Butterface

“Don’t fuck it up, then,” Paul said. “And everything will be fine.”

“Your turn, Ford,” Gina called out from her spot by the ball return, close enough to watch them with curiosity but not so near that she could overhear what they were saying as the balls crashed into pins on the other lanes.

Without a word to her brothers, he got up and went over to retrieve his ball.

“Are they giving you a hard time?” she asked, giving him a soft hip check.

Yeah, that wasn’t something someone with any testosterone would ever admit. “Why would you say that?”

“Because my brothers are as overprotective as they are predictable,” she said, amusement giving her words a light lilt. “Take throwing this game, for instance. They’ve been doing it for years, as if I didn’t realize they play in a league and could wipe the floor with me.”

And so much for Gina not realizing what he and her brothers were up to. Really, he should have known better. “So why do you go along with it?”

“It makes them happy.” She shrugged. “We do weird things when we care about people. You know?”

Yeah, he did.

And this time when his ball landed in the gutter, it wasn’t on purpose. It was because he glanced over at Gina before letting go and she pursed those pink lips of hers and blew him a kiss, punctuated with a wink.

Turns out it was easy to send a bowling ball into the gutter when his mind was already there.

…

Almost a week after his suspension, Ford walked into the squad room. Everything looked the same—the burned coffee, the surly suspect handcuffed to a desk, the tower of paperwork in his inbox—except for Gallo’s face with its large purple bruise that was the same size as Ford’s fist.

Gallo gave his version of the stink eye as Ford walked by on his way to the captain’s office. What was he supposed to do? Fall down on his knees and beg for forgiveness? Not fucking likely. He stopped at the corner of Gallo’s desk, picked up the crumpled paper towel sitting next to the detective’s coffee mug, and handed it to him.

“You got a little something right there.” Ford made a wiping motion on his own chin right where Gallo’s bruise was.

Gallo dropped the paper towel and flipped him off.

He slapped his palm over his heart. “Oh man, does that mean we’re not forever besties anymore?”

Ignoring the curious looks and occasional glares from the others in the squad, he walked over to the captain’s office and knocked on the door.

“Enter,” came the captain’s gruff response.

Ford walked in and closed the door behind him. The captain didn’t look up from the report he was reading. It wasn’t an unusual move. The man liked to make people cool their heels, wondering what kind of hell was about to get rained down on them. It had never worked on Ford, but he’d grown up with Kate Hartigan bringing down the heat, so it would take a whole lot to make him sweat in his shoes.

Hands clasped behind his back, he stared straight ahead. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

“You’ve been seen with Gina Luca,” he said, eyes still on the report. “Do I need to remind you that your operation was terminated and that it is a serious violation to go rogue?”

He gritted his teeth. Cops were some gossipy assholes sometimes. “No sir.”

The captain still wasn’t looking at him. Instead he took out a red pen from his top drawer, uncapped it, and started to circle and cross out various words on the report. “Are you sure? I can’t have a detective going wild on me—especially when the whole thing looks as suspicious as this does.”

“I’m not tracking, sir.”

“You aren’t known for picking the runt of the litter to date, Hartigan.” The captain capped his red pen, set it down next to the now-bloody report, and gave Ford a hard look. “Gina Luca is so far off your usual radar that you’d need the Hubble Telescope to find her.”

For a second, all Ford could hear was white noise. Was this what it was like for Gina? Being judged every day, before she’d even opened her mouth, about what kind of person she was based on how she looked? An angry burn ignited in his stomach at the absolute unfairness of it all and at himself for never really grasping it before. She’d tried to tell him, and he’d just played it off, telling her she wasn’t ugly, as if that declaration was enough. She wasn’t. Not to him. But others? How she looked was all they saw.