Chapter Three 4 страница. But I don't think I'm ready to make that kind of promise yet.

"But I don't think I'm ready to make that kind of promise yet."

"I'm not asking for a promise," Regan said. "I'm not saying that to try and change your mind or anything, I just want you to know that it doesn't have to be a promise."

"But it does." Emotion was raw and visible on Mel's face. "I care about you, already, and I haven't made love with anyone I cared about for a long time. So, for me, it's going to be a kind of promise." Her eyes dropped. "And I hope for you, too."

Regan was stunned silent by Mel's naked vulnerability. She's taking this seriously. She's taking me seriously. "I understand," she said. "And I respect that. I was just feeling a little insecure. I want for it to moan something, too... for us to mean something."

"You don't play games, do you?" Mel touched Regan's cheek, as if in awe. "You don't know how much I appreciate that."

Regan wrinkled her nose. "Life's too short to play those kinds of games. What's the point in not being honest?"

Mel broke into a grin, unbuckling her seatbelt so that she could wrap strong arms around Regan. "Don't ever change," she murmured.

"I think that's the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me. Thank you."

"Do you think I could get a goodnight kiss?"

Regan laughed and unbuckled her own seatbelt. You could get anything you want. She leaned forward and kissed Mel. Hard.

At first Mel seemed surprised by the fierce passion of the kiss, allowing herself to be moved backwards by the force of Regan's body. After a moment she regained control and pushed back, exploring Regan's mouth with her tongue. A warm hand slid up over Regan's collarbone, and possessive fingers curled around the curve of Regan's neck. Regan had never been so turned on in her entire life. They broke apart gasping. Mel's hand was still on Regan's throat; Regan could feel her pulse racing beneath those fingertips.

"I need to get out of this truck before I throw you down and take you right here." Mel fumbled behind her back for the door, eyes dazed and face flushed with arousal.

Regan groaned and let her eyes slip shut at the thought. "Not a good thing to tell me when I'm in this state. I won't be responsible for my actions."

"Moan like that again and I won't be responsible for mine." Mel found the door handle.

"I'm sorry." It didn't sound very genuine.

The corner of Mel's mouth twitched. "Oh, please. Like I ever want you to apologize for being sexy."

Sexy? Regan tried to decide how someone like Mel could ever find her sexy. Really?

Mel leaned in close and kissed the bridge of her nose. "Yes. You're very sexy, Regan."

Regan felt herself blush to the tips of her toes. "Likewise," she managed.

Mel opened the door and got out of the truck. Sliding a hand into the back pocket of her jeans, she withdrew a battered leather wallet and fished around in it. "Call me, okay?" she said, passing Regan a business card.

Regan took the card without looking at it. "Count on it."

The look Mel gave her — shy, excited, and anxious all at the same time —caused a funny feeling in the pit of Regan's belly. It wasn't a feeling she was used to, though she had felt something similar once before, back in college. The feeling lingered after Mel closed the truck door and walked up to her apartment. It was still there when Regan could no longer follow Mel with her eyes. She drew a deep breath and then exhaled very slowly. She felt shaky and thrilled and scared out of her mind. She knew what that feeling was.

I could fall in love with her. Easily.

Chapter Four

MEL WOKE UP with a frustrated groan. Her alarm clock was buzzing and her right hand was trapped in her pajama bottoms. She blinked in sleepy confusion, then remembered. Oh, yeah, I never did finish.

She slapped the alarm clock into silence and turned her face into her pillow. Right in the middle of the best fucking dream, too. Mel closed her eyes and tried to recall the fading details. Five more minutes and she would've had Regan completely naked.

"Goddamn alarm clock," she complained to the print of Magritte's La Magie Noire that hung on the wall. It was the only point of color in an otherwise spare room.

She sat up and swung her legs over the side of her bed, feeling the sleep-warmed skin of her bare torso pebble with gooseflesh in the cool morning air. It was 5:06 a.m. Not too bad. Her date with Regan the night before had thrown off her sleep schedule by a good hour and a half, and she felt it. She always felt it when something disrupted the order in her life.

It was only the inevitability of her morning routine that forced her out of bed. Rummaging in her dresser, she retrieved a variation of the same outfit she wore every morning: a pair of athletic shorts and a snug white sports bra. She got dressed on auto-pilot, and ambled into the room her apartment complex had obviously intended to be the master bedroom, but which she had converted into an exercise room. It wasn't like she'd ever needed a big bedroom, especially when ending dates was easier if they didn't wind up here.

Mel thought about Regan as she lifted weights. She didn't usually think about anything of consequence. Most times, the challenge of lifting, of pushing past her pain, had the pleasant effect of clearing her mind of all thought. Not so this morning. She couldn't get red hair and that shy smile out of her head. There's no place like 127.0.0.1. What the hell did that even mean? Mel chuckled out loud and swiped the back of her hand across her sweaty forehead. Never had she thought so hard about a woman's T-shirt.

God, I hope she calls me. The errant, anxious thought stopped her cold for a moment. I hope she calls me? What the fuck was she thinking?

After a session on the treadmill, Mel pulled her sports bra off and walked down the hallway towards the bathroom. She paused at her computer and stared at the screensaver, a barely clad actress who shot her a sultry grin, but despite the eye-candy, all she could think about was Regan. When a smile came swift and unbidden to her lips, Mel knew nothing would be the same anymore. She launched her sweaty sports bra into the laundry basket, and decided to deviate from her schedule.

How hard could it be to write a quick e-mail?

She bit her lip and thought hard. Dear Regan, she typed, then began a furious backspacing. That sounded weird, saying "dear." Resolved, she typed Regan... then sat in silent contemplation for a couple torturous minutes. Finally, she sighed in exasperation. Was this what writer's block felt like?

"Regan," she rehearsed out loud. "I can't stop thinking about you. Between the sex dream and almost falling off the treadmill because I was daydreaming, you're honestly freaking me out."

Mel laughed. She did feel freaked out but really great at the same time. How was that possible? She drummed her fingers on her abdomen. Maybe because she knew something had to give, and Regan was the best reason she'd ever had to change. Inspired by the thought, she typed out a few lines with confident ease before rereading the e-mail and blushing as she looked at her own words.

"What's happening to me?" she whispered and read the short message again. "What are you doing to me, Regan O'Riley?"

She clicked the "Send" button before she lost her nerve, and headed for the shower, trying to remember what she used to think about before she thought of Regan.

Work? She watched the water sluice down her stomach. No, she was glad to have a distraction from that. Sex? She closed her eyes as Regan immediately sprang back to her mind. Her bike? She could almost feel Regan on the seat behind her. Forget it. She was doomed. She felt like a crazy person. If this was what falling for someone was like, she wasn't sure if she was up to it. Yet, she seemed to have little choice in the matter. She was hooked.

Her stomach clenched at the thought. Goddammit, this was scary as hell!

Mel opened her eyes and looked up at the shower massager over her head. She hesitated only a moment and then, with a defeated little grin, reached up and snagged it from its cradle.

"It's either this or be distracted all day," she said aloud, and looked around. Nobody could dispute that logic.

When she came, it was with Regan's name on her lips.

MELANIE RAINES. THAT'S what the business card said. She'd been repeating that name in her head since dropping the cop off at her apartment the night before. She wants me to call her. Regan grinned. She gave me her number and everything!

Regan grabbed her glasses and hurried down the hall to the bathroom, ready for her whirlwind morning choreography. Bed to shower in 53 seconds. Not bad. Sleeping naked eliminated precious seconds most people would spend stripping off.

Standing beneath the hot jets, she squirted shampoo into the palm of her hand and thought about Mel and their date with a goofy smile on her face. 7 never expected things to go so well, she mused. She wasn't used to feeling an instant connection with another person. It happened so rarely that she knew to take it seriously; the last time had been with Adam in college, and he had been her most loyal friend ever since. That she now seemed to have something real with such a beautiful woman, with someone who made her heart pound every time she looked at her, amazed her.

Melanie Raines. Getting dressed, after she'd toweled dry, she saw herself as she imagined Mel might see her —the way Mel made her feel when she pinned her with those smoky grey eyes. She looked good. Regan smiled at herself in the mirror, tucking her wet hair behind her ears. She suspected that Mel had a lot to do with the radiance that shone from within her, so clearly that even she could see it. I could definitely get used to feeling like this.

Intellectually, Regan was aware that she wasn't an unattractive woman. She was short and pleasantly symmetrical, if not classically featured. But she had been self-conscious about the way she looked for as long as she could remember. She pulled on a pair of baggy jeans. Thank God for a casual office. The next choice was her T-shirt. Always an important decision. Most of hers had humorous, and usually geeky, phrases emblazoned upon them. Regan finally chose one that read "SELECT * FROM users WHERE clue > 0...0 rows returned." It was a favorite.

E-mail was the most important step of her morning routine. Before breakfast, even before putting on her shoes, she had to check in with the world. Regan scanned the names and subjects of her unread messages, impatient to open the most interesting one.

There was an e-mail from Adam, with the subject "Official plea for a Halo rematch," which Regan bypassed with a smirk. Another message from her father, something about financial planning, which she knew she'd never read and therefore ignored upon sight. She stopped searching when she reached her most recently received e-mail, eyes glued to the name of the sender. Mel Raines.

"No way." Regan's heart began a steady thumping and her cheeks grew warm. "No fucking way." If she's not careful, I'm going to fall head over heels for her. She clicked on the e-mail, holding her breath as it opened. E-mail! She's the perfect woman!

The note was short and unimaginably sweet. Regan, it read, I haven't stopped thinking about you since you dropped me off last night, and I decided that you might like to know that. Regan grinned. The note went on, I also decided that I'd like to tell you so that I can imagine the amazing smile that I know is on your face right about...now.

"Clever deduction, officer," she murmured. "You're just full of surprises."

For long minutes, she stared at the note, trying to remind herself that she had sworn not to let her expectations spiral out of control. But that was before the e-mail. Regan sighed and rolled her eyes at herself. Now I'm planning the wedding.

As much as she didn't want to feel so optimistic, well...there it was. She was optimistic. Regan sighed at her own idealism. I can't help it if I haven't been burned enough to be scared of the fire. Such were the hidden perks of crippling shyness and adolescent unpopularity. Regan had a bold thought then, an unfamiliar craving to break free of her reservations and make a connection with another person. Tonight maybe I'll call Mel, and ask her if she wants to go out.

The way she felt —the way Melanie Raines made her feel-Regan just might do it. She just might summon the courage to pick up the phone.

Maybe.

AND I LET her go home. Am I crazy? Mel stiffened her lower lip and concentrated on looking surly.

No way was she going to sit through an entire morning briefing grinning like a lovesick kid. Glancing around at the uniformed cops surrounding her, she was satisfied that nobody was paying any particular attention to her or her good mood.

Even when she managed to let a few minutes pass without conjuring up Regan's face, it wasn't long before some inconsequential thing brought those delicate features into focus.

Aside from making her feel a little embarrassed and exposed, convinced that everyone could see the change in her, this distracting train of thought was not as annoying as she would have expected. In fact, it was exciting to have something beyond the monotony of her daily life to visit inside her head.

Even this miserable fucking job couldn't bring her down today, she mused.

As soon as the briefing was over, Mel searched out the duty cop for cruiser keys and her radio, then walked out of the Detroit Police Department's 14th Precinct building into the warm May sunshine.

For a moment she just stood there and looked around at the parking lot, surprised anew by how content she felt. Today everything seemed right. She sent a small rock skittering across the rows of parked cars with a sharp kick of her boot. Would it be totally pathetic to call her tonight? Did she care if it was? She squinted up at the sun, surprised to realize that no, she probably didn't.

Mel reached the patrol car and slipped on her sunglasses. Not yet wanting to leave the fresh air, she leaned back against the hood, arms folded, and allowed herself to enjoy a sweet memory of Regan's passionate kiss from the night before. She knew her happiness was still obvious when Hansen walked toward her with a stupid grin on his face.

"Who are you, Captain Happy, and what have you done with my partner?" he called out and casually tossed a bagel in her direction.

Mel caught her breakfast and nodded her appreciation. "What's that supposed to mean?" she asked. "I'm incapable of smiling?"

"Well, no, you're surely not. But my partner, on the other hand..."

Mel raised an eyebrow at Hansen as she thumbed the keyless entry and opened the driver's side door of the patrol car. Hansen climbed into the passenger seat and stuck his bagel in his mouth so that he could struggle with his seatbelt. Fastening her own with one hand, Mel fought back a smirk at his clumsy maneuvering. When he managed to lock the strap across his waist, he looked at her and chewed.

"Stop looking at me." She started the car, immediately reaching out to flip on their favorite oldies station at a low volume. "It makes me nervous."

She backed out of the narrow parking space and shifted into drive, taking a bite of her bagel before navigating their car out on to the street.

"Let's head down to Washington first," Hansen said.

"Sounds good." Vandals had been targeting businesses in a three-block radius for the past two weeks; they'd learned in roll call that a bakery on Washington had been hit late last night. Another day, more pointless destruction.

Mel remembered the Spice Girls CD and numerous wrong turns and broke into another involuntary smile. After a moment, she realized that Hansen was staring at her again. "What?" she growled, eyes on the road.

"It's the woman, right? Isn't it always a woman?" he answered himself.

This was weird, Mel decided. She could see from his kind brown eyes his desire to have this kind of conversation with her. Maybe it had something to do with Regan, but Mel found that she wanted it, too. Ah, Christ, it was just Hansen, she thought. Three years together now, maybe she could let him see her happy. Maybe she could share a tiny part of herself for a change.

"Yeah, I guess it is," she said.

"I'm glad. The smile looks good on you."

Mel didn't say anything, uncertain of how to respond to his compliment and horrified when she felt her face flush. She was grateful when Hansen turned to look out the front windshield, away from her, and began to munch on his bagel again.

She glanced down at the car's clock as she turned down a narrow side street. 9:27 a.m. Only eight and a half hours to go. It took an effort to hold her happiness in check. God, it was a beautiful day. The thought lasted at least ten minutes before the Friday jinx kicked in and they got their first domestic violence call.

The address was only four blocks away on Detroit's east side. Run-down houses lined both sides of the block, some of which appeared to have been abandoned long ago. Their destination was a small, battered white house on the far corner of the block. An old Ford truck was parked haphazardly in the driveway and the front yard was littered with trash. One light was visible through the front window of the house, but Mel couldn't see anyone moving inside.

"Don't worry, we'll make this quick," Hansen said as they bailed out and scanned the surroundings. The only sound in the air was that of birds chirping.

They walked swiftly up to the house, casting cautious eyes around. Mel dropped her hand to rest against the butt of her Glock, the motion almost unconscious. When they reached the front porch, she and Hansen positioned themselves on either side of the door.

Al her nod, Hansen raised his fist and pounded hard on the door. "This is the police!" he shouted. "Open up!"

There was no answer. Quietly, Mel spoke into her shoulder mic, appraising the dispatcher of their situation. "Frank Calleja," she relayed the responses to Hansen in a low voice, "35-year-old Hispanic male, priors for assault with a deadly weapon and domestic violence. Cops have been called to this address twice before." She tossed him a meaningful look. "Let's be careful in there."

Hansen pounded on the door again. "This is the police, Mr. Calleja!"

Mel took a step back and angled her body slightly towards the door, the palm of her hand resting on the handle of her gun. Listening for any sound, she flexed her fingers, tense. When none came, she took another step back and glanced sideways towards the windows. Tattered curtains prevented her from looking inside. Hansen's large fist paused in mid-air as soft footfalls approached from the home's interior. The sound of various locks being disengaged made Mel stiffen with tension. Prepared for the worst, she relaxed slightly when the door swung slowly open to reveal a little blonde girl no more than six years old.

She looked like any of the dozens of little blonde girls Mel had encountered during her three years as a cop. Nose running, hair long and tangled, she looked up at Mel and Hansen with big blue eyes. Tear tracks were visible on her dirty cheeks.

Mel softened her face into a patient smile and spoke quietly to the girl, aware that Hansen was still alert, watching the hallway beyond for signs of her parents. "Hi there," she said. "We're police officers. We're here because we heard that people were fighting and that they need our help. Are your mommy and daddy fighting, honey?"

"Mommy and Frank are having a fight," the girl answered.

Mel made brief eye contact with Hansen, then asked, "Do you think your mommy can come to the door, sweetheart?"

The girl shook her head and fat tears began to roll down her cheeks. "No," she whispered.

From somewhere in the house came a loud slapping sound, and then a muffled male shout. "Fucking bitch! If you don't shut the hell up, I'll kick the shit out of you!" Another scream, and then silence.

"Take the kid to the cruiser," Hansen said. "I'll call for backup."

Mel held out her hand, giving the girl a warm smile when she reached out and took it with sticky fingers. "What's your name, sweetheart?"

"Molly."

"Come on, Molly. You can wait in my car while we talk to Frank, okay?"

Mel walked the trembling child to their cruiser as quickly as she could, tossing frequent glances back over her shoulder at Hansen. Her partner talked into his shoulder mic in a quiet voice, relaying the situation to dispatch, his eyes pinned to the front door.

Mel helped Molly into the backseat, and asked, "Where are Frank and your mommy, honey? What room are they in?"

"The bedroom."

Mel reached out and stroked tangled hair. "That's down the front hallway?"

Molly nodded. "At the end."

"I'll be right back, Molly." She shut the little girl in the car and jogged back up to the porch.

"There's definitely an assault in progress," Hansen said as she climbed the stairs. "A lot of shouting and punching."

"The girl says they're in the bedroom, last room down the hallway."

One hand on his Glock, Hansen stepped inside the house. "Backup's coming. Five minutes, maybe. Let's go."

They walked down the hall, Mel trailing after Hansen, until they reached the last door on the left. Inside, she could hear muffled sobbing and angry whispers.

Hansen knocked hard on the bedroom door. "Sir, ma'am, this is the police. Would you please come out, hands where we can see them?"

The harsh whispering stopped; for a moment they could hear continued sobbing, but then even that was silenced with a choked cry. Nobody came to the door.

Hansen knocked again. "We've received a complaint about a domestic disturbance," he yelled. "Why don't you two come out here and we can talk about this, sort it out?" He paused a moment, his head tilted towards the door. "How about that?"

There was still no response.

Mel flicked her eyes down the hallway, back towards the open front door. Their backup had yet to arrive.

Hansen knocked again, harder this time. "Listen, you're either going to come out here and talk to us, or we're coming in there and then we can all talk back at the precinct. How do you want to handle this situation?"

For a moment there was silence, and then a woman called out, "Please— " before being cut off with a sharp slap.

Mel exhaled through her nostrils, tensing her jaw. She kept her hand firmly on the handle of her gun, looking up at Hansen.

He gave her a nod and put his hand on the doorknob. "We're opening the door," he warned. "We want your hands where we can see them."

Mel stepped to the side of the door and Hansen pushed it open and immediately moved to the side, craning his head to try and see inside the bedroom. From her vantage point, Mel couldn't see if anyone was there.

"Come on, man," Hansen called out. "All you've got to do is come out here and talk to us. It doesn't have to be this way."

He had barely finished his sentence when a large dark-haired man burst out of the bedroom door, slammed into Hansen and took a few running steps down the hallway before turning to face them. A woman screamed from the bedroom and at the same time Mel saw the gun in the man's hand. She was already pulling her Glock from her holster when he surged forward, his weapon raised.

Loud gunfire filled the air and Mel felt a stinging pain on her face. She hit the floor, rolled, and came up on her knee. Vaguely aware of Hansen on the floor near her, she raised her weapon and took a single shot at their assailant.

The man's shoulder jerked backwards and he reflexively dropped his weapon. Mel was on her feet and moving as the gun clattered to the floorboards. She kicked the weapon away and forced the wounded man to the floor.

"Fucking bitch cop, you shot me!" He writhed, clutching his injured shoulder.

"Face down!" Mel shouted at the snarling man. "It's over, pal. Put your hands where I can see them!"

After cuffing his wrists, she retrieved his handgun and removed the clip, ejecting the unfired rounds and pocketing the ammo.

"Hey, Hansen." She got to her feet, glancing around for her partner. "You wanna Miranda this asshole?"

She stopped speaking, almost stopped breathing. Hansen was still on the floor. Staring up at the ceiling, he was making wet, gasping noises that turned her stomach. She stumbled over to him and dropped to her knees next to his body.

"Oh, Jesus, Hansen," she whispered.

Blood flowed freely from a large hole in his neck and he stared up at her with frightened brown eyes. Mel pressed one hand to the gaping wound and activated her shoulder mic with the other, reporting an officer and suspect down and requesting ambulances.

From the bedroom doorway, a sobbing blonde woman stared at her. Blood streamed from a cut on her forehead, and her mouth was slack from shock.

"Go sit down," Mel told her. "There's help coming." She placed her free hand against the one that was already on Hansen's neck, desperate to hold his life inside. "Hold on, Hansen," she murmured, hearing sirens. "You're going to be fine. They're coming right now."

Chapter Five

REGAN WAS CURLED up in her favorite chair in her favorite position, feet dangling over one arm and back propped against the other. The Princess Bride played on her television, perfect entertainment for the lonely night to come. She had just popped another gummy bear in her mouth, eyes fixed on Inigo's sword fight with the man in black, when the doorbell rang. It was 6:30 p.m.

Damn it. I told Adam I wasn't in the mood for video games tonight. She rose from her chair and walked to the door. God, I wish it were Mel.

She looked out the peephole and gasped at the sight of her visitor. Mel was standing on the front porch, eyes downcast. Heart pounding, Regan unlocked the door and pulled it open. Mel didn't seem like the type to just show up unannounced. And she had company. A dark-featured man stood next to her, looking awkward.

"Regan, hey." Mel looked up. A bright white bandage covered her cheek, and her grey eyes were haunted, accented by dark circles that added years to her face. She radiated pain.

"Mel. What happened?"

"Ms. O'Riley?" The man beside Mel spoke. "I'm Detective Morales. Officer Raines was involved in a shooting earlier today."

Regan turned to Mel with frantic eyes. She looked her up and down, scanning a plain white T-shirt and dark navy sweatpants emblazoned with a Detroit Police Department logo. "Mel, are you all right?" She stepped forward before Mel could answer, reaching out to take her cold hands in her own.

Mel's lips twitched. "I'm okay. Look, I'm sorry to barge in on you in the middle of Friday night."

Regan glanced over at Morales, then slid her right hand up the back of Mel's arm to grip her above the elbow. "It's no big deal. I was just watching a movie. I'm glad you came. Are you sure you're all right?"

Morales cleared his throat, drawing Regan's attention to his grave face. "She disabled the shooter after her partner was wounded by gunfire. She did real good, and everyone got out alive."

"For the moment," Mel muttered darkly.

Impulsively, Regan pulled her into a tight hug. Mel was tense in her arms for a moment before she melted into the embrace. "How badly wounded?" Regan whispered into Mel's ear.

Mel shook her head, tickling Regan's cheek with her hair. "Pretty bad. They're worried about spinal cord damage."

Regan tightened her arms around Mel. "Thank you for bringing her," she told Detective Morales.

Morales nodded. "Hey, Raines, we'll call if we hear anything more tonight."

As he walked away, Regan tugged gently on Mel's hand and didn't release it until they were in her sitting room, standing next to the couch. She let go then only because she was not certain the contact was appreciated; as far as she was concerned, she never wanted to let go of Mel again. She could have died. Regan watched Mel lift her hands to her face and press the heels of her palms against her eyes. She shot someone tonight. Someone shot at her. I can't even begin to understand that kind of bad day at work.

Дата добавления: 2015-10-30