1. Derrick

CHAPTER 1

Derrick

I’ve done many terrible things to get where I am today. Being the ally, betrayer, and now nemesis of a mafia boss is just the most recent one.

I swirl the whiskey in my glass, careful not to hunch my shoulders or look down on my luck. I’m just a man enjoying a peaceful night at Olympus, a high-end lounge, not a corrupt sheriff with regrets to drink away. Never mind that my thoughts have been a jumble of paranoia for the last six months.

When I first ran for sheriff of this city, I imagined myself as a pinnacle of justice, as a man that people would look to for security, would look up to for his integrity.

But you can’t build a castle on a pile of shit and not expect it to smell.

My fingers tighten on my glass. It’s a twitch of my muscles, one I quickly master.

The stool beside me scrapes back, and a woman sits on my left.

“A White Russian please,” she says, with a smile so bright it flashes in my periphery. “And can I get a dessert menu?”

She has long, thick black curls that end in pale lavender, and her matching dress leaves the majority of her curvy legs bare. She leans forward over the counter, her chin tilted high with confidence, her dark red lipstick so fresh her mouth looks wet. The bartender rushes to fulfill her request, which I can’t blame him for. There’s no way she’s not propping her breasts on her forearms unintentionally.

I take another glance over the rim of my glass, watching her accept the menu and peruse it casually. She bites her perfect lip. Coils her thick black hair idly around her finger. Performs classically alluring moves you’d expect from any 50’s beauty. This woman looks like one of the faux statues lining the walls, adding to the Greco-Roman aesthetic of the lounge. Gorgeous. Almost ridiculously so.

And she also looks… familiar.

“Have I met you before?” I say it without meaning to, but now the words are out. The woman turns to me, just a little, looking up through her dark lashes with hazel-green irises. Those lashes blink, and for a long moment, she just studies my face. I imagine she recognizes me from some commercial or flier. But then her head tilts just so, her eyebrows crinkling, her lips pursing.

Every muscle in her face looks choreographed.

“I think I’d remember a face like yours,” she says, turning to face me, propping her elbow on the bar. “So probably not.”

Her pose, the tilt of her head, the shape of her lips when she speaks- the more she moves, the more I realize that every move is controlled. Does she go through the world with this level of purpose all the time? Or is she here at the bar looking for something specific?

I decide to test that theory, and chuckle in response. “Was that a compliment?” I test.

Her eyebrows quirk up, completely unimpressed. “Why, are you looking for one?”

That gets a genuine laugh out of me, and I raise my hands in surrender. I can’t decide if she’s flirting back or calling me out. “You caught me,” I say, leaning into the boyish charm that won me so many female votes during my election- the boyish charm that I perfected during my early days as a cop. “I’ve been searching high and low.”

The woman smiles at me for the first time, awakening a dimple in her round right cheek. How… fascinating. I’ve got one in my left cheek, making us a match.

“Well sorry,” she says, not sounding sorry in the slightest, “but I’m fresh out.”

All right, my interest has been piqued. This woman is stunningly gorgeous, she’s fun-loving. After all, we both know these lines are absurd, but we’re still throwing them back and forth just to see if the other keeps playing. And, most importantly, she seems to be an excellent liar.

Early in my career, I moved up the ranks of the police department quickly, and I did it by accepting bribes from the local mafia boss, Thomas Warwick Sr.. After he died, I took them from his son. I outed my own colleagues who also took bribes, making myself look like a shining example while stabbing others in the back. And later, I won my very first political campaign with money donated to me by Thomas Warwick himself.

Unbeknownst to him, I wasn’t just doing the legwork for Thomas- but I was also doing it for his mafia rival Morgan Speare. And soon after, my plans to pit the two families against each other failed. Thomas came out on top, and he let me know in no uncertain terms that he didn’t appreciate my attempts to level his playing field. Understandable. But he let me live, showing a twisted sense of mercy by obligating me forever to his service.

Since then, I could’ve been focusing on a job that I’ve worked hard for- despite the bribes and questionable donations- since I was a teenager regularly thrown out of my own home for the night. Being sheriff just under the age of forty could have made getting dates as easy as showing any woman a business card. I could’ve been building a more balanced life for myself.

Instead, I’ve stuck to paperwork and going on patrol when I get especially restless. I’ve put all my political aspirations on hold, just in case I draw Thomas Warwick’s ire again. I’ve even bought a 1957 Corvette with a custom paint job, in true mid-life crisis fashion.

Tonight, I came to the Olympus lounge not to drown my sorrows, but to pretend like I’m someone better than the person that I am. That I’m younger, more successful, less corrupt. That I can have a drink at the end of a fulfilling day and go home to bed, at peace with myself. It’s a charade I’ve played out many times, and I imagine I’ll keep having to do it until Thomas decides I’m insignificant enough to forget about. But I still haven’t bothered with women.

Maybe it’s about time I change that.

“If I take a number, will you let me know when you’ve got a fresh batch?” I ask. I show her my own dimple, the one that makes a pair with hers.

The woman laughs, and it sounds familiar to me because it’s my own false chuckle thrown back at me. “It doesn’t work like that,” she says. “If you take my number, how am I supposed to call you?”

“Well, I never take without giving,” I promise, and lean my elbow on the counter to mirror her pose exactly. She grins, following. “What’s your name?”

“Raleigh,” she answers, giving me a magnificent bat of her dark lashes. No last name. Interesting. I was hoping it would help me figure out why I feel like I’ve seen her before. “You?”

“Derrick,” I say. I wait for the inevitable moment where she remembers me from my campaign commercials, but she doesn’t fill in my last name. Instead, her dark painted mouth speaks my name, making it sound better than it ever has before.

“Der-rick,” she repeats, drawing out each syllable and letting the “k” click in her throat.

I can’t help myself. I imagine that open mouth, that pink tongue, those plump, dark lips, fitted snugly around my cock.

I don’t care that this is clearly what she wants, and I’m the fly getting caught in her sticky trap. The one who’s getting tied down tonight isn’t going to be me.

Raleigh’s drink arrives, but she doesn’t bother ordering any desserts off the menu she asked for. I choose to take that, and the long gulp she takes of her White Russian, as a good sign. She’s not interested in spending longer than necessary here, and perhaps that means she wants to be ready to be invited elsewhere.

Time to start covering bases.

“So Raleigh,” I say, as she lowers her glass, “did your dress come before your hair dye, or after?”

Raleigh seems pleased to be asked, which can only be expected of a woman who’s put enough time and effort into her appearance that she looks like she’s just walked off a fashion shoot. She runs a hand through her heavy raven curls, letting them hang over her breast for me to properly admire their lavender tips. The light in her eyes doesn’t last, though.

“My best friend got married tonight, and I was her maid of honor,” she says, but the pride in her voice feels forced. Like something she knows is expected of her. “She ditched the afterparty early, because obviously she had better things to do with her husband, so I figured my job was done.”

This feels true on a surface level, but clearly she had other reasons for abandoning the reception and going straight to a high-end bar. Did she not approve of the groom? “And there was no one you wanted to leave the party with yourself?”

She grimaces and takes another gulp of her drink. “Mmm, I’m really not interested in sleeping with someone I know tonight.”

Well, that makes things transparent. Whether she’s here escaping family drama or not, she is here to pick up a sex partner.

I return to thoughts of her pretty mouth moving down my body, and let her see my hunger in the quirk of my own lips. Raleigh’s eyes darken.

“It’s a good thing I’ve only told you my name then,” I say. “I’ll make you breakfast and tell you the rest tomorrow.”

Raleigh’s dimple reappears. “Will there be coffee?”

There won’t be, because I hate coffee, and don’t own a coffee machine. But I suppose I should’ve seen this coming, considering her cocktail. I laugh. “Maybe I’ll take you out for breakfast instead.”

She rolls her eyes theatrically. “Well, you’ve lost some points, Derrick. But I suppose you couldn’t be too perfect,” she sighs, which makes my grin widen.

“Finish your drink,” I tell her, and swallow the rest of mine. Raleigh throws hers back, drinking the last half of her White Russian in one go. Is that a competitive spirit I see in her squared shoulders, or nerves? When she slides off her stool and faces me, I can finally admire her perfect hourglass figure.

I hold out the crook of my elbow for her to take. Raleigh tosses her head and takes my arm, smiling up at me through her lashes. Her hazel eyes catch the light of the artful glass chandelier above our heads.

I almost tear my own arm back from her grip.

Her hazel eyes, which I should’ve recognized before now. I’ve seen them in a different face. And I’ve seen her face, even if it was just in passing, and her hair wasn’t dipped in lavender then.

I know why she’s familiar now, and as I keep that realization buried and walk the two of us out of the lounge, I kick myself for not realizing it sooner.

A shadowed figure moves at the edges of the parking lot, then another. I expect them to come toward us, but they hang back, watching as I open the passenger door of my car for Raleigh. I clock a third shadow as I round my car to the driver’s side. Were these people in the bar, watching me pick Raleigh up? Or, as now seems far more likely, Raleigh picking me up.

They aren’t moving in now, which means they’re waiting for me to get back to my house. Then they’ll begin their intimidation, or questioning, or whatever else Thomas Warwick has planned for me.

Because the woman I’ve just tucked into my car, the one I’ve just agreed to spend a night and a meal with, is none other than Raleigh Warwick- Thomas’s younger sister, the man who has hung like a guillotine’s blade over my head for the last six months.

Fuck. Me.