It was one of the reasons Michael wouldn’t let him stop at a Dunkees. He’d come out with a dozen fuckin’ donuts otherwise.
The weather had been miserable all night, the rain chasing them around North Boston as they tried to nail down a suspect in an armed burglary. As soon as Davis pulled up outside the late-night bakery so they could grab a coffee, the rain had started pissin’ down. The weather mirrored his mood.
Dahlia.
He squeezed his eyes closed and pinched the bridge of his nose. That woman had been messing with his head all week, and he hated being distracted on the job. It could be dangerous.
Dermot had called him to give him a heads-up that Dahlia was in town, and his friend was pissed to find out he was too late making that call.
“I don’t know what my fuckin’ family is thinkin’, man. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t think your dad meant any harm.”
“It wasn’t Dad. Dahlia will have put him up to it. That bitch thinks she can walk right back into town and expect everyone to roll over. Mom is a mess. I don’t know what to do.”
Michael had flinched at Dermot calling Dahlia a bitch. Even now, after everything, it was his instinct to defend her. “She’s still your sister, so watch your mouth. And it was definitely your dad’s doing. She was just as shocked as I was.”
Dermot had gone quiet. “Don’t let her manipulate you, Mike. You just got out of a crappy marriage. You don’t need my fuckin’ sister messing with your head again.”
Michael had gotten off the phone because Dermot’s acridness toward Dahlia pissed him off. It wasn’t fair, considering how angry he was with her and how he’d spoken to her when he saw her, but that was different. He could be mad as fuck at Dahlia and still not want anyone else to hurt her.
He’d hurt her.
The anguish had blazed out of her at his cutting remarks the other night. His consequent remorse made him even more pissed. What the fuck did he have to feel guilty for? She left him.
Jesus Christ.
An image of her from the other night popped into his head for the millionth time. She’d been wearing a blue dress, the same shade as her eyes. It was fitted and wrapped tight around her perfect body.
Dahlia had always had full hips, a tiny waist, and big boobs. It was the first thing he noticed about her.
He was a man. He loved her body.
No point pretending he didn’t.
But from the moment he’d looked into her eyes in that art gallery all those years ago, he’d been a fuckin’ goner. Michael had never met anyone so full of everything. Curiosity, humor, boredom, annoyance—it had all flashed in her eyes as she stood on that podium in that ridiculous body stocking that barely covered her.
And then she’d flipped him off more gracefully than anybody had ever flipped him off.
All that life, all that vibrant energy she gave off, she still had it. There was more sadness in her now, but she was still Dahlia after all.
That night, when he’d gotten home and eventually fallen asleep, he’d dreamed about her.
About fuckin’ her. Angry hate sex.
The next night, he made love to her in his dreams.
And last night the dream had been a mixture of both.
A few hours later his alarm went off, and
he woke up hard, frustrated and angrier than ever.
The passenger side door opened and Davis dived in, cursing under his breath, yanking Michael out of his thoughts. His partner’s suit and hair were soaked. A warm coffee aroma filled the car as Davis passed him a cup. But that didn’t appease Michael when he saw the brown paper bag in Davis’s other hand.
“You fucker.” He eyeballed what he knew were pinwheels.
His partner grinned. “Hey, I ain’t watching what I eat.”