Authors: Jill Sorenson
His eyes dropped to her mouth and lingered there. “No.”
She got the impression that he didn’t care what her lips said, or did, unless it included performing blow jobs. Her cheeks heated again as she imagined that scenario. The carpet on her knees. His hands in her hair. “Most people don’t.”
“Forensics means dead bodies to me,” he said. “But I’m still alive. For now.”
Mia didn’t blame him for assuming his days were numbered. He was in a very vulnerable position. “Forensic scientists often study evidence, including dead bodies, but forensics is anything related to law. Forensic psychologists work in the justice system. We counsel victims of crimes, correctional inmates, police officers…”
“You’ve worked with inmates?”
“I have.”
He gave her a skeptical look. “Male inmates?”
“No,” she admitted.
“Figures.”
“Why?”
“You’d start a riot in Chino.”
He was speaking of the prison where he’d spent almost four years. Mia didn’t acknowledge his comment on her appearance. Male patients had complimented her before. Sometimes they hit on her as a defense mechanism. Although she wanted Cole to find her attractive, she hoped she hadn’t overdone her makeup and outfit. She was conventionally pretty, not a bombshell. Her curves weren’t riot-worthy.
Clearing her throat, she soldiered on. “The important thing to be aware of is that there is no confidentiality agreement between us. If you share incriminating details, I’m under no obligation to keep them secret. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” she said. “I want you to feel safe here.”
“Safe,” he said, his lips twisting. “Right.”
“Being a criminal informant is incredibly stressful.”
“No shit.”
“In this space, you don’t have to pretend you’re anything else. You can let down your guard with me. I’m not an investigator.”
“You just work for them.”
“As an impartial consultant.”
“There’s no such thing as impartial.”
He wasn’t the trusting sort. That was fair; she wasn’t trustworthy.
“I have to evaluate officers, too, so I’m hardly one of their cronies. My assessments wouldn’t be very useful if they were biased.”
His eyes slid down her legs and back up. “Why you?”
“Why me?”
“They picked you for a reason.”
“I was qualified and available.”
“You’re young and hot. I’ve been in prison for years. They thought I’d be more likely to show up for a doctor who gave me a hard-on.”
His crude words sent a thrill down her spine. The sensation felt strange, foreign. As if her body belonged to someone else. Had the DA investigator chosen her to tempt Cole? She hadn’t considered this angle before, but it made sense. Damon Vargas was a shark. He’d asked her to work pro bono so they could keep this assignment off the books. As a victim of a home invasion robbery by motorcycle club members, Mia had a strong motivation to help the investigation. She also had to take extra precautions to protect her identity.
“These sessions are required,” she said.
“My participation isn’t.”
“I won’t be able to evaluate you as stable if you don’t cooperate.”
“I signed on to be a
rat
,” he said, leaning forward for emphasis. “I agreed to collect dirt on my uncle and regurgitate it to that DA prick. I didn’t say I’d sit in an office with a sweet little piece and cry about my childhood.”
Although his combative attitude was no surprise, she hadn’t expected him to be so frank. “We don’t have to do anything that makes you uncomfortable.”
“Looking at you makes me uncomfortable.”
She studied him with trepidation. He was quick and sharp, parrying like the object of his nickname. She didn’t know if she could handle him as a client, let alone for other activities.
“Would you prefer a male psychologist?”
“Hell no,” he said. “I’ve had enough male company.”
“Then I guess you’re stuck with me.”
He settled back in his chair, resigned.
She reached for her pen and notebook on the coffee table. The familiar weight in her hands felt reassuring. Professional. She’d never counseled an informant before. The last time she’d tangled with a violent criminal, he’d attempted to rape her and smothered her with a pillow.
She didn’t trust Cole not to hurt her. She didn’t trust any man.
But “Shank” Shepherd wasn’t known for abusing women. Cole had earned the nickname after taking vengeance on the man who’d raped his female cousin. He’d stabbed the perpetrator with a broken bottle, almost killing him. This vigilante act had led to his first felony arrest, a two-year stint for aggravated assault when he was just nineteen. His more recent sentence was for arson. Cole had torched a liquor store owned by a wife beater with motorcycle club ties.
The fact that Cole had been caught for these particular crimes didn’t mean he was a noble crusader for female victims. Some men took up arms because they liked to fight, not because they believed in the cause.
Mia didn’t choose Cole just because he had a soft spot for women. She chose him because they had common enemies. He had a hair-trigger temper and a tendency toward aggression. She needed a blunt tool, nothing more. She hadn’t considered his masculine appeal or his other good qualities, but she should have. An unattractive, morally repugnant man would be easier to use and discard.
“How do you feel about being here?” she asked.
“Trapped.”
“Coerced?”
“I made my own bed,” he said, after a pause.
“You can tell me if you’ve been mistreated by anyone in law enforcement.”
“I’m not worried about that. I can defend myself.”
She supposed that was true; he looked like a coiled mass of tension, ready to spring.
“According to your file, you were offered an early release in exchange for insider information about the Dirty Eleven Motorcycle Club. Your uncle is the president.”
“That’s right.”
“Investigator Vargas said you took the deal because two inmates made an attempt on your life.”
He touched the tattoo on his throat, reflexive.
“What happened?”
“They caught me in the laundry room, where I worked. One of them hooked me around the neck with a twisted towel.”
“How did you escape?”
“I flipped him over on his back and knocked the wind out of him. His buddy went down after a few punches. The first guy was harder to beat, but I got lucky with a choke hold. He was unconscious by the time the guards got there.”
“Why would they want to kill you?”
“They’re Aryan Brotherhood,” he said, shifting in his seat. “We don’t get along.”
“You and them, or them and your club?”
“Both.”
“Would they have made another attempt?”
“Definitely.”
“Could you transfer to another prison?”
“Not with only six months left in my sentence.”
“What about solitary confinement?”
“The guards are in their pockets. They can get me anywhere inside.”
“And outside?”
“I have more protection.”
Mia clutched the pen, nodding. No wonder he felt trapped. The Aryan Brotherhood was one of the most powerful prison gangs in California. Cole could either act as an informant or take his chances inside. If he failed to cooperate with the investigation, he’d get sent back to Chino to serve the rest of his sentence.
“You were released yesterday. How are you adjusting to the change?”
“Okay, I guess.”
“What have you struggled with?”
“Sounds. I’m used to prison sounds. Harsh noises that bounce off walls. Men shouting. The guards wear rubber-soled shoes that squeak on polished concrete. Even in the exercise field, it’s isolated. Every sound is confined. Out here, there are a million random noises. Traffic and music and open space. It goes on forever.”
“How does that make you feel?”
His brows drew together. “It doesn’t make me feel anything. It just is.”
“You’ve given a vivid description of the way you experience sounds.”
“So?”
“Sounds are difficult to put into words, like emotions. But you express yourself well. I’m sure you can apply that skill to describing your feelings. Articulate people are excellent candidates for therapy.”
He seemed insulted by her suggestion. “I don’t need therapy.”
“What do you need?”
“A ticket to Mexico and a fake ID.”
“You’re wearing an ankle monitor,” she reminded him. An alarm would go off if he tried to tamper with the device or leave the country.
He stared out the window, a muscle in his jaw flexing. Investigator Vargas considered Cole a flight risk. Fleeing to Mexico might be a safer choice than ratting out his uncle or returning to prison.
“Have you seen your uncle?” she asked.
“Not yet. I didn’t go home last night.”
“Where were you?”
“Out with the guys. At a club.”
“All night?”
“Most of it.”
“You left with someone?”
“What difference does it make?”
“We can talk about your prison time, if you’d rather.”
“I left with someone,” he said, drumming his fingertips on the wood armrest. “That’s why I went there. To get drunk and get laid.”
“How did it go?”
“Which part?”
“Any of it. You can describe the whole evening, or just focus on one moment that stands out to you. One feeling.”
“The music was too loud,” he said. “I had to lean in close to hear my buddies. That was annoying. They were talking while some of the girls were onstage, drinking more than watching. They were soft.”
“The dancers?”
“The guys. Men in prison are hard. Not just their bodies, but their faces and their attitudes. They’re on point all the time, defensive. The guys in my crew are more settled. Some of them have families.”
“And that makes them soft?”
“That and a beer gut, yeah.”
“Do you look down on them?”
“No, I envy them. The way they can just relax and not pay attention to every sound or movement.”
“Who did you go home with?”
“One of the strippers.”
“Was she attractive?”
His hands flexed on the armrest. “Yes.”
“Did you enjoy yourself?”
“Pretty much.”
“You don’t sound very enthusiastic.”
“It wasn’t my best performance.”
She smiled at the self-deprecating comment. “Are you going to see her again?”
He shrugged, smiling back at her. “Maybe.”
Mia figured he could have a different woman every night if he wanted to. That didn’t necessarily mean her plan would fail. But she wasn’t sure she could go through with it. He was so much more compelling in person. She’d approached the idea of seducing him with a certain amount of detachment. It was another unpleasant task to complete, an indignity to endure. She’d never thought she’d feel the slightest hint of attraction.
Their session was almost over, so she set aside her notebook and they discussed his next appointment. He was supposed to meet with her twice a week at 5 p.m. His “parole officer” was in an office down the hall. Mia was his “life coach.” He was required to check in with DA investigators before his visits with Mia. They’d be keeping close tabs on him but not following his every movement.
“Are you married?” Cole asked, glancing at her hands.
She realized that she’d been rubbing the empty spot on her ring finger. Nervous habit. “No, not anymore.”
“What happened?”
“He died.”
Cole didn’t say he was sorry for her loss. He didn’t say anything at all, and his silence was an overwhelming relief. She hadn’t known she’d wanted that. Needed it. For someone to just accept this news with calm quiet.
“My little brother died a few months ago,” he said finally.
Mia returned his favor and didn’t respond. It wasn’t easy.
“He got stabbed with his own knife and buried in a shallow grave in the badlands.”
“Were you close?”
Cole nodded. “He idolized me.”
She wondered if Cole would end up the same way. Another body in the desert, picked apart by crows. As he dropped his hand to the armrest, the letters on his knuckles caught her eye. T-I-C-K was spelled out across one. T-O-C-K said the other. She was about to ask what it meant when her phone trilled, signaling the end of the session.
“Time’s up?” he guessed.
She stood with him, smoothing her skirt. “Unfortunately, yes.”
He seemed relieved, as if talking to her had been torturous.
“You did well,” she said honestly. “I want you to feel comfortable here. I’m the only person outside of law enforcement who knows about your assignment. In this space, you have nothing to hide.”
“Everyone’s got something to hide,” he said, pinning her with his gaze.
She stared back at him in silent acknowledgment. If he knew what she was hiding, he’d never return to this office. He was a formidable opponent. She hoped she hadn’t made a mistake in selecting him to exact vengeance on her enemies. She might lose her career, her assumed identity—even her life. But this
existence
she’d eked out for herself wasn’t living, anyway. She was an empty shell of a person. She’d been numb for almost three years, burying herself in unsatisfying work. There was no joy. No peace. No solace.
Only her thoughts of retribution kept her going. She wanted the men who’d killed her husband and left her for dead to bleed out in the streets. And the weapon she’d chosen for the job was Cole “Shank” Shepherd.
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