1. Tallus

In its death throes, the overhead fluorescent flickered, waning then bolstering itself, reinvigorated as it clung to life, encouraging the drum inside my head to beat on. If it didn’t decide to die already, I would be inclined to put it out of its misery. No one would blame me. When provoked, a man had to do what a man had to do. And I wouldn’t lose sleep over light fixture assault and battery. Fuck that. Light fixture homicide.

For the past three days, I’d argued with maintenance to do something about it, and for three days, they had ignored my pleas. “We’ll add it to the list,” they’d said. The new guy was not their top priority. My headache was not their problem. Who was I but a lowly records clerk. No one in the grand scheme of things.

They might as well have told me to suffer.

I tore off my glasses and tossed them aside, closing my eyes and pinching the bridge of my nose as I leaned on the counter. It was Kitty’s day off, so I had no one with whom to commiserate.

Half tempted to call maintenance again, I peered at the wall clock, but it was a miserable blur on the other side of the room, and I couldn’t make out the time. Fetching my glasses, wishing I’d had the forethought that morning to put in contacts—my glasses only aggravated the issue—I rechecked the clock. Twenty to five.

I couldn’t do this for another hour, or another day, or another five minutes. Glaring at the overhead light panel and the strobing, mind-fucking bastard of a fluorescent tube inside, I gathered my strength and prepared for war.

“You will die, and I will not mourn you. I’d rather work in semi-darkness than endure another second of your flickering.”

No one was around. The day had been dreadfully quiet, so the chances of anyone wandering in off the street or down from another department were slim. God, who knew this job would be boring? The initial appeal wore thin a week after I started.

Nice clothes notwithstanding, I braced on the counter and heaved myself on top. If I ruined my new shirt, the department would get the bill for my troubles. But even standing on a higher surface, even with nearly six feet of height, I was nowhere close enough to deal with the problem.

I needed more elevation.

Hands poised on my hips, I glanced below, seeking a means to further raise myself. The door to the records room stood open. I hated keeping it closed. It was crypt-like inside, dreary with no windows and scant ventilation. The files needed to breathe so they didn’t decay.

Umpteen banker boxes lined the metal shelves within, but they wouldn’t do. With my luck, they would cave in at the faintest pressure from my foot. Kitty’s office was locked, but I knew it housed a desk chair. Unfortunately, it had a rolling base, and I had no intention of breaking my neck.

I jumped down from the counter and headed inside the crypt, seeking a stool I remembered seeing stashed among the rows of shelves. When I located it and deemed it suitable, I took it out front and placed it on top of the counter, giving it a wiggle to prove it was secure and not a hazard. The low stool provided another foot of height. I peered at the ceiling again. It should do.

I required tools—or did I?

I studied the fixture and the frosted plastic panel covering it. If I wasn’t mistaken, it should pop off without too much trouble. It wasn’t like I was planning to change the bulb—I didn’t have a replacement—but I was going to rectify the issue if it killed me.

Again, I jumped onto the counter, and as I got to my feet, my loafer slid an inch on the shiny surface, making me flail my arms to keep my balance. “Okay,” I said to myself as my heart leaped into my throat, “maybe shoes are unwise.”

I toed them off and removed my socks—I would like to think I wasn’t a complete idiot—then faced the obstacle course I’d built. Nothing to it. Stand on the stool, remove the panel, murder the bulb, then live in peace and harmony. Even if it was moderately darker in the office for a few days, at least the jabbing pain in my head might recede.

Before mounting the stool, I glanced again at the records department’s main door. Should I lock it? To what advantage? That suggested I expected someone to show up or was doing something wrong. I didn’t and wasn’t. Best to leave it open in case I maimed myself and they needed quick access to my body. God forbid they had to wait for maintenance to unlock the door so they could get me to a hospital. I’d die for sure.

“All right,” I said to the overhead light. “You and me, asshole. You’ve met your match. I’m here to eliminate you.”

I placed a foot on the stool and jostled it once to ensure it was sturdy. No wobble. Good. I climbed up and was instantly greeted with a sickening sense of vertigo. Blowing out my cheeks, I got my balance and focused on the tiled floor far, far below. Okay, this might not have been my wisest plan, but I would be careful. I was not willing to die for a light bulb.

“Slow and steady. You’ve got this.”

Moving my gaze from floor to ceiling proved difficult, but it was all in my head. If the stool was on the floor, it wouldn’t be a problem. It was decently stable on the counter, so logically, this should work.

Logically.

My heart decided to do jumping jacks nonetheless.

I poked the light cover—still slightly out of reach, requiring me to stand on my toes—and prodded along the edge to determine how difficult the task of removing it might be. Like I’d assumed, it was one of those pop-in kinds. I lifted the edge closest to me and tried maneuvering it out of its frame.

No luck.

I set my teeth and wedged fingers under the lip, prying it loose with more frustration and determination.

It still wouldn’t budge.

What the fuck?

I punched it, causing the plastic to rattle and fragments of the acoustic ceiling tiles to rain down. Traces like sand fell into my eyes, and I averted my head, cursing. What the hell were they made of? Sawdust?

I removed my glasses and held them aloft as I swiped at my face, keeping my eyes closed as they watered and burned. The intrusion worked itself free, but not without scratching my eyeballs to shit. I blinked several times, but before my vision cleared, before I could get my glasses back on and reorient myself, the thump of the main door falling shut startled me.

I jerked my head up too fast and was met with the same undulating vertigo I’d experienced before. Only that time, the world was blurred beyond recognition because I didn’t have my glasses on.

Instinct made me want to correct the sense of being off balance, so I moved my foot an inch to stabilize. Wrong thing to do when I was on a stool, on the counter, and practically blind. The fuzzy outline of a sizable man was all I had time to register before the side of my foot slipped off the edge of the stool. I lost my balance, scrambled to reposition my foot to no avail, and pinwheeled my arms.

“Shit!” I was going down and had nothing to grab to save myself.

Before a scream of terror could climb my throat, thick, solid arms wrapped around my legs, and I fell forward as the stool skidded backward off the counter, crashing to the floor. The worst part was how I landed in my rescuer’s arms; my junk plastered to the mystery man’s face, sufficiently suffocating him.

But he saved me.

He did not, however, save my glasses. I dropped them in my panic and heard them hit the floor somewhere below, somewhere out of my range of vision. They too clattered and slid across the tiles.

Meanwhile, I was being held by uncannily strong arms, dick to face, and what was worse? My fear of falling to my death meant I’d locked arms around the stranger’s head, knocking his hat off while holding on for dear life, leaving him unable to free himself from the unexpected and unintentional sexual assault to his person.

Not one of my finer moments.

Before my heart stopped battering my ribs, I was moving. In the next instant, the man lowered me until my ass hit the counter and I was safely sitting. Only then did I release the death grip I held on his head.

A deep growl resonated in his chest, but he backed up before I could get a good look at him. His blurry image moved to a corner of the room where he bent to retrieve something, then moved to another area and bent again. That time, he picked up his hat and put it on, casting a heavy shadow over his already unclear face.

I may not have been able to make out details, but I could tell the man was fucking huge. Not obese huge but built like a Mack truck huge. I couldn’t guess his height, but he easily cleared six feet with several inches to spare. And the breadth of his shoulders was…

He moved toward me and held out a hand. “Here.”

The single word sounded like it had been dragged through gravel ten times over. He was close enough I could see him better and make out trace details of his profile. He held my glasses, and I accepted them, registering a fine crack in one of the lenses.

“Goddammit. Again?” I couldn’t seem to go two months without breaking them.

“The fuck were you trying to do?” The raspy, deep quality of the words and the faint hints of smoke wafting off his jacket told their own story.

Despite the compromised lens, I fit my glasses on to get a better look at the man who had become intimately acquainted with my dick without having first learned my name. And… he was something to behold.

In no way would the guy be considered classically handsome. Not in today’s society of gorgeous movie stars, hot magazine models, and flawless male specimens on the covers of romance novels with their ripped abs and glistening skin. No, this guy was in a category of his own.

Under layers of what I could only assume was a hard-worn life lived evidence of a long-ago handsomeness, one that had been damaged and reconfigured into something brooding and menacing, but it was there all the same. He looked like the hero of an action movie, who emerged from the destruction after the final showdown, alive and well but with an unbelievable story to tell the grandkids.

Face shadowed under the brim of a strangely outdated fedora, I got the sense the man was the type who did his best to fly under the radar, which would be hard to do with his massive size.

On his weathered skin was written a history of aggression or violence of some kind. Military? Maybe. He had the presence of an Army guy.

Three scars were etched deep into the left side of his face, one particularly nasty and puckered, traveling from a disfigured earlobe and along his jaw. A minor one stopped under his eye—a close call, I imagined. The scars weren’t new, but his unshaven scruff didn’t hide them. The hair didn’t grow along the faded silver lines, making them stand out starkly under the flickering fluorescent light.

No, the man was not classically handsome, but his hard-angled jaw, thickly corded neck, shapely mouth, and deep-set gray eyes—still staring intently because I hadn’t answered his question—all worked together to give him an undeniable appeal, a characteristic that was unique, menacing, and almost attractive in an odd way.

Did I have a thing for the roughed-up bad boys? It seemed so.

His nose had been broken at some point—perhaps more than once. It sat slightly crooked and had a faint raised knot on the bridge. His lips were dry and chapped… and moving.

“Hey,” that deep, raspy voice barked as he snapped thick fingers in front of my face. “Did you rattle your brain? Stop fucking staring and answer the question.”

Recovering, I found my voice. “No, the brain’s fine. But if I don’t fix that light bulb, I’ll end up with a migraine. You startled me. I wouldn’t have fallen otherwise.”

The man grunted and narrowed his eyes, shifting his attention to the still flickering bulb overhead. He muttered, “Idiot,” then removed his trench coat in a manner that boldly announced his annoyance at my stupidity. Yes, folks, a trench coat. The guy wore a fucking trench coat and a fedora like he was fresh off the pages of a Dick Tracy comic—not that I was complaining. It was strangely fitting with his whole ominous persona.

The man jumped on the counter, muttering and grumbling more obscenities—it seemed to be part of his character—then removed the light panel with ease. He didn’t need the extra height of a stool to reach it. The guy was suitably tall enough on his own, and I did not take a minute to scan him while he was distracted.

His thighs were tree trunks. His shoes were easily size fourteen—and I knew, proportionally speaking, what some believed that said about other parts of him. Not sure if there was truth to that theory, but fuck me sideways if there was.

“Jesus,” I muttered under my breath.

In a flash, with some minor fiddling, the assaulting flicker died, and my rescuer passed me the long tube bulb.

“Careful. They’re fragile. It will shatter easily.”

I took it and set it safely aside in a corner.

When the man got down, he helped himself to the department landline on the counter and stabbed a few buttons with his meaty finger, mumbling angrily into the receiver to whoever picked up. “Where’s Tolvey?” A pause. A low, rumbling growl. “Find him and get him down to records to change a fucking light bulb before the kid in here kills himself.”

The guy’s entire manner of speaking seemed to consist of lots of grunting, mumbling, and roughened speech. Given the number of growls escaping his throat, I was convinced he had a bear trapped behind his rib cage.

“Says who? Says fucking Krause. You got a fucking problem with that?” A pause. “Thought so.”

He said something more I couldn’t make out, then hung up. “Fucking braindead idiots. I do not miss this place.”

“They won’t come. I’ve tried.”

“They will.” It was a statement that brooked no argument, and I had a feeling not many people told this guy no. “And if they aren’t here in fifteen minutes, I’ll hunt them down myself.”

I huffed. “Sure. I’ll believe it when I see it. What makes you so special?”

The man gave me his full attention again. It was assessing, borderline violating—which was fair since he’d practically eaten my dick through my pants—and drenched in contempt. His probing gaze raked over my body once, stopping for a beat on my bare feet before climbing to my face once again. And if he paused momentarily on the front of my pants, I wasn’t about to draw attention to it.

“Who are you?” he grumbled.

I huffed. “Really? How about, I work here, so who are you?”

He didn’t respond and continued to glare. Between his size, odd way of dressing, and the war-torn look of his body, any ordinary man might have backed down or retreated—the guy was sufficiently intimidating—but not me. I was done letting anyone push me around in life, even snarly tanks with evident chips on their shoulders who I found oddly appealing.

“Who are you?” he repeated, slower, enunciating each word like I hadn’t understood him the first time.

I propped my hands on my hips. “Tallus Domingo. Former hospital administrator in the X-ray department. New-hire records clerk with the Toronto Police Department. Did you want my street address? Shoe size? Inseam? Instagram handle? Who are you, buddy?”

“Your shoe size is a ten and a half, and you have yet to put them back on.” The comment was said more to himself as he glanced behind the counter to Kitty’s office. A faint pinch formed between his brows. “Where’s Ms. ?” It was the first time his tone was less aggressive, although I would never have called it soft, not with its raspy, gravelly quality. But there was a mild hint of concern in the question.

“It’s her day off. She doesn’t work as much anymore. Hence why I’m here. She’s slowly stepping down. You didn’t answer my question.” I crossed my arms, taking a stance I hoped illustrated my irritation at his dodginess.

Again, the man scanned me with those impenetrable eyes that were as granite in color as they were in depth. “Put your shoes on.”

I flinched at the directive. “Excuse me? Do you have an issue with my toes?” I wiggled them, smirking.

His jaw shifted side to side before he nodded to where I’d left my loafers and socks on the counter. “Put your shoes on and straighten your tie. It’s crooked.”

I touched the knot at my neck, self-consciously scoffing. “Bossy much? How about you don’t tell me what to do and get to the part where you introduce yourself and let me know how I can help you. I’m locking up in less than twenty minutes, so chop-chop.”

The man roughed a hand over his bristly jaw, and fuck me, he had huge hands. They looked big enough to crush skulls without effort and were littered with more scars than his face. I was leaning more and more toward him being a military brute. It explained a lot. Whatever his past, the man was a beast. A train. A fucking tank that had been through a demolition derby and come out damaged but still fully ridable.

And I did not think about my dick wedged against his face again.

Or how he’d lifted me effortlessly.

Or about his shoe size, its possible implications, and the fact that he was still ridable.

Christ. Did I knock my head or something?

“I need information about a case,” he mumbled.

I glared, but no matter how long I peered into his stormy gray eyes, they gave nothing away. It was like staring into a concrete wall. Whatever was on the other side was not meant for me to see.

“Information on a case,” I repeated. “Okay. I’ll give you a link to our website. We update it periodically, and you can usually find useful—”

“Not good enough. I need… more.”

I bit back a scathing retort. “You’ll need to be more specific.” I grabbed my shoes and socks from the counter and moved to the gate that led behind it. “Start with a name or case file number if you have it. We don’t hand out information to just anyone. If it’s personal, I’ll need ID and for you to fill out—”

“I know the process, and I’m not family, so save your breath.”

I inhaled, letting it out slowly because I didn’t feel like having my patience tried fifteen minutes before the end of my shift when I had a bitch of a headache and this guy—despite his rugged good looks and my far too active imagination that had already painted us in twisted and provocative scenarios—was getting on my last nerve.

I tossed my shoes aside behind the counter and faced the stranger. “All right, Guns. Let’s try this again without me falling off a counter and shoving my dick in your face because clearly that scrambled your brain. I get how uncomfortable it must have been for you, activating your asshole alarm and making you supremely bitchy. I admit, it wasn’t my finest moment, and if I could take it back, I would. So how about you talk nice to the guy you’ve come to for help.”

I thrust out a hand and plastered on a less-than-genuine smile. “Hi, I’m Tallus Domingo, the new records clerk taking over for Kitty Lavender as she slowly moves into retirement. How can I help you today?”

The man worked his jaw again, stared at the proffered hand a long moment, then grunted “Fine” and slapped his massive palm into mine, shaking without an ounce of mercy for my much finer-boned frame. Checking the douchebag attitude wasn’t in the cards. The show of dominance should have annoyed me, but for reasons I couldn’t explain—likely brain swelling from my recent near-accident—it lit my blood on fire. His strength was knee-weakening.

“Diem Krause,” he grumbled. “Ex-cop with the department. Don’t ask because it’s none of your fucking business. Private investigator at Shadowy Solutions. It’s my own company. Ms. Lavender usually entertains me with informative conversation when I need to stop by for a chat.” A pause. “If you take my meaning.”

He shifted his weight, seemed to hesitate, then pulled a crisp fifty from a pocket on his trench coat and slid it across the laminate surface of the counter, tapping it once. “Maybe you’d be inclined to… converse with me as well.”

He didn’t need to keep emphasizing words. I was catching on fine without the hints. Odd though. Innocent, aging Kitty Lavender did not strike me as an informant for a brutish ex-cop turned PI, but I guess you never really knew a person.

I stared at the polymer bill where it caught the light from the remaining fluorescents doing a poor job of illuminating the room. Refusing to take it, I met Diem Krause’s gaze, evaluating him with fresh eyes. So, not military. An ex-cop. Made sense. No wonder he knew who to call in maintenance. No wonder he had an attitude—most of them did. It was practically a prerequisite.

“Did you leave, or were you fired?”

Diem tightened his jaw. His nostrils flared. A low rumble rattled his chest.

I huffed a humorless laugh. “Right. Not my business. Never mind.”

Diem drummed his fingers over the fifty, hinting loudly without words.

I still didn’t take the money.

He looked more and more annoyed as the seconds ticked by. When he added a twenty to the pile, I laughed. “I don’t want your bribe. Put that shit away.”

“Look, Mr. Domingo, was it? When’s Ms. Lavender back?”

“Tomorrow.”

Diem grunted and scooped up the two bills, turning to go.

“Wait. I didn’t say I wouldn’t help. I said I didn’t want your money. What case?”

Diem Krause, ex-cop turned private investigator, didn’t know about the itch under my skin. He didn’t know why I’d taken a job with the department in records despite it paying no different than my hospital gig. He didn’t know how I’d longed to go to the academy since I was a teenager, how becoming a detective had been a lifelong dream, and how I had been automatically turned down due to my severely compromised vision and colorblindness—an automatic disqualifier in Canada.

It had been a knife to the heart.

Being surrounded by retired cases, entrenching myself in the long-forgotten mysteries that went back decades, made me happy, but they didn’t give me a sense of purpose.

No, I didn’t need Diem’s money. I was motivated to help the second I understood he wanted something bribe-worthy.

Diem turned back, chewing on his thoughts as he skewered me with a steely gaze. He approached the counter and lowered his voice. “Rebecca Aurelian. Thirty-four. Reported missing by her husband, Magnus Aurelian, in February. I read on your website they found her car a few weeks ago at a rest stop on the 401 between here and Kitchener. There have been no updates since. I assume that means there’s no more information. Primarily, I need to know who’s on this case. Ideally, I would like to know what’s being done. Has it been filed? Is it active? And no, before you ask, she’s not family, but I have a vested interest.”

I smirked with my signature sultry and mischievous edge, careful not to overdo it. “How vested?”

Diem remained silent, his nose set in a permanent wrinkle, jaw like iron, chapped lips pursed. It was immediately apparent I wouldn’t get anywhere. The guy was Fort Knox. If I’d thought for five seconds he played for my team, I’d have flirted my way into more information, but that was a dangerous game with an ex-cop—any cop—and Diem oozed the pompous jerk vibe most officers in the department emitted. Plus, he’d resolutely ignored the dick-in-the-face comment from earlier. Even an uninterested gay man would have taken the joke and run with it. Yep, I had myself a hostile straight guy, and I didn’t have a death wish.

It wasn’t that I wanted to help him—especially since it could get me in trouble—but the itch, the draw to involve myself in something real that wasn’t filing or updating a stupid website, called to me. Even if it meant helping a guy with a piss-poor attitude. I could handle attitude. I’d invented attitude. That didn’t bother me. And his attempts at intimidation were a joke.

I checked the wall clock, annoyed at how the crack in my lens compromised my vision. Twenty after five. I locked up in ten minutes. What could it hurt? If I secured the door now, Diem and I could have a nice chat.

I tipped my head to the other side of the room. “Throw the bolt.”

Diem studied me for a long moment, then did as I asked.

I faced the computer on the counter and logged in using my employee passcode. “Do you have a case file number?”

Diem fished a torn paper from a pocket and slid it toward me. His handwriting was abysmal, and it took me a second to make out the digits. I typed them in and scanned what came up. “It’s still active.”

“Who’s on it?”

“Detectives Valor and Frawley.” The first name drew me up short. I’d met Detective Quaid Valor a few days ago at a ridiculous mandatory function I’d been forced to attend on my Saturday off. He was older but cute in a California sunshine boy kind of way. Unfortunately, he was off the market, engaged to some guy in homicide if the gossip was to be believed. Valor had horrible taste in friends. When we met, he was with my homophobic asshole of a cousin and had called him a buddy, but that was his problem, not mine.

I glanced at Diem, whose face was doing a thing. “I don’t know Frawley,” he said in that low, rasping grunt of a voice.

I shrugged. I barely knew anyone in the department. “Can’t help with that.”

“Valor is too buttoned up. Shit.” Diem removed the fedora and scrubbed a hand over his head, giving me an uninhibited view for once. Shorn dark hair. Chestnut brown. Thick eyebrows, almost black, one with a nick through it. Another scar. In fact, there were a few marking his scalp. The hair didn’t grow over those fine marks. No, that wasn’t ex-cop damage. I reflected back on the military idea. Wounded soldier turned cop turned PI? It fit. Were his injuries from time overseas? Had he served his country?

“Is there anything there that hasn’t been posted online or given out in a press conference?”

I huffed. “No. They don’t give us lowlifes access to important details like that. When the case is retired, sure. Then I’ll have a whole file. At this stage, I’m given pertinent information to post on our website. The end.”

“I know how it works.”

“Then what exactly are you expecting?”

He grunted, shifted his weight, then mumbled, “There’s always talk. Don’t you listen?”

“Buddy, I’m new here. I barely know people’s names, never mind the ins and outs or secret details of cases.” I thumbed over my shoulder to the crypts. “If it’s not rotting away in there, I don’t know anything.”

Grumbling something incoherent, Diem made for the door.

“Hey. How about you leave me a phone number and tell me what you’re looking for exactly? I’ll keep my eyes and ears open. I’ve met this Valor guy. Maybe I can milk him for information.”

Diem shifted around. “Valor won’t give you anything. Unless…” His steely gaze swept over my face.

I huffed. “Unless I accidentally stick my dick in his face too? Pegged me, have you? Can’t say I’ve done the same.” I scanned the surly brute again, cocking my head to the side and squinting as though it might help.

Diem remained stolid as ever, chewing on air and pinning me with a look I couldn’t read.

Whatever. Why did I care?

“Regardless,” I continued, “rumor has it, Valor’s taken, so flirting won’t get me anywhere. What do you need, Guns? If I can help, I will.”

Diem fished a battered leather wallet from his back pocket. From inside, he removed a plain white business card with a cliché magnifying glass logo on the front. “If you learn anything about the Aurelian case, call me.”

“Better question. What do you know about this case that has you so interested?”

He flicked the card with a thick finger. I wasn’t going to get anywhere.

“Fine. I get it. I’ll call.”

Before Diem moved away, he seemed to experience another moment of hesitation. I had a hunch those were rare with him. After a beat, he reached out and tugged my tie straight, his thumb grazing the underside of my chin with the action. He paused, still holding the knot near my throat.

Quieter, he said, “If those maintenance guys don’t show by tomorrow at noon, you call me. I’ll raise hell.”

I wanted to protest and tell him I could fight my own battles, but the random, lingering touch left me floundering. His knuckle moved—by accident or on purpose, I wasn’t sure—brushing hot against my skin.

“And no more climbing on the counters. It’s dangerous and stupid. I may not be here to save you next time, and you could break more than your glasses.”

With one last tug, satisfied my tie was straight, Diem backed away until he reached the door. He tipped his hat. “Good night, Mr. Domingo.” Then he turned and left.