THE DO-OVER (The Rooftop Crew #5)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Knox

“How come female police officers don’t get all the googly eyes you men do?” Patrice takes her sandwich from the pick-up counter and glances at a table full of women checking me out.

I don’t have nearly the same ego as my friends, but I can’t deny that I’m a good-looking guy. I also have twenty-twenty vision and I can see all the wedding rings on those women’s fingers as they sip their coffees. It doesn’t take police training to figure out that they’re at this all-night sandwich shop because of the crying woman in the middle. She hasn’t glanced in my direction once.

“It’s the whole fantasy thing. They imagine me using my cuffs on them while I worship their bodies.”

We find a two-person table by the windows and sit, quieting our radios so as not to disrupt the other patrons, but leaving them loud enough that we’ll hear a call come in.

“I don’t think they’re thinking anything like that when it comes to Ben,” she deadpans.

“Leave Ben out of this.”

She opens her sandwich. “Ben needs to get off desk duty and run a mile or two.”

Ben was hurt a year and a half ago and just never got off desk duty. He’s fine now and his injury was a result of slipping on a piece of garbage but he insists he prefers paperwork over policing now. It’s a running joke at the station. One of many.

I straighten the paper from my sandwich and pick up half of my Rueben.

“I should have gotten the Rueben,” Patrice says before nibbling on her turkey club.

“Then get the Rueben tomorrow.” I bite my sandwich, ignoring her stares of longing.

She lifts the top of her bun. “Ugh, they put mayonnaise on it. Didn’t you hear me say no mayonnaise?” She moves to get up from the table.

I sigh and push my sandwich toward her.

“You’re the best partner a girl could have.” Patrice smiles wide and bites into my Rueben.

I grab the corner of the paper her sandwich is on and lift the bread, seeing no mayonnaise at all. She laughs then chokes on her sandwich, quickly grabbing her drink.

I point at her. “That’s some insta-karma right there.”

Switching sandwiches isn’t really a big deal. She’s been my partner for three years, and she’s got my back whether we’re dealing with a busted window or a bank robbery. Not that our small town of Cliffton Heights sees a lot of bank robberies. Over the years, I’ve debated heading into New York City where there’s more crime, but then I’d have to leave my friends. And when you grow up in a shitty neighborhood where your friends are the ones you depend on when you’re out of the house, you view them as family. Dylan and Jax were foster kids and hung out so much at my house, they’re like brothers. We ran the streets and got into some trouble but I always knew they had my back.

Hopefully with the detective position opening up next week after Louie retires, I’ll see some bigger cases. I passed up the opportunity to apply for promotion two years ago when I was dating Leilani because she’s not exactly police officer wife material and I cared more for her than I did my job. But like my mom always says, looking in the rearview mirror never did anyone any good. I have to stop thinking about the time wasted and take my shot now.

Our radios squawk on our shoulders, and Patrice’s hand raises to answer the call. Sounds like it’s time for us to go. I pick up Patrice’s original sandwich and toss it in the trash. She carefully folds the paper over the Rueben and shoves it into the bag for later.

Great, she’s going to eat in the car again. I hate when people eat in the car and she knows it. Half the reason I took her sandwich was because by the time we waited for a new sandwich, she’d have no choice but to eat it in the car.

She smiles at me, lifting her bag like a taunt.

“What’s the call?” I ask, waving to the shop owner before opening the door for Patrice and exiting the small deli.

The table full of women all giggle like thirteen-year-olds, watching us leave.

“Looking for someone.” She opens her door and I get into the driver’s seat.

In the years we’ve been partners, we’ve come to agreeable terms. One of those being we share the driving even though, and don’t tell her, I’m the better driver. I won’t even mention the time she rear-ended an armored truck we were supposed to be guarding. She’d just tell you about the time I hit a pothole so fast the tire flew off.

Our sixty-five-year-old dispatcher Mildred’s voice comes through our radios. “Suspects shot paintballs at male and female as they left Cliffton Heights Country Club. Victims believe it to be an attack on the female’s fur coat, but they hit the male in his groin. He’s being transported to the hospital. Suspects’ descriptions are two males in their late twenties. Not any more to go on than that. And a female in her twenties with long dark hair in a ponytail, believed to be Hispanic.”

I drive us in the direction of the country club, looking for the suspects.

Six hours later, we’ve pulled over a few cars, responded to a domestic abuse call, and kicked kids who should’ve been home in bed out of the riverfront area. We stroll around our assigned area, still on the lookout for the suspects of the paintball incident, but no luck. At this point, they’re probably long gone, on the highway back to New York City.

Rumors around the district are that it was the Floyds who got shot with the paintballs. The Floyds are the wealthiest people in our city and tend to have their name listed with top billing at every fundraiser. Another set of partners took their statement at the hospital, and besides having a swollen set on him, Mr. Floyd will be fine in a few days.

“So? Gone on any dates lately?”

I groan that Patrice has chosen to bring up this topic now. She’s happily married, and ever since she said, “I do,” she thinks it’s her part-time job to play matchmaker, though she says her friends are off-limits.

“No.”

“Please don’t tell me you’re still f*****g girls and not asking for phone numbers afterward?”

I turn slowly down a dark alley. “Why are you so concerned about my love life? Other than the fact that you’re in marital bliss and seem to think everyone wants what you have.”

She’s quiet for a moment, which for Patrice is unusual, so I arm myself with a few comebacks. “You’re too good of a guy to just be the douchebag who disappoints women all the time.”

“Did you just call me a good guy?” Rarely do I receive compliments from Patrice. We have one of those relationships where telling one another what a dumbass the other is being is our way of showing love.

“You know what I mean.”

I shrug. “Maybe I’m still getting over her.”

She blows out an annoyed breath, not having to ask who her is. “Give me a break. She’s a felon.”

“A few protest arrests doesn’t make you a felon.” And there I go, sticking up for the woman who broke my heart as if it was a twig underfoot—with no care for its fragility and no backward glance. Still, I’m over Leilani now. But I don’t want a relationship, and if I say I’m over her, Patrice will make it her personal mission to give me heart eyes for someone.

I slow down as we near my apartment. My buddy’s shop, Ink Envy, and his girl’s bakeshop, Sweet Infusion, are right here. Rian is usually already baking at this godforsaken hour, but it’s the dark-haired girl walking down the street who grabs my attention. I know the cadence of that walk. I know that ass.

What the hell is she doing here?

Patrice looks at me when I stop the car, then follows my line of sight. “Fits the description of the female suspect, right?”

I hold up my hand, put the car into park, and quietly shut my door. “Leilani,” I say into the cool morning air.

It wouldn’t be the first time a witness has labeled someone with olive skin as being Hispanic rather than Polynesian.

She’s in jeans and a sweatshirt. Patrice is wrong—Leilani can’t be one of the suspects. But on her right jean leg, I spot paint, and the more my eyes scour her clothes, I spot the cast of spray on her clothes.

“Knox.” Her voice is as sweet as candy as she saunters to me, her hips swaying, her eyes eating me up as though she’s going to welcome me with a kiss after she bolted from town. “It’s been so long.”

I nod. “Since you left me, you mean?”

A door chime rings behind me. Although I don’t bother looking, I know it’s Rian.

“I came back to see you. I was going to ring the buzzer, but I didn’t want to wake you.” She breaks the distance between us.

I grab her wrist to stop her before she touches me. “Where were you earlier?”

She shrugs. “I told you. I was here, waiting for you.”

I’ve been around this block twenty times tonight. This is the first time I’ve seen her. “Did you take up painting?”

The truth lies in her eyes. Or should I say the lies. It’s the same look I’d get when I’d ask her about moving in together, or her job prospects in town so she could stick around.

“You need to come down to the station. There are some officers who’d like to talk to you about your aim with a paintball gun.”

Red and blue lights reflect off the glass of the storefront, and I glance over my shoulder to see Patrice shrugging.

“You can’t arrest me. You have no proof that I’ve done anything wrong.” She squirms to get out of my hold.

I’m sure her assumption is that I’d let her go because in her mind, I’m probably still stupidly in love with her. I can’t deny there’s still a soft spot there, but I no longer pine over her like a sappy schmuck.

“I’m not gonna argue with you Leilani.” I grab my handcuffs and secure them on her wrists.

“What are you gonna do? Take me up to your apartment with these cuffs on? Just like the old days, huh?”

“No.” I try not to let the visual she’s so eager to produce in my mind come to fruition.

I turn her toward the cruiser and Leilani balks. “Seriously, the lights? Why not put your siren on too?” At least she finally realizes this is serious.

Patrice isn’t even trying to bite down her smile as I walk Leilani back to the squad car, open the door, and press my hand on her head to lower her in.

“Hello, Leilani,” Patrice says.

“Patrice.”

As I round the back of the car, I catch sight of all my friends on the balcony. I assume Rian must’ve alerted them. My gaze falls to Rian on the sidewalk outside her shop, her hand covering her mouth and a look of sorrow in her eyes.

I hate that damn look.

“Go back inside, Rian,” I say and climb into the driver’s side.

Just to be a d**k, I turn on the sirens, but it’s me who’ll suffer for this. Move on over, Ben—I’m the new joke at the station now.