12. Derrick

CHAPTER 12

Derrick

I should be in the office today, but once again, I’m taking my old police cruiser out on patrol.

It’s been three months since I kicked off this manhunt for Silver. Three months since Raleigh and I were trapped in a room, forced together in more ways than one.

Three months since I left her on the floor, splayed out beneath me, sufficiently distracted so I could escape.

And what do I have to show for that time? Fuck all.

He’s a clever bastard, always making sure to send two or three of his guys out at the same time, all to different places, to stir up confusion about where he really is at any given time. I’m convinced at this point that he hasn’t actually climbed out of whatever rat hole he crawled into since my abduction. Instead, he’s sowing chaos and fear through his lackeys.

And making me look like a fucking fool.

Despite what I told the media, we’ve only managed to catch one of the bastards, and as soon as I saw his eyes, I knew he wasn’t Silver. This man had deep brown eyes, and no rasp in his voice. He also knew no concrete facts about his own boss, once he finally admitted to not being Silver himself. He was recruited through a friend of a friend, given clothes to make his uniform out of, and told that his primary goal was the destruction of the sheriff. Me.

If I hadn’t made it the goal of my tenure to catch and demask Silver, this wouldn’t be half so embarrassing. But the fact that I made a public statement condemning this man, and over the last several weeks have utterly failed to catch him-

Maybe I would’ve been better off staying in the Warwick dungeon. At least then Raleigh would be coming to me in the night.

Though I suppose she’s been showing up in my dreams ever since I left her in my own cell. On an almost nightly basis, I’ve relived what could’ve happened. I’ve fucked Raleigh Warwick dozens of different ways, made her whine and beg and scream in every key imaginable. In my mind, I’ve gone back and apologized with my words AND my body. In my mind, I’ve done nothing I need to apologize for in the first place.

At first, I thought these dreams would let up with time and distance. We were trapped together for two days that we’ll never forget, but terror and unconventional sex aren’t enough to create a foundation for… anything. Not to mention that Raleigh is the most off-limits woman in the county.

And yet, I can’t get her out of my mind. She haunts my dreams and my waking moments alike. I’m always wondering where she is, what she’s thinking about, if she hates me as much today as she did when I left her in that cell unsated.

It’s pathetic, but I can’t stop. I’m turning forty in a few months, and not only is my career slipping down the drain a little more every day, but I’m day-dreaming and dream-dreaming about a woman too young and gorgeous for me that I absolutely can’t have.

Forty. That’s a real milestone, one I’ve been avoiding looking at for a few years now. I’d hoped to be better, be more, by now. Of course my focus has always been my career, but in the back of my mind, there were other things I would have by now.

A wife. A child. A few children, probably.

It’s hard to have any of that, though, when I’ve never even had a longtime lover.

At this point, I’ll be lucky to be re-elected as just the sheriff, much less be able to run a campaign for something better. Anything outside of that isn’t possible anymore.

For all my determination and pride, I’m in a worse place now than I was three months ago.

I take the last bite of my sandwich and crumple the wrapper with a little too much force, tossing it out my passenger window into a nearby trash can… and… miss. Fuck. I’m spiraling, and I know it. Every day, I go through this same frustrating whirlpool of thought, and when I finally hit the bottom- I finish my lunch and move on to the next half of my shift. My skin is too tight, my mind is scrambled, I’m hanging on by my fucking fingertips.

But goddamnit, I’m not willing to let go.

So I pull away from the curb and roll down the street. I’m searching for a new silver triangle on the wall, the edge of a trench coat disappearing down an alley or into a store. I’m listening to the police scanner for any mention of street thugs holding up a gas station. There’s nothing, and at this point I don’t expect there ever will be.

Silver will keep slipping through my fingertips, getting his revenge simply by making me look like a fucking idiot.

I turn onto Hackney Street and drive past the old Cooper’s bar. It used to be a neutral meeting spot for the Warwicks and the Speares, but now that the city is monopolized once again, the place is just a shitty-

The back door of Cooper’s opens, and Silver steps out into the alley, flanked by two identical thugs.

From my position, I can also see the front door swing open, and Raleigh Warwick stomps out into the parking lot.

I have to fight not to slam on my brakes hard enough to make the tires squeal. This is too surreal to be happening.

Silver and his goons climb into a car waiting for them. My eyes flick over the license plate, the make and model of the car- 1995 Buick LeSabre, gray- hungrily absorbing details to record. Then my eyes betray me and turn back to Raleigh.

She’s dressed in bright red sailor shorts that hug her curvy ass and bare the entire length of her tanned legs, and an off-shoulder ruffled blouse. Her long curls are back to being all black, left loose and bouncy. She strides across the parking lot, heading toward a candy red Bentley sitting in front of the bar.

She looks… fucking gorgeous.

I tear my eyes off of her. The Buick is grumbling to life and starting to roll down the alley away from me. I should be throwing on my lights and sirens and tearing after it.

Instead, I hesitate.

After three months of hunting for this man, I fucking hesitate.

Raleigh doesn’t immediately climb into her car. She’s angry, I realize. I watch as she braces a hand on the roof of the Bentley and glares back toward the bar, her full lips twisted in a grimace. My stupor at the sight of her clears just enough to ask-

Wait, what the fuck is she doing here?

Was she here to meet with Silver?

Silver, who is driving away in a gray Buick right in front of me. Without taking my eyes off of it, I fumble through my glove box for my notebook and a pen and jot down the license plate, just to be sure I don’t lose it. Because I’ve already decided I’m not chasing it down.

It would be a stupid thing to do without backup, anyway. Silver and his guys are certainly armed, and if I startle them now, they probably won’t hesitate to start shooting. Or they could take cover in the next closest building and make hostages out of whoever’s inside. There’s a thousand ways tearing after Silver could go wrong without proper planning.

It’s a far more prudent play to get information out of Raleigh instead. I’m fairly sure that, from her skin-tight shorts and lack of handbag, she isn’t armed. She also seems to be here alone.

I tell myself I’m making this choice strategically as I park my car on the curb. It’s not about seeing her again, in real life, fifty feet away from me, after craving her for weeks. This will get me closer to Silver. Raleigh is a means to an end, just like everyone else.

Before I step out of the car, I call in the Bentley as an abandoned vehicle to be impounded.

It’s not like Raleigh’s going to be able to drive it home anytime soon, and I don’t want it to be stolen.

Then start crossing the street toward her.

I mean to call out to her with a question, something that establishes my authority in this scenario. It’s a classic strategy that I like to use on suspects. Starting a conversation with a question immediately puts your target on their back foot as they instinctively fumble for an answer, even if they’re not sure who their questioner is.

But the only word that comes out of my mouth is her name.

“Raleigh?”