πππππ
A month? A fucking month? "Are you serious? You want to take Bambi away from me?"
"Who the fuck is Bambi?"
I tap against the gun at my side. "This sweet little thang right here."
"Well, that sweet little thang is no longer yours. Bambi and badge on my desk in five."
Goddammit.
"Way to go, dumbass," Larry sneered from the side.
I wanted to smash his face in, but assaulting a fellow officer would be the final nail in my career coffin right now. Besides, I needed to act like a grownup, not letting insults get to me.
"I knew your brown ass wouldn't last around here."
Ah, fuck. How was I supposed to act like the grownup now?
"It's African, you fucking tit-head!" I launched myself forward and punched him in the face, hammering that last nail into my now-dead career. And since that career was already bolted shut with a fuck-load of nails, I punched the asshole again. Why? Because I fucking wanted to. It was like trashing the school with toilet paper. You didn't know why the fuck you did it. You just did it because it was fun.
It took three other guys about twelve-point-three seconds to take my gun, my badge, and haul my ass out of the station and onto the fucking pavement.
Jesus Christ. Suspended for a month? How the fuck was I supposed to continue my investigation of the Bologna if I was nothing more than a damn civilian, unable to use all my detective perks to get the information I needed?
I kicked at the ground beneath me and pulled my hands through my hair, feeling like I was about to burst a damn aneurysm in my brain. It was when I looked to the left that I saw the hard-on triggering ass get into a black Mercedes. Vanessa Bologna.
She didn't know I'd just been suspended and tossed onto the curb like a loser. Vanessa didn't know I didn't have any right to keep tabs on her, or to harass her anymore - not that I did in the first place. But so not the point.
If I had any chance of proving my suspicions about the Bologna were correct, and thus getting the commander and his damn suspension off my ass, I was going to have to go about this in a completely different way.
I took out my phone and grinned as I slid my finger across the screen.
Hell, at least I was going to have so much fun.
****
πππππππ
My heart was still beating frantically. And my skin still felt like it was on fire, all because of one arrogant, overly confident, egotistical male with devil eyes and a smirk that could melt panties everywhere. For the last half hour, I'd had a constant prickle of warning in the back of my head. Detective Gunner was a temptation I needed to stay clear of. Β
I leaned back in the seat of the car and inhaled, counting to four, and then exhaled. Maybe if I did a few breathing exercises, my heartbeat would normalize.
I tried it a few times, and it seemed like it was helping since I no longer felt the overwhelming urge to make a slut out of myself.
It was about half an hour drive back home, so I grabbed my phone, thinking it might be a good idea to interact a little with my one point two million followers.
One thousand, two hundred and nineteen notifications in under forty minutes. How was that even possible? Did these people sit around waiting for public figures to update their status so they could comment and like pokeβto their little hearts' content?
Were these people even aware there were things like world hunger and global warming? Things that were way more important than what I had for lunch, or what Kim Kardashian wore to the damn beach.
I opened the Facebook app and clicked on my notifications bar, marking all as read. If I replied to every comment made, I'd be here until next Tuesday.
Just as I was about to close the app, I paused, wondering β¦
Scrolling to my list of followers, I started typing in "Gunner." I had no idea what his first name was, but if he'd managed to get my latest status update back at the station, he must be following me.
And, sure as shit, there he was... James Gunner. James. Such a mundane name for such an asshat. If it weren't for me recognizing that sinfully gorgeous face, I never would have guessed it was him.
I knew I shouldn't. I really shouldn't, but I clicked on his profile anyway.
As I scrolled down his timeline, I noticed there wasn't much going on, since his last status update was two months ago saying, "I'm drunk. That is all." That was so attractive.
I rolled my eyes and went to the About section. He had Self-Employed listed as his job, which made me snort since I knew that was a crock of bull. But it did make sense he wouldn't go put Detective on something as public as Facebook, especially when he was investigating my father.
My stomach turned at the thought. Not that it was anything new. The police had been investigating my father for as long as I could remember, but they'd never managed to get any concrete evidence against him.
My father was as intelligent as he was cunning. Hell, I was his daughter, and if it weren't for a conversation about the Vecna-Nosta which I just happened to hear between my parents ten years ago, I never would have suspected my father was a mafia boss. Back then, I didn't even know what that meant, or what it entailed. And when I heard my dad say the words "managing protection rackets," I knew it meant something bad. I was too young to understand back then, but not anymore. I knew exactly what it meant now and if I wasn't careful, it was going to be the end of me. Especially if Detective Gunner had anything to say about it.