Grievous (Scarlet Scars #2)(22)

“Okay, okay!” I freeze. “Geez, relax.”

Gabe grabs ahold of me, roughing me up as he pats me down, searching places his hands ought not go, before he shoves me against the side of a nearby building, slamming my face into the bricks so hard my vision blurs.

“Geez, detective.” I cringe as he yanks my arm behind my back, standing flush against my body, pinning me there. “I’m pretty sure this breaks protocol.”

“Where is it?” he asks, his free hand still searching. “Where’d you put it, Morgan?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t play stupid with me,” he growls. “I swear, if you don’t give it to me right now—”

“You’ll what?” I ask, cutting him off. “You’ll fuck me right here, in the alley, in front of these officers? Teach me a lesson? Show the world what a big, powerful man you are?”

“No,” he whispers, his mouth near my ear. “I’ll call Aristov so he can come pick his little runaway up... just like I did with your daughter when she found her way to my office last month.”

Those words knock the breath from my lungs.

Or maybe it’s the fact that he shoves me harder against the building.

I nearly black out.

“You wouldn’t,” I say. “Tell me you didn’t...”

“Oh, but I did,” he says. “She ran away from him, crying about how she wanted her mommy. You missed her by about ten minutes that morning. Pity, really, since that’s probably the closest you’ll ever get to her again, you dumb bitch.”

Something in me snaps when he says that, my last shred of civility toward this man gone.

I’m not sorry anymore.

I shove off of the wall, throwing my head back, slamming him right in the fucking nose with the back of my skull.

BAM.

He loosens his grip on me, grunting, caught off guard by the blow, and I twist my own arm, damn near yanking it out of socket to get away from him. He pulls himself back together, but not fast enough, because I raise my foot up and kick him right in the nuts.

BAM.

He hunches over, letting out one hell of a screech, as I shove him out of my way, barely making it three steps before reality slams into me.

Guns, remember?

Oh, fuck me...

I put my hands up again, surrendering, but it’s too late to go peacefully. Someone tackles me, throwing me face-first to the alley, knees in my back as handcuffs secure my wrists. My cheek stings, asphalt scraping the skin on my face, guns still aimed at me as men shout orders I can’t possibly comply with since I’m pinned to the ground.

I’m yanked to my feet after a moment and come face-to-face with Gabe. Blood pours from his nose, his face contorted with a mix of anger and pain, but he doesn’t feel even an ounce of the hurt I feel.

Fuck him.

“Book her,” he says, staring me dead in the face as he tries to stop the bleeding. “Assault on a police officer.”



The arrest process is bullshit.

I answer what I have to, but I have the right to remain silent, so screw the rest of their questions.

I’m not in the mood to talk.

They transfer me to Central Booking in another part of the borough, where I’m moved from cell to cell, from place to place, in a piss-scented building filled with a lot of nosey-ass people.

Hours.

So many hours.

Signs posted everywhere guarantee the process will be over within twenty-four hours, but as I surpass hour twenty-three, I start to think the signs are lying to me.

Finally... fucking finally... I’m allowed to make a call, dragged to a room by a disgruntled officer and shoved in front of a phone.

My charge doesn’t seem to elicit friendliness from their kind, that’s for sure.

“You get three calls,” the officer says, glaring at me. “Make them quick.”

There’s really only one number I can think to call.

I dial it once. No answer.

I dial it twice. No answer.

So I try for a third time, thinking I’m out of luck. Either it’s coming up blocked on his caller ID, or he recognizes the number and doesn’t accept jailhouse calls. It rings and rings and rings, and I frown, about to give up when the line clicks and his voice cuts on, annoyance in every syllable. “Gambi—”

“Don’t talk,” I say, cutting him off. “I’m being recorded. There’s a big sign right above the phone that says so. So I wouldn’t have called, but I kind of needed to, okay?”

He says nothing, but I know he’s listening.

Or well, he hasn’t hung up yet, so I know he’s still there—pretending to listen, at least.

“I went on sabbatical to my favorite precinct and got arrested in the alley near it. I’m going to be arraigned tomorrow sometime. But really, that’s beside the point. I just...” Shit, how do I say this without giving up the goods? “Remember the time at my apartment where we went falling off the roof of the building and I played a bit of Hide & Seek? My hiding spot was so good they didn’t find me, but you did... you found me easily. I was hoping to play again, you know, if you want to go do some seeking, same basic spot this time.”

He’s still quiet.

I don’t know if he understands.