both smiled.

They didn't have to say, but it was obvious they knew we were cops. The second guy, who had tattoos up his neck, tightened his hold on Ferret in one hand, and the first guy, ever so casually, pulled a gun from his waistband and held it against Ferret's head.

Mitch and I had our guns drawn on instinct. Ferret paled, but his eyes were wide with fear.

"Let him go," Mitch said coolly.

"Penalty for snitching is lead injection," Tattoo Guy sneered.

"If you shoot him, we'll have to shoot you," I said with a shrug. "I'd rather not do that."

"Yeah," Mitch added. "The paperwork's a bitch."

The two men stared at us. We couldn't do anything.

If one of us fired, two or more of us died. We knew it. So did they.

The second guy smirked. "Let him go," he said to Tattoo Guy. "If we shoot them now, it'll ruin all the boss's fun."

Boss?

"Who's your boss?" I asked.

"And what's his 'fun' plan?" Mitch added.

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The two men sneered at us. "You'll find out soon enough." The second guy smiled menacingly. He thumbed the safety on his gun and slipped it into the waistband of his jeans. Tattoo Guy pushed Ferret to the ground at our feet, though we didn't watch our snitch scamper away. We watched the two thugs, who smiled and slipped into the darkness.

Mitch and I walked back to the car in silence, and after we'd gone a few blocks, Mitch growled. "Fuck!"

I looked at him. "You okay?"

He nodded, then looked at me with wide eyes.

"Thought he was gonna shoot you."

"Nah," I played it down. "I'm quicker than him."

Mitch was quiet for a while. "What do you think he meant about his 'boss's fun'?"

I looked from the road to him and back to the road before answering quietly. "I don't know."

"Do you get the feeling we're running out of time?"

I tried not to look too worried, but I nodded. "Yeah, I do."

He nodded back. "Yeah. Me too."

* * * *

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We got back to HQ, filled in reports and gave

descriptions of the two goons on the wharf, and a full account of what happened. It was after two AM when I let myself into Kira's.

I took my shoes off at the door, threw my jeans and shirt onto his bedroom floor and crawled into bed. I slid in against him, fitting protectively into his side, under his arm.

When I closed my eyes and could see a gun pointed at me point-blank, I snuggled in a little closer.

I'd never had something to live for before. I'd never had something to lose.

"Mm, you okay?" Kira's sleepy voice croaked.

"I am now."

He squeezed me and mumbled something I couldn't understand, and his breathing lulled me to sleep.

I woke up alone. It wasn't too unusual. Kira worked Saturday mornings, so I stretched out onto his side of the bed for a while and breathed in his smell. It made me smile.

I showered and shaved, thinking how my life with Kira in it was pretty damn great. I even shook my head at my smiling reflection. No wonder the guys at work knew something was up with me, I was smiling all the damn time.

But then I walked into the kitchen.

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The LA
Times
was on the kitchen counter, opened to page two with the headline
Close Call
. There was a photo of the dock and inserted file pictures of me and Mitch. The story went on to say two of the city's "Fab Four"' detectives were involved in an altercation with armed drug runners in an abandoned warehouse on the docks. How we were without back-up and lucky to escape with our lives.

How the hell the media got hold of stories so soon I could only guess, but when I read in the second paragraph how we were chased down and shot at, I pushed the paper away and rolled my eyes.

I made myself a coffee, and the longer I stared at the newspaper, the more I wondered why Kira left it open for me. I'd been in the paper before, and on TV, and it had never bothered him.

I grabbed my phone and typed out a quick message asking if I'd see him that night. I knew he was at work and would reply when he could, so I threw on one of his shirts and headed to work.

When my phone beeped with a message before

lunch and his name flashed on the screen, I smiled.

Expecting a usual smart but sexy message, his curt question threw me off guard.

So is it true?

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I typed out my response.
Is what true?

His response took a minute to come through.
Were
you shot at? Did you nearly die last night?

I remembered having the gun pointed at me. Fuck.

He was upset with me. Goddammit.

I picked up my phone and hit call, but it just rang out. Great. Now he was ignoring me. So I texted him again.

Can we talk about this tonight?

His reply was short and blunt.
Sorry, have to work
.

I considered texting back but didn't really want to have this conversation via text. So I phoned the gym. It wasn't too uncommon for me to phone to change

appointments or re-schedule, so when Chris answered my call, he thought nothing of it.

"You looking for a kickboxing appointment tonight?" he asked.

"Why's that?" I hedged.

"Frankie's closing up for me. He's got some appointments free later."

"Um…" I considered saying no, but it might be the only chance I got to see him. "Sure. Book me in for his last appointment."

"Okay, Matt," he said. "He'll see you at seven."

So just before seven, I called it a day. I headed straight to the gym, whereas the other guys opted to go

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straight home. I walked into the gym and almost ran into Chris. "I thought you had somewhere to be?" I joked.

"On my way now," he said, looking at his watch.

"Anniversary dinner," he explained. He looked back at Kira, who was just finishing up with a female officer.

"Frankie offered to close up for me so I could leave early.

Said he was only gonna get stood up anyway."

I looked at Kira. He was looking at me, and I knew he could hear our conversation. "Is that right?"

"Apparently," Chris said beside me. Then he said quietly, "He's been pissed off all day, so you'll wanna be on your toes tonight," he said with a nod toward the boxing room with a laugh. "Good luck."

"Yeah, thanks," I mumbled.

Walking in, I threw my towel over the rail on a treadmill and started my usual five mile run. I watched the woman talking to Kira, flirting with him shamelessly. He smiled at her, and she giggled. When she touched his arm, his eyes darted to me, but he smiled for her and laughed at whatever jokes she made.

I knew what he was doing.

He wanted me to see. He wanted me to watch, he wanted me to be jealous. He wanted to hurt me, because I hurt him.

Well, two could play that game.

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Without stopping my run, I took off my shirt and wiped down my face and chest. Kira watched me. I could see his jaw clench, then he looked back at the woman. She giggled some more and tried to flirt seductively, so he gave her an eye-sparkling grin. I pretended to clear my throat.

Some other guy called Kira over so the woman finally went on her way, and when he was done helping that person, he filled out some paperwork.

He still hadn't spoken to me.

I didn't know if it was because I was so tired, or if it was because my mind was fried, or if it was because Kira's anger had left a heavy ache in my chest, but the miles were hard.

I could normally do five miles with no worries, but not tonight. I was barely past three when the other cops left for the night, leaving the entire gym empty except for Kira and me. I hit the stop button, slowing to a walk.

Kira leaned against the service counter watching me, and with every minute of his silence, it got harder to breathe. Then he walked to the front door, and I heard the locks click into place. The treadmill had stopped, but I was still out of breath. He just watched me struggle, and still without a word, he walked into the boxing room.

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I followed him, and only after he turned to look at me for a long drawn out moment, did he speak. "Are you okay?"

I nodded, but fear and dread that he was about to tell me we were over were lumped in my stomach. "Kira, please—"

"Was the newspaper right?" he cut me off. "Was it you?"

"I was there," I told him with a nod.

His eyes flashed. "So how close was it?"

"They pointed a gun at us," I told him honestly.

"But no shots were fired. The media always exaggerates."

"Exaggerates!" he cried, and his tone surprised me.

"Jesus, Matt!" He threw his hands up and turned away, pacing.