Page 53 of Missing Justice

Finally, she backed away, flapped her arms. “Jesus, Matt, am I kissing a stone? What’s the problem?”

“I’mnot the issue.”

“Well, it sure seems that way.”

“Talk to me, Taylor.”

“About?”

“Your sister for one.”

She huffed out a laugh. “Again with this? I want you to fuck me stupid and you want to talk about my missing sister. A man not interested in sex. Is it me? I mean, I have no family and my only friends are coworkers. It’s me, isn’t it? I’m a freak.”

Fuck her stupid. Interesting word choice.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not a freak and I’m extremely interested in having sex with you. Believe me. I’m just not your whipping boy.”

“What doesthatmean?”

“If I handed you a scotch, would that suffice?”

Her jaw locked and her green eyes turned stormy, the wave of emotion she’d been struggling with for two hours letting loose again.

Bull’s-eye.

She poked her finger at him. “Fuck you, Matt.”

Anger, he realized, was Taylor’s friend. Anger, she knew what to do with. It hid the pain, the torment.

The rest of it, all that shit sitting below the anger was what he wanted—needed—to see. He’d been there. Knew what it felt like to obsess over a missing sister. How the pain and guilt burned under the surface, eating away like acid from inside. For him, the not knowing had lasted six months.

Then his sister was found, her body wrapped in a sterile bag, which was all kinds of wrong, and his anger shifted to rage. Rage that didn’t play nice with a guy about to join the police force and carry a gun.

A year of therapy didn’t cure him, but it helped him figure out how to process his emotions. How to channel the negative energy into something positive.

Taylor whirled away from him, heading for the door. Nuh-uh. They were getting somewhere here and, as much as peeling back her anger would suck, he wanted to know her. What drove her. Whattormentedher.

And that meant dealing with the feelings about her sister.

He caught up to her and blocked the exit. “No way. You’re not running.”

“I’m notrunning. I’m pissed.”

“Fine. Whatever. I won’t give you sex or scotch so you’re taking off? That’s healthy.”

She curled her fingers, shook her fists at him, gritting her teeth. “What do you want from me?”

“I want to know what the hell this is.”

The blast of his words, or the yelling, forced her back a step. “What are youtalkingabout? Last I checked, you liked sex. Withme!”

She didn’t know the half of it. “I love sex with you. It’s like Christmas every day.”

“So, why, all of a sudden, are you Dr. Phil? Newsflash, Matt, I’m not your patient.”

“Never said you were, but I’ll be damned if you’re gonna use sex with me to transfer your pain and anger. Do us both a favor and tell me what was going on with you back at your place. The panic attack.”

“My house was broken into!”

“Yeah, but you’re a crack FBI agent. I’ve seen you in action and you don’t panic. You’re always on and sharp. Your house or not, you get the job done first. So, yeah, I’d like you to admit that you use scotch and sex and, well, me, to work out your rage.”