Page 63 of Deadly Blooms (Psychic Unraveled #1)

MAKE ME

Graham

You know how when a cartoon character finally wins, and suddenly the forest explodes into song like he’s Snow Fucking White? Yeah, that was me. Birds chirped congrats, squirrels gave me a standing ovation, even the bees buzzed, “You smashed that, king.”

Last night was incredible. I was untouchable. No way anything could ruin this?—

“Locke! My office. Now!” Nettles barked before I’d even cleared the lobby.

…I was wrong.

Wait—no, bees, come back. Squirrels, don’t leave me. Dammit .

“I see someone missed their morning blowjob,” I muttered under my breath, catching Shell’s eye as she kept her head buried in paperwork. I tipped her my imaginary hat on my way past.

“Don’t piss him off, Locke,” she warned. “You’re off the clock. I’m not.”

“Oh, relax. Daddy’s just cranky ‘cause nobody swallowed his pride this morning.”

I shot her a wink and kept strutting, the spring in my step hanging on by a thread.

Goddamn, she wrecked me. Ruined me. I was still walking funny and grinning like an idiot. I’d tattoo her name on my left ass cheek if I thought it’d earn me another round.

“How’s it going, Banks?” I shot a two-fingered salute to the white-haired sergeant as he dipped his fingers into the donut box. He couldn’t resist them while he was training me, clearly, they were still his sultry little mistresses.

I pushed open Nettles’ office door and strolled in. Nothing was bringing me down.

“How’s it hangin’, Cap?”

“Don’t ‘How’s it hangin’?’ me,” Nettles snapped.

The sun slanted through the blinds just right—lighting up the pissed-off tomato red flushing up his neck.

“O-kay. I won’t” I raised my hands in surrender, and plunked my vest on the chair.

Now standing at attention, arms folded behind my back—model soldier, just a little sweaty, still half-smelling like sex and strawberry shampoo.

Nettles paced behind me— way too close—and muttered something under his mustache.

“What were your orders?”

His voice dropped low and tight. Almost like he was sniffing the guilt right off me.

I broke my stance and pivoted to face him as he moved back behind his desk.

“Look, Cap. If this is about clocking out late, I?—”

“What were your orders?!” he barked.

Easy, Fido.

“To stay at Maggie’s. To protect her. The same thing I’ve been doing this whole damn time.”

Geez, someone’s cranky.

“Wrong.”

“Wrong? What do you mean, wrong ?”

“You were given direct orders to get back out to the car. Watch from a distance. Weren’t you?”

Shit.

How the hell did he know? Did he send his little goonies to spy on me?

My jaw ticked. My stomach sank like a drunk with vertigo.

“Well, yes, and?—”

“…and what? You didn’t, did you?”

“No. But how do you—did you send someone to spy on me? Sheffield… you sent Sheffield, didn’t you? That little twatwaffle. Cap, you know he’s always had it out for me. Always trying to climb over me to get on your good side. I’ll gut him. String him up by his necktie?—”

“It wasn’t Sheffield. I didn’t send anyone, Locke.”

He glared at me. I could see the wheels spinning, like he was making up a cover story for the little prick.

“I went myself.”

Fuck.

“And do you know what I found upon my arrival?”

My private lesson in the art of Kama Sutra? She’s so bendy…

“No, sir. What did you find?”

“An unattended patrol car. Sitting in the driveway. I’d bet in the same spot you left it when I got off the phone with you.”

“Well, yeah—uh—technically it was within walking distance in case of emergency?—”

“Did you sleep with her?”

Nettles bit down on his toothpick so hard the wood fibers snapped like matchsticks between his teeth.

I straightened up. Tried not to smirk. Tried not to remember the sound she made when she came.

“Sir… I don’t see how that’s any of your?—”

“It becomes my business when you let your dick override your badge.” He growled, picking up the old leather baseball from his desk—his stress ball in disguise. He gripped it, thumbs digging deep, kneading it like he was working through a murder timeline—or building up to a goddamn explosion.

He paced behind his desk, squeezing so hard the leather creaked and the stitches flexed.

“Sir, I don’t see how that’s the department’s business—unless we’ve started regulating orgasms.”

“Graham. Did you?” His voice dropped an octave, full final boss mode.

A vein in his hand bulged like it might pop. A stitch on the ball gave way— snapped.

“Fine! Yes, I slept with her!” I threw my hands in the air. “I fucked her sideways, upside down, and until neither of us could walk. That what you wanted to hear, Captain?! Confession complete, can I go now—or do you want a fucking slideshow?”

One. Goddamn. Moment of happiness. That’s all I wanted.

“What’s it to you, anyway?” I snapped, crossing my arms. “You writing a report—or just jealous?”

“You. Were. On. Duty.”

Nettles sat the ball on its stand like it was a goddamn gravestone, then turned—slowly, controlled and lethal.

“Yeah, I was on duty. And I still did my job. No one could’ve laid a goddamn finger on her without going through me first.”

“That may be, however…”

He gave me that look— the look —the one Mom wore when I decked my little brother for calling me a pussy, or when she caught Bianca Medina going down on me behind the bleachers during the Hawks game.

“I need your weapon and badge. You’re off the case. Suspended until further notice.”

“What? Cap, come on.”

The thought of Sheffield—or any other walking liability—guarding Maggie made my stomach lurch.

“Locke, don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

“ Me? You think I’m the one making this harder? What the actual fuck, man.”

I yanked my pistol from its holster, cleared it, and set it on his desk with my badge not quite as hard as I wanted to.

“This is bullshit, and you know it.”

I ripped off my utility belt and black button-up and dumped them on the chair beside my vest—my version of a professional fuck-you. Because as much as I would’ve loved to climb on his desk and shit in his mug… believe it or not, I had morals.

“One question.” I paused, breath held tight. “Who’s protecting Maggie now? Someone sharp. Quick. Maybe Allen. Thompson?”

“No one.”

“What? Why? ”

“It’s been weeks. No activity. If something flares up again, we’ll reconsider protection.”

He leaned back in his chair. “The case is being transferred… remember?”

Oh, I remembered. You don’t forget the second someone yanks the one job you actually gave a shit about.

“Cap—don’t punish her because I fucked up.”

I planted both hands on his desk and leaned in. Eye to eye. Voice raw. “You wanna come for me? Fine. But don’t make her pay for it.”

“I’m not. We were already planning to remove her from protection this week. With you off the case, it’s a convenient transition.”

“What about Morty Planchette? We just found his goddamn body?—”

I paced hard, sweat building down my spine.

“Planchette’s been dead ten months. Way before Maggie even moved to Port Grey.” He adjusted his watch—he’d already checked out of the conversation.

“Maybe Silas did have a dark side. But that’s all I’m saying, because as of—” he glanced down, “—seven minutes ago, you’re no longer on this case. Or in this department. Stay away from Maggie. That’s an order.”

“Goddamn it!” My fist slammed down hard, rattling the desk and sloshing his coffee like blood splatter.

Then I was gone—out the door, slamming it shut so hard the blinds jumped.

“Fuck!”

The entire precinct froze, heads turning. My chest heaved.

What I wanted to say?

Fuck you, Jethro Nettles, and your inability to actually do anything for this entire goddamn town. Maybe if you didn’t have your head so far up your own ass, you’d actually solve a motherfucking case!

Fuck your babysitter assignment, your half-assed precinct full of lazy-assed, didn’t do jack, cock weasels who couldn’t do anything more than hand out parking-tickets like they were participation awards.

And your golden-boy Officer November PR stunt?

Fuck you for turning me into a calendar model instead of letting me do my goddamn job—really do it. You want donations? Sell your yacht, you fucking bastard.

And fuck this town, with its yacht clubs and ass-kissing cocktail hours. How many billion-dollar boats does one town need?

Goddamn it! I’m so fucking sick of this bunghole-licking, meter-maid patrol station.

But I didn’t say any of it.

I just lowered my head, closed my eyes, and breathed through it. Fists clenched so tight my knuckles cried.

My shoulders rose and fell like they were the only things keeping me from going nuclear.

“What the hell did you do that for?” Shell’s lips pinched like she was biting back judgment.

“Can it, Shell,” I snapped.

Jesus. Can a guy get a fucking break?

I smeared my hands down my face. “Ah, fuck—sorry.” It was muffled, and probably sounded like static.

“It’s not you. I just got suspended for doing my job, so yeah, I’m a little on edge.”

“Suspended? For what?” Her spine went ramrod straight.

“Apparently, I was just supposed to only look like I was protecting her. Not actually do it.”

“You fucked her, didn’t you?” She tilted her head. “Except… you didn’t just fuck her. You made love to her. You wouldn’t blow your entire career on a one-night stand.”

Oh-ho-ho! She just cracked the crust of my molten core of spite.

I narrowed my eyes and looked past her perfect perky tits and straight into her coal-burned soul.

“You know what? Scratch that—it was directed at you.”

I sneered. “Now go suck Sheffield’s balls if you’re so desperate to find something that isn’t there.”

I flipped her the bird and stormed past the other jackwads with their noses so deep in Nettles’ ass they could probably taste his toothpick.

I turned both middle fingers into pistols, and started mentally firing off rounds.

“Fuck you. Oh, double fuck you. And you—Tony—kindly go fuck yourself.”

I didn’t look back.

Just marched across the lot, slid into my truck, and slammed the door like it was the only goddamn thing that listened.

Goddamn it—Shell was right.