Page 8

8

Fake Pigs

“S hit,” I say, staring at the gray wall of water separated by the glass door of the police station. Brick sighs beside me, clicking off his phone and putting it in his pocket. “It looks like it’ll be like this for the next few hours.”

I don’t say anything, just stare out at the expanse of grey, debating if I should take my chances, shift, and run home.

As if reading my mind, Brick says, “We should stay here until it passes. It’ll be dangerous. I’ll go find some candles.” I don’t know why he’s pretending to give a crap about my safety. He obviously hates me and wants me and my kind dead. Minutes ago, this would have been the perfect situation for seduction, but now that plan is the furthest thing from my mind. What he said kind of hurt. I’ve always been proud of my sexuality, but the past few days have felt like the world is waging war on my womanhood, and Brick’s words are like the nail in the coffin. I’m more than a piece of ass, I know that, but I’m getting a little tired of everyone viewing me that way.

I sigh, rolling back my shoulders and sitting on the visitors’ couch in the corner. I pull out my phone. Great, it’s dead. I can’t even distract myself with mindless scrolling. Brick emerges from the hallway moments later, carrying two candles, clearly on their last legs, and a bag of chips. “Found these in the kitchen.” He throws the bag to me before lighting the candles and placing them on the coffee table. He sits in one of the leather chairs across from me.

I open the bag of chips and begin eating, not offering a thank you or meeting his eyes. I can feel the nervous energy radiating off him. He squirms in his seat, shifting his legs from one over the other. He’s probably not used to the absence of my rage. Good, I hope he feels like a dick.

“Carmen,” he finally says, his voice heavy and low. He leans forward, his elbows on his knees, his arms outstretched. I divert my attention before I succumb to the guise of innocence he’s attempting to display.

“Carmen, I’m sorry.”

I don’t respond. I don’t forgive him.

“You came here to make amends, and I’ve been a dick.”

“Correct.”

“It’s just with everything going on—the murders, it’s a lot. And every time I see you, my failures stare me dead in the face.”

I disarm myself, dropping the bag and looking at him completely. He’s not confessing to me, at least, not directly. His statement could mean a million different things, but this is the perfect segue to discover more. “All I want is to help those girls, to help my clan. That’s why I’m a reporter. That’s why I bug the crap out of you every chance I get.”

He smiles—a goddamn smile. I don’t think I’ve ever witnessed one from him, and it makes me want to take a picture and keep it forever. It fades as fast as it comes, a sadness overtaking his features. A moment of silence passes us again. The only sound is the pounding against the roof. He breaks it. “I don’t hate you, you know.”

I cross my legs, leaning in close. “You literally told me you'd rather the council send anyone else besides me.”

His eyes search me, stopping at my lips. “I have other reasons for saying that besides hating you.” My mind replays his digs and comments over the years, paired with his recent outburst about sleeping with the police officers he supervises. Could he like me? Could all this be some weird way to mask his true feelings for me? Damn, I know I’m hot, but he sure sucks at letting me know how he feels about me. No, that can’t be it. How could I miss it? Wouldn’t it benefit him to get me on his good side? He’s doing a piss poor job at it, but he’s been so willing to apologize tonight. He’s hated me all these years. Nothing has changed. What if he’s playing the same game I’m playing—using me to get the council off his back, to find more locations of vulnerable women? Maybe it’s as hard for him as it is for me.

The room darkens. The candles before me, doing an abysmal job previously at providing illumination, are now completely dim. “Shit,” he mutters, inspecting the empty black glass. “I think I have more candles in my office somewhere.” He connects his eyes with mine, tilting his head toward the hallway to signal me to follow.

A part of me, a large part, wants to refuse and stay right where I am. I’m not afraid of the dark, and being without Brick’s presence sounds like a small dose of paradise within the uncomfortable situation I’ve volunteered myself. But then it’s just that. I volunteered to find out more by using Brick. Sitting alone with him in his dark and information-riddled office sounds like the perfect situation for the cause. I get up and follow after him.

When I enter, he’s already rummaging through his desk, muttering profanities with each abandoned drawer. “I think there might be some in the supply closet,” he says, charging for his door. I have half a mind to tell him to calm the fuck down about the candles. I can easily shift to my night vision, but this is actually perfect. Now, I’m alone in his office.

I don’t waste time walking to his desk and rummaging through the files on top. I would have thought my search would have taken longer, but lo and behold, the second file I pick up is the one. It’s unnamed, but inside are pictures and police reports of all three missing girls.

“What are you doing?” Brick asks, a ridiculous amount of candles cradled in his large arms.

I drop the file, clearly guilty. “I was trying to see if you missed the candles in your desk.”

He sighs, dropping the candles on a coffee table in front of a small sitting area in the corner of his office. “Inside a manila folder?” he asks in a dry tone.

“I got distracted?” My voice raises an octave.

He pulls the lighter out of his pocket and works on lighting each of the tiny, mismatched candles he managed to scrounge together, clearly unbothered by what I hold in my hand.

It unnerves me, and I stumble over my words. “Well, now that you’ve caught me, what is this?”

“It’s a file on the missing girls,” he says plainly. He sits back on the small couch in front of the coffee table, a macrame of candles sitting before him, so bright that it resembles a bonfire. He outstretches his arms over the back cushion, taking as much room as possible.

I step around his desk. “Why do you have a file on them? I thought you guys declared them runaways.”

He nods, his stare so intense it makes my knees buckle. “Yes, that's what the other police officers have decided. You know I’m one of the only officers on the force who knows about the Weres, right?”

“So you’re investigating this on your own?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I brought it up to the Department of Supernatural. They’ve taken it out of my hands.”

Ah, the ominous “National Department of Supernatural.” I always hear about them but never actually see their effects. It seems they’re only mentioned so the police can do whatever they want and have a higher power to blame their shortcomings on. Brick is lying. I don’t need powers to tell that. Even though he’s staring at me head-on, his eyes dart subtly as if he’s trying to prove something to me. Besides, if the Department of Supernatural truly took the case out of his hands, why would he have the file on the top of his desk?

I don’t mind the lie. I expected it. If anything, it confirms that Brick knows something. He has an interest in these girls, and if I can stick close to him long enough, maybe I can find out where he’s keeping them.

I move toward him, plopping down in the nonexistent space beside him on the couch. Part of my ass-cheek rests on his thigh, and I nuzzle in under his still-extended arm. I expect him to retreat, fold from his man-spread, and give me as much room as possible. Maybe even enjoy my closeness briefly before darting away, but he does neither. He looks down at me, his eyes zoned in my lips, a smirk at the corner of his lips.

The sight of him, the smell of him, the warmth of his presence so close, it catches me off guard. I never would have thought I’d have such a reaction to him. Of course, molten lava runs through my veins whenever I’m near him, but I always attribute that to my hate for him. Now, he’s not yelling at me. He’s not turning his nose away from me as if I disgust him. He’s just watching me as if he wants to devour me. It’s doing something to me, and I hate it even though I don’t hate it.

My hands move on their own, leaving my personal space and traveling to his chest. My touch is light, but I recognize the hardness of his chest immediately. I lean in, the tiniest bit. Part of me wants to make him want me, but also, I need to know what he tastes like. Is it smokey like the rest of him? Is it sweet to make up for all of his sour? Or is it as rotten as his soul? I need to know.

He gets closer, but my eyes don’t leave his, studying for any subtle movement that might give him away. All awareness moves to a point in my body. His hand inches to my thigh, pressing into my flesh. His touch sears me, melting me to the point until it’s all I can think about. Men have touched every inch of me, especially my favorite places, but nothing compares to this simple touch. It makes everything more confusing. He’s a man first and my enemy second. I can bring him to his knees. That’s what this is. He wants me—carnally.

Our space closes, but before our skin touches, I catch his smile curve upward. It’s subtle but noticeable. I pull back, and the smile grows. His eyes don’t match, holding something vicious and knowing. Could he really be playing the same game I am? There are so many layers to whatever this is between us, and I can’t decipher where we are. I know my mission, though. At least I know that.

I grin sweetly, and he shakes his head with a smile as if reading all the thoughts bouncing around my head. It is as if we both know exactly what we’re doing and are prepared to see this through. To confirm my thoughts, he clears his throat and creates some distance between us. Not an, I hate you get away from me, distance, but more of a, let’s not get carried away, space. “I want to take you to dinner,” he says, his gaze nowhere near mine.

“Dinner? Why?”

He laughs, shaking his head. “To make amends.”

I show my hand. “Hm, big change of heart for someone who just moments ago didn’t think amends were necessary.” We’re past this point in an unspoken way, but I want to know how he’ll explain his sudden desire to be near me again.

“I think I needed the lights to go out to ground me. There’s no way I’m leaving this place in the rain, so it made me sit here with you.”

I fain empathy. “Oh, I’m so sorry. Sounds horrible.”

He smiles again. God, it guts me. He turns to me, his elbows resting on his knees. “It actually wasn’t horrible.”

I squint an eye. “I gave you the silent treatment and went through your things.”

“And surprisingly, I didn’t hate it.”

“So that’s it, you like when I’m quiet and do my justice snooping without bugging you?”

He runs his fingers through his hair as if frustrated, but the small laugh shows otherwise. “Just let me buy you dinner to do some ounce of repayment for my horrible comments. We might not get along, but the way I spoke to you crossed a line. A bag of chips and an apology isn’t going to cut it for me.”

I stare at him with scrunched lips as if contemplating. I should agree, of course. This is exactly what I am here to gain—more access to his time. But I must put up somewhat of a fight to seem legit. After about five seconds, I consider my attempts a success. “Okay, I will have dinner with you, but…”

“But?”

“But you have to tell me one nice thing about me.”

“What?”

“I know that will be hard for you, but I need to know you enjoy some part of my company. I don’t want to force you to be near me if you hate everything about me.”

“I don’t hate everything about you.”

“Then tell me what you like.”

He studies me for a long moment, his stare heavy. I can’t tell if it’s hard for him to pick something, or there’s just so many he doesn’t know which one to choose. Who am I kidding? I know it’s the former.

“I like your pinky.”

“My pinky?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

He sighs, shaking his head, sitting back, and taking in the view of me. “Because it’s a safe answer.” His eyes drill into my pores.

“Safe,” I say, accepting his meaning, even if I only have a guess as to what it is.

The lights crawl to life like electronic bugs flapping their wings. It’s then I notice the rain outside has subsided. Our conversation seemed to cloud the environment around us, making coming to reality jarring.

I straighten, rising to my feet. “Well, it looks like we can both leave now. I bet you’re relieved.”

He stands as well, straightens his jacket, and gives me a confused look.

“You said you were eager to get home.”

Recognizing dawns on his face. “Right, yes.” I nod, walking toward the door. “Let me walk you out.” He follows after me. We’re silent until we reach the glass doors, leading out into the parking lot.

He seems nervous now. God, so much can change between two people in such a short amount of time. Before I reach the door handle, he clears his throat. “So, tomorrow night, for dinner?”

“Right. Um, yeah, sure. That works.”

“Great.” A hopeful smile washes over his face, and it’s odd. How is he such a good actor? Maybe he wants to fuck me, but there’s no way in hell he’s suddenly decided he likes me. Nothing has truly changed between us. We’re just both on the same page with pretending, and we’re both fucking fantastic at it.