The Drake House

Chapter 11

Nick had taken Trisha, of all places, to the house he was renting. He didn't know the town well enough yet to know where to go for dinner, and he was pretty sure she didn't want more gossip about them until it was on her terms.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught her glancing around the kitchen, trying to appear uninterested. He had a card table set up against the wall, in place of a formal, more traditional one, with a stack of unopened mail. The wallpaper, though in remarkable shape, was an old orange and green striped pattern and slightly faded. The cabinets were oak and contrasted the bright yellow countertops. If he was doing more than renting the house, he'd start renovating the kitchen.

Turning her attention back to him, she watched as he pulled white cartons of Chinese takeout from a brown bag, her lips fighting a grin.

"I haven't unpacked my dishes yet." The woman turned him from an experienced cop to a bumbling moron every time she was within a hundred yards. Flustered, he frowned. "Are paper plates okay?"

She appeared too amused to answer and he took her lack of response as a dire sign. "You know what? This was a bad idea. Let's go out."

She surprised him by placing her hands over his where he began to close up the cartons. "No, this is better than going out."

He jerked his head up, searching her face. "My furniture hasn't even come yet."

Instead of that inhibiting her, she snatched the stack of paper plates, two of the five cartons, and whirled for the living room. Dazed, he followed. Briefly skimming the two milk crates and nothing else but a floor lamp in the living room, she set the items down on one crate and sat as gracefully as possible in her dress on the unstained beige carpet.

He just stood, appalled, something close to admiration filling him. With her legs crossed in a short purple dress, she fidgeted with the other crate and parked it next to the first for a makeshift table.

It undid him. She undid him. She was a stark contrast to any female he had ever met before.

Fighting to ignore the urge to take her upstairs like a barbarian, he walked to the opposite wall and switched on the electric fireplace. He sat next to her as she dished out their takeout. It was too cozy a scene, as if they'd done it a thousand times before, comfortable with each other.

She had her hair pinned up in some sort of twist and he itched to pull it down. Recalling the way it fell around her face last week at her house, he envisioned himself grabbing hold of a handful of those strands and hauling her to him, roaming his tongue over that long neck, and plunging into her while she lay on the carpet. It was easier, so much easier, to dismiss her when she wore flannel and hid all her curves. When she aggravated him with sardonic and unamused smiles.

"You moved here from Milwaukee, right?" she asked, snapping him back.

He cleared his throat as she bit into her sweet and sour chicken. He wanted to be that fork so badly he broke out in a sweat. "Yes."

She raised her eyebrows and glared at him through impatient brown eyes. "Social butterfly, aren't you?" Even her flat tone was sexy. "Why?"

"Why what?"

Grinning fully, she shook her head and rolled those eyes. "Why did you move?"

He thought about avoiding her question, but decided against it. She might already know parts of the reason. "I shot a perp. They don't prepare you in the academy for how you feel after shooting someone. I figured I wouldn't have much opportunity to draw my weapon here." It was the half-truth, but it was all she needed to know for now. It was already more than he revealed to anyone outside the force.

She looked at him with an unreadable expression. "You had to kill?"

He answered her expression with one of his own. "It was him or my partner. I had less than a second to choose him."

Less than a second to choose Mitch over Johnny. And Johnny's eyes, staring into his own with shock and betrayal as blood gushed from the hole in his chest, had been enough for Nick to resign and bolt. Enough to leave him close to an empty shell of a man.

Her look was unwavering and long-lived. After several moments, she ever so slightly drew her brows together, her eyes showing compassion. Regret. "That must've been hard."

She had no idea. "It was my job."

Slowly, she nodded. She peered around the room and settled her gaze back to him. "So, when does the furniture come?"

Nick focused on now, drawing back to this time and place and not that dark alley a year ago. "Next week," he mumbled, tracing a finger over her cheek. When had he lifted his hand? He hadn't even realized he'd done it until she edged back, eyes round.

He decided on another approach. He had to touch her. Around her, colors were more vivid, breaking up his bleak world. He still couldn't smell or taste, but he wanted to know if he could sense touch. If he could feel some pleasure without pain, maybe there was hope for him yet. Gripping a napkin, he hesitantly brought it to the corner of her mouth to dab at a spot that wasn't there.

She drew in a shallow breath. Her tongue darted out and slid over her lip where the napkin had touched her. Eyes drawn to the movement, his pulse thrummed while he carefully masked and banked his growing desire, waiting for the pain to come.

He was a whisper from her face, close enough to breathe in her light fruity scent. Peaches, maybe?

Wait. Smell.

He could smell her. It had been a year since he'd last had that sense. Unsure whether this was a good or bad sign, he froze. In a way, it was so rewarding he nearly leapt from the floor and barked out a laugh.

But, s**t.

The pain came, almost sharp enough to make him cry out. A searing, hot stab in his gut that reminded him of the monster he was. How dare he feel a measure of happiness? How dare he drag her into his mess? Closing his eyes, he took a moment to breathe through it.

Trisha must've interpreted his expression all wrong. She eased back, humiliation tingeing her cheeks and hurt edging her eyes. "Look, I'm sorry Nancy got involved. It's obvious you don't want to do this, Nick."

He was such an asshole.

As she rose from the floor, he reached out, grasping her hand. He had to make her understand it wasn't that he didn't want to this, it was that he couldn't. "It's not you-"

She jerked her hand from his and stepped away, even more thoroughly insulted. God, he was on a roll.

"Now you're feeding me lines?" She yanked her coat from the hook.

"It's not a line."

She laughed. Bitterly. "Really?"

Christ, she could drive him mad with lust and make him want to throttle her in the course of minutes. "Really," he ground out. "I don't do lines."

She turned to leave, and if he didn't come out with the truth, at least part of it, then she was just going to be one more of his victims. He couldn't have that on his conscience. It was crowded as it was.

She already had her coat on and the front door open before he said, "I'm broken, Trish."

She turned, clearly confused, and shut the door. Her red lips parted twice before words escaped. "Broken, huh? Like a record."

Exactly, because records couldn't be fixed. "Since the shooting in Milwaukee, I haven't been right, haven't been normal. I can't feel pleasure without pain. I see very few things in color, and when I do, they're diluted. I can't smell the rain or taste my gum. So, 'it's not you' isn't a line to feed you. It's the truth."

She was staring at him with a cross between disbelief and wanting to understand. He expected her to call him a freak and leave. Demand he go on meds and be locked in a padded cell. It was nothing more than he deserved.

What he wasn't expecting was for her to take her coat off, hang it on the hook by the door, and sit down in front of the crates as if the past five minutes hadn't happened.

His gaze tracked every move of her lithe, curvy body. His heart beat a staccato rhythm, no more sure of what to make of her than his head. He clenched his fingers by his sides to control the urge to reach for her.

Swallowing, she mumbled, "You haven't eaten."

Christ. She wasa hell of a conundrum. He sat down next to her, a breath away, jaw twitching trying to hide a grin. "I'm not hungry." Not for food anyway. It had been awhile since he'd felt something other than self-contempt. He wanted her mouth on his. And so did she, if her heavy lids were any indication.

So he eased back. Swiftly. He watched her eyes grow wide again, probably pissed off for not kissing her. He liked her better with fire in her eyes.

"Where do your parents live?" he asked, needing to separate himself from the heat between them.

She stared at her plate. "Florida. Near Miami. They left the business to me and retired."

He picked up his egg roll so she'd eat some more. "How long ago?"

"Almost nine years."

"Any siblings?"

Her eyes narrowed to slits as if just catching on to his diversionary tactics. "No. I'm an only child and adopted. Mom and Dad were older when they found me in foster care."

Hell, he had no idea. He'd seen some shitty things in his time on the beat from the system. He'd hoped she wasn't in foster care long.

She studied him when he didn't respond. "What about you? Where is your family?"

"My parents are in Milwaukee. Both retired. Dad was a truck driver and Mom was a librarian."

Finally, she picked up her fork and took a bite. "Siblings?"

He'd known the question was coming, but his heart rate kicked anyway. "A sister in Milwaukee."

She grinned, surprising him. "Does she have those green eyes and long, dark lashes, too?"

Bethany flittered to mind, and he shook his head. "No, she looks like Mom. Red hair and blue eyes." At least she used to.

"Are you close?"

The question seemed harmless, just two strangers trying to know each other, but it wasn't. And there was no logical way to answer it, so he shrugged. Reaching for a fortune cookie, he cracked it open.

"You are adventurous and exciting," he read from the fortune. Funny, he was neither of those things.

"In bed." Her grin was wicked hot. "When reading a fortune cookie you have to say in bed afterward. It makes it more interesting."

Completely satisfied with herself, she cracked her cookie open as he drank deeply from his water bottle. It did little to cool his tight throat.

"Your dangerous nature can get you into trouble," she read.

He choked on his water and recapped his bottle while coughing violently. Clearing his throat not so charmingly, he whispered in a hoarse tone, "In bed."