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Her snickers never faded, and she gave me a tight squeeze. "Not anymore. I like seeing your skin because it reminds me that I get to touch it later."

"Oh you do, do you?"

"I do. Yes." She nodded then brushed her lips against my shoulder. Despite her playfulness, I could still feel the heaviness that weighed her down after the stressful encounter.

"They'll come get this gross stuff if they need it. Want to sit with me out here for a little while? I could use a break from feeling less than useful."

She nodded and moved with me to the leather sofa. On the table in front of us, a screen illuminated an array of digital magazines to choose from, manifesting in an instant the difference between current times and the decades past. Without hesitation, Clem tapped a science magazine called Quantum Forensics and swiped a few pages.

"Will you read this with me?" she asked, glancing in my direction.

"If you promise to explain every like, third word, sure." I grinned and kissed her cheek. "I'm here for it."

"Okay." She smiled and nibbled her bottom lip. "Then after we can talk about why you feel useless in a room full of your colleagues."

"Caught that did you."

"I did indeed. I'm rather keen sometimes."

"I'm learning such."

"Deal?"

"Deal."

Chapter Twelve

"Are you still butt hurt?"

"Shut up, Frankie."

"Come on."

"I will, in fact, tag your entire face in neon green with this can in my hand if you come near me."

"I swear to God, Jags, if you fuck up my corset—"

"You've been warned—"

"Shut up! The two of you. All day," Tatiana shouted at us from the front room of the tattoo parlor. "Jagger, talk to Frankie. Frankie, stop being a fucking cockwaffle, and everyone shut up today. Fucking Christ."

"Cockwaffle." Frankie snort-laughed as I met her gaze.

The smirk that met my face cooled me off a little and my visions of painting her green calmed down. I set the spray can down on the top of the ladder and leaned my hip against the step.

"Are you avoiding work?" Frankie asked, her tone cooler as well.

"A bit. Why?"

"Your phone is on the desk out front, and Zay called you about four times."

"Think I'm going to ask to go back on the beat."

"Why?" Her brow furrowed suddenly, and she took a step closer to me.

"I was better at it. I'm good in the streets. I belong there. It's…where I fit in." I lifted my shoulders in a heavy shrug. "Wandering through the FBI, in fancy labs, slowly chasing down leads, working with elite private investigators…it's just." I shook my head. "I don't know. I'm a fish on land or something. I like the beat. I could help people. I really could."

"By driving junkies to shelters? Pulling jumpers off buildings? Dodging bullets?" Frankie swept in closer to me, her expression laced with a mood I'd never seen on it before and couldn't quite understand it. "The whole point was to not do that anymore."