She regretted the words as soon as she said them.
But Battaglia didn’t smile. His face darkened and he leaned forward. “B.J., you can joke if you want. I like joking. Hell, it’s all Sully and I ever do. But don’t joke about a partner reaching out to you when something bad happens on the job. That’s something sacred and you don’t joke about it.”
His intensity surprised her. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, looking down at her hands. He called me a partner.
He waved her apology away. “Not necessary. You’re a rookie. You don’t know these things. But you’ll learn. Your platoon will help, as long as you’re a hard worker and not afraid to step up when things get hot.”
Carson nodded. “Okay. I can do that.”
“I know. I saw it last night.”
Carson looked back into his face. “I was scared shitless,” she admitted. “And I didn’t know what to do.”
Battaglia’s expression softened. He reached out and patted her hand, then left it on top of hers. “This job is ninety-nine percent boredom,” he told her, “and one percent sheer terror. The stressful part is, you never know when the one percent is coming.”
Battaglia’s palm and fingers warmed the back of Carson’s hand. She knew she should casually pull her hand away. That was the signal she should send: You’re married, and we work together. That’s what she should say.
But that’s never what you say, is it?
She cleared her throat and said, “Last night was definitely in the one percent category.”
Battaglia smiled. He squeezed her hand lightly and removed his. “It was. The whole thing could have gone to shit. So you have to ask yourself, what are we doing here? What’s at stake? They had, what? Seven guys?”
“I think so.”
Battaglia took a swallow of beer. “And who knows how many of them had guns? So we’re supposed to push matters? Get into a gunfight over a traffic ticket?” He shook his head. “No, we did the only thing we could.”
Somehow, Carson thought he was trying to convince himself as much as her. She lifted her glass and finished it.
Battaglia swallowed the last of his own beer, too. “We should probably call no joy, huh?”
“No joy?”
Battaglia shrugged. “Fighter pilot talk.”
“Were you a pilot?” Carson gushed.
Battaglia laughed. “Oh, I fly my cruiser low once in a while, but that’s about it.” He shook his head. “No, I got that from some movie.”
“Oh,” Carson said. She let out a giggle that she didn’t really feel, embarrassed at sounding like a teenage girl mooning over a fighter pilot.
“Careful,” Battaglia said, standing. “That squeal might escape again.”
Carson stood as well, sending a light punch into Battaglia’s shoulder. “Shut up.”
Battaglia fished some folded bills from his pocket. Carson rummaged through her purse for her wallet. Her fingers felt thick and clumsy.
“Relax,” Battaglia told her. “I got it.”
“No,” Carson said, “I can pay my share.”
Battaglia dropped a few bills on the table. “Next time,” he said.
Carson acquiesced and the two of them made their way to the door. Her movements were a little wooden and clumsy. She was probably borderline for driving home, even though it wasn’t very far to her apartment.
When she reached her car, she felt Battaglia’s hand on her shoulder. The warm strength of it almost made her knees buckle. She froze, then turned toward him, determined not to let her emotions and the beer carry her away. No matter what, I will not kiss him.
“Are you okay to drive?”
“Frobably pine,” she answered, then covered her mouth and laughed.
Battaglia smiled. “Or frobably not.” He released her shoulder. “Come on, I’ll drop you at your place.”
Carson’s heart rate kicked up. Her place?
I can not sleep with him. He’s married. He’s on my platoon. That part of my life is over. I’m a different person now.
“No, that’s okay,” she finally said.
“What?”
“I’ll just, you know, sit and listen to the radio for a while. Then I’ll drive home.”
Battaglia strolled back toward her. “Did you learn in the academy about the rate that alcohol metabolizes in the body?”
“Yes,” she answered, struggling to remember the equation.
“What is it?”
“I don’t remember the exact figures,” Carson said. “You know, I didn’t realize there was going to be a test right here in the Happy Time parking lot.”
Battaglia smiled. “Well, trust me. You’ll be here at least an hour before you’re ready to drive home. So let me take you.”
“You drank just as much as I did,” Carson said.
“I did.”
“So should you be driving?”
“I weigh at least fifty pounds more than you,” Battaglia said. “Do the math.”
Carson frowned. “I’m terrible at math.”
“I noticed.”
“You’re lucky I don’t have anything to throw.”
“Yeah,” Battaglia said. “It’d land in my glass and I’d be out more beer. Come on, I’ll drive you home.”
Carson still didn’t move. “What about my car?” she asked, desperate for a last-ditch excuse.
“I’ll come in a little early tonight,” Battaglia explained. “I’ll pick you up at your house and drop you at your car. Then you can drive it to work. No fuss, no muss.”
Carson hesitated, but she was out of reasons to decline. Battaglia opened the driver’s door and popped the lock for her. She slid into the passenger seat. The cab had the slight scent of his cologne in it.
Battaglia let the engine idle for a few moments, staring straight ahead. Then he turned to Carson. “You asked me why I didn’t take you to Duke’s.”
She nodded.
Battaglia shrugged. “I guess I didn’t want people to talk.”
“Talk?” she asked, though she knew immediately what he meant.
“Sure,” he said, pointing to himself and then to her. “Man, woman. That sort of thing.”
“Oh. Of course.”
“I mean, if we’d invited another cop or two along, it’d be nothing,” Battaglia explained. “Just taking the rookie out for a beer, is all. If we did that, though, we couldn’t have talked about that stop with the Russians. But if we went to Duke’s together with no one else, the River City rumor mill would start up on us. You know?”
Carson knew about the rumor mill. She’d been the grist too many times. “I guess,” she said. “I suppose it’s the same everywhere.”
“People is people,” Battaglia agreed.
They fell silent. Battaglia took in a deep breath and let it out. “So there it is,” he finally said, then dropped the truck into gear. “Your address?”
Carson gave it to him, then said, “Just go up Division until you hit-”
“I don’t need directions,” Battaglia said. “I know this city like the back of my hand.”
“Oh. Right.”
“You will, too,” he said, his voice tender. “Soon.”
Battaglia drove unerringly to her address and pulled up to the apartment complex. “Curbside service,” he announced.
Carson was glad to see that he didn’t turn off the engine or make any sign that he expected to come inside. She absolutely wasn’t going to invite him-was she? — but it made it easier that he didn’t expect it.
“Thanks,” she said.
“No problem. When do you usually leave for work?”
“About eight.”
“I’ll be here. Just another fine service by Battaglia’s Beers ’n’ Cab.”
She smiled. “Thanks, Batts,” she said. His nickname sounded good to her ear, felt good rolling off her tongue.
“Anytime.”
She reached for her door handle, then stopped suddenly. She leaned across the seat and brushed her lips against his cheek. The beginning stubble of his beard raked her tender lips, and the scent of his skin and his cologne filled her nostrils.
Battaglia didn’t move.
She pulled away and popped open her door. “Really,” she said. “Thanks for everything.”
He met her gaze. “Anytime,” he repeated softly.