“Why? The clipping, my prints, all of it. Why?”
“Because shit happens to everybody. Look at me.” Summer leaned toward her. “Tell you the truth, I’ve got no problem dying. If my big exit came tonight, I’d be okay with it.”
“Don’t say that, Summer.”
“Why not? What’s to hang around for? This is some screwed-up world.”
“You don’t mean it.”
“The hell I don’t.” She finished her wine and poured more. “The system’s jacked, Miranda. Justice is only for the rich, the powerful wield their might over the weak, and the world continues to turn. Nothing ever changes.”
“That’s not true. I’m a cop—”
“You were a cop.”
That smarted, and Miranda flinched. “I’m suspended, not fired.”
“Unjustly suspended. And why? Because Ian Stark wants somebody to hang for his kid’s death?”
The bitterness in Summer’s voice came from out of the blue, as did her angry worldview. “I’m not totally innocent here. I had a job to do, protocols to follow, and I didn’t do either. So I was suspended.”
“But look at your situation. You say Richard Stark was a scumbag, a sexual predator, but because of who his father is, nobody believes you. And that’s not screwed up?”
It was, Miranda acknowledged, pushing her drink away, the pleasant fuzzy-headedness from earlier gone. “But it’s the only system we have and it’s a hell of a lot better than a lot of countries.”
“I hate when people go there. We should be better than this. Everyone should.”
“You’re right,” she said, “we should, and it’s why I became a cop. Part of the reason anyway.”
An awkward silence fell between them and Miranda wasn’t certain how to break it—or if she even wanted to.
She scooted off the barstool. “I think I’m going to head out. It might be another big day tomorrow.”
“Don’t…” Summer caught her hand. “I’m sorry, I’ve ruined your night out.” She grimaced. “Some bartender I am.”
“You didn’t.” She squeezed, then released, Summer’s hand. “You’re a really good friend. And I’m really … thankful you’re in my life.”
Summer sent her a lopsided smile. “Back at you.”
She paid her tab and crossed to the door. There, she glanced back to find Summer staring blankly past her, obviously someplace far, far away.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
11:00 P.M.
Jake was waiting in his truck for her when she got home. When Miranda pulled into her driveway, he climbed out and came to meet her.
Before she could speak, he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her. His hands were cold but his lips were warm and she melted into him, bringing her own hands from his chest to his neck.
He broke the kiss and rested his forehead against hers. “Hey.”
She smiled. “Hey back.”
“I missed you.”
The simply stated words hit her like a wrecking ball. “I missed you, too.”
“Can I come in?”
She replied by catching his hand and leading him into the house. They didn’t bother with lights or flipping on the furnace—they had enough heat between them to burn the house down.
And start a fire they did, tugging at buttons and zippers, yanking away clinging fabric, cursing denim that resisted, impatient, greedy and unashamed of it.
Naked, they toppled together to the bed. Miranda took the role of aggressor, then he did, anchoring her arms above her head, ravaging her mouth. And she allowed it until she didn’t, flipping him onto his back, pinning him to the mattress.
This was angry need. Nothing tender or soft at the edges here. Sharp, white heat. Furious desire.
She felt it in him, too. Refusal to relinquish control. Anger. Or was that frustration?
With a primal sound he had her on her back and was atop her, thrusting into her. She cried out in both fury and pleasure, digging her fingers into his back, urging him to go deeper. Harder.
And then, with a joint cry of release, it was over. They lay panting, side by side but not touching. Seconds of silence became minutes.
He broke the silence first. “What was that?” he asked, voice raspy.
“You tell me.”
They both knew. The investigation. Details shared. Trust broken.
“I had to tell him about us, Miranda. It was going to come out.”
If she became a suspect, everything would be exposed. She could hear her nearest neighbor saying, “I saw Officer Billings leaving her place real early in the morning,” and retired social-studies teacher Tula Guidry who lived at the very end of the road sharing that “Officer Billings used to come by and visit at night … didn’t notice him leave until morning … figured it wasn’t any of my business.”
“And the button?” she asked, a pinch in her chest.
“It’s evidence, Miranda. You know that.”
She did. But it pissed her off anyway. It hurt. Because that was hers. Her truth. Her history.
“What about you, Jake? Who was that man just now?”
“Buddy suspended me. This afternoon.”
“Oh.” She processed the news a moment. “For how long?”
“One week, without pay. Pending further investigation.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m a big boy. I made my own decisions.”
“But you’re angry. You think I couldn’t feel it?”
“I didn’t try to hide it. Besides, ever consider maybe I’m angry at myself?”
She wanted to ask him why. But she didn’t want to know the answer—she was afraid he would tell her he was angry at himself for wanting her.
Instead, she sat up, pushing her hair away from her face and tucking it behind her ears. “I’m hungry,” she said. “How about you?”
He looked at her then, for the first time since they’d finished making love. “This doesn’t resolve anything.”
“Yeah it does.” She grinned. “I won’t be hungry anymore.”
“True that.”
He rolled out of bed. She watched as he crossed to his jeans, lying in a heap on the floor, watched the subtle play of his muscles as he bent to pick them up, as he slipped one leg in, then the other.
“Jake?” He glanced over his shoulder at her in question. “You’re gorgeous.”
Why hadn’t she noticed before? Why hadn’t she lingered over the place where his pecs met the ridge of his abs, or admired how his abs narrowed, leading her gaze lower. Tempting her to follow with her hands.
He flashed her a quick, surprised smile. “Thanks, Rader. Can’t say I’ve ever thought of myself that way before.”
“Maybe you should start? But don’t let it go to your head.”
He laughed, plucked up his T-shirt, and tossed it at her. And just like that, the mood between them changed, becoming light and easy.
They laughed and chatted, raiding the refrigerator and freezer. He downed a leftover slice of pizza; she attacked a pint of Rocky Road ice cream.
From there he rummaged in her pantry, coming out with a box of Captain Crunch cereal. “Seriously?” he asked, holding up the box in mock horror.
She snatched the box from him. “This happens to make a delicious topping.”
“For what? An ice-cream sundae?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact. But it’s even better on a peanut butter sandwich.”