She leaned back against the kitchen cabinets and stayed quiet, sipping her water and refusing to speak or make eye contact. Hutton looked around the loft. It wasn’t any particular category that he could identify; it wasn’t girly, it wasn’t kitschy, it wasn’t modern. It seemed purely functional. A king-size bed, velvet sofa, vintage armchair, coffee table, and a dining table that could seat a dozen people were the only pieces of furniture in the cavernous space. It looked like she used the dining table as a makeshift desk.
The kitchen was clean, but the wood cabinets she leaned against were flaking paint, the bargain-basement appliances at least a decade old. The apartment’s two painted-brick walls were covered salon-style with framed pictures, prints, posters, drawings, and a huge, overflowing bookcase; the other two walls of the unit were nearly all lead-paned windows. Pale gray linen curtains hung near the bed. A metal IBM clock on the wall read eleven thirty.
“I’m sorry,” he ventured. “I realize you weren’t expecting this.”
“Why did you lie to me?” she asked. “I thought I was just coming in and out. I thought it was…I didn’t realize what was happening.”
“I didn’t lie,” he said. “Things…changed.”
“It’s not great for me. I don’t have room for this kind of thing, to be in a trial, to be a witness, to be vulnerable.”
“I know.”
“Cooper hasn’t promoted me yet. I don’t have a green card, so I can’t get another job anywhere else. I’ve never done anything else, except graduate school, which I failed. My job is competitive. Anybody would take my place in a heartbeat. There’s no room for mistakes.”
“I know,” he said again.
“Why are you still here?” she asked. “You got what you wanted.” A wave of sea-scented air popped off her skin.
“I didn’t.” He stood up and walked over to the edge of the kitchen counter, two feet from her purple dress and long legs, realizing what he was doing but unable to stop.
“Cops can’t act like reporters. You’re supposed to have boundaries. You shouldn’t fraternize with suspects or informants or witnesses or whatever I am to you.”
“All of the above,” he said.
“Lucky me,” she said, though she no longer looked mad.
He moved closer, a foot from Cat, who now matched his height only by sitting on the countertop. Their faces were even for the first time. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. She pushed her cowboy boots halfway off her feet, revealing a pair of white cotton men’s socks with athletic stripes, the silliness of which made him smile in return.
“You don’t have to stay here,” she said. “I’m not going anywhere. You don’t need to keep an eye on me.”
“Yes, but I want to,” he said again, moving closer. The cowboy boots fell to the floor.
Cat finally broke into a grin. “You don’t have to keep pretending to like me.”
“I’m not pretending.”
“Then why were you so rude to me on the phone? Or at the precinct?” She raised an eyebrow to maintain the now ten-inch distance between them. “Maybe you’re the one with the mood disorder.”
“No.” He laughed and added, “But you’re right, I’m not supposed to date you. It’s unethical.”
Cat snorted. “Dating me is unethical, but camping out at night in front of my friend’s house is totally okay.”
He blushed. “I wasn’t camped out.”
“You weren’t sweaty enough to be running.” She reached out and wiped a bead of sweat off his forehead. “That’s sweat.”
He reached for her hand, and she let him take it.
Cat took a deep breath when Hutton’s fingers closed around hers, her heart racing. She reached out with her other hand and traced his jaw with her finger.
Hutton didn’t hesitate. He moved between her legs and wrapped his arms around her; she bit his lower lip. He didn’t make a move to kiss her in response but held still, looking into her eyes and leaning forward with just the right amount of his weight. He nuzzled her neck. Cat felt every single cell in her being pulsing with his.
“Am I still being rude?” he asked, kissing her shoulder.
“I don’t know what you want.”
“I want to rip your clothes off,” he mumbled into her ear, pressing himself against her with more weight. “I want to make you come all day.”
Cat found herself biting his neck, pulling his earlobe into her mouth. Hutton folded his legs and brought them both down to the cold floor of her loft, shifting her into his lap.
They kissed. The full taste of bell peppers and cut grass—the cleanest taste in the world—flooded through Cat as he lowered her all the way to the ground, his hands pulling her dress over her head, finding their way through her coral lace underwear. He pushed his fingers against her as she shivered, holding on to his mouth with hers, their tongues moving in beat with his hand.
He moved his fingers up and down as she pushed herself against him, finally releasing something she’d been holding in since the second he walked into RAGE’s offices. A scream let out from the back of her throat. He worked frantically to pull her underwear off.
Somewhere, his phone rang. Loudly.
And rang.
And rang.
It stopped.
She yanked off his jacket, unbuttoned his shirt, and fumbled with his jeans, pushing them to the floor.
“Condom,” Cat demanded. “Now.”
Then his phone rang again. His voicemail beeped, then the phone beeped with text messages; one, two, three, four, before ringing again.
It rang.
And rang.
Cat felt his mouth move away from hers, his fingers slip out of her. He was pulling them both up off the floor with her legs entwined around his waist. She tried to keep up with him and planted her mouth back on his. In between their heavy kisses, he grabbed her hips, unwrapped her legs, and said,
“I
have
to
answer that.”
Holding her hips with both hands, he lowered her to the floor to stand on her feet, holding her up against him. Cat stayed on tiptoe and looked up at him. His jeans were shoved down around his calves, his naked body pressed up against her as he looked around for his phone.
Then her apartment’s buzzer rang.
“Are you expecting anyone?” Hutton asked.
“No,” Cat said slowly as she leaned over and pressed the intercom. “Hello?”
“It’s Bess,” crackled the speaker.
“Oh. Right,” she said to Hutton. “I’m expecting Bess.”
He shook his head. “It’s fine,” he said. “I have to take that call.”
Cat let go of him, threw on her dress, and hit the buzzer while he buttoned his shirt. He kissed her on the top of the head and wandered off in a daze. By the time Bess knocked, he was already across the apartment, mostly dressed and mumbling into his cellphone.
Cat opened the door. Bess chucked a joint at her. “Let’s get stoned,” she said.
“I can’t,” Cat said, pointing to Hutton. “The hot cop is here,” she whispered. “I gave him Hillary’s eyedrops the other night. This morning I had to give a statement about them at the precinct.”
Bess looked shocked.
Hutton walked back over before she could say another word.
“I have some not-so-great news,” he said. “We need you to buy more drugs.”
Chapter Nine
Bess laughed in surprise and snatched back the joint from Cat’s limp palm. “More than this?” she asked, lighting up and blowing the smoke through the apartment’s still-open door. “I knew you were cool,” she said to Hutton.