Sinful Desire

Something about this woman, maybe her willingness to share little details of her life, was working its way under his skin and tricking him into offering up more than he liked to.

Good thing Ryan had no intention of getting any closer to her, or to any woman. Closeness led to commitment, and commitment led to resentment, and resentment led to losing your parents when you were fourteen. And that led to your head and your heart being fucked forever by not knowing who to trust, or who to believe. To your mother telling you over and over that she didn’t do it even as the cops arrested her, and the jury sentenced her for murder for hire.

And worst of all, it meant your father became just faded photographs and memories that blurred around the edges. Ryan was left with only faint reminders of camping trips with his dad, and days spent traipsing around Vegas with him, checking out the new additions to the Strip.

“Fourteen when…?” she asked leadingly. “Oh, when your dad passed away?”

Sophie was giving him a way out, unknowingly providing a safe landing. Hell, he needed one, given the way his mind had been spiraling, turning his insides into a treacherous knot. He nodded. “And your brother lost his friend around that age?”

She clasped her hand over her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut. Uh-oh. He must have said something wrong. “Oh God. I’m so sorry,” she said when she opened her eyes. “I didn’t mean to imply David was killed. I should have been more clear. David’s paralyzed, though, which is still pretty sad.”

“Yeah. Definitely. And all because of a drive-by shooting,” he said, shaking his head in disgust. No faking emotion there.

“It was some kind of retaliation shooting over territory. That’s what really drove John to become a detective. Our dad was a fruit salesman, of all things,” she said with a laugh. “Fruit salesmen don’t usually have cops for sons. But then this happened to John’s best friend, and it led him to want to clean up the streets.”

Ryan couldn’t help but wonder if John had a personal stake in the investigation of his father’s murder, if the gang connection had caught his eye because of his own goal to rid the town of street gangs. If that was the case, John must be betting on his dad’s murder having deeper threads to the Royal Sinners.

Shit.

His gut churned, his emotions yanked in too many directions. Desire to know more warred with the need to backpedal from this discussion.

“That is some heavy stuff,” he said, staying vague. Even if he wasn’t poking and prodding, he should know better than to try to pry. Than to try to glean a little bit of intel about the detective.

But when your mom’s in prison, and your dad’s in the ground, and the men in charge think someone else might be involved, you don’t always do the right thing. Sometimes you poke. “I bet he has some stories about what he’s seen,” he said then wanted to zip his mouth closed for having led the witness.

“He hardly tells me anything. But when he does it’s usually laced with skepticism,” Sophie said, tucking a strand of hair that had fallen loose behind her ear. So strange to have this conversation there in the tourist attraction wheel circling the city, surrounded by people chattering and watching the night fly past the glass windows.

“Why’s that?”

“Detectives are naturally skeptical. It’s their job.”

“Ah. Of course,” he said, and a bead of guilt gathered in his veins as he let Sophie continue to talk freely.

“Think about it. They spend their days getting lied to. Lied to by suspects. By criminals. Even by family members. Almost all of the people they interact with hold back. No one ever offers a full truth to a detective. If someone rolls over, for instance, he’s only ever doing it to protect himself, because he has information that might lessen his own crime. Not for altruism.” She pinned him with a sharp gaze as she made her point, and the guilt inside him stirred. “Or take the case of the drive-by shooting. When detectives questioned the people who lived in the house that was the target, they said they knew nothing and heard nothing, even though there were bullet holes in their window. But the gang guys, they protect each other, and they fight their battles with each other, not with the cops. Even witnesses who have some key piece of information will usually only offer it up if it helps them. It happens all the time. Just the other night John mentioned he’d talked to someone who he was sure knew some key details, but the guy wouldn’t tell him.”