After We Fall (Take the Fall, #3)
Marquita Valentine
Dedication
Acknowledgments
By Marquita Valentine
About the Author
The Editor’s Corner
Excerpt from Hard to Fall
Chapter 1
Hunter
It’s been six months since I last spoke to her. One hundred and eighty days since I last saw her battered and bruised face. Four thousand, three hundred, and twenty hours since I last touched her vulnerable body. Not that I’m counting. I shouldn’t count. I shouldn’t think of her at all.
Yet…
Over the years, I’ve escorted countless women to shelters, but none have affected me on the same level as she did. Not a single one. I can’t get her out of my head. Can’t stop wondering if she’s safe, if she’s back with her sadistic husband, or if she’s lying dead on the side of the road.
It’s where she was found the first time. Shuffling down the beltline, no shoes, torn clothes. An extra from The Walking Dead looked better than she did. Had less blood on them, too.
Exhaling thickly as I get out of my truck, I head inside the bar where I’m meeting my partner for drinks. We’ve had a hell of a shift today, and a beer or two is calling our names.
Why this woman? I don’t get it. I really don’t, and it’s not like I haven’t had the opportunity to get her out of my head, because I have. Believe me, I have. A lot of women dig the cop uniform. The cuffs, too.
Only for the past six months, I’ve said no. I guess you could call it a form of self-imposed celibacy. In any case, I’m not buying what they’re offering. On one hand, it sucks to not be into any other women, but I’m twenty-eight years old—hardly some punk with a raging boner and a drive to stick it into anything willingly standing still.
“The FNG is here,” Roberts shouts and I inwardly groan. Why in the hell did Dwight have to invite him? I can’t stand that dude, or his nickname for me.
Fucking New Guy. I haven’t been the FNG for ten years, not since I first joined straight out of high school. But since I did a lateral transfer from Forrestville’s police department to the city of Charlotte PD’s Family Victims Unit, I’ve been called nothing else by him. All because he was hired a day before me. Other than that, we have exactly the same amount of time in.
Shooting Dwight a glare, I join them at the back of the room. Dwight already has a cold one waiting for me. “This helps.”
“Not my choice, man,” he whispers as I take the chair beside him. Our backs are against the wall, and from our vantage point we can see almost every patron.
Bohannon’s is small and locally owned, and has the best beer selection around. Best of all, not many people know about it. Well, until recently, they didn’t, and Roberts sure as shit didn’t drink here.
Until now.
“Who told him?” I ask, grabbing the mug and tipping it up.
Dwight shrugs. “He saw your text while I was in the can.”
“Dude, I’ve told you about leaving your phone around,” I mutter, switching to Spanish. Dwight understands more than he can speak, but since Roberts is barely fluent in English, I don’t worry about him getting butt-hurt. “Now that he knows about Bohannon’s, we will never hear the end of it.”
“What was I supposed to do?” Dwight asks softly. “Tell him it was a date for two?”
The music kicks on over the sound system and all chances of further conversation about Roberts cease.
Roberts grins at the waitress who hurries to our table. “What’s up, baby?”
Patricia gives him a look. Dwight and I have no problem calming Roberts’s ass down if need be, but Patricia can take care of herself. And to be fair, Roberts isn’t a bad guy, just an annoying-as-f*ck one.
“Ah, baby boy, who let you out of your pram?” she coos at him with an Irish accent as thick as the corned beef stew they serve. Patricia has lived in the States for twenty years, but that brogue of hers hasn’t faded at all.
I bite back a grin. “How are you tonight, my bonnie lass?”
She hits my shoulder with her hip. “Don’t be trying my patience, Hunter. I’ve not the time for you.” A flirty wink accompanies her admonishment. Then she slides a plate of homemade nachos in front of Dwight and me.
Roberts reaches for the plate, but she smacks his hand away. “Hey!” he nearly shouts before turning to us. “You saw what she—”
“—Didn’t see anything.”
“—Me, either.”
“Thanks, Patricia.” Dwight tips up his drink to her.
With a nod, she leaves the table.
“You two have dates here often?” Roberts asks, snagging a loaded nacho.
I give him a meaningful look. “We did.”
The door to the bar opens, and automatically my eyes go right to it. Tension floods my body. I don’t think that will ever go away. I always expect the person walking in to be carrying. I always think that whomever I’m talking to is lying…until they prove otherwise.
When I catch sight of a familiar face, the tension begins to ease.
“I thought this was a bar for cops,” Roberts complains.
“Shut up and eat,” I order, and he digs in. Not for the first time, I wonder if he is purposefully irritating to get something he really wants and not what it looks like he wants.