Resigned, I grab the phone. “Stay put. Don’t you dare go anywhere with anyone until I get there.” I hang up before she can retaliate—before she can destroy the very necessary wall I’ve erected between my co-workers and myself.

I don’t think, I don’t try to rationalize anymore—I grab the pen and sign the divorce papers on my desk. Then clutch my keys and blazer, checking my shoulder strap and gun once, before I head out of my office.

I slap the packet against Carson’s chest as I pass. “Put that in the mail for me.” Carson gives me an inquisitive look, but I keep going. Not looking back.

At least there are some small mercies. Avery called me. Not Carson. Which means I’m neutral in her book. There’s some shred of rational thought in her brain despite the amount of alcohol fueling her poor judgment, and somehow, she knew to call safe, guarded, neutral Quinn.

That’s me. A genuine hero to young, drunk women everywhere.

* * *

The bar I track Avery to is a real dive. On my way here, I had one of the techs ping Avery’s call to my phone, praying that I wouldn’t find myself pulling into The Lair. I doubt I could handle that right now—walking in to see Sadie and Reed performing some kinky rope show.

I let that very festering thought fade into the background of my mind as I enter Hooligans, which is a damn good name for this shithole.

Five-some-odd rowdy college guys surround a visibly sloshed Avery. They throw back shots, encouraging her to do the same. She’s just about to tip one to her mouth as I approach and swipe it from her hand.

“Hey—” Her glassy eyes zero in on my face and she squints, then recognition hits. The depth of their brown startles me. “Quinn. You guys…this is Quinn. The detective I was telling you about.”

The sudden shift in mood is immediate. The announcement of a “cop” never goes over well with partying college kids. Which begs the fucking question: just what the hell is a respectable medical examiner doing hanging out with a bunch of pricks?

“Hey, man.” One of them nods my way. “Want a shot?”

I scowl. “I’m on the clock.”

“Fucking bummer, dude.” He takes a long pull off his bottleneck, then cocks his head. “But she’s not, right? So let the lady have some fun.”

Balls of steel on this one. He’s either bolstered by alcohol, or he’s just another entitled shit. I fucking hate kids.

Shifting my blazer, I brace my fists on my hips, flashing him my steel. His gaze goes right to my GLOCK and he shrugs, backing up to order a shot.

“Avery, it’s time to go.” I reach for her just as she ducks away.

“One more drink…” The strap of her barely there, skintight tank slips down her shoulder as she turns toward the bar top to flag the bartender.

Tamping down the fierce need to right it, I grip the edge of the counter near her waist. I’m completely out of my element, and I hate it. Give me a good perp with an assignment, and I’m your man. Babysitting drunken medical examiners who’ve recently been abducted and tortured…and I know shit-all how to handle the situation.

This is obvious as Avery whirls around and whoops when a bass-filled song blasts over the sound system. I stand beside her, an awkward cop statue, as she lifts her hands in the air and tosses her head back and forth. Her blond hair whips my chest as she undulates closer, rolling her hips provocatively. I suck in a sharp breath at the feel of her ass grinding up against my cock.

I need to leave. Now.

“All right. Fun time’s over,” I say, this time grabbing her wrists and tugging her out of the group of guys. The collective discontent of their “boos” sets my jaw.

Avery twists out of my hold and is heading back into the fray before I can stop her. I watch, dumbfounded, as she wriggles her way on top of the counter and pushes herself up to stand. “You want it?” she hollers.

College boys all over get a glimpse of their wet dreams as Avery sways her hips, roaming her hands up her thighs and over her breasts. She pulls her tank up, showing off a trim, tan belly with a silver chain linked around her midsection.

Against my will, my own damn hard-on makes an appearance—but I check myself quickly. Not now, buddy. You’re not getting a say.

Sure, I have my twisted issues, and I’m not blind. Jenna always accused me of being clueless to anything outside of work, but I’m still human. Avery has it…in all the right places. But I’d be a creep to get a thrill out of this display.

That thought smacks me hard with a dose of hypocrisy. Just minutes ago, I was fantasizing about her—not for the first time—and thinking real hard about finding anyone to break my year of celibacy.

No matter how badly I’d love for Avery to be that anyone, I’d never act on it. You don’t mix work and pleasure. Ever. Look but don’t touch. Fantasize, but don’t initiate. I’m just doomed to be tortured by the hot trim in my department. That’s my punishment.

Regardless, I won’t let Avery do something she’ll regret when she sobers up. I know she’s suffering. I get that she’s probably going through a hell of a lot more torturous thoughts than me, and she’s only trying to figure out how to deal. I completely understand all that psychobabble.

But not here. Not now. Not on my watch.

Tags: Trisha Wolfe The Broken Bonds Dark
Source: readsnovelonline.net