“Oh, I am.” My lips thin as I say it. “And Detective Nash knows it.”
“Where is he?” I demand of Charlotte, slamming my hands on her counter.
“Down the hall, to the right—interview room three.”
“He’s started?”
“He’s crazy, but he isn’t stupid, Noelle,” she says, her lips twitching. “Detective Nash knows that everything you have to say to him can’t be said over the phone.”
“He’s learning, then,” I snap, pushing off the counter.
Gio follows me down the hall, and I ignore the interested look from the receptionist as he does so. He touches his hand to my back just as we turn the corner toward the interview rooms, and it feels as though his fingertips burn through the material of my dress.
Well, burn is relative. They’re warm. Obvious. That’s it.
There’s no damning skin tingle. But there’s enough. I’ll take enough.
The first person I see as I approach the interview area is Trent. He stares at me for a long moment before his eyes flick knowingly to Gio.
“Detective Messina. What a surprise,” Trent drawls, his eyes falling back onto me.
I lift my eyebrows and shoot him a shut-the-fuck-up look.
“Detective Bond. Of course. I should have made the connection.” Gio’s fingers tighten on my back.
I wonder if my brother knows more about the man our grandmother decided to set me up with than she does.
“It’s a common surname,” Trent replies. His smile is tight, and it’s an obvious attempt at keeping his jaw slack. Unfortunately for him, my brother has never been very good at hiding his emotions. “You’re forgiven for your oversight.”
Tension rockets between them as Gio’s tense smile matches Trent’s.
I brush my hair away from my eyes. “Hello? Can someone please explain to me what the hell is going on here and why the ever-lovin’ fuck y’all called my tech whiz in for your dumbass questionin’?”
Gio snorts behind me, a sound cut short by my brother’s harsh look.
Huh. Something tells me that they know each other.
“Hey!” I snap, clapping my hands “Y’all are trippin’ if you think I’m standin’ here in these fuckin’ shoes for shits and giggles!”
“I should have known it would be you makin’ a scene here.” Drake’s voice drawls as he shuts a door and appears in the hallway. Tight, white shirt. Perfectly pressed, black dress pants. Shiny, black shoes. Badge attached to the pocket of his shirt.
“Well, I warned you about harrassin’ my staff on my premises—”
“And I’m not—”
“So a smart cop such as yourself should have anticipated me being a drama queen down here when you pull my guy in,” I finish, glaring at him. “I want an explanation. Now.”
“I don’t have to give you shit, Noelle, and you know it.” His glacier eyes narrow.
I step toward him, my finger pointing at his chest. “No, you don’t, but I expect a goddamned reason why he won’t be at work tomorrow morning like he should be.”
“That’s his job,” Drake hisses.
“But I’m talkin’ to you, and I’m tellin’ you to answer my damn questions before I demand to sit in there in lieu of his lawyer and advise him to tell you to shove your questions where the sun doesn’t fucking shine until his lawyer does get here,” I hiss back.
My heels make me almost as tall as he is, and we’re so close that, with each angry breath Drake takes, his chest is close to brushing mine. Close enough that I can feel the vibrations of his movements through the tense air between us. Close enough that, if I breathe in at the same time he does, my breasts brush his chest.
Our gazes battle it out for the longest, most breathtaking moment. Until his eyes skirt over my shoulder to Gio standing behind me.
“Who the hell is that?”
“My date,” I reply tightly, “which you so kindly interrupted.”
“Your date,” Drake repeats. His voice is flat, monotone, but his eyes betray the flare of anger that makes his jaw twitch.
“Yes, sir. Is that a problem? Because I can ask him to leave while we continue this conversation.”
“Please do.”
I roll my eyes and turn away, my heels clicking against the laminated flooring as I gently take Gio’s arm and pull him to the end of the hallway. “I’m so sorry. Detective Nash and I don’t particularly see eye to eye on many things. He’s also an arrogant bastard, so I could be a while, and it isn’t fair to expect you to wait for me to be done.”
“It’s okay.” Gio brushes some hair from my face. “Your brother will take you home?”
I nod. “Thank you for a lovely evening. And if we do this again, I’m paying.”
His face breaks out into that dazzling smile again. “When we do this again, I’ll hear of no such thing.” He leans forward and kisses my cheek, his lips lingering warmly against my skin for a moment. “Goodnight, Noelle.”
I smile. “Goodnight, Gio.”
He walks around the blind corner, glancing back at me before he’s entirely out of view.
The sound of fake vomiting has me turning around.
“I think I’m gonna be sick,” Trent says.
“Hey, Dad of Two, remember that next time you join forces with Nonna to get me married!” I walk back to him and smack his arm. “This was her idea, her date.”
“Looks like you really hated it.”
“I’ll have you know, he was the perfect gentleman.”
Trent snorts, but Drake interrupts.
“Noelle.” He says my name in a short, curt tone that makes me feel like I should have picked up the dirty glass on my coffee table before I left my house a couple of hours ago. “Are you sittin’ in on this or not?”
“You mean you’re allowing me?” I ask, slowly looking at him.
His eyes don’t soften—neither does the tight pull of his lips or his jaw. “You think I’m stupid enough to allow a non-cop to sit in on my interview with someone just because she’s his fuckin’ boss and let some big-city stiff know about it?”
“No. So, why are you?”
“He doesn’t know,” he corrects me. “And because I like my balls where they are, so get your ass in that interview room in two seconds or go home.”
I stare at him for one whole second before I do exactly as he said and tug the door open to join Marshall in the interview room.
My whiz kid is sitting at the table, wearing a faded Green Lantern tee that’s definitely seen much better days. In fact, it’s probably seen better years. His hair is wet and tangled, and his glasses slip down his nose. He looks up as I step inside, Drake hot on my heels.
“Boss.”
“Hey, kid,” I say quietly, hovering in the doorway. “How you doin’?”
“I have no idea what happened, I swear!” He digs his teeth into his bottom lip, and his hands are shaking where they’re clasped on the table.
“Hey, Marsh. No one thinks you did.” I move to the table and sit when Drake pulls out the chair next to his. Great. Interviewer side. “But you gotta understand that your relationship with Portia means Detective Nash has gotta talk to you.”
“I know. Can she stay?” he asks Drake.
“Yes. She’ll just demand the transcript of the interview after anyway, so I’m saving the whole department a week’s worth of headaches.” He ignores the look I shoot at him. “She knows the rules.”
Stay quiet. Don’t ask questions. Don’t interrupt. Don’t influence either Drake or Marshall.
Drake clicks the button on the recorder and shuffles the papers on the table. “Can you state your full name?”
“Marshall Leonard Wright.”
“Address?”
“Fifty-four Shrewsbury Avenue, Holly Woods, Texas.”
“Date of birth?”
“January seventh, nineteen ninety-three.”
“And can you confirm for the record that you’re not exercising your right to have a lawyer present?”
“That’s correct.”
I frown but quickly look down so he doesn’t see it. He must be truly certain of the answers to his questions, but I know how cops can wrap people up in knots. Marshall is the smartest guy I know—academically and technologically—but he won’t stand a chance if Drake pulls out the big guns and decides to question him until they’re both shitting armadillos.