Roarke walked over, handed her her weapon and a towel. She didn’t know where the hell he’d come up with the towel, but it looked clean. She wiped some of the blood off her face.
“I’d kick your ass for putting your weapon down,” he murmured, “except as I said before, I’m fond of it. And because at the core, I agree with Whitney. Besides”—he took the towel, dabbed at her face himself—“I took fifty off the new guy.”
“What? Santiago?”
“I wagered him you’d bait her into a fight so you could pummel her a bit. He was the only taker.” He leaned down, softly, softly kissed her swollen mouth. “But he doesn’t know you as well as the rest. Yet.”
She might’ve smiled, but knew it would hurt. “Well, he’s the new guy. I’ve got to ...” She trailed off, noting the room was still full of cops. Thinking of the kiss she would’ve scowled, but that would hurt, too.
“What’re you all still doing here? Don’t you have homes? Dismissed.”
To her utter shock Baxter shifted to attention, snapped a salute, held it. “Lieutenant,” he said, and every cop in the room followed suit.
She forgot every ache, every pain, every bruise and cut. There wasn’t room with the pride.
“Good work. All of you. Good work.” She returned the salute. “Dismissed.”
As they filed out, Feeney walked to her. He laid a hand on her shoulder, and he nodded. “Not bad,” he said. “Not bad at all.”
When he walked off, it was with a strut in his step.
Eve let out a breath. “I have to sit down a minute.” She did, then lowered her head into her hands. “God. Oh, God.”
Hearing the tears in her voice, Roarke knelt. “You’re in pain. Baby, let me get you to the hospital.”
“It’s not that. Or yeah, it’s a little that. But it’s mostly . . .” She dropped her head on his shoulder, smearing blood on his beautifully cut jacket. “What they did. All of them. How they stood up. All of them. Knowing what I have in them. I can’t ... I don’t know how to say it.”
“You don’t have to. I think I know.”
“They’re everything she’s not. Everything she abused, raped, killed, exploited. They’re the reason I . . . not the reason I do it, but the reason I can.” She lifted her head, swiped at tears and blood. “You’ll buy that drink for the house?”
“I will, yes. Darling Eve.” He laid his lips on her cheek. “My cop.”
“Roarke.” Tears pressed and burned again. She let some go, just let them fall. She could let them fall with him. She gripped his lapel, transferred more blood as she looked in his eyes.
“I want to go home, okay? I just need to go home now. You can fix me up there. It’s not so bad. You can take me home and fix me up. Because at the end of the day you’re what does. You’re what fixes me up.”
“Eve.” He pressed his lips to her brow, held there a moment. Just held. “All right then. I’ll take you home, and I’ll fix you up.”
“Thanks.” When he helped her to her feet, she leaned against him. “You’re the reason, too. Why I can do it.”
“Then I’ll fix you up so you can do it another day.”
As they started out of the room, she hissed. “Shit! It is pretty bad. Still go-home-and-fix-me-up territory, but, Jesus, she could fight. At least until the hair-pulling incident.”
“You were holding back a little.”
She frowned. “Who says?”
“Who knows you?”
So she sighed, leaned on him again. “Maybe I held back a little, until—”
“The hair-pulling incident.”
“It was insulting, and really demeaned the moment.”
He laughed, and he took her weight. She hobbled to the elevator so he could take her home, fix her up. So she could do it all another day.