“The hell I’m not!”
“Oh, yeah. How’s counseling going? Oh,” she says all dramatic-like when I don’t say anything back. “It’s not, is it? Because you ain’t going.”
“Don’t need it,” I growl.
She rolls her eyes. “Yeah. It shows.”
“Lu—”
“How you sleeping, O’Brien? Resting good, getting all eight hours?” She huffs when I don’t answer. “That’s what I thought. Joey keeping you up at night? Or didn’t it bother you when he bled all over you like a gutted cow?”
“Lu, you don’t know shit.”
“Actually I do. On account of my first year on the force, I held a six-year-old in my arms, trying to tell her to stay alive while my partner cuffed her strung-out mother, who’d stabbed her. She didn’t make it. Neither did my partner two years later when her own goddamn husband took a bat to her head.” The grip to her paper cup tightens. “I responded to that one, too. Her face was so smashed up, the cops on duty needed help identifying the body.”
“Christ,” I mutter.
“My seventh year…” She waggles her finger at me. “Now, that was a doozie. Three of our veterans run over at a parade by some dad trying to steal his own kid. Ever pick up someone’s leg off the ground when it’s no longer attached? It kind of sucks, O’Brien.”
She doesn’t say much after that. She doesn’t need to. She made her point, and that was just her first seven years on the force.
We sit there in the quiet, both of us lost in the shit we’ve been handed. “Sorry, Lu.”
She shakes her head. “Don’t be sorry. Just get some help. So when you see what you’ll see, you’ll still be in good enough shape to see it. Suicide is for pussies, O’Brien.” She looks at me then. “Don’t be a *.”
Chapter 11
Tess
I flip through the pages of my criminal law journal as I hunker down in my comforter, trying to stay warm. As I highlight the passage at the bottom of the page, I hear the knock on the door I’ve been waiting for. I collect my notes and the journal and shove them beneath my bed, hurrying to slip out of my pajama bottoms before placing my glasses on top of the nightstand.
My nightshirt falls to mid-thigh. It’s white cotton and long-sleeved, and sadly the sexiest piece of clothing I own.
I cautiously walk to the door, moving as quickly as I can, given my blurry vision. Curran knocks once more just as my hand grips the knob and I turn the deadbolt. I smile when I see him standing there, but he doesn’t appear to smile back.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
I frown. “Opening the door.”
“You didn’t even ask who it was.”
“Who else would it be?” I see enough to know he’s raising his eyebrows. “Fine.” I shut the door, lock it, and wait for him to knock. “Who is it?” I ask.
“Your smokin’ studly date for the evening, ma’am.”
“In that case, you’d better check with Officer O’Brien so he can clear you.”
“You’re just a fucking riot, you know that?” he says through the door.
I laugh and fling open the door, moving aside so he can step in. “Was that better?” I tease.
He shuts the door and locks it. “Only slightly. But if you don’t know who’s there, even if he claims to be a cop, ask to see a badge, got me?”
“I understand.”
“Good.” Curran gathers me to him, his hand stroking up my arm to gently rest against my face. He leans in. I close my eyes, expecting the lustful aggression he demonstrated before—a deep kiss that demands I pull him down on top of me.