Despite her explanation, another surge of anger blasts through my chest. “It was an important business lunch, Katrina. You had no right to be there. Your behavior and the things you said totally mortified me.”
“I couldn’t help it. I was just acting out my anger.” Her pouty expression begs for sympathy. “I hope you can understand.”
No, I don’t understand, but the past is the past. Not dwelling on the irony of that thought, I blow out a breath. “Just don’t let anything like that ever happen again.”
“Is that a threat, Brandon?” Her voice is pitchy, as if she’s challenging me.
“No, it’s an order.”
Tears cluster in her cat-green eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m working on my anger issues with my therapist.”
“That’s good.” My voice is monotone.
“Can you forgive me?” She returns to the champagne.
“Yes.” I don’t tell her that I’m not going to forget about this incident. Forgetting anything is the last thing I want to do in my amnesiac state.
“Thank you, darling.” A few fat tears roll down her high cheekbones, taking some of her mascara with them. My eyes stay on her as she rises and repositions herself in front of me. Squatting down, she works the button of my jeans and then yanks down my fly. My big flaccid dick sits parked between my legs.
“What are you doing?”
“I want to make it up to you,” she purrs.
I don’t stir. And then without warning, she dumps the remainder of her champagne on my shaft, soaking my cock, my balls, and my jeans. I jolt from the sudden cold sensation.
“Jesus, Katrina. What the fuck?”
“Do you still love me?” She rolls her tongue around the circumference of my dripping wet crown.
My breath hitches. I seriously don’t know the answer to that question. And it’s like my drenched cock is rolling its eyes and saying: Don’t look at me. I have no clue.
“Show me you love me,” she lilts, gripping the base. Her billowy lips descend on my length and then make their way back up. She repeats the movements, picking up speed. My soft cock doesn’t respond. I just want to tuck it back into my jeans and get away from her.
“Dammit, Brandon. What’s wrong with you?” she growls before going down on me again.
Squeezing my eyes, I groan loudly and almost leap up from my chair. “Christ. What the hell are you doing?”
An unexpected answer. “I’m delivering your sides—the lines you need to rehearse for this week’s upcoming shoot.”
My eyes pop open. Shit. Zoey.
She slaps a folder down on the table. “I’m sorry to interrupt something so important.”
“Zo—”
She cuts me off. “I’m off to a meeting with my dad. I’ll have my phone with me so call or text me if anything else ‘important’ comes up.” In addition to air-quoting the word important, she puts a sarcastic emphasis on the last two words.
“No, wait.” My voice takes on urgency that borders on panic. Like I’m silently saying, “Please don’t leave me alone with Katrina.” My cock smarts.
Too late. She stoically marches off after her eyes clash with my fiancée’s.
Sliding my sore cock back into my soaked jeans, I jump up from my chair to tell her what happened, but lithe Katrina springs to her feet simultaneously and shoves me back down.
She snaps at me like a rabid beast. “We have business to finish up here.”
I leap back to my feet and this time I shove her out of the way.
She gasps. I curse under my breath. Zoey’s gone. I grab the file on the table.
“I’m heading back in. I’ve got lines to figure out.” And that’s not all I need to figure out. My mind’s confused; my heart’s confused; and my cock’s confused.
“Fine.” Katrina flings the word at me and then dives into the pool.
Zoey
A trip to the precinct is just what I need to banish the image of Brandon and Katrina. Right before I caught Bratrina in that lurid sex act, I got a call from Pops, asking me if I had time to come in for some questioning. The timing was perfect.
I haven’t been here in ages. The last time I was here was when I was in high school. When the kids in my civics class found out that my father worked for the LAPD, they all wanted to see what that was like. After learning this, Pops arranged a field trip to the precinct with my teacher. My classmates loved every minute. Especially the part when they got to look through a one-way mirror and watch Pops question a suspected murderer—a wealthy woman whose millionaire husband had mysteriously been poisoned. Pops was so good at squeezing information out of the suspect. My very own Columbo! All of us gasped when the suspect broke down in tears and finally confessed everything. It was just like a scene out of CSI—of course, the husband was having a secret affair, and the vengeful wife wanted him dead to inherit all his money.
The downtown precinct is bustling with a colorful cast of characters, and phones don’t stop ringing. I walk up to the bulletproof front desk window and tell one of the busy clerks on duty that I’m here to see Detective Billings. Her name, Alma Lopez, is on her badge. I give her my name and tell her I have an appointment. She scans her computer and calls my father to let him know I’m here.
“You’re Zoey Hart, Pete’s daughter?” she asks, filling out a visitor’s badge for me.
I smile at her. “Yes.”
Her eyes brighten. “The one who works for Brandon Taylor?”
“Yeah.” There’s little enthusiasm in my voice.
Alma grows animated. “Oh my God! You’re so lucky! I’m so jealous! What’s it like to work for him?”
Taking the badge from her, I paste it on my short-sleeved tee. “Trust me, you’re much better off working here.”
At that moment, Pops bursts through the door, chomping on a fat sandwich. As usual, his shirt is rumpled with the sleeves rolled up, and there’s a mustard stain on it. Jacketless, his holster is crossed over his torso. My adoptive dad may be a loveable schlub, but there’s something so powerful about him carrying a gun. After my mother’s horrific murder, I felt he could protect me. I only wish he’d found her killer. It’s still an unsolved case that haunts us both.
“Pops!” I run up to him and give him a hug.
“Hi, babycakes,” he says with food in his mouth. “Glad you could come by. Come on back.”
Five minutes later, I’m in his office. It’s rare for any LAPD detective to have his own office, but the force felt he deserved one. Pops has been on active duty for almost forty years—the longest serving member of the department. A legend. No one has cracked as many cases as he has or brought so many heinous criminals to justice. He keeps saying he’s going to retire, but both Auntie Jo and I know that’s never going to happen.
The office is small and windowless, lit by unflattering fluorescent lighting. Some of his awards hang on the grungy walls, but they’re mostly covered with a messy array of cases in progress. His simple wooden desk is piled high with thick folders. Next to his computer is a large framed family photo—the four of us, Auntie Jo, Pops, Jeffrey, and me. And there’s also a photo of him and Mama when they were kids. Despite being twins, they look as different as night and day. Mama, frail and pale with a mop of flaming red hair; Pops, big-boned and swarthy with a crown of jet-black locks. He’s told me so many hilarious stories about their New Jersey childhoods. Poor elegant Mama was always trying to turn him into a proper gentleman, but she could never even get him to tuck his shirt in. I wish she were alive to see him now.
After that melancholy thought, I inwardly laugh. Things haven’t changed. Pops is as disheveled as ever. The clutter on the walls and on his desk goes with his personality. Buried on his messy desk is a paper plate with the other half of the pastrami sandwich along with a bottle of root beer. He sinks into his faded pleather desk chair while I take a seat in one of the two worn out upholstered chairs facing him. His office furnishings are rather decrepit, but budget cutbacks have prohibited replacements. And truthfully, knowing Pops, he wouldn’t replace them if he could.