Boiling Point (Crossing the Line #3)(25)

Chapter Eight


Austin didn’t really do “guy time.” Sure, he’d been to numerous poker nights, always walking away the winner—especially when operating in a group as the shill, his easy wins thus giving the other players a false sense of security. The notion of “hanging out” made little sense to him. What was to be accomplished by sitting in a group, talking nonsense? The odd time he’d gone out for beers with the squad, he’d mostly gone to observe Polly and make sure single men within the establishment who glanced in her direction were quickly made to believe Austin was her boyfriend. Not that she’d been aware of his threatening glares at countless Coors Light–chugging wankers in Cubs hats. As if they could keep up with her.

No, shooting the breeze wasn’t exactly in his repertoire. Today, unfortunately, he’d been in need of a distraction from the upcoming “date” with Polly and the relentless worry that she would cancel. A text had come in from Connor inviting him to watch a baseball game at the local cop bar they all got a laugh out of frequenting, since the undercover squad hated cops and the cops hated them right back. The captain’s influence and reputation kept the officers’ mouths shut, which riled them up even more. Truly, it was a thing of rare beauty.

Connor had never invited him anywhere before, and his grudging tone had come through clear as crystal in the text message, leading Austin to believe he’d been nudged a bit by Erin. No doubt the minx was feeling guilty over selling him out to Polly, and he intended to increase her guilt by bestowing the promised gun on her, anyway. She’d never be able to turn down something with such firepower, and it always paid to have someone feel beholden to him. Perhaps it would come in handy on a rainy day.

The ex-SEAL probably didn’t expect him to show up at the bar, which would be packed full of off-duty officers on a Saturday afternoon. Why would he when Austin’s relationship with every male member of the squad was contentious? Excellent question. But damn it all, he was desperate for a distraction today. If that distraction came in the form of talking nonsense with a couple of former Brooklynites, so be it. He’d endured far worse company, not that he would tell Bowen or Connor that. At the very least, he’d make the afternoon interesting.

Austin waltzed into the bar, saluting the closest group of officers. “Hullo, boys. Your wives send their regards.”

One member of the group lunged in Austin’s direction, but drew up short when one of his mates issued a reminder of Captain Derek Tyler’s wrath. Austin felt a shot of disappointment. A good row might have provided just the type of distraction he was seeking.

“Jesus Christ, Shaw.” Bowen Driscol’s voice prodded him from the right. He tugged on his haphazard mess of hair, the likes of which gave Austin nightmares. “Still have your coat on and already breaking balls, huh? Let me finish my drink and I’ll join you.”

It was moments like this Austin loathed because they made him feel…part of something. A member of a team. He and Bowen might hold a patent dislike of each other, but if the choice was between Austin and a group of police officers, Bowen would throw his lot in with Austin every time. He refused to acknowledge the suspicion that he’d goaded the officers for that very reason. To feel some sense of camaraderie on a day where he felt raw, frayed at the edges over Polly. Over what he knew now about her association with Charles, how she’d suffered at his ex-partner’s hands. And God, he hated the guilt that came along with not disclosing his association with Charles on the heels of her being so beautifully honest. It made him feel ten kinds the bastard, but he needed this chance with Polly. Wouldn’t breathe properly until he got it. His guilt had increased tenfold since her confession, and it needed an outlet. Polly was the outlet—he knew it in his gut. How she would choose to utilize the power he’d handed over remained to be seen. The anticipation ticked in his stomach like a clock.

Remembering his current situation, Austin eyed the mottled-faced member of the Chicago PD. “Pass. They hardly seem like a challenge, do they?”

“Don’t feel bad, man,” Bowen said, addressing the other man. “There’s not much I’d consider a challenge.”

The man pointed a shaking finger at each of them. “Stay on your side of the bar. I don’t give a f*ck who you are.”

“Why, Driscol.” Austin laid a hand on his chest. “He’s a rhyming poet.”

Connor came up between both of them. “Problem here?”

“Nah.” Bowen turned his back on the group of officers, an outright slight he clearly enjoyed delivering. “Who’s up next on the dartboard?”

“You are,” Connor answered.

Bowen nodded. “Come on, Shaw. I’ll practice my technique on your face.”

And just like that, they were back to enemies. Thank God.

Austin ordered a pint of Boddingtons from the indifferent bartender before following Bowen and Connor to the dartboard toward the rear of the establishment. He leaned back against the far wall, giving himself the best view of the entrance. It didn’t escape his notice that Connor did the same thing. Bowen, being the reckless one of the group, might as well have had a middle finger embroidered on the back of his leather jacket, facing it toward the door.

Austin sipped his ale, watching as Bowen threw a handful of darts. “A free afternoon, eh? What are the womenfolk getting up to without their bodyguards in tow?”