Anarchy Found (8 page)

“Great,” I mutter under my breath.

“Oh, and Masters? There’s a party this Friday at the Thirteenth Cathedral in honor of some new rich fuck moving his business here. You’re the new man in town, so you’re in charge of security. My other detectives all have real cases. Wear a dress. And”—he looks down at my shoes—“get rid of those.”

Thirty minutes later I’m pulling into my driveway across town. I don’t live in a city condo like most of the other cops in the department. I like my space and since I practically grew up a gypsy in a circus tent that allowed me unprecedented freedom as a child, I got used to my space.

So it’s a suburban two-bedroom townhouse in a quiet neighborhood for me. I have a lot of neighbors, but it’s mainly older people who grew deaf to the call of the city a long time ago.

I get out of my car, curse the never-ending rain, and jump when my neighbor yells out from across the street. “I hope you don’t plan on playing loud music like that every weekend. This is a nice, quiet, orderly neighborhood,
Detective
.” The old woman practically snarls the word.

“I don’t,” I say back, as amicably as I can. Then I turn and walk up my front porch steps.

The party. I forgot how trashed my house was. I open the door and wince at the sight. The liquor bottles, the paper plates. There’s even food. Several pizza boxes, hamburger wrappers, old French fries, and at least a dozen protein shakes. Jesus Christ. What the hell was I thinking?

“Well, Molls,” I say, channeling my brother. “You made this mess, now you have to clean it up.”

Yes, Will. Yes, I do.

It takes me hours. And all I wanted to do when I got home was soak in the tub. But no. OCD-ish Molly can’t relax with a house filled with garbage. So I pick up bags of trash. I clean the kitchen counters, which are so sticky from food and booze, I have to break out the bleach. I vacuum, I dust, I even wax the wood furniture to make sure there’s no lingering rings.

Then I go upstairs and tackle the bedroom. Sheets—eew—first. I still have no idea if I had sex or not. And that bothers me. Enough for me to call my doctor out in Wolf Valley and leave a message for a referral to another primary care doctor here in town.

I lather, rinse, repeat all the cleaning I did downstairs and when I’m finally done, four hours later, I am looking at three full trash bags.

Three. I cannot even remember the last time I filled up three bags with trash.

I grab a bag, open the door that leads to the garage, flick on the light and stop dead.

Will’s truck and trailer are parked neatly in my garage. One vehicle in each of my two parking spots.

I have a flash of rain and a mountain road. Another flash of a bike on the asphalt. Then Will’s accident cycles through my brain like I’m reliving it in slow motion.

I drop the bag and slam the door.

That’s a just a memory, Molly.

Right. But a memory of what? Will didn’t crash on a mountain road, he crashed during a race. So some of that was real.

What the fuck happened to me this weekend?

Chapter Nine - Lincoln

I rewind the footage of the detective as she stalks down my outer tunnel and makes her way into my cave. What must she have been thinking?
Batman
. That makes me laugh. Molly Masters. Detective Molly Masters. I’m impressed.

I was so tired last night after trashing her house all day, that impromptu meeting with Case and Thomas, and the… extracurricular activity… I just came upstairs to the little house I rebuilt over the ruins of the mansion I have no memory of, and fell onto my bed.

But today I can’t get her out of my mind. I was thinking about her all day. Even Sheila noticed I was distracted. This is why I’m upstairs again. Normally I like to sleep down in the workshop. I have a bedroom of sorts down there. Bathroom and kitchen. And it’s a lot nicer than it is up here, that’s for sure. This little house is nothing but an afterthought left over from my stolen childhood.

But Sheila is everywhere down there. I have no privacy. Normally I don’t require much, but I don’t want to share this girl with anyone until I sort things out. So many nagging feelings about this Molly Masters. So many familiar things too.

I have doubts, but not enough to stop myself from drawing the only conclusion I can.

So I stretch my legs out on the bed and rewind the security footage again.

Molly is a strange combination of emotions as she walks through the tunnel. Afraid? Maybe. But she has that gun out and she’s trained in mixed martial arts. That was obvious with the takedown move she used on me back on the road. Plus, she’s pretty young to be a detective, which means she’s got something. Some skill, or some brainpower, or something that marks her as exceptional.

But does that surprise me? I shake my head.

Her expression, even in the grainy night-vision footage, is one of curiosity and determination. There is no point during this trip down the tunnel where I get the feeling she wants to turn back.

If life is a mystery then Molly isn’t afraid to go looking for the answers. And that does not fit into my current plans.

Her face is soft and round. Her cheekbones high. Her eyes are wide and bright. Hazel, I remember from seeing her out on the road. And her hair is long and light, but not blonde. It’s up in a ponytail in the footage, but not a neat one. Long, wet, twisting strands fall down and frame her face. And her clothes are what most athletic women would wear. Jeans, a sweatshirt, and a canvas jacket that says she likes the outdoors. They are nothing but mud.

I type in a web address and pull up the cameras I placed in her house—just to keep my eye on her, I told myself. Just to keep tabs on her as the drugs worked their way through her system.

But it’s a lie. I watched her last night and it wasn’t out of concern.

The style of her house is minimal, but not modern. Her couches are old and comfortable. I tried them both out. Her bedroom furniture is rustic and unpainted, her sheets a soft blue and her walls a bright white.

And her body. Jesus. I fast-forward the footage until we disappear from view when I put her in the shower. I know it was creepy as fuck to take off her clothes, but she was covered in mud. And going out to buy that lingerie, well, that was stupid. So fucking stupid. I told myself it was a joke and I’m even fighting down a laugh as I watch her wake up and try to figure it all out. But it was really stupid. It was almost like I wanted her to remember me. Make those drugs wear off.

And that is not the best way forward at this point. It comes with a whole lot of problems.

So what is she thinking right now, practically crawling to her bathroom to hurl?

I flick a tab on the screen and bring back the live feed just as she goes into her bathroom to change. Does she always change in the bathroom? Or can she feel my eyes on her?

She comes out wearing shorts and a tank top, her full breasts pressing her peaked nipples up against the fabric of her shirt.

She makes me hard.

And then she bends over, allowing me a good look at her ass.

I unzip my jeans.

She slips into bed, her long legs stretching out on the new white sheets.

I shove my hand into my boxer briefs and fist my cock. It grows in my hand and I have a moment of longing. A moment when I wish that was her hand. That she was the one pumping me up and down in long, even strokes. I sigh, wishing her mouth was coming towards me and we were together.

Together. It’s a weird thought, but I try it on for size.

Don’t go there, Lincoln. You can’t.

She leans over and turns the light out, and then her face illuminates as a reading device comes on.

I imagine her face in the dark next to me, lit up by the computer on my lap as she sleeps by my side. I imagine slipping my arm underneath her toned body, grabbing her breasts, and pulling her ass up against my hard cock.

Fuck.

I stop masturbating and close the computer. I’m not the kind of guy who needs a dream to get off. I’m the kind of guy who likes the real thing.

But this girl is off limits. Detective Molly Masters comes with a great big off-limits sign flashing in my head.

She’s a fucking cop
, the inner voice says.
A cop and a girl who will bring up more problems than you can deal with right now.

The Secret Peek

The Secret Peek

Chapter Ten - Molly

I toss and turn all night on my clean sheets while wearing my tank top and shortie-shorts. You know, what I
usually
wear to bed. No prissy pink lingerie.

Tanks tops and shorts are:

1. Comfy.
   
2. Comfy.
   
3. And comfy.
   

That’s the easiest list I ever made and I made it back when I was eight. No second thoughts necessary. So how the hell did I end up in clothes I’d never in a million years choose for myself?

My alarm goes off on my phone, letting me know it’s four-thirty AM. It’s a half-hour drive over to the Blue Castle, and I really need a shower before I start a day that will undoubtedly be long, stressful enough to induce a marathon of list-making, and sad. It’s been a while since I investigated a murder and after talking to the victim’s wife yesterday afternoon after leaving Blue Corp and Atticus Montgomery, that’s what I think it is. She said he got a call late the night before. That he was told to report to work for an emergency.