Manhattan Flame (A Bridge & Tun - Gibson, Mira

MANHATTAN FLAME (A Bridge & Tunnel Romance)

Mira Gibson

Please CLICK HERE to join my mailing list where you will be the first to know about new releases, discounts, and

giveaways!

TABLE OF CONTENTS Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Author Biography

Chapter One The air was soft and warm, breezing off the Hudson River and blowing through her black curls, caressing her brown skin, and causing the gray, leather jacket she wore to billow out from her flowing pink tank top. Tasha Buckley was leaning against the railing that separated Riverside Park from calm waters, and angling her telephoto lens at the George Washington Bridge. The lighting was perfect, dusk settling as the sun slipped behind buildings, an eerie mix of gray shadows swallowing stark amber light. In the distance, a homeless man was

hunched and fumbling his way along the railing, his gaze locked on the cobblestone path, as he hunted for cigarette butts long enough to smoke. She kept him in the corner of her frame. Tasha had been waiting for him to straighten up, turn towards her. She wanted to capture the grief in his eyes, the destitute of his expression—his cheeks a pattern of creases, his mouth twisting downward, his hands dirtstained and shaky—and the story his clothing told, as ratty and hole-ridden as his garments were. Her subject, downtrodden in the foreground, the bridge, majestic in the evening light... if she could document the contrast, lock it forever with the fast click of her camera,

she would have yet another strong photo for her upcoming art exhibition. “Come on, come on,” she said under her breath, pinching her left eye shut, while the right one studied the man through the viewfinder. The plastic eyepiece was digging into her brow and cheek, and her arm was getting tired. Her camera—a Canon EF 400/2.8L with a 500 meter telephoto lens that looked almost as long as her arm—was meant to be mounted on a tripod due to its weight and sheer mass. But capturing life on the fly didn’t allow for the luxury of setting up her shot with such accessories. Tasha held down the shutter release, taking rapid-fire photos of the homeless

man and hoping like hell he would lift his face. A strong gust of wind blew in off the water, rustling treetops, the branches of which arched over the cobblestone path they were on. It should’ve been enough to steal the man’s attention, cause him to glance up and around, but instead he turned his back to Tasha and started off in the opposite direction. She lowered her camera, letting it rest against her stomach, though the weight of it caused the nylon strap around her neck to chafe. Grabbing the railing, she gazed out at the river as if setting her sights on nature would wash her frustration away. When she turned, hoping to find

another homeless man or woman shuffling down the path, she saw only the shapes and shadows of trees and shrubs, a row of benches, a cluster of pigeons twitching around a discarded, half eaten bagel, the golden hour having escaped her. She didn’t want to be a photographer’s assistant forever. Though it was a substantial step up from the photo lab where she used to work. The particular photographer she had been assisting was a condescending jerk and he never missed an opportunity to put her down. Several times she had told herself not to build up her upcoming exhibition too much in her head. The higher your hopes,

the further your fall, her grandmother used to say. But Tasha couldn’t help it. She didn’t have all the reason in the world to believe that showing her work there would be her ticket to a life independent of working for others, having a boss, depending on a paycheck at the mercy of a jerk, yet the truest and most innocent part of herself believed it. She had four strong shots, already developed and framed in her Harlem apartment one neighborhood over. She needed six more. And time was running out. Determined to get at least one solid photo before calling it a night, she walked along the cobblestone path, cutting south along the park and at times

gripping the railing and gazing out at the water. It would be a hike, but if she could get down to the piers, she might have better luck with the homeless ferreting around trashcans for food. The cargo ships in the background could prove intriguing as well. After five minutes, the park lamps began flickering on, one after the next as she passed each of them, and she smiled at the incidental timing. There were a few joggers out. They angled around her in wide arches, but for the most part the park was quiet and empty. Soon the first pier came into view in the distance. With night having fallen it looked more like a streak of black floating on a dark, rippling surface. The

moon was a sliver overhead and there wasn’t a star in the sky thanks to the bright cityscape of New Jersey across the water. Tasha slowed, lifting her camera, and glanced through the viewfinder. There were enough lamps along the pier to provide a dim glow of light, but unless she was precise choosing the aperture, it wouldn’t matter what she photographed, nothing would come out in the darkroom. “I need more than pigeons and a damned cargo ship,” she grumbled, sweeping the lens slowly across the pier. At this point she would settle for a park custodial worker or security guard, but no one was around. The weather was

too nice, she thought. People took advantage during the daytime, they were out and about, but as soon as darkness fell they had better places to be—a sidewalk cafe, a rooftop bar, a concert in Central Park. She snapped off a few shots of the landscape, not that she would be able to use any of them—the theme of her photographs demonstrated the plight of those who had bottomed out. She didn’t want to take those run-of-the-mill China Town photos or display cheap shots of the homeless in any given shelter or soup kitchen. She wanted to show them as close to nature as New York City would allow and juxtapose their weathered faces with those of Manhattan's most

elite if possible. Just as she was about to give up and call it a night, the weight of her camera causing her arm muscles to tremble, she spied a man on the pier. Draped in shadows, he wore dark jeans and a suit jacket, and when he paced down the pier and turned on his heel, Tasha adjusted the lens, bringing him into perfect clarity through the viewfinder. She guessed he was in his mid or late forties, as she held the shutter down, taking rapid-fire shots. His face wasn’t as rough and aged by despair as she would’ve liked, but his expression made up for it. Dark hair, dark eyes, he seemed to

grimace, which accentuated his Eastern European features. She pegged him as Russian since their population was fairly high throughout the five boroughs. He spat onto the pier and when he turned again, she trailed her camera down the length of his back, zooming the lens as tightly as it would go. There was a discernible bulge at the small of his back where his suit jacket just barely met the waistband of his jeans. Was that a gun tucked down her subject’s pants? She snapped a few shots, knowing full well she wouldn’t be able to use them, and then zoomed out, her curiosity highly piqued at the second and third

men who were now approaching him. Lowering her camera for a beat, she eyed their dynamic. The man looked scared and began groveling. She lifted her camera, again pressing the rubbery eyepiece to her face. In the split second it had taken her to do that much, the two men had swarmed her subject. One was holding him, arms hooked under his armpits, while the second man delivered blows to his gut. Tasha held the shutter release down, snapping off shots in fast succession, but doing so made her stomach twist. What the hell was she doing taking photos of a man being beaten? She let her camera fall, the weight of

it snapping with the taut nylon strap around her neck, and found her cell phone after scrambling through her purse. She cued up 911, but her eyes darted up to the assault just as the two men shoved their victim towards the edge of the pier. In an instant, her camera was in her hands, documenting the man as he was thrown into the water. Watching with wide eyes, all breathing stopped, as she realized how limp he'd looked plummeting with a splash. They killed him? Shocked, it was as though she couldn’t think straight, couldn’t feel the cell phone in her hand or even remember

that she was holding it. She stared at the remaining men as they discussed something before starting for the row of cars at the base of the pier. Shaking off her anxiety, though her heart rate quickened to dizzying levels, she sent the call through and pressed her cell to her ear, but it didn’t even ring. She glanced at it and swore. She hadn’t punched in the last 1. She tapped the screen, adding the digit and again, hit the send button, but just as the 911 Operator greeted her through the earpiece her cell cut out. “Are you kidding me?” Staring down at it in her hand, the screen was blacked out—dead—having lost its charge.

Tasha glanced up at the pier in the distance, as the men rounded one of the vehicles within the row of cars, and her heart skipped a beat. One of the men was standing with his hand on the door handle, his dark suit crisp along his robust frame, his shoulders squared, his eyes—too dark and far away too lock with—seemed to be staring in her direction. Though she was petrified, some semblance of instinct took hold and she lifted her camera to her face, viewing him through the telephoto lens. He was looking right at her.

Chapter Two The overhead lights—fluorescent and buzzing like a hornets nest—had been grating on Officer Kevin Wright’s nerves ever since he’d walked into the precinct hours earlier at the start of his tour. He rubbed his eyes then scratched the dark dusting of stubble along his jawline, vaguely aware that he was a few days overdue for a shave. He was standing post at the front desk, and had been tending to civilians as they walked in to report bike theft, car theft, wallet theft—Christ, there was a lot of theft in Harlem—but luckily he had a moments rest, having just filed a

form for an elderly man who claimed his neighbor had stolen four flowerpots from his stoop. The lobby was empty, though the bullpen behind him was a chorus of barked orders and crass jabs— detectives and cops rushing to track down, follow up on, or otherwise ferret out leads on a variety of crimes. Kevin rolled his shoulders back, his starched uniform pulling taut across his chest, the holster at his side digging in, but the stretch felt good, woke him up a touch, though those damned fluorescents were working against him. He hadn’t so much asked for a cop’s life as gotten pigeonholed into it, hailing from a large family of police officers

and firefighters, priests and drunks, classic Irish-Americans who had never made it out of the five boroughs and were shamelessly proud of that fact. Kevin was the youngest of four brothers and, following their lead yet avoiding his oldest brother, Mick’s pious inclination towards the cloth, he had joined the police academy six years ago. In all this time however, Kevin hadn’t managed to take the detective’s exam, move up the ranks, and make his old man proud. It wasn’t that he wasn’t passionate about law enforcement, quite the opposite in fact. But he’d seen what the detectives in the 26th had become. He’d witnessed firsthand their bitterness, their

callous attitude towards more violent crimes, the apathy and pessimism they’d let slip to the families of victims—a cruelty that inspired despair rather than hope. He wasn’t ready to be part of it, not beyond working the desk, beating the streets, and cruising across town to pick up your run-of-the-mill petty criminal who wouldn’t likely do hard time but rather a few months of community service. Deep down he knew that his dad—a weathered Irish hard-ass who thought sleeping more than four hours a night or working less than twelve made you a sissy—wouldn’t let him get away with this cushy version of a cop’s life for

much longer. Hell, his brothers had already been busting his balls about it. But the real barrier preventing Kevin from muscling down his apprehension and taking the damn exam was standing a good yard behind him, ripping Officer Taite a new one over misfiling a report, and causing the entire bullpen to tense. Sergeant Patrick Reilly. The man was a good friend of Kevin’s father, but it didn’t influence his treatment of the cop. At 6’4”, 280 lbs of pure muscle, and hair so white it looked as though the devil himself had singed the color right out of it, Reilly was a grisly bear with the energy of a teenaged boy and the rage of a steroid-pumping wrestler. Bottom line, the sergeant had

never missed an opportunity to chew him out and then laugh about it with Kevin’s old man over beers at the local pub. Keeping his head low and his wits sharp was how he’d been playing this. It had kept him in the game this long and would continue to do so, though at this point in the evening Kevin would rather slink off to his apartment, drink a beer, and watch basketball than sidestep his superior left and right. He glanced at the clock on the wall above the entrance and quietly groaned that he had another four hours to go until a cold Bud would be in his hand. He just wasn’t feeling it today. His police issued boots felt tight around his feet. His damned holster kept digging

hard against his ribs. And it was stuffy as hell in the precinct. His brother’s advice popped in his head, Get a girl, get laid. Not Mick’s advice! No, that’d be hysterical—a priest encouraging sex. It had been Tommy, his firefighting brother who seemed to be in a constant state of reminding him that a girl was all he needed—Get the blood flowing, the engine firing! Kevin was starting to wonder if maybe he was right... He’d been single for ages and yes it was for lack of trying. Whenever Kevin tried, it took about three minutes before the woman he had smiled at swayed her way across the bar, smirking her lips and usually fiddling with her hair or the hem

of her shirt, nervous tells that revealed he’d have to try hard to mess things up. He had one of those faces that girls happened to like, and he was tall—6’2”. He spent time jogging and lifted weights at the gym when he felt like it. But for Kevin some critical motivating piece was missing from his mind or his heart or his soul. He didn’t feel like chasing something that would turn out to be fake, hollow, a waste of time in the long run. He’d had enough illusions. He would wait for someone real. “Wright!” He flinched and found the sergeant over his shoulder with a form in his meaty hands. “What the hell is this supposed to

be?” Kevin angled his gaze at the sheet in Reilly’s hand, sensing more than reading what it was. He caught the victim's name and the offense, which refreshed his memory enough to explain. “The vic thought his neighbor stole his flowerpots.” Sergeant Reilly narrowed his pale blue eyes down at him and if Kevin wasn’t mistaken, the man had started growling. “Did I miss a field?” he guessed, his jaw so tight the words had sounded garbled. “You’re missing the point, is what you’re missing. Can’t you spot a nut-job yet? This precinct doesn’t give a good

goddamn about flowerpots.” Of course it didn’t, he thought. All that mattered was rape, murder, child abduction... the golden trifecta of what any of them should spend their time on... Except Kevin didn’t happen to agree. “Theft is theft, Sarge.” Reilly was holding his gaze in a way that made it hard for Kevin to breathe. “You talking back to me?” he challenged, crowding him behind the counter. “Or is it that you’re itching to drive over to the bowels of Harlem and suss out this minor indiscretion? You want to question a building full of neighbors, in the projects no less, about some missing flowers?” Kevin swallowed hard and snuck a

step back. “If I have to.” “Is that right?” “I doubt anyone will admit it, but if a cop comes sniffing around, the culprit might think twice next time.” “There is no culprit, Wright,” he said, disappointed. “Read the vic’s name.” He snapped the sheet in Kevin’s face. “Willy Blackwell’s out of his damn mind. He’s in here every other week claiming one of his neighbors has taken this or that worthless item. He’s what we call a time waster. If I send you over there for any reason it would be to arrest him for wasting police resources.” Or maybe the kids in Willy’s building liked messing with him because he was old and grumpy and an easy target, he

thought without uttering one word. Instead, he said, “Understood,” and hoped the man would lumber back into the bullpen and chew someone else out for a change. Reilly stared him down for a solid moment just to stir a fresh wave of anxiety through Kevin, or so he thought. It wasn’t until the brash sergeant finally did stalk off that Kevin let out a rocky breath, turned towards his post, and hoped like hell his tour would fly by. As if in answer to his prayer, the glass entrance door of the precinct glided open and a young AfricanAmerican woman stepped cautiously inside, her hair a wild design of black curls, her loose tee hugging the curves of

her chest tightly where her leather jacket allowed a sense of her shape. Her thighs were thick, her eyes alert—and that was just the quick sense he got from her. As she approached the counter after glancing nervously around the empty lobby, Kevin afforded himself the vacation of studying her a bit more closely. Physically, she looked soft, yet her expression was hardened as though her dewy complexion, large angled eyes, and round mouth were cloaked in a tough attitude—gentle features stiff with the guardedness that comes from too many years in too rough a neighborhood. His chest grew tighter the longer they looked at one another and it wasn’t until

she set an abnormally large camera on the counter that he realized she even had such a thing with her. “How can I help you?” He asked, a bit thrown by how concerned his voice sounded. “I think I saw something,” she said in a hollow tone that seemed lost and out of sorts. “Theft?” “No,” she cut in then her lower lip began quivering and she muttered, Damn under her breath, stepping back and giving her hands a good shake before looking at them. “Take your time.” She let out a carefully measure breath, glancing discretely at her hands

as if willing them to stop trembling. When she stepped up to the counter again, she pressed her palms flat onto it and Kevin noted their demure shape— long fingers adorned with several rings. She gave an honest attempt at starting slowly and clearly from the beginning. “I was over at Riverside Park, damn,” she swore again under her breath. Plowing her long fingers through her hair, she corrected herself, explaining, “I was down at the piers, but I started at the park so I don’t know which pier I was at.” “The first one? Twelve,” he supplied. “I know the area.” Again, she exhaled, her eyes scanning the counter as though it would help her

gain clarity. “Hey,” he said softly, angling to catch eye contact. When he had it, he assured her, “Just tell me what you saw and we’ll go from there.” “Right,” she breathed. “I think I saw these two business-looking guys kill some Russian dude and throw him in the river.” Now that was a statement. Kevin realized he was staring so he whipped around, pulled a homicide report form from the shelving unit and found a pen, and set both on the counter. “Bear with me, I need to collect all of your information.” “Anonymous,” she blurted out then cooled herself. “I’d rather make an

anonymous report.” Kevin leaned forward but not so much as to crowd her, and spoke firmly and deliberately. “This is serious. If you witnessed a murder, if that’s really what happened, then no, you don’t get to disappear into the night. There will be a full investigation and we’ll need to follow up with you.” She looked reluctant, far too reluctant to cooperate, but he held her gaze anyway, and it finally registered that she was nearly as tall as him. Not that he should let himself get distracted by such a detail... maybe she was wearing heels, he hadn’t noticed one way or the other when she’d come in. “Fine,” she told him, sounding

defeated as she blew air through her teeth. “Tasha Buckley... here.” She stole the pen from him, leaning over the counter and making slow work of identifying each field. He pointed, indicating the Name field, then the Address field, Home and Cell numbers and so on down the list, as she filled it out. Then he slipped the form away and took over again, entirely aware that she smelled faintly of lilacs. He didn’t know flower scents, not beyond lilacs since his mother had a bush in front of his childhood house on Staten Island. “When did this happen?” He asked, stealing quick glances at her as she composed herself to answer. “Just now. I was going to call 911

when it was happening but my cell died so I walked over here. It took me maybe ten minutes to walk.” “Did you get a good look at these guys?” “Good enough.” “From how far away?” She held his gaze and Kevin could tell he wasn’t going to like her response. “Two, maybe three hundred yards.” Ordinarily he would’ve laughed a civilian right out of the precinct. Only a hawk could see from that distance. If her allegation proved to be valid, he doubted she'd be able to ID the perp in a lineup. But there was something about Tasha—the glint in her brown eyes, the way she pressed her mouth, even her

apprehension about being here in the first place told him that she wasn’t making this up. “Give me a sec, alright?” he said before glancing over his shoulder to get a read on where the sergeant was skulking around. Traumatizing Taite again, he should’ve known. “I’ll be right back.” It took more effort than he cared to admit to tear his gaze from her, but he broke free and wove his way through the bullpen until he reached Reilly, who was sloshing what looked like luke-warm coffee around in a cracked mug. Speaking low, Kevin said, “I got a woman who saw a murder down by Pier

Twelve. Says two men pushed another into the river.” “People don’t die falling in the water,” he grumbled. “She seems credible,” he insisted while keeping his tone even. Reilly glanced past the hustle and bustle of his detectives to the woman beyond the front desk and Kevin caught the exact moment his sergeant had written the whole thing off. And it was because Tasha was black. Kevin could smell it. This type of dismissive racism had been brewing throughout the entire department ever since the day he’d started and it didn’t bode well for inspiring him to move up the ranks.

But he wasn’t going to back down. “Talk to her. Send a cruiser over. According to her this happened ten or fifteen minutes ago.” Reilly said, “I’m going to show you something.” He sounded companionable enough, but Kevin knew the man was anything but. “Come with me.” The sergeant stomped out to the front desk, as Kevin trailed tightly behind, and Tasha seemed to stiffen at their approach. She folded her arms and a distinct look of distrust shielded her otherwise frightened features. “What’s your name?” he barked, making a display of eyeing the monitor, the report on the counter, anywhere but Tasha in order to make her feel small.

In this moment, Kevin genuinely despised him. “Tasha Buckley,” she said clearly with a faint street-lilt in her tone. “You want to hear what I have to say?” “I know what you think, Sweetheart.” Tasha screwed her face up at the endearment and then her eyes went slack as if this wasn't her first rodeo with an authority figure who just plain didn't like her. Reilly pounded on, asking, “Have you been drinking this evening?” “What?” Her fist was on her hip now and she swung her other hand up. “Hell, no. No, I don’t need this.” “So is that a yes?” he pressed. “No, Officer,” she barked back in a thick New York accent. “I haven’t been

drinking. I’ve been taking pictures down at the pier.” “Are you on drugs?” The second the sergeant had asked, Tasha’s eyes snapped to Kevin, widened, and her mouth drifted open, appalled. Reeling in her emotions in a way that impressed him—if he were in her shoes, he'd probably explode—she turned to Reilly and stated, “No, Sir, I have not been drinking and I’m not on drugs. I don’t do drugs. I do photography. That’s my thing.” Reilly was staring at Kevin now as though the two of them might chuckle about this later, but Kevin didn't find it funny and was about to assert as much when Tasha spoke up.

“You don’t want to believe the young black woman whose trying to do you a favor? Fine. Believe this.” She had her camera in her hands now and clicked a few buttons then turned the view screen towards them and Kevin saw clearly what looked like two men strangling a third on the pier. Reilly seized the camera for a closer look. “Rapid-fire,” said Tasha. “Click through it fast, it’ll play like a movie.” The sergeant took her suggestion and as he clicked through the frames, his pale eyes locking on the screen, Kevin could tell the man was having a hard time pulling his foot out of his mouth. And if he wasn’t mistaken, he thought

Reilly looked a strange mix of pissed and scared. Then again, insult brought with it a wealth of emotions and the sergeant was obviously insulted that Tasha Buckley had stood her ground and been right. Kevin liked this girl, but he managed to suppress the crooked smirk that was threatening to overtake his expression. “Wait here,” ordered Reilly, as he took her camera with him deep into the bullpen. Kevin watched him and it wasn’t until Reilly slammed his office door shut that he returned his gaze to Tasha. She looked put-off and he couldn’t blame her so he reinforced the good she was doing by mentioning, “He’s hardheaded, but

this is solid. I’m glad you came in.” “Hardheaded?” she challenged. “I could think of a better word.” The smile he’d been holding in came out and felt good, and to his surprise it was contagious. She let a small smirk form across her face and as her lips parted, he took a moment to eye her straight teeth and the snaggletooth—an incisor—that he hadn’t noticed before. When the silence between them, the lingering eye contact, lasted for too long, he asked, “Photographer, huh?” “Almost,” she sighed. “Right now I’m working as an assistant, but I’ve got some stuff coming up.” “Stuff?” “An exhibition down in Chelsea.

Nothing too major,” she went on, modestly—it sounded like a hell of a big deal to Kevin. “That’s why I was taking shots near the pier.” “At night,” he questioned. “At dusk, moody lighting. It’s good for about an hour and I kept fighting myself to just go home.” She shook her head as if wrestling with herself. “It’s good that you didn’t go home,” he asserted. “You witnessed something that shouldn’t have happened and now we have a decent chance of catching whoever did this.” With that in mind, Kevin glanced over his shoulder and wondered why in the hell the sergeant hadn’t sent officers over to the pier yet.

Tasha stole his attention, asking, “You ever go to the galleries around Chelsea?” “Huh?” Her question registered three seconds after she’d asked it and he blurted out, “Not really. Demanding life up here in Harlem if you can imagine.” “I can,” she said, her brows floating up and in delayed reaction he realized she was taking an interest in him— asking about galleries, commenting on his busy cop's life. He held her gaze and sensed there was more between them than the straightforward cop-civilian dynamic, one he might like to explore. Finally, Reilly lumbered back, joining him behind the counter, but Tasha’s jaw had dropped and what she

said next came off sassy as hell, “Where the hell's my camera?” “Hey!” barked Reilly at her swearing. “It’s called evidence and we need it.” “Like hell you do,” she objected. “You need the shots, I’ll put them on a flash drive for you. You’re not taking my camera!” “Calm down,” demanded Reilly in a voice so loud you’d think Tasha had just assaulted him. “It’s already logged into evidence. You’ll get it back when we don’t need it anymore.” Her jaw had dropped to the floor, but she snapped it shut, cooled off in a manner that to Kevin didn’t seem fair— why should Tasha have to keep a level

head when Reilly was treating her like a criminal for Christ’s sake?—and then she asked, “When will I get it back?” Smugly, the sergeant said, “After the trial,” then turned to Kevin. “Help her fill out the 501-67-B458 so she can get her property when the time comes.” And with that he stalked off again without so much as thanking Tasha for coming forward in the first place. Kevin couldn’t look at her he was so ashamed. Sensing her frustration was enough to send his guts twisting and his chest tightening. He was furious for her and hated that in a sense she was being punished for having helped. Hunting around the shelving unit, he finally located the form Reilly had

advised and set it on the counter. He wanted to tell her that he was sorry, but words were too small. If she had a photography exhibition coming up, he hoped for her sake she had a spare camera lying around somewhere, because the unfortunate fact of the matter was that she wasn’t going to get hers back for a very long time. And yet, as he collected her information and filled out the form, he wondered why Reilly had shot down Tasha’s very reasonable offer. She could’ve easily transferred the images onto a flash drive. It would certainly serve as evidence whether they had the camera or not. Was Reilly being a jackass? Was he getting off on giving her

a hard time and making her life miserable? What was the damned point of keeping her property? Once he had filled out the form in its entirety, he told her, “It’ll take a day for us to process this and get an internal file number assigned, but at that point we’ll give you a copy to hold on to.” “Great,” she said as if the information was anything but. As she scraped her teeth over her lower lip and slapped her hands on her thighs as if concluding the nightmare that had befallen her, Kevin offered her a comforting smile and said, “Good luck with your art show.” “Yeah,” she grumbled. “I’ll sure as hell need it.”

He watched her walk through the lobby, her swaying hips, her bouncy black curls, to his great relief noting the heels she wore—she wasn’t that tall— and when she'd disappeared beyond the glass door, he walked briskly through the bullpen, making a beeline for the sergeant’s office. “Send me out, Sarge,” he demanded. “I want in on this one.” “To the pier? I already sent a cruiser.” He glared at him, but Reilly’s eyes were just as steely. Reilly ordered, “Shut the door on your way out.” Kevin didn’t just shut the office door. He slammed it.

Chapter Three The photography studio was in crisp divide. White, floor-to-ceiling seamless paper cloaked the front half of the room. At the back was a smattering of industrial lights, illuminating an Amazonian bombshell whose teased black hair spilled over the daring, sablefur bikini she was modeling. Tasha hung off to the wayside with a clipboard in her hand and noted the various lenses, angles, and apertures being used, and tracked their correlation to the model’s outfits, while her boss, Hans Janz hunched into his Nikon Coolpix L820, pacing around his subject

and firing off shots. She would kill for that camera. Hell, at this point there wasn’t much she wouldn’t do to have a basic Kodak in her hands for a few days. The thought of her precious Canon locked in an evidence room at the police station was enough to set her teeth on edge. “Leg up on the block,” Hans demanded, alerting the model to the white cube his scenic designer had provided. While he waited for the leggy twentyyear old to play around with the prop, he tilted his head, stretching the side of his neck, and plowed his fingers through his coiffed blond hair that to Tasha looked waxy with product.

Hans seemed annoyed that the model was struggling. He paced off towards one of the Flashpoint monolights and made a few adjustments. Tasha bit her tongue not to make a suggestion concerning both the angle of the light and the possibilities the model could explore kicking and mounting the cube. But if she had learned anything working under Hans Janz’s laughable tutelage, it was that assistants were meant to be neither seen nor heard. The model, whose name was Shivana, had moved to New York City from Trinidad when a modeling scout from IMG had so-called discovered her —as if any young adult were an island that some Manhattan hotshot could stake

his flag in. She pitched her stiletto heel on the cube in a way that concerned Tasha she might twist her ankle. Worse was the fact she had also braced the cube with her left hand, which had caused such a forward bend that her breasts were threatening to spill out of the strips of fur that some designer—a man no doubt—called a bikini. Tasha snuck a glance at Hans, as he rounded a folding table where his DIT specialist was logging the digital shots he'd taken into a laptop. He seemed consumed, eyeing the monitor, so Tasha risked the scolding she would surely get stepping across the white paper and approached the model. Demonstratively, she guided the girl

aside, taking her place, then set her sneaker on the cube. Communicating only in body language since Shivana spoke very little English, she arched her back, tossed her head, and worked the white block in a way she was sure Hans wanted. The model smirked nervously, yet memorized all she was shown, and before Tasha slinked away, she gestured to her own chest, indicating the model needed a quick tuck to be on the safe side. “Off the set!” yelled Hans, as he barreled towards her, fuming and pointing angrily at the white paper she had trailed across. “Look at these scuffs!”

She didn’t see a single scuffmark, but apologized profusely anyway, adding, “Coffee? Espresso? Red Bull?” “Why don’t you keep behind the lights and help me forget I hired you, hmm?” In addition to pressing her mouth into a hard line to stifle what might tumble out, she felt eyes on her and instinctively glanced at the model, who was gaping as if appalled on Tasha’s behalf. She might not be fluent in the language, but Hans’s tone had read loud and clear. The shoot picked up again—Hans clicking frames as he worked his way around the model, Shivana hiking her long leg over the cube and confidently selling the idea of the bikini she wore.

Making her way to the very back of the studio, Tasha neared the refreshment table and poured herself a cup of coffee, which she doctored with cream and sugar. She didn’t need caffeine so much as air and there wasn’t any within an eight-yard radius of her agitated boss. Impacting her sour mood was all that had transpired two nights ago. It killed her not to have her camera, but as bad as that felt, she couldn’t shake how offended she was, having been dismissed by that cop. What was he, a lieutenant, a sergeant, the captain? He was a bastard as far as she was concerned. Few things were worse than not being believed. And being made to feel like a criminal herself when she had

only meant to report a very serious crime was outlandish. And what would come of her statement? An investigation? A trial? Nothing? As terrible as it might be to wish this would all go away, it seemed better than the alternative: testifying in a trial. And when would that happen? Months down the road or years? At least that guy who'd been working at the desk was on her side or had been, she thought as she stirred her coffee and tossed the wooden stick into the trash. Who knew what he thought now? Maybe his superior had convinced him that Tasha was some kind of troublemaker. She reminded herself that all they needed to believe her was already in

their possession—her camera, those photos, the frame-by-frame blow-byblow that had taken place on the pier— but it didn’t make her feel any better. If she had her choice, she would rather be considered a crazy person and have her Canon around her neck than be believed and even thanked and not have it. She realized her shoulders were tense so she forced out a long exhale, loosening her muscles. That cop, what was his name? She’d read the name on his badge too quickly—Wright? He had told her to call in or swing by to get the form, which would be her ticket to retrieving her camera, and that was exactly what she planned on doing. Once

she had the report number, she could call the station every day if need be. And that’s when she fully understood what was really eating her. She hated not being believed. It was worse than being taken advantage of. She felt like she'd been brushed under the rug, disrespected, discarded, and she just plain couldn’t stomach it. As she made her soundless way back to the front of the studio where Hans was switching out the full memory card from his camera with a fresh one, she downed her coffee and worked up the nerve to interrupt. “Hans?” She said softly, nearing her boss, as the DIT specialist popped the full memory card into a gadget beside

his laptop. “She’s fantastic, isn’t she?” he commented without looking at her. Tasha glanced at the model, who was ducking behind a folding screen to get into her final outfit. Agreeably, she told him, “She is. She’s so unusual looking. These shots are going to be ground breaking.” Hans shot her a crooked smile that she hoped indicated he was in a good mood. “I was wondering...” she said, trailing off and studying his face. “Well, unfortunately I had a mishap with my camera, and… I know there are five hanging around the studio and if I could borrow one for a few days-”

His snorted laugh cut her off, but she swallowed hard and pressed on. “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need it.” “I’m sorry,” he said curtly. “They don’t belong to me. Those cameras are the property of the studio.” She happened to know that wasn’t true. Feeling bold and also feeling downright sick of being dismissed, she challenged him by asking, “Then should I ask someone at the front desk?” That got his attention and he straightened up from eyeing his camera. His cold blue eyes locked on her and the washed-out apathy on his face was replaced with disgust. Fortunately or not, he didn’t have a chance to vocalize what he really

thought of her request, because Shivana was stomping out from the changing area in puffy, white winter boots that reminded Tasha of a cross between Uggs and overgrown shrubs, and a sleek, beige one-piece bathing suit. Hans yelled out, “Fabulous!” and neared his model, lifting the camera to his face. It seemed to take an eternity for Hans to capture the final look as modeled by Shivana. As always, Tasha hung out behind the bright lights and took notes, fantasizing all the while about how she might launch herself out of this crappy job and into the life she had always envisioned for herself. For some reason as she ran down the

particulars of making her photography dream a reality, Officer Wright kept popping into her thoughts. Between the surrealism of entering the police station and her overall shock of having witnessed a murder, Wright had struck her as the one aspect that wasn’t completely otherworldly. He had been kind and gentle, treating her with respect. He had seemed to care—a rare trait she seldom found in people other than her closest friends, Greer and Jennifer, much less in a cop. And he had handled her in a manner that had made her feel good, genuinely proud, about coming forward. But it wasn’t only his attitude that had Tasha’s thoughts wandering. She

couldn’t recall ever giving a cop a second look, and Officer Wright’s looks were deserving of more than a single glance. He reminded her of the artsy guys she'd gone to Cooper Union with— sharp, discerning eyes the color of which were too hazy to guess, laid-back stubble along his jaw, a muscular build though hidden as if he didn’t quite realize how fit he was, a distinct sensitivity that poured through his words and actions—which was why the fact that he was in law enforcement, dressed in a uniform, and taking down crime reports was so bizarre. Hans shouted, “That’s a wrap!” startling Tasha from her daydream. Of course she would now be exiled

to cleanup duty, but she tackled her obligations quickly, turning off the lights, helping the stylist gather garments in the changing area, and finally locking up when everyone else had slipped out into the lobby, chatting and making promises of drinks—soon and definitely and great job, babe—that none of them intended to keep. When finally she returned the studio keys to the front desk attendant and signed out on behalf of her boss, she felt a great weight lift from her shoulders— she had made it through her day—but soon another, even heavier force began baring down on her. All that lied in store for her at the 26th.

Dusk was settling over TriBeCa, as she walked briskly along Canal Street towards the A train. She paused briefly to wrap a scarf around her neck—the chill of the evening having settle in— before descending the subway stairs. And as she threaded the silky fabric into a loop, she sensed eyes on her. Glancing over her shoulder, she caught sight of a man just as he diverted his gaze. He was standing a quarter of a block away and as pedestrians swallowed him, hurrying past, Tasha studied him. He was short, stalky, Russian-looking in his black windbreaker and sweatpants. Comfortably dressed yet donning a thick gold chain around his neck as well as a

few bulky rings on his fingers, he struck her as a creep if anything, and because of it she hurried down into the subway, swiped her MetroCard fast when she reached the turnstiles, and managed to duck into a train just as its doors were closing. The ride uptown was rocky and drawn out. There wasn’t a seat available so she held onto the handlebar that spanned the ceiling and kept her eyes down. The subway lights flickered and at times cut out all together, but she was used to it, as well the bucks and flares of the train car, the occasional crazy person addressing anyone who would listen, the juveniles who break dancing and blaring their boom boxes in hopes of spare

change. When the doors opened and the intercom voice announced 163rd Street / Amsterdam Avenue, she forced her way between a tired looking hospice nurse who hadn’t bothered to change out of her orthopedic shoes and an older black man who smelled like stale cigarettes, and spilled out onto the platform. Crazy as it might have seemed, she liked the underground scent where concrete met with the electric rails, a pungent mix of mothballs, bleach, and human life filled the air, and sometimes Tasha thought she couldn’t get enough. Nothing smelled quite like the bowels of New York City so she wasn’t shy about breathing deeply as she huffed and

puffed her way up the many steps and in minutes emerged onto the darkened street. It hadn’t been a long ride, fifteen minutes tops as fast as the express train tended to fly, but night had fallen over the city. When she reached the street corner, she paused for the light and gave the crosswalk button a few firm presses. She felt warm so she tore her scarf from her neck and tucked it into her purse, and again the eerie feeling of being watched came over her. She glanced up at the cross signal, which was still a solid, red, Do Not Walk sign, so she made cautious work of taking in her surroundings, slowly

pivoting and looking over her shoulder. The man. Gold chains, black windbreaker, sweatpants that seemed strangely expensive—he was rounding onto the street from the subway and before he could touch eyes with her, she turned, caught sight of the flashing walk signal, and booked it across the street. It wasn’t lost on her that the man’s attire, his dark hair and entitled manner, reminded her of the men she’d witnessed toss another dead into the Hudson River. Was he following her? She quickened her pace and hung a right, mapping the same route she had taken two nights ago to the precinct, and told herself she was reading too much

into this. New York was filled with doppelgangers. She wasn’t being followed. That couldn't be the same man who she had seen on Canal Street. Her eyes were playing tricks on her because she was rattled about her camera. Besides, if she was being trailed, no one in their right mind would follow her into a police station, she told herself, as she flung its glass door open, strangely hoping to find a familiar face behind the front desk. Considering the long, frustrating day she'd had with Hans Janz, whose name sounded like a bad joke, Tasha should’ve figured a cold looking, middle-aged cop would greet her and not the one she had been fantasizing

about. She cursed under her breath, slowing her step and rehearsing in her head exactly what she needed to say. By the time she neared the counter, the cop grunted, “Yeah?” “I’m here to get the...” Damn, the form number had flown right out of her head it was so long. Scrambling, she found a scrap of paper in her jacket pocket where she had noted the name of the form. “501-67-B458,” she read. “I filled it out the other day and need a case number so I can get my camera back.” The cop angled his vacant brown eyes down at her, working his jaw, then asked, “Name?”

“Tasha Buckley.” “Spell that,” he ordered. “T as in Thomas-” “No, spell your last name.” He still wasn’t looking at her but at least his fingers were poised over the keyboard. She made patient work of spelling her last name and again reminded him that she had filled out the form. “Is Officer Wright on duty?” She added, “He’d remember me.” He didn’t answer, but his face screwed up ever so slightly as his gaze scanned the monitor that of course Tasha couldn’t see. Soon he was shaking his head. “Nope,” he said to himself. “What do you mean, nope?” She

asked, keeping her tone even and without emotion since the cops in this precinct evidently had a problem with that kind of thing when it came out of an AfricanAmerican woman. “You’re not in the system,” he said in conclusion. It simply couldn’t be true. “I’m sorry,” she said. “What do you mean? I filled out the form the other day. Officer Wright helped me. Should I have waited a few more days?” “No, property forms get logged within an hour of filing. It wasn’t logged.” Overwhelmed, Tasha leaned further across the counter, angling to see the monitor, as her mind began racing so fast

that she almost couldn't think straight. She forced in a deep breath, straightening her back, and managed to say, “There must be some mistake. A very expensive, very irreplaceable camera of mine was confiscated and I filled out a form so I could get it back.” “At this precinct?” he asked, finally studying her carefully. “Yes, at this precinct!” She hadn’t meant to raise her voice, but controlling her outrage was damn near impossible. He used an authoritative volume when he said, “Ma’am,” and she knew what would come next. Every part of her wanted to kick the counter, but she clenched her jaw

instead. “Yeah, I know,” she said, seething with frustration, spitting each word through her teeth. “I’ll be going now.” This was the thanks she got for reporting a crime? She yanked the glass door open and stomped out onto the sidewalk. She turned north then south but didn’t have a clue as to where to go. There was nowhere, no place, no hovel she could hide in that would wash away this feeling. That was it? She had just kissed her camera goodbye and that’s the end of it? She needed to calm herself, but it didn’t seem likely. She neared the precinct and leaned against the wall so she wouldn't be in the way of oncoming

pedestrians. She needed a minute to think. Her best friends, Greer and Jennifer crossed her mind, but they would only console her. They couldn’t offer a solution to her problem and the damned thing was that no one could unless they had access to the evidence room and could steal her camera back. She snorted a laugh at where that would land her if she attempted such a thing. Tasha, think, she told herself. How could she get a camera? Never mind the total outrage she felt towards the 26th Precinct, all she cared about was her upcoming exhibition and having brilliant photographs. How could she solve this? She wasn’t sure she would sleep tonight

if she couldn’t come up with a plan. She sensed more than saw a man approaching she was so bogged down in worry, but when she lifted her eyes, she noticed Officer Wright not just nearing her, but staring right at her. He was wearing jeans that fit him well, sneakers, and an overcoat that flapped in the gentle, spring breeze. His hair looked more bedraggled than she remembered, but his eyes were the same —bright and wide and concerned. “Hey,” he said in a smooth voice. “Tasha, right?” Feeling sour, she said, “Unfortunately,” and her eyes seemed to flutter all on their own. He cocked his head at that and then

his expression turned serious, almost knowingly, but he seemed to shift his attention to the gray duffle bag over his shoulder, adjusting it with a little jostle. “You want your camera back,” he stated as though reading her mind. “That would be nice, but I’m not sure your buddies feel the same.” “What, like the form hasn’t been processed yet?” he asked. “Even when it is, I mean, it’s going to take some time for you to get it back. That’s just how it goes with investigations.” “You're sure there’s an investigation? Because according to your man behind the desk in there, I’m not even in the system.” “What?”

“Yeah,” she said, giving him a moment to weather the same shock she had felt moments ago. “I would think that at the very least I’d be in the computer. How many forms did I fill out? Two? But when the officer typed my name into the computer, nothing came up.” “Hey, listen, I’m about to go on duty. I’ll look into it.” She let out a frustrated sigh that sounded guttural and said, “Don’t bother. I know what’s up.” “Well, I don’t,” he countered, catching her upper arm, as she motioned to leave. Realizing he might have overstepped his bounds he released her, but he had her attention. Tasha couldn’t see anything

else. Wright filled her vision and the way his sharp eyes were probing her did a fast job of convincing her that he actually gave a damn and more. “I’ll look into it,” he said, as he pulled his cell phone from his jacket pocket. Tapping the LCD screen, he leveled with her, saying, “You either get a case number for the form you filled out or you get your camera back on the spot. I’m going to get to the bottom of this as soon as I’m in there and I’ll let you know. What’s your number?” In an instant, Wright had become infinitely more attractive and her lip curled into a smile in response. God, was she some kind of sucker for a guy willing to help? She straightened her

mouth and recited her number, as Wright tapped his cell quickly. A moment later, she felt her own cell phone vibrating in her back pocket. “That’s me,” he mentioned, indicating he had just texted her. When he lifted his gaze to her again, his eyes were easy and soft. Was he drinking in the sight of her? Tasha couldn’t deny it stirred something in her that had nothing to do with her camera. He smiled, though subtly, as he said, “I’m Kevin in case you didn’t know.” “I knew it was Wright.” “Good memory,” he complimented and glanced over his shoulder at the precinct entrance. She didn’t want to keep him, and yet

she did. Nothing was said for a moment, and the only thing awkward about it was that it didn’t feel awkward. Tasha registered the color of his eyes—dusty hazel that erred on the side of blue—and also noted his height. Being in flats as she was he had a good four inches on her, tall in a way that wasn’t towering. He might have felt their prolonged eye contact had gone on too long, because he asked, “How’s the photography going?” “Are you kidding me?” she blurted out and—surprising even herself— playfully shoved his shoulder. He took a step back then closed in again, as she reminded him, “I don’t have my camera.

How do you think it’s going?” He laughed and she liked the light, breathy sounds he was making. There was something soft and easy about being around him, which didn’t make sense considering they functioned on opposite sides of the track, not good versus bad, but very different nonetheless. When they sobered up, smiles waning into something serious that to Tasha felt like flirting, he again broke the silence. “You can’t rent or borrow?” “Believe me, I’m trying. If I’m being real here, I’m going to have to buy another camera, and I can’t say it’ll be easy.” Kevin winced for her, nodding and inhaling deeply. “Let me see what I can

do. Rest assured, your camera is within those four walls.” “You want to steal it for me? I won’t stop you,” she teased. “Ha. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, but I won’t leave you hanging either way. Promise.” It felt like time to walk away even though it was the last thing she wanted to do, but she fought the urge to close the gap between them and make a bold move. Instead, she took a step away, smirked at him thankfully, and was about to say, I’ll wait for your call, when the Russian man who had been following her caught Tasha’s eye. She didn’t realize her expression had dropped until Kevin asked, “What's

wrong?” “Huh? Nothing,” she stammered, meeting his gaze and forcing a final smirk in thanks. “I’m good. I’ll talk to you soon.” He held her gaze as if he didn’t quite believe her and then glanced in the direction she had been looking. She took it as her opportunity to skirt away and when he called out, “Talk soon!” she waved without looking back. It was a bitch and a half speedwalking around the entire block to shake the weirdo who had been following her, but Tasha managed and just before she padded down the subway steps, she pulled her cell from her pocket to make sure she had Kevin Wright’s number.

Aiming to open the text message and save his contact information in her phone, she tapped the icon and stilled just shy of the subway railing to read the message. You made my night, I hope I can make yours.

Chapter Four When Tasha finally stepped inside her studio apartment on the corner of 126th Street and Amsterdam Ave, having climbed five flights of stairs, she was slightly out of breath, significantly unnerved, and substantially flattered—a conflicting mix of emotions she wasn’t quite sure how to deal with. So she wrapped her hair in a towel and took a long shower, mentally wrestling with the gut feeling that she was in danger—that’s what being followed amounted to, right? After stepping onto the cool tiles she dried off and changed into her most comfortable

pair of sweatpants along with a loose tee shirt that she’d borrowed from Greer and never returned. Her apartment was cramped or cozy, as most realtors would describe a studio space that was barely five hundred square feet. She had arranged it as best she could, fitting her queen-size bed in the corner, a loveseat flush against the footboard, a coffee table nearby. There was a window covered with purple curtains in that area. She had situated her desk in the opposite corner against the wall. On the other side of that wall was a narrow kitchen and down the truncated hallway beyond it was the bathroom. She didn’t have a TV set, only a laptop computer on the coffee table. She sat on

the loveseat, folding her legs and eyeing her cell phone. Reading and re-reading the text message that Kevin had boldly composed while in her company, she pulled the towel from her head and set it beside her, It was just vague and flirtatious enough to keep her guessing. She had made his night? The logical side of her insisted that she could’ve only made his night because her unfortunate predicament had given him a reason to delve into the crime at hand. But the woman in her intuited that Kevin was interested and that helping straighten out whatever administrative error was going on was his excuse to get close to her.

Would she let him? She wondered. Not to be presumptuous—who knew why men did the things they did?—but she sensed that if and when she received another text from him, it might be laced with the same innuendo. She had never been with a guy like him. She’d certainly never gone out with a cop, not that Kevin was angling to ask her out. But even the guys at her old college that reminded her of him had never sparked so much interest in her that she ended up pursuing them or vice versa. Tasha had a definite type—athletes, a bit rough around the edges, a bit hardened by life, but who had a distinct

charm about them, and most consistently, she was into black guys. Yet something about Kevin had him running around her thoughts in a way she didn’t at all mind. Should she text him? His eyes kept coming to mind. He had those thick, dark lashes, yet the actual color of his iris was hard to nail down —dusty hazel didn’t quite capture it. They’d seemed blue or green, but darkened with brown. She found it alluring not being able to pinpoint the exact color. And his mouth was another story. It wasn’t just the shape—straight and pale and perfectly proportioned— that had her daydreaming, but the way his lips were framed with a subtle

dusting of growth, dark stubble spreading across his jawline... He was damn sexy. In fact, the sum total of his dark brows, straight nose, prominent cheekbones, and chiseled jaw made her wonder if he might photograph well with the George Washington Bridge in the background. She might have to rethink the theme of the photos she planned on exhibiting... Itching to text him if for no other reason than to strike up a conversation, she opted to open the window instead since the air in her apartment was getting a bit stuffy. She unlatched the lock and hoisted the heavy thing up, eyeing the fire escape

just beyond and stealing glances at the curtained windows of the apartments across the way. A cool breeze rolled in, billowing the purple curtains, so she tied the cloth to the side and then returned to the loveseat, unaware of the smile that had formed on her face. She stared at her cell, the text message, and began bouncing ideas around. Maybe a simple thanks? No, she had already thanked him. Maybe she should ask if he’d heard anything? That was no good either. She’d only come off sounding pushy and nervous. Tasha kept formulating options and then jolted when her cell vibrated of its own accord.

It was an incoming text message and when she swiped it open, the number she had memorized as Kevin’s—it hadn’t been too taxing since it was a palindrome—appeared along with a brief note. Looked into it... very weird. She must have read it over five times before she realized he hadn’t sent a second message to explain things further. She had been too caught up on the profound lack of flirtation it contained. So she typed out her response—I’m afraid to ask so just tell me. She waited, staring at her cell and at times checking the amount of bars on the screen, an indication of cell reception that tended to be lousy in her place.

“Come on,” she grumbled when he still hadn’t responded. She let out a shaky breath, reminding herself that as a cop, Kevin probably got sucked into new cases all the time especially if he was working the front desk. Maybe someone had walked in with a pressing issue and he needed to file a bunch of forms. She was about to call Greer just to keep herself busy, but her cell began vibrating in her hand. This time it wasn’t a text. He was calling her. Clearing her throat and palming her black curls like a nervous tick, she bit down on her lower lip, accepted the call, and placed her cell to her ear.

Don’t sound nervous, sound sexy, but not too sexy, she told herself, but what came out was, “Yo.” She cringed at her lame choice of a greeting. She didn’t say yo in real life for Christ’s sake. But in an instant his deep, smooth voice filled her ear, as he said, “Hey, its Kevin from the 26th.” “Yes?” she said, doing a much better job of sounding like herself even though she didn’t especially love the nervous waver in her tone. “What’s going on with my camera?” “I can’t be on my cell.” Then why had he called her? “But I have a break coming up...” “Can you just tell me what’s going

on?” She hadn’t meant to say that or sound dismissive. Of course she’d rather meet him than hear news—bad news—over the phone or worse, in a series of texts messages, but this whole situation had her stomach twisting with knots. “Not in a sentence,” he said almost in a whisper then she heard what sounded like his palm covering the receiver and a rushed, muffled conversation ensued. When the line opened up again, he said, “I’d really like to talk to you in person.” Eagerly she asked, “Where?” not wanting to lose him to another conversation. “There’s a 24-hour diner called Annie’s Kitchen on Amsterdam and

134th-” “I know it,” she cut in. “I can be there in ten minutes.” Again, his end of the phone went soft, but this time Tasha heard him greeting someone approaching the counter. When his voice returned, he sounded curt, asking, “See you there?” “I’ll be there,” she said fast before the line went dead. Tasha sprang from the couch and after a moment of indecision, padded to her dresser beside the desk in the corner of her studio and pulled open drawer after drawer, feeling excited and strangely panicked in anticipation of seeing him. What was that? she asked herself, as she selected a purple, v-neck tee from

the bottom drawer along with a pair of black jeans. Dressing quickly and wasting a few too many seconds on whether or not to wear a necklace, she decided there was nothing wrong with liking a guy simply because he seemed to care. And he did care. Unlike that other cop who hadn’t believed her until she’d handed her camera over, and unlike the desk attendant who couldn’t even look at her earlier that night, Kevin had not only met her gaze, but had actually seen her and his actions had shown that he was invested, even aligned with her, in such a way that he was willing to see this through so she wouldn’t feel alone. Once dressed, she slipped on a pair

of Converse sneakers and her gray, leather jacket, locked up her apartment, and rushed down the stairs. Annie’s Kitchen was a good ten blocks north of her building on Amsterdam. Traffic hummed down the avenue as she worked her way north, walking briskly along the blocks and waiting impatiently when the crosswalk signal flashed red. At times she glanced over her shoulder and across the street, slightly paranoid that the Russian might be following her, but all she saw was pedestrians walking with metaphorical blinders on. No one had her in their sights. The diner's neon sign—orange but steady—came into view on the corner.

Tasha slowed her step, taking a moment to look up the sidewalk in case Kevin was hurrying towards, but she didn’t see him and ducked into the restaurant, pushing the glass door open. She was met with the familiar clatter of dishes being slapped on tables, orders being shouted in the kitchen, and the scent of late night pancakes, hash browns, and milkshakes. It would’ve been nicer if the diner wasn’t so brightly lit, but she couldn’t say she wasn’t used to it. She had been to Annie’s probably a million times since moving into her studio apartment, and the fact that Kevin had suggested it made her wonder if he frequented the place. Would she have met him if she

hadn't witnessed a murder? Which brought her to a more pressing question, what the hell was going on that he had to tell her in person? The approaching waitress—an aged looking forty-year old wearing the standard Annie’s yellow smock— seemed too bleary eyed to greet her properly, but understood well enough when Tasha mentioned she was meeting someone. After the waitress plucked two sticky, oversized menus from the hostess stand, she led Tasha down the aisle along the window and as she slowed at a vacant booth, she asked, “Coffee? Beer?” then slapped the menus on the table. “Water for now,” she said, sliding

into the far side of the booth so she could keep her eye on the door. It wasn’t until the waitress started for the kitchen that she blurted out, “What tea do you have?” With a sigh, the older woman began reciting the options, but Tasha’s attention was stolen, as the entrance door swung open and Kevin rounded towards the hostess stand. He was dressed in full uniform, minus the police cap, and after scanning the room, his eyes locked with hers, which sent a stark jolt of excitement through her and caused her chest to burn. She tempered her breathing, as he made his way down the aisle. The waitress asked him, “And for

you?” But he was holding Tasha’s gaze. The moment of eye contact seemed to linger and though he directed his statement to their waitress, his gaze remained on Tasha. “I might need a minute.” Ignoring his request, she rattled off, “Coffee? Beer? Wine?” Kevin cocked his head at Tasha, as if wondering what she had ordered so she supplied, “I’m thinking tea.” Glancing at the waitress, she asked, “Do you have rooibus?” The woman looked annoyed. “We have earl grey and black.” “Water’s fine,” she said quietly, trying not to stare at Kevin, something

about being in his company a third time sent her heart racing in a way that she didn’t mind, but also worried she couldn’t control. She didn’t want her voice to start quavering. Kevin grasped the back of the booth, telling the waitress he’d have a Rolling Rock then his eyebrow arched as he flicked his eyes at Tasha. Drinking on the job? she thought to herself, not that she was judging him. As the waitress lumbered off to fetch their beverage orders, he slid into the seat across from her and offhandedly said, “It’s one of those nights.” “Already?” she asked, studying him, as he rested his elbows on the table, perhaps an excuse to lean towards her.

Whatever it was, she couldn’t help but notice how the angle caused his uniform to pull taut around his biceps. His gaze went soft as if remembering a rocky encounter he’d just escaped, yet his lips curled at one corner. “It’s a combination,” he began explaining, “of having dealt with some bullshit, but also anticipating there will be a lot more before I’m released at three in the morning.” “Damn,” she said, her brows floating up. “That’s a long shift.” “Not really,” he said easily before drawing in a deep breath and leaning his back against the booth. “Just late hours.” He angled his eyes on her and rested his hands on the table, but said nothing,

only held her gaze. Tasha’s knee-jerk reaction was to fill the silence so things wouldn’t feel awkward, but after a moment of wracking her brain for literally anything to say, she realized nothing about this situation felt awkward. If anything, her elevated heart rate and sudden self-consciousness were anchored in the thrill of having this time with him. But as exciting as it was, it didn’t detract from her curiosity about why he had asked her here. The waitress shuffled over with his beer and a cloudy glass of tap water, and set them down with little tact. Kevin’s beer clanked against the plastic surface and Tasha’s water sloshed all over the table, not that the waitress noticed. She

lifted her pen to her notepad and asked, “What’ll it be?” Kevin asked Tasha, “You don’t want a beer?” “Am I going to need a beer to hear what you have to tell me?” The shrug he shot her was both nerve wracking—how bad is this news going to be?—and downright sexy. Christ, what was going on with her? Maybe Greer and Jennifer were right. Maybe she was hungry for a man and needed to let loose, and maybe because she had denied herself for so long, the reality of her desperation was now rearing its ugly head in the form of finding every gesture Kevin did to be some kind of mating dance.

“Screw it,” she said, trying not to smile too wide, as she glanced up at their waitress. “I’ll have what he’s having.” Kevin let out a breathy laugh that fortunately or not, got some ideas stirring in Tasha’s mind. He watched their waitress walk off again with the same lack of urgency and then eyed the beer between his hands. “I’ll be straight with you,” he began. “Please.” His eyes snapped up, locking with hers. “I don’t know what’s going on.” It felt like hitting a brick wall, and no words came, not an objection, not a question. She only studied him, but couldn’t get a read on his expression.

As a response slowly formed, she was interrupted when the waitress dropped her Rolling Rock on the table. “Nothing else for now,” Kevin told the older woman in order to resume privacy as quickly as possible. He watched her wander off down the row of booths then pressed his right palm to the table and said, “I saw those photos. I know something happened.” “Something did happen,” said Tasha. “Your friggin' boss knows something happened.” “My sergeant,” he supplied. Now it was his turn to study her, but she didn’t like it. “So?” she asked. “Don’t keep me waiting. My heart’s been in my throat since five.”

“Reilly never sent a cruiser.” Before she could ask, he clarified, mentioning, “Reilly is my sergeant. He took your camera, you left, I checked in with him because I wanted to be sent out to the pier, but he told me he’d already ordered two officers over there.” Kevin leaned across the table again and reached out for her, but stopped just shy of making contact. Instead, his gaze fell on her hands, which were wrapped around her beer. He took a deep breath and pushed out the unbelievable truth. “The reason you’re not in the system, that your case wasn’t logged, is because Reilly never sent a car. He’s not investigating.” He let that hang and Tasha wasn’t sure what disturbed her more, that she

would never see her camera again or that the man in charge of the 26th Precinct didn’t give a good Goddamn that someone had been murdered in his zone. Finally, she managed to ask, “He’s not investigating?” Kevin let out a frustrated sigh and the way he began shaking his head told her that he had been dealing with covert corruption for longer than he could take. When he finally reeled in whatever emotions he had been wrestling with, he pulled a long haul from his beer, swallowing hard. Tasha took a few sips herself and was glad he had encouraged her to get a drink. Resting his beer on the table again, he

leveled with her, “I can’t even wrap my head around whatever departmental...” He trailed off, but she still heard the word, cover up in his thoughts. “The bottom line is, if there isn’t going to be an investigation, then your camera won’t be needed as evidence.” “Right,” she said quickly. “So how do I get it?” “That’s the thing...” Abruptly, he began talking out loud, but everything he said seemed internal. “Why brush it under the rug?” His gaze went soft, though it landed on his beer. “Who were they? Face recognition should’ve pulled them up if they were crooks...” She felt her eyes widening so she forced another sip of her beer, watching

him and not knowing whether to pull him out of his contemplation or not. He shook it off himself and got down to brass tax. “So the evidence room is at the back of the precinct. I’ve got a buddy over there who shouldn’t mind signing me in, or not signing me in,” he countered, doubling down on his own idea. “Either way, he should let me hunt around for your camera.” “Okay,” she said encouragingly. It sounded promising, though the Russian who had been following her surged to the forefront of her mind. If Kevin’s sergeant, this guy Reilly, had sought fit to strike Tasha’s report from the system in order to cover up a murder, then the fact that someone who

clearly looked as though he was a part of the dual killers’ crew had been trailing her, quite frankly, scared the shit out of her... “I’ll need a few days though,” he concluded. Keeping her tone even, she said, “I’m willing to wait.” She had an urge to reach across the table and touch his hand, but she drank her beer instead, feeling a sting of disappointment that their time together was probably coming to a close. Impulsively, and probably because he was reaching for his wallet, she blurted out, “I think someone’s been stalking me.” She had his full attention. “Yeah,” she asserted, quickly adding,

“and don’t call me crazy.” “I wouldn’t.” “I saw this guy the other day when I was leaving work downtown. There are a lot of people in this city, but it’s so unlikely that I’d see the same guy in TriBeCa and then again in Harlem.” “He followed you uptown?” “I’m only telling you this because he seemed like, I don’t know, the same type of guy as the two who had thrown that guy into the river. I’m telling you,” she again asserted, not that he was in any way questioning her, but because some part of her needed to believe it herself. She’d been debating over whether or not she was paranoid or justified in her assessment... “I think they saw me and I

think they knew I had a camera and I think they also knew I went to the police station, and I swear to God, they’re stalking me.” “Okay,” he said in a smooth voice that implied he was both digesting the information and strategizing what he might be able to do about it. He looked intense so she blurted out, “Should I be worried?” “I am,” he shot back and they stared at each other. It felt like a standoff, but for the first time in Tasha’s life she didn’t want to win. His concern comforted her and she was interested in hearing how he might be able to protect her. She wasn’t sure anyone beside her grandmother had ever

cared as much. Decisively, he set twenty bucks on the table, which was more than enough to cover their beers, and said, “You have my number.” As he worked his wallet into his slacks he added, “You call me the next time you see this guy. Where do you live?” Taken aback, she stammered, “Like ten blocks south on Amsterdam,” wondering all the while if he expected her address. He seemed to do the math on the general proximity to his precinct and mentioned, “I don’t live far from there.” “Am I in danger?” His eyes snapped to meet hers, but whatever he was preparing to say

wouldn’t come. After a long moment, he told her, “I’ll walk you home.” As they rose from their respective sides of the booth, Tasha thanked him for the beer under her breath, and he gestured she ought to go ahead of him. He stepped in behind her as she passed, his hand finding her lower back. His touch was delicate, almost airy, and as she walked along the aisle soon his hand wasn’t there. She held the door open for him, as she stepped out onto the sidewalk. A slight glance over her shoulder and their eyes met. They started down the street and he hugged in close, his hand at times brushing up against her lower back as if

he were compelled to guide her along. And it wasn’t lost on Tasha that he was walking between her and the rush of cars —an old fashioned gesture meant to announce that she was his lady. Had he let her walk on the outside, closest to traffic, it would mean she was up for grabs. Her grandmother had taught her a lot before she’d died. “Where are you from?” she asked, as they paused for a light. His lip curled into a smile, as he glanced at her sideways. “Here... what do you mean?” “You were born and raised here?” “Not in Harlem, but on Staten Island. I come from a big family,” he explained,

as he ushered her through the crosswalk. A taxicab was chomping at the bit to cut them off, but Kevin held his palm up. When they safely reached the sidewalk, the cab whizzing by behind them, he went on, “I’ve got a brother over at the precinct in Morningside Heights, a couple firefighter brothers, all older, by the way. I’m the baby of the family. We’re all cops and firefighters, but we've got a priest in the mix so...” He shot her a smile when their eyes touched. “There’s some redemption in my future.” “Ah,” she said lightly. “Wish I could say the same.” “Hey now,” he cut in, again resting

his hand at the small of her back as they came to another light—she liked that he was a fast walker like her. “If you don’t need redeeming, you don’t need a priest.” “What did you do that needs redeeming?” she asked, as they started across the street. He frowned, glancing across the avenue as if buying time to compose his response. “It’s this precinct I work in... maybe.” “Maybe?” He was shaking his head, as they came to her block. Naturally, and in many ways surprising herself for how casual she was acting around him—maybe Kevin

was just easy to be with—she arched her hand up, meeting his chest with the back of her fingers and mentioning, “This is me.” He paused, turning towards her. “I don’t know why,” he continued and for a second, based on the way he was searching her eyes she thought he might say something bold about how he felt about her... She wasn’t sure she could handle that so soon, but was let off the hook when he finished his thought. “But these cops... they lose sight of the law after a while. What was once black and white turns gray...” “You’re referring to Reilly?” “I’m referring to a lot of them.” Again, he gazed off at the avenue, the

cars speeding by, the flow of pedestrians breaking free from the subway stop a block off, spilling out onto the sidewalk at a hurried pace. He returned his eyes to her and asked, “Do you live alone?” She looked over her shoulder at the building she’d called home for longer than she could remember. “Yup,” she said softly, walking to the door and feeling him trail closely behind her. When she turned, facing him, Kevin was standing a breath away and tilting his head ever so slightly. It reminded her of first kisses to come. Quietly and in a tone so deep and smooth that she felt herself floating towards him, he said, “Let me talk to my guy in evidence. I’ll text you.”

There wasn’t one part of Tasha that didn’t want to invite him up, rip his uniform off, and make up for the many months she’d gone without a man in her life, but she held her tongue and breathed a sigh of relief when he glanced at his wristwatch. “You won’t be late?” she asked. “I’ll be fine,” he said, holding her gaze. She lingered, trying not to be obvious about drinking in the sight of him, and just as she felt the urge to cave, lean in, and press her lips to his no matter how impulsive it would seem, she turned for the door, feeling his eyes on her as she keyed into the building. The glass door drifted shut, as she

glanced over her shoulder at him. He was watching her too, tucking his hands into his slacks and clenching his jaw in a way that reminded her of the danger she might be in. But her last thought before padding off through the lobby for the stairs was of the hope that he might text her before she fell asleep.

Chapter Five Tasha examined the sleek telephoto lens in her hands from where she stood in the Canon DSLR section of B & H Photo—the largest photography store in Manhattan—and couldn’t believe its price tag. After doing some quick math in her head to figure out whether or not she could swing it, she decided she would have to and placed it in her shopping basket next to the Canon camera body she had already selected. As she meandered down the aisle, weaving between browsing shoppers, Kevin’s alarming text message nagged at her from the back of her mind.

Asleep last night, she had been woken by the stark buzz of her cell phone, which she has set on her bed while dozing off. Bleary eyed and swiping the screen, she had recognized his number right away, but the message itself hadn’t computed. Not immediately. You’re right. You’re being stalked. I chased him to his vehicle and got the plate. She’d written him back almost instantly and spent hours waiting on edge for his response. It was four in the afternoon now and he still hadn’t gotten back to her. She glanced around the massive store, scanning the faces, but none belonged to the Russian man who had

been trailing after her ever since she’d documented the murder at the pier. She would’ve liked to think that was because Kevin had tracked him down and arrested him, but she wasn’t feeling very optimistic about it. From the top of the escalator, Greer rounded into the DSLR section and soon Jennifer appeared, hurrying after her. Breathlessly, Greer said, “The train took forever,” and then eyed the contents of Tasha’s shopping basket. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell us sooner.” Jennifer added, “Are you okay?” “I’m fine,” she said, meeting each of their gazes. “I was a ways away from it all.” She was tempted to mention she was being stalked and quite frankly on

edge because of it, but she didn’t want to worry them so instead said, “One of the officers at the station is taking an interest and handling things.” Jennifer angled her dark eyes up at Tasha and cocked her eyebrow, questioning her with, “Handling what? You’re buying a new camera.” Greer shot their Asian friend a steely glance as if to say, You're not helping, then asked, “Will you get your camera back eventually? Because you can always sell it and offset the cost of this one.” “Yeah, I’ll do that,” she said, trying not to sound defeated. As she led them through the aisle, doubling-back towards the escalators, she vented over her

shoulder. “Those cops, man. They took one look at me and thought the worst.” Stepping onto the escalator, she turned to face her friends. Greer hopped on next, and after a slight hesitation, Jennifer followed, asking, “What are they, racist or something?” “Or something,” Tasha grumbled. It was Greer who supplied, “But not this one cop.” She bit her lip so she wouldn’t smile, but her friends knew her too well. “Ah,” said Jennifer, knowingly. “He believes me,” she pressed then blurted out, “who wouldn’t believe me? I showed them hard evidence.” “Hence your camera,” said Greer, but Jenn was still focused on the new man in

the mix. “So... are you going in for a follow up or whatever it’s called?” “Actually,” she said, stepping off the escalator and starting for the long line of customers at the checkout counter. “We exchanged numbers. He’s keeping me posted. We met last night.” Greer seemed too surprised for words, but Jennifer didn’t have that problem. “Met, as in...?” Her response tumbled right out of her, “No, God no. Nothing like that. We talked at a diner.” The weight of them staring with interest caused her to declare, “New subject, next topic... Jenn, how’s your painting coming along?”

“What does he look like?” she asked instead. Greer had a few ideas of her own to rattle off. “Tight uniform? Authoritative orders? A gun at his hip?” Smiling, Tasha glanced ahead at the line that was inching along and mumbled to herself, “God, get me out of here.” “We’ll stop,” said Greer. “Calm down. We’re just glad you’re okay.” When finally it was Tasha’s turn to step up to one of the eight cashiers, she handed him her basket and held her breath anticipating the total, tax and all. The figure flashed in red on the sales monitor. It was worse than she’d thought. She glanced over her shoulder at her friends and fished her wallet out of her

purse. They were discussing the upcoming art openings around Chelsea that they wanted to hit later this week, giving Tasha a chance to lean over the counter and discretely tell the cashier, “I have six cards I’d like to spread the balance on.” He didn’t look pleased, but didn’t complain, taking her credit cards and proceeding to divvy up the charges. By the time Tasha and her friends were passing through the sliding glass door that opened with a whoosh, she had maxed out her credit and as unnerving as it was, it didn’t compare to the paranoia that was suddenly overcoming her. Kevin should’ve caught the guy by now, she thought, glancing up and down

the sidewalk then across the street— feeling eyes on her but unable to spot the Russian. If he had the license plate number, he could’ve easily ran it through his system, tracked down the owner, and paid him a visit... But Tasha’s gut told her that he hadn’t. “Something wrong?” asked Greer when they hadn’t moved in any direction. “I’m fine.” “Are you?” Tasha feigned a smile that felt stiff, asking, “You guys want to head up to Riverside Park? I’ve got everything I need to take some decent shots.” The girls exchanged a regretful look

then Greer broke the news. “We want to hit the Thornstein Gallery before the complimentary wine ran out.” “Hey,” said Tasha easily. “Then don’t let me keep you. I’m just behind on my photos and stressed.” Jennifer asked, “You sure you don’t want to come?” “She doesn’t need the distraction,” said Greer, speaking for her friend. “We’ll see you later.” Greer took a few steps back, motioning to head out, as Jennifer insisted, “If you meet up with the hot cop, then you have to let us know.” “I never said he was hot,” she laughed. “But your face did,” Jenn pointed out,

taking a few strides towards Greer. Tasha watched them make their way to the downtown A train, as she approached the crosswalk post and pushed the button. When the walk signal appeared, she made her way across the avenue, her wedge-heeled sneakers tapping lightly against asphalt, and came to the uptown train. After padding down the stairs, she swiped her MetroCard, passing through the turnstile, and jogged along the platform, as an incoming train came to a noisy stop. She slipped into the crowded car, rode the train ten stops north, and impulsively hopped off. She was slightly too far south for the park, but her gut was telling her that she ought to check out the

pier. So that’s where she went. When she reached the street, having heaved up two long sets of subway stairs, she walked briskly, crossing three avenue-wide blocks, until she reached a row of benches that spanned directly across from the industrial-looking pier. Wind was rolling in off the water, as she sat, opening the plastic bag containing her brand new purchases. It took her all of three minutes to attach the telephoto lens to the camera body and slip a fresh memory card in. She discarded the bag in a nearby trashcan, and started for Pier 12. She kept her guard up and her eyes down, though she stole sly glances this

way and that to be sure that the few people who were around weren’t taking a threatening interest in her. As she came to the area where she had seen those two men throw that guy into the water, she noticed the wooden slats of the pier seemed discolored— dark and damp—with what appeared to be... Blood? For a frozen moment she wracked her brain, thinking back to the other evening. The Russians had strangled that guy, but she couldn’t recall them spilling blood. Then again, if this was blood, there wasn’t much of it. Quickly, she angled her lens at the stain, pressing the camera to her eye, and

grumbled. Damned telephoto lens. All she could see were the individual wood grains. She adjusted the aperture anyway then brought the image into focus, having forgotten to throw the camera's nylon strap around her neck. Just as she was placing her index finger over the shutter, preparing to take a series of shots, she was shoved from behind. The force knocked the wind right out of her and before she could process what was happening, her palms and knees slammed badly against the ground. She grunted and was vaguely aware of her attacker sprinting off. Lifting her eyes, as the momentum of her fall caused her to roll onto her side,

she saw him—black windbreaker, dark hair, sneakers, a blur—as he ducked around a row of cars. She struggled to her feet, her palms stinging and her right knee smarting, and was about to push off, ignoring the pain in order to chase after him, when she realized her camera was gone. “No!” She yelled, scanning the pier in desperate hope it was still here. She even looked down at the water’s surface, hunting for ripples, but there were none. “Motherfucker!” He'd stolen it. As she fumbled for her purse—it had fallen as well, her personal belongings strewn across the wooden slats—her hands began trembling, as adrenaline

surged through her in delayed reaction. She collected her things and with her cell in hand, dialed the only person who she knew would both truly care and be able to do something about this. Kevin picked up on the first ring.

Chapter Six He walked with purpose, using fast strides and weaving between pedestrians as they shuffled down the block, Tasha burning into the forefront of his mind—her glowing complexion, its brown alluring color, her hair a plume of black curls, those flowing tee shirts and tight jeans, those curves... It had been another long and rough day of dodging his sergeant in order to make headway on the Russian, the vehicle, the reasoning behind his department brushing a murder under the rug, or as Reilly had put it, refusing to believe one had even occurred. When

his sergeant had caught onto the fact that Kevin had been using police resources to go off on what he had deemed a rogue tangent, Reilly had sent him off to the projects to rectify the mystery of Willy Blackwell and the disappearing flowerpots, punishing Kevin to four hours of brutal, dead end questions that ultimately chipped away at his sanity and not the allegation at hand. But it hadn’t negated the lead that Kevin had established after running down the Russian’s license plate. Alexi Vishnevsky. He was a low-rung thug working for the Avandeyev crime family, or so the paper trail Kevin had traced had revealed. Avandeyev operated out of

Coney Island, but was known for killing and dumping bodies all over Manhattan. Tasha hadn’t just witnessed mere manslaughter or a straightforward crime of passion. She had seen something that could potentially bring down a network of hard-core criminals. And Sergeant Reilly had seen fit to look the other Goddamned way. Or was being paid to... Though the sun was lowering over the Hudson and casting a stark orange glare across the pier, the line of cars, and a row of benches facing the water, Kevin still recognized Tasha’s silhouette from where she sat on one of the benches. As he neared her from behind, he glanced at his shirt and jeans, confirming

his plain clothes were both tight and crisp enough that he didn’t look like a slob, not that he’d be able to do a thing about it if he did. “Hey,” he said, almost breathlessly. She lifted her misty eyes and though her expression revealed that she was intimidated and maybe a good deal pissed, she also seemed relieved he had shown up. Rising from the bench, she said, “It was the same guy.” “Who stole your camera,” he supplied. “I thought you got his plate. You couldn’t arrest him for stalking me?” “I couldn’t find him,” he said quickly. “Not with managing my tours. But I

know who he is.” The fact didn’t calm her, but seemed to incite her frustration. “So when are you going to arrest him?” “It might not be that easy.” “Oh,” she said, letting out a laugh, which told him that she doubted he was still on her side. “Listen,” he cut in. “I’m not going to sugarcoat it for you. This isn't going to be easy.” Her expression hardened as she met his gaze and the way her brows drifted up indicated she was in the process of checking out. “So what form is it this time?” He didn’t know what to say. He was

off duty and knew she was being sarcastic. “I literally just blew hundreds of dollars on that thing,” she vented. “I shouldn’t have even had to buy a second camera.” When her emotions got the better of her, she swallowed hard and forced a deep breath, and her rationale, her control had him instantly endeared. Without thinking, as if his body was functioning without his mind, he pulled her in, wrapping his arms around her, and it wasn’t until he felt her warm, soft body pressing against his that he realized she might have needed a hug as badly as he did. Like a dope, he said, “It’s a 501-C4.

I’m a theft expert.” She let out a shuddering breath, but he couldn’t tell if she was laughing or crying. He loosened his grip, stepping back so he could gaze down at her big brown eyes. “I feel like a jerk.” “It’s not your fault.” “I feel responsible and terrible,” he said. “Let me buy you a camera.” Skeptically, she furrowed her brow. “You’re not going to buy me a camera.” “I will,” he insisted. “If you promise not to come around here to take pictures.” The joke at her bad luck didn’t quite land, but she smirked anyway. “Seriously,” he told her. “We can go

right now.” “Careful,” she warned. “Because I will take you up on it.” “I want you to.” She held his gaze for a moment and her question was so full of skepticism that it came off like a statement. “You want to buy me a camera?” “I want to right a wrong that shouldn’t have happened.” “That doesn’t sound like a yes,” she pointed out with a slight curl of her lip. If that were a smile, he’d take it. Reassuringly, he added, “I’ve got the guys name. I’m off tomorrow so I’m going to check out his address. If the guy who shoved you and snatched your camera really is the same guy who’s

been following you-” “He is,” she cut in. “Then he’s not going to sell your camera or smash it. It’ll be in his possession and I’ll get it. But if you don’t want to wait...” “When you’re off tomorrow?” she asked, locking onto the finer detail. “Why can’t you pursue this when you’re on duty?” He glanced down at her hand. They were standing close and it only took the slightest lean for his fingers to brush hers, as he whispered, “We have a lot to talk about.” As they walked east, crossing three avenues, and ducked down into the subway station to head south to her

preferred photography store, Tasha voiced her concerns about the blood she thought she’d seen on the pier and the lengths these people were willing to go to scare her. She rattled off question after question, which ranged from her day-to-day safety and the overall likelihood of her stalker being caught. Though Kevin listened intently and did what he could to calm her fears as they stood pressed up against one another in a subway car packed tighter than a can of sardines, he wasn’t yet ready to explain the truth of the matter, that Tasha could very well be in the cross-hairs of a highly skilled and dangerous criminal organization. As they entered the photography

superstore, Kevin guiding her through the doorway by gently touching the small of her back, the sheer scope of the place momentarily blew him away. It never ceased to amaze him, these sorts of hidden treasures—massive stores he’d never known were there in the first place. She made a beeline for the escalator and when they reached the second floor, she walked briskly to an aisle with an overwhelming quantity of photography cameras on display. “I was literally just here,” she complained, selecting the camera and lens that she wanted. His instinct was to close the gap between them, press his lips to her cheek and perhaps dare to work his way

towards her mouth, but the lights were too bright, the other shoppers too loud. If they had a first kiss—and it was certainly something he’d been thinking about since meeting her—the setting really shouldn’t be a crowded aisle. Downstairs they joined the end of a long line running along a zigzagging grid. As they inched forward, he sensed Tasha leaning towards him, perhaps making an excuse of how crowded it was. At times his hand hovered around the small of her back and twice his lips brushed her big curls when she turned her head, looking away. There was something sweetly domestic about weathering the storm of a shopping line with her, and he realized that this simple act was as close as he’d

come to being on a date in what felt like years. They hadn’t spoken in minutes so to break the silence, which was so tense with what felt like a sexual build up that if he didn’t say something, he would be in danger of making a move so bold he might never live it down, he commented, “I take it I shouldn’t ask how your photos are coming along for your exhibit.” She made a playful display of glaring at him then a cool smile formed across her face and she teased, “I’m telling you, don’t even.” At long last, it was their turn to step up to the counter and when Tasha reached it, she set her shopping basket

on the counter and said, “Remember me?” then shot Kevin a peeved glance that soon burned into something smoldering. He held her gaze, as the cashier rang up the items and announced the total. It was like being hit in the face with a pail of ice water. He stared at the cashier and blinked. The figure was so high it hadn’t sounded English and he found himself coughing, having swallowed saliva down the wrong pipe. “There a problem?” Tasha asked. “No, no,” he said, clearing his throat and pulling his wallet from his jeans. “No problem, just...” “Shocked?” she guessed with

alarming accuracy. “At least you’re not getting déjà vu.” He offered the cashier his credit card and a tug of war ensued. “Sir,” said the man behind the counter. Reluctantly and screaming mental swears, he released the card. Tasha was smiling to herself. “You’re loving this.” “I’m appreciating it,” she corrected. “And it is a little funny. But seriously,” she added, making a point to look him in the eye. “You’re saving my ass.” “And you’re staying away from the pier,” he insisted, collecting his card and signing the slip that the cashier had placed on the counter.

After Tasha grabbed the large, plastic bag containing her items, they set off for the street. Dusk was falling over Manhattan. The buildings that lined the avenue twinkled with interior lights. And the air smelled crisp with the dropping temperature. Kevin was about to suggest they get a drink and go over all he'd learned about the case when Tasha turned on her heel, pressing up against his body and angling her face so near his that his heart punched out of rhythm. The pessimist in him thought he was misunderstanding the gesture, but when her lips met his—soft and full and tender —all doubts were flushed from his

mind. In fact, he was incapable of thought, feeling the ebb and flow of their mouths opening and angling with an intensifying kiss. He wrapped his arms around her waist, unsure of how tightly to hold her. He wanted to squeeze her hips, graze his hands down her thighs and up her back, but they were in public and this could merely amount to an overzealous thank you. But when she draped her arms over his shoulders, deepening the kiss and breathing heavily as though something about him was giving her ideas she might not be able to fight, he knew that whatever was mounting between them was real and they both needed it. The quietest moan escaped her before

she urged him back, resting her hands, her long fingers against his chest, as he cradled her hips close to his. “Was that too much?” she asked, her mouth curling into a playful smile. His brows shot up and he was shaking his head before he knew it. “No, not at all.” After a moment of holding her, gazing down into her eyes, feeling a surge, a need to kiss her again, he asked, “Was that a thank you?” “Sure,” she said easily just to mess with him. “And it was also because you're cool.” “I'm cool?” She frowned, debating. “Yeah, I think so.” He didn’t have to ask why, she was already supplying her reasons. “You

care. I don’t know why you care about me,” she said, as if she didn't want to seem presumptuous. She wasn’t being presumptuous as far as Kevin was concerned. “You have a good heart. I trust my instincts when it comes to these things.” He let out a rocky breath, his conscience suddenly nagging him. If she trusted him, then he owed it to her to clue her in on the big picture so he suggested, “Can I buy you a drink? It’ll give us a chance to talk... a chance for me to get you up to speed.” Grazing her hand up his arm, the heat of her pouring through his jacket and warming him in a way that could make talking in a productive manner a damned

challenge, she said, “A drink sounds good, but I don’t want to be out on the street.” He smirked. “I meant we could go to a bar.” “I don’t want to be in public,” she clarified. “But we can have a drink and talk.” He cocked a brow, studying her face. The tension between them was so taut with electricity—arousal burning—that he knew if in a private setting, talking might be the last thing on either of their minds so he said firmly, “There are things I need to tell you.” "Good,” she said softly as if the sheer fact of his company had set her mind so at ease that she had forgotten a man had

essentially attacked her not an hour ago. “You can tell me at my place.” Kevin, he warned himself. If you get in her apartment, you can’t start thinking with your dick. “Or if you’d prefer a bar, that’s fine. Just walk me home after-” “No, your place is fine,” he blurted out. The smile she shot him was full blown and caused him to stiffen in his pants, but thank God his expression wasn’t giving him away. She took hold of his hand and they started walking north towards the subway. He only hoped the train car wouldn’t be so crowded that they would have to

press up against each other with the sway of the tunnel... But then again, that might be nice.

Chapter Seven As soon as Kevin followed her into her studio apartment, she realized how cramped it was and tried not to feel embarrassed. He waded gradually into the space, coming to the foot of her bed where it met the loveseat, and slowly pivoted, taking in the room. At least it wasn’t a mess, though her desk was covered with photography prints she planned on scrapping. “Can I get you a beer?” she asked, figuring a cop like Kevin would prefer a blue-collar beverage over whiskey or wine.

“Sure,” he told her, glancing over at the window. As he neared it, inspecting the lock and leaning into the glass to perhaps check out the fire escape, Tasha rounded the wall that separated the main room from the kitchen and grabbed a Lagunitas IPA from a six-pack in the refrigerator. After scraping the lid off with a bottle opener, she plucked a long-stem wine glass from the cabinet over the sink, found a half-empty bottle of Chardonnay in the fridge, and poured herself a generous glass, then returned just as Kevin frowned at the loveseat. She’d done her best arranging the furniture in her apartment, but there were no chairs near or across from the

loveseat and the thing definitely wasn’t wide enough for two. Handing him the beer, she invited him to have a seat. Her desk chair was far from comfortable, but as he lowered onto the tiny couch she grasped the wooden chair by its back and carried it over. When she sat adjacent to him, he took a long haul of his beer and glanced at the coffee table where a stray coaster was resting beside her laptop. He slid the coaster near and placed the bottle on it. “I don’t think you should be alone,” he said frankly. She smiled, at first assuming he was referencing their kiss, but his expression seemed serious. His brows were knit

together and his posture—hunching forward, elbows on knees—indicated the situation might be far more dangerous than she’d thought. Her smile faded as she said, “I live alone. I’m constantly running all over the city by myself. I have friends, but we all have our own lives. They can’t be with me all the time.” “The guy who’s been following you is named Alexi Vishnevsky. From the digging I managed, I learned he works for the Avandeyev crime family and though no connections have been made between Avandeyev and what you witnessed on the pier... there are no coincidences.” She was stuck on crime family and it

was a long moment before she asked, “So they’re too big to touch? They’re above the law?” “They’re not above the law,” he assured her. “But...” He grabbed his beer from the coffee table and drank. When he lowered the bottle, he didn’t return it to the table, but set it between his legs, leaning back. “I think Avandeyev might have his hooks in the precinct.” He had alluded to as much when they’d met at the diner, but his point, the implication, hadn’t landed then like it was now. “So he really is above the law,” she pointed out. Because she was uncomfortable or perhaps overwhelmed

feeling at her wits end, she found herself letting out a breathy laugh. Kevin stared at her. Her laugh twisted into a futile groan until she took a sip of wine, which quieted her, but didn’t do a thing to calm her nerves. “He’s not just following me to intimidate me,” she guessed, thinking out loud. “He’s... what? Going to kill me?” He fell silent, but it was a clear enough answer. “You’ve got to be kidding.” “I think he’s tracking you to find out your schedule, when you’re with people, at work, when you’re alone. I have to assume he knows you live here and knows where you work. He probably

has a good handle on when you go out by yourself to take photos.” “But...” she cut in, yet her point didn’t flow easily out of her. She composed herself, drawing in a deep breath and drinking more wine. “If this Reilly character is dirty, if he took my camera to cover the whole thing up, then what are Vishnevsky and Avandeyev worried about? I’m no one.” “But I’m not,” he said. “I’m a cop and I chased Vishnevsky last night.” Stunned, she felt her eyes widen and almost blamed him, but how could she? He was the only person who cared about her and the bottom line was that someone had been killed at the pier and if Kevin was the only cop actually doing

something about it, then that was commendable not deplorable. “If Reilly really is covering this up, if he’s collecting some kind of payment to keep whatever Avandeyev and his men do quiet, then the crime family is obviously going to have a big problem with the fact that I went after Vishnevsky. I don’t know how Reilly is going to come down on me for this or when, but he will.” “I’m not really hearing a solution here,” she said, trying not to sound terrified. “There isn’t one, not yet, which is why I need you to stay safe, stay around other people, don’t wonder off on your own.”

Again, she laughed, but this time it was out of frustration. “No one is available to spend hours with me as I take photos around the city.” “It’s not forever, just for a little while.” “I don’t have a little while,” she shot back. “I’m not going to put my life on hold.” She’d lost his attention. His gaze was fixed on her knees and when he reached out to touch her jeans, she leaned forward to see what he was looking at. There were two dark stains on the knees of her jeans. She touched the left and her kneecap zinged. Her fingertips, she realized glancing at them, were damp with blood.

“From the fall,” she supplied and Kevin rose off the couch and took her hand, examining her palm, which was bruised, purple. “You hit the ground hard,” he concluded, standing. “I should get changed.” “Do you have any disinfectant?” “Probably,” she said, getting to her feet, which brought her chest-to-chest with him in the cramped space. “It doesn’t hurt,” she softly added. “That’s good.” As she made her way to the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet, Kevin followed tightly behind. “Damn,” he said under his breath, glancing around at the comically small

bathroom. The sink was practically angled over the toilet and the shower was so close that its plastic curtain billowed into the medicine cabinet. “It’s called affordable,” she stated. “I can’t stand living with anyone else.” She found a tube of Neosporin and a box of Bandaids and set them on the porcelain sink counter, but Kevin, maneuvering around her in a way that had him brushing up against her, took the items and told her to have a seat. She smirked, because he’d forgotten one critical step. “I should change out of these jeans,” she said, but he was already setting the items on the sink and taking hold of her

waistband. Her breath hitched in her throat as he made gentle work of popping the button loose. When he drew the zipper down, she let out an unsteady exhale, their faces very close to one another, nearly cheek-to-cheek. With her jeans undone, he gave them a little tug downward and Tasha instinctively draped her hands over his shoulders for balance. She was glad she’d put some thought into her underwear that morning. As he worked the stretch denim over her hips and slid her jeans down her thighs, lowering onto his knees, he realized the lavender, lace panties she was wearing. She thought she heard him groan softly at

the sight. Feeling his cool breath against her legs, she stepped out of her shoes and jeans, one foot at a time, as Kevin assisted her and in the next moment he tossed the garment into the hallway and began grazing his big, warm hands up her thighs from where he was kneeling. She looked down at him, watched his hands caress her, studied his thick mop of dark hair, getting a bit lost in the shape of his muscular shoulders, the way his shirt clung tightly around his arms. He lifted up enough to find the Neosporin in the sink and as she stood before him in her panties and flowing tee shirt that hung just shy of her waist, he began dabbing disinfectant on her knees.

This was crazy. She was about to... what? Sleep with a cop? Or was it perfect? Was it just what she needed? It felt like more than that. She wasn’t deluding herself into thinking she knew him well or at all, but Tasha had seen a big enough glimpse into who he really was—kind, brave, willing to go up against a crime family and his precinct for God’s sake in order to find justice and keep her safe. She didn’t just want this. She wanted him and her bed seemed so far away because of it. She plowed her fingers through his hair and he glanced up, catching her hand, as he stood. He studied her palm then brought her other hand up so he could compare them.

She watched, noting that her left hand looked much worse than the right. “We should’ve iced it,” he said softly. “I’ll live.” He met her gaze, holding her hands. “I’m not going anywhere tonight.” She exhaled a soft, moaning breath and felt every part of her melt as she drifted into him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and feeling his warm hands holding her waist. He leaned in and their lips met, as his hands traveled her body, caressing down her hips, down her thighs and up again, squeezing her ass. She let out a surprised moan, feeling him massage her. Then he slid his fingers

under the lace of her panties. Soon he pulled back so he could look at her, but her eyelids were heavy with arousal. “Since I saw you walk into my precinct,” he said softly. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.” “Have you ever been with someone like me?” she asked in a breathy whisper. “No,” he said easily. “But that’s because you’re one of a kind.” He held her close and kissed her for a long moment, causing her to flush hot with a wave of tingles fluttering through her that culminated between her legs. She was burning for him, aching, and could feel him stiffening beneath his

jeans where his hips pressed against hers. She needed to get him out of this bathroom, but twining her fingers through his hair, exploring the velvety curves of his mouth, feeling his cool breath on her cheek as they kissed, wasn’t something she wanted to interrupt. He groaned then broke free, saying, “I want you.” Taking his hand, she led him up the short hallway into the main space. As she came to the edge of the bed, he grasped the hem of her tee shirt, lifting it up and over her head. From behind, he cast the garment to the floor and his hands cupped her chest, the thin lace of

her bra still between them. She leaned against him, relishing the feel of his strong body behind her, and when he stepped back, he quickly unfastened her bra. As it fell, his warm hands returned to her breasts, cupping and squeezing gently in a massage that made her wet and her knees weaken. He began kissing the side of her neck, his fingers teasing her nipples, and soon his right hand traveled down the length of her stomach, slid under the modest triangle of lavender lace, and grazed downward so slowly—the lightest touch —that she began aching for him, hot and wet and throbbing between her legs. Reaching back, Tasha felt his jeans, the button, the zipper, managing with

fumbling hands to get them undone, as he explored deeper between her legs, sliding his warm fingers along the length of her slippery labia and at times gently circling her clitoris. She reached down his jeans and felt his hard erection beneath his briefs. She squeezed him, smiling at his girth, exploring the length of his penis, and moaning at her discoveries. She wanted him inside of her. She was dying to feel his thick erection press into the tight, wet sheath of her body, the friction it would stir up, the thrilling surprise his dimensions would inspire. Kissing her neck softly, Kevin guided her to face him and her first instinct was to tug his shirt up and over his head. As

she freed him of the garment, letting it fall away, she drank in the sight of his muscular chest, the fine dusting of dark hair between his pecs, the smooth wall of his stomach. She grasped hold of his biceps, feeling how hard and sculpted they were, as she glanced down at his open jeans, his black briefs, and his pronounced erection beneath that threatened to poke out from the waistband. Grasping her breasts, he groaned, “I like these,” and she smiled. “Take off your pants,” she suggested. He did, taking a few steps back and kicking his boots off one at a time, wrestling his jeans down. They were

inside out by the time his feet were free and it made her smirk. She took hold of his hips and hooked her fingers under the elastic band of his briefs, and firmly wrapped her hand around his hard penis. Groaning, Kevin angled his face near hers, as she stroked him slowly, loving the feel of him in her hand. She cupped his tight ass with her other hand and their lips met. His mouth felt slightly slack, an indication she was working him into such a state of arousal that he couldn’t quite think. She gave him a few quick pecks on the lips and cheek, as she guided him towards the bed, his thick erection in her hand.

She sat, spreading her legs and gazing up at him. He looked amazing, all sculpted muscles and smooth skin, the dark dusting of stubble along his jaw accentuating his straight mouth, his hungry eyes. As she pulled his briefs down, his penis sprung free, tapping softly against his hard abdomen. His mouth curled up at one corner. She locked eyes with him and brought his penis to her mouth, licking the tip and making him groan. His head drifted back then tilted as his eyelids went heavy, but he didn’t let her keep it up for long. “I’d like to last,” he told her with a breathy laugh. “It’s been awhile.” “I find that hard to believe,” she

teased, shifting backward on the bed so he could join her. When her head met the pillows, she lifted her hips and he quickly helped her panties down her thighs. “A compliment,” he surmised. “I’ll take it.” “Good,” she breathed, but lost the thread of their banter when he spread her legs and lowered down onto his elbows, his cool breath meeting her silky labia. With his warm fingers, he parted her genitals and she moaned in anticipation. His hot, wet tongue licked the length of her. “Oh,” she breathed at the soothing contact. He licked her again, this time

hovering over her clitoris and delivering soft circles with the tip of his tongue. She was aching so badly that she thought she’d lose her mind, but she began squirming instead, as he stroked his warm tongue along her vagina again and again. She heard him whisper, “If there’s something you don’t like, just tell me.” She liked all of it so far, she thought, relaxing into his artful tongue massage. Soon he settled his mouth over her clitoris and ever so gently slipped his finger inside of her. A long moan escaped her, as he began firmly massaging her, his mouth suckling her sensitive clit all the while. He was bringing her there. She could

feel the tingling heat mounting deep inside, and though she was getting close, she didn’t want to come like this, not without his dick inside her. “Wait,” she blurted out and he stopped on a dime, looking up at her as if he’d done something wrong. “It’s good,” she said right away so he wouldn’t think he’d rubbed her the wrong way. “You feel really good, I just want you inside me.” He groaned as if the suggestion couldn’t have turned him on more and gave her another soft lick punctuated by a brief suck of her clitoris. Lifting up, Kevin sat back on his heels, his erection bobbing against his washboard abs.

Quickly, Tasha yanked open a drawer on the bedside table and found a condom, tore the wrapper off, and sat up. As she rolled the latex over his hard penis, she said, “I have a feeling I’m going to like this thing.” Teasingly, he commented, “Well, Trojan is an excellent brand.” “I mean your cock.” His expression turned lustful and once the rubber was covering the length of him, he urged her down onto her back as he angled over her, his arms hooking under her shoulders, his body so strong that he was able to hold plank, every muscle flexing. He spread her legs and using a slow, calculating motion, Kevin stroked the

hard tip of his penis along her slippery vagina. She moaned just feeling him. He wasn’t trying to find the right angle. He wanted to arouse her further, make her anticipate his penetration, and she loved it. Grabbing his hips and vaguely aware the action would seem like pleading, she gazed into his eyes and without words, insisted that he give it to her. He pressed in, his penis slowly filling her, stretching and soothing her aching vagina with its hard girth. He groaned, penetrating her deeper and deeper, and Tasha used short, fluttering breaths as her body acclimated to his size.

“Oh God,” she moaned when he’d filled her completely. He held himself inside her and gave her a long, lingering kiss. As he drew back in favor of gazing down at her, his hips began moving. The friction, the wet heat of their bodies merging, made her melt and tense at once. He felt so good, thrusting with tight, quick motions and stirring up a fresh wave of mounting arousal. Every time he penetrated in, his pubic bone pressed firmly against her clit, causing her whole body to flare with hot tingles. And with each ascend, his penis drawing out again, she felt the rush building. In her ear, he whispered, “Slower?

Harder? Tell me.” But she didn’t have words. The feel of him working her body, thrusting her into a state of pure bliss, had rendered her incapable of speech so she moaned, “You're so good,” before gathering her wits enough to ask, “How do you like it?” “Any way you do,” he said, as he continued thrusting, at times grinding so as to stimulate her clitoris for a healthy few seconds before resuming a firm series of thrusts. “What turns me on is getting you to climax.” Hearing him say that was almost enough to bring her over the edge. She held his hips tightly, feeling him pound into her. Her breasts jiggled every time

he thrust in. She caressed his shoulders then drew her fingertips down his back, feeling sweat bead over his skin. God, he was sexy. Before she knew what was happening, he pulled her up as he sat back on his heels, Tasha straddling him, his erection deep inside and at such an entirely knew angle that she gasped out in surprise. He helped her arms drape over his shoulders and then held her tight, rocking and fucking her so deeply, his pubic bone pressing against her clit, the tip of his penis stimulating the hot spot inside of her in such a way that a fresh billow of arousal plumed in an instant—an orgasm swiftly building.

She felt his fingertips traveling the length of her dewy back and as she tilted her head, savoring the feel of him inside her, Kevin wrapped his warm mouth around her breast and began suckling and flicking his tongue over her nipple. Moaning, she managed to get the words out, “I’m coming.” “Yeah?” he breathed. Her chest began heaving, moans stuttering out, as she rode him, working the perfect angle. Suddenly a swell of tension mounted deep inside of her and sensing that she was on the verge, Kevin gazed up at her and whispered, “Come all over my dick, Tasha. You’re so fucking sexy.” That was all it took. As a powerful

orgasm blossomed inside of her, coursing in waves through her loins, she cried out moaning and her body went limp in his arms. Overcome with pleasure, she was only vaguely aware of Kevin thrusting into her harder and faster and letting out a groan, his orgasm having mounted as well. As she calmed, he stroked her black curls off her face and looked into her eyes. She could still feel his erection throbbing deep inside of her, as he said, “That was insane.” She kissed him with little energy. Their lips pressed and held and they breathed in the scent of each other, and then Kevin guided her onto her back and

curled her into his arms. He ran his fingers through her hair and soon Tasha was dozing off. When she woke minutes or hours later—it was too dark to tell—Kevin stirred beside her, his eyes cracking open and his hands finding her warm body. They maneuvered under the comforter, their bodies brushing against one another until ideas started to form. The night unfolded in a dreamlike series of naps and lovemaking. At times, Kevin made slow, sleepy love to her, and others he took her hard and rough in a way that actually calmed her. By the time the sun broke through the windows, brightening the purple curtains and filling the room, they had both stolen

only a few hours of real sleep. She made coffee in the kitchen and brought him a mug. They gradually woke up with the help of caffeine and made small talk about how they planned to spend their days. Tasha had work, which she explained, noting the thoroughly dislikable personality of her boss, Hans Janz. And Kevin had plans to track down Alexi Vishnevsky and corner him into admitting his role in both stalking Tasha and the murder at the pier. He reminded her not to be alone and though she assured him that at least for today she wouldn’t be, Tasha knew it was a bold faced lie. “I’m going to an art opening tonight,” she mentioned, as they trekked down the

five flights of stairs in her building. “A few of my friends will be there, Greer Langley who’s a sculptor and my other friend, Jennifer Okimoto who’s a painter.” Kevin smirked at her as he held the door open. “You say their last names as if I should know who they are.” “Some people do,” she pointed out, stepping onto the sidewalk. “Though I guess they’re all in the art world. It’ll be fun. Free wine. And Greer’s boyfriend will be there. Hunter Black?” Again he smiled, clueless about who Hunter Black was. “What time?” “I think we’re going to meet around seven, but I can let you know.” He took hold of her hand, as they

made their way down the block towards the subway. Tasha noticed some of the neighborhood locals were shooting them sideways glares. This block in Harlem was filled with African-Americans. If someone here was white, it was because they were either lost or just passing through, and the looks she was getting were meant to make her feel like some kind of traitor. She didn't. When they reached the downtown subway, he kissed her then mentioned, “I’m going to walk across town to my apartment. You’ll be okay riding the train?” “With a hundred other people?” she teased. “I’m sure I’ll be fine. And I’ll be

at work at the studio until I meet Greer and Jennifer at the gallery, so I’m covered. Stay safe, okay?” Squeezing her hand, he gave her another kiss, this time lingering as if he didn’t want to see her go. She urged him back, smiled, and then padded down the subway steps into the station. She kept her wits about her and her eyes peeled for her stalker as she waited for the train. When it came, she was sly about finding a vacant seat, but gradually as the train flew through the tunnel her guard lowered. Her walk to the photography studio was a short three blocks across TriBeCa. When she arrived, she poured

a cup of coffee from the craft services table and soon the day was in full swing. Hans was a jerk, but not worse than usual, and often Tasha reminded herself that with her brand new camera she would soon have the shots she needed to nail her exhibition, sell some prints, and hopefully worm her way out of this dismal assistant position. When Hans called for a wrap, having captured every angle of a blond bombshell modeling fur coats in the nude, Tasha didn’t waste a second to clean every inch of the studio, lock up, and spill out into the dusky evening. Kevin had been on her mind all day, and though during her various breaks she had looked up the Avandeyev crime

family on her cell phone—the Coney Island based Russians were at the top of the mob pyramid and rumored to have killed over thirty people in the last ten years—she didn’t feel as rattled about her predicament as she had prior to her night with Kevin. It was as though all of the anxiety she had felt had been washed away and replaced with thoughts of this new man in her life. And the best part was that she trusted him. Sure, she would have to keep her guard up and be hyper vigilant about staying safe and in the company of her friends if not locked in her apartment, but she was confident that Kevin would make things right, arrest Vishnevsky, and with a little luck, send a message to Avandeyev to leave

her alone. But was it wishful thinking? She didn’t know, but couldn’t live in fear. And she was dying to gush to Greer and Jennifer about her night with the sexy cop.

Chapter Eight Kevin was seated behind the steering wheel of his beat-up sedan, staring across the street at a rundown brownstone—Alexi Vishnevsky’s last known address—and daydreaming about his night with Tasha. He had angled his vehicle along the curb, having parallel parked. The building was dark and the street quiet, which didn’t come as a huge surprise considering this neighborhood on Coney Island had suffered the brunt of Hurricane Sandy's destruction years back. Most of the buildings were still damaged and abandoned, while others

were filled with squatters who stayed hidden until the sun went down. His gut told him that Vishnevsky wasn’t inside, but unless Tasha contacted him to say she had seen the Russian again, he figured the most productive plan was to keep an eye on the place until the stalker eventually returned. If and when he did, Kevin would cut him off before he reached his stoop and arrest him, not that he had permission to take it that far. Sergeant Reilly didn’t have a clue as to what he was up to. He’d been sitting out here for hours. So long in fact that he didn’t so much see the brownstone anymore, but Tasha in his mind—her smooth skin and gentle

curves, her dark curls and full lips, the way those lace panties had hugged her hips, the feel of her supple breasts in his hands... He had not seen that coming and yet it had been exactly what he wanted. Seeing her again—and the sooner the better—was at the forefront of his mind. But so was Vishnevsky. He wanted to rough him up, give him a reason or two to back off. Enduring a serious beatdown was well above the Russian's pay grade and if Kevin could throw his weight around in just the right way— arresting the man—he was confident that the message it would send to Avandeyev could convince the crime boss that none of this was worth it.

Kevin began rolling up his sleeves, the plaid button-down he wore having caused him to overheat. He’d gone home to his apartment after watching Tasha disappear into the subway station. He’d showered and changed his clothes, but the spring weather was unpredictable, some days unusually warm, others chilly well into the afternoon. He had dressed for a chill that never came. A black Cadillac crawled down the street and Kevin eyed it closely. Its windows were darkly tinted and he couldn’t see the driver with the glare from the late afternoon sun bouncing off the windshield. It pulled up, double parking in front of Vishnevsky’s building, but before anyone could climb

out, Kevin’s cell phone began vibrating in the front pocket of his jeans. Leaning back, he freed his phone and saw the precinct’s general number flashing. “Wright,” he said, answering the call. “Hey, man, it’s Taite. You busy?” “It’s my day off,” he pointed out, implying he was otherwise disposed. “Reilly asked to see you,” he said, the familiar bustle of the station house muffled in the background. “Can you come by?” He really didn’t want to. The time he’d spent waiting in his car and watching the apartment had been an investment that he needed a return on, so he told him, “I’m in tomorrow at nine,

that’s not soon enough?” “Sorry, buddy,” said Taite, sounding very close to the receiver. “It’ll take me some time...” “Why? Where are you?” Kevin had developed a solid relationship with Taite over the past year. If Reilly liked busting Kevin’s balls, the brash man never missed an opportunity with James Taite. The two officers were in the outer circle and because of it, Kevin didn’t even consider masking the truth. “Coney Island, so you can let Reilly know I’ll be there in about twenty-five.” “What are you doing down there?” Kevin snorted a laugh, grumbling, “Nothing now.”

“Keep that to yourself when you get here,” he advised. “What? Why?” “Coney Island?” When Taite went on, it sounded like he’d cupped his hand over his mouth and around the receiver. “Marshall told us that the telephoto camera wasn’t in evidence. Reilly’s been in his office all day with the door closed. Whatever’s going on is hitting him hard, which means he’s going to come down on us if we do anything out of the ordinary. He already suspects you’ve been poking around where you shouldn’t. And my friend, you know you have no business in Coney Island.” “But Vishnevsky does,” he pushed back.

“I’m telling you as your friend, you've got to back off this thing, man. If you don’t, it’s not going to go well for you, and if my name’s dragged into it... I can’t get suspended, you know I’ve got a baby on the way and Molly would flat out kill me.” “Your name’s not going to get dragged into it,” he cut in then considered the advice. “Is this what Reilly wants to talk to me about?” Taite exhaled into the receiver, confirming. Wrapping up the call, he said, “I’m on my way.” When he heard the line go dead, he wedged his cell into his pocket, twisted the key in the ignition, and pulled out

into the street, eyeing the black Cadillac as he drove off, but getting no clearer sense of who was inside. A tense thirty minutes later—traffic had built on the FDR and no matter which lane Kevin chose the highway amounted to a parking lot of honking cars, drivers swearing out of their rolled-down windows, kids selling water bottles or limp-looking flowers and shouting fair rates—Kevin pulled into the precinct parking lot in the subbasement of the 26th, climbed out, and made his way up to the ground floor. Officer Taite was working the front desk and trying to calm down an elderly black woman who was irate about a search and seizure that had been

conducted on her grandson and ultimately resulted in the kid’s arrest. He shot Kevin a quick nod and the older woman clapped her hands to get his attention. Kevin passed behind the counter and through an open doorway into the precinct's bullpen where officers and detectives alike were conversing loudly, pouring over reports, and joshing around about some crazy case that had made their day for no other reason than it had given them a story to tell. Sergeant Reilly’s door was closed, but through the window blinds, Kevin spied him hunched over his desk, his phone pressed hard to his ear, his expression a twisted grimace as though

he were being raked over the coals for something he couldn’t control. He knocked on the door and caught sight of Reilly’s gaze snapping up. They made brief eye contact through the blinds and the sergeant spat a few words through his teeth at whoever was on the other end of their call, slammed the phone into its cradle, hoisted himself to his feet, and lumbered towards the door. “You wanted to see me?” asked Kevin the second his superior had invited him in. “Have a seat.” As Kevin settled into a stiff chair in front of his sergeant’s desk, Reilly closed the door and kept his eyes on the younger officer.

It was putting Kevin on edge. Taking slow, deliberate steps around to the business side of his desk, Reilly said, “You shacked up with one of the victims last night?” Wrestling down the paranoid sting that was setting his chest on fire, Kevin tempered his reaction, as the sergeant lowered into his chair. Had Vishnevsky spied Kevin and Tasha leaving her apartment that morning? And if so, how deep was Reilly in with the Russians that word had traveled back to the precinct? When Kevin did nothing but study his superior, Reilly clasped his hands on the desk and went on, “You don’t want to get

mixed up with the wrong girl.” In delayed reaction, he asserted, “I thought there was no case, so how could Tasha Buckley be considered a victim?” The sergeant both grinned and glared, and Kevin’s chest felt tight because of it. “This isn’t the easiest jurisdiction to manage,” he explained companionably. “There are a lot of... businesses that have their own way of doing things around here, and because they’re holding their own and not committing the kinds of crimes we target-” “They’re free to murder?” he challenged, knowing a split second after the question had flown from his mouth that it had been the wrong one. “We couldn’t substantiate her

allegation.” “Then Tasha isn’t a victim,” he pointed out, rounding the bend of his point. “And it’s none of anyone’s business what I do with my free time.” “I’m telling you, Wright. You want to walk away.” Kevin narrowed his eyes on the older man, who was staring him down just as hard. “You’re a good cop,” he continued, making light of the situation as if dismissing Kevin was on the horizon. “I’d like to send you out more, get you away from the front desk, and your father is pushing for that as well, but I can’t give you more time on the streets if I don’t trust you.”

“Buckley wants her camera back.” “It was lost in the shuffle,” he shrugged. “Messy chain of custody. There’s no telling what happened to it.” “Why is she being followed?” he shot back and in response Reilly leaned across his desk. “She’s mistaken. It’s a big city. People look alike.” “Why is a crime family based in Coney Island conducting questionable business in Harlem?” When Reilly’s expression hardened, he knew he had pushed too hard, but what the sergeant said next came so far out of left field that Kevin could barely wrap his head around it. “I’ve set up a meeting. I want you to

go to this address,” he explained, writing quickly on a scrap of paper and sliding it across the desk. After picking it up, Kevin eyed it. “We don't live in a black and white world. It’s time for you to see for yourself what the gray area looks like.” He wasn’t familiar with the address, but the cross streets indicated it was located in Coney Island and not far from Vishnevsky’s rundown brownstone. As Kevin rose to his feet, tucking the scrap of paper into the back pocket of his jeans, Reilly warned, “Stay away from Buckley. You don’t want to get into something you can’t get out of.” He kept his expression flat and his tone even as he said, “I’ll head down,”

but when he left the sergeant’s office he didn’t immediately head out to his car. Instead, he made a beeline for the locker room where he changed into his uniform, being sure to transfer his GLOCK 27 from his ankle holster to his hip. He wasn’t going to show up at Avandeyev’s in plain clothes and become one of the crime boss’s dirty minions. He’d go as himself, one of New York’s finest, and announce that not everyone at the 26th could be bought.

Chapter Nine I can’t make it to the gallery. Something came up. Vague. Elusive. Not even remotely flirtatious. Had he meant to blow her off? Tasha reasoned that honing in on Vishnevsky could’ve taken all of Kevin's time and effort, and she couldn’t fault him for that. She was glad someone was looking out. But hot off the heels of their night together, she had to wonder. Had things moved too quickly? Was this the classic disappearing act that guys tended to pull when the chase was over? Wind rustled through the trees overhead, as she meandered through the

north end of Central Park, following one of the cobblestone paths and holding her camera in her hands. This time the nylon strap was wrapped securely around her neck and though she was hunting for the right subject as she passed stone sculptures and dogwood in bloom, she kept her wits about her, using sly glances to note her surroundings and make sure she wasn’t being followed. Earlier that day, just before she’d entered Windsor Fine Art, the gallery where her work would be exhibited next week, she had sent Kevin a text message, keeping things light by commenting on the art opening he’d missed and then adding a quick question about what he’d been up to last night. He had responded

with banter, addressing how he wished he could’ve made it, but said nothing about how he’d spent his night. It worried her. She slowed her step, as a large rock came into view. It was protruding from the side of a hill and the homeless woman seated at its base and inspecting a limp sandwich looked perfect, especially since a pair of Catholic schoolgirls were giggling nearby. Angling her telephoto lens at the woman, Tasha set up her shot. The juxtaposition of wealth and poverty, the bliss and innocence of the girls contrasted with the struggling older woman in rags told the story of two worlds that would never collide.

She snapped a number of shots, at times lowering her camera to wait for a cloud overhead to slink by. The light was good—blazing orange and casting dramatic shadows on their faces—and Tasha was excited about how this photograph would look blown-up. She was interrupted from the thrilled flow of her shots when her cell phone began vibrating in the back pocket of the jean skirt she wore. Gingerly, she lowered her camera, making sure the nylon strap around her neck wouldn’t betray her—the last thing she needed was to drop and damage her third camera—and grabbed her cell. It was Kevin. His name along with a cop emoji were flashing across the

screen—her way of noting which Kevin it was since she had a few friends with the same name—so she quickly swiped her thumb over the LCD, answering the call. “Hey there,” she said breathily. Her heart rate had pitched through the roof and her hands felt shaky, nerves rattling through her to hear from the man who had been on her mind. “I have the day to myself again.” Though his words had been inviting, his tone was flat, indicating that something was wrong. “Want to get together?” “I’m in the park.” “Riverside?” “No,” she said with a nervous smile. “Central Park. You’re welcome to join

me.” She gave him the cross street that would get him closest to her end of the park and then described the large rock she was near, but he wasn’t familiar. “I’ll walk over to 110th and Lenox,” she told him. He said he’d see her soon and as she tucked her cell into her skirt, she started along the cobblestone path, walking through a flock of pigeons that cooed and flapped off into the air. When she reached the edge of the park, she glanced around at all the people as she waited. There were a few tourists, but not many since out-oftowners weren’t eager to venture into Harlem. A juggler wearing stripes, his

face painted white, was entertaining a group of school kids, and a Hispanic couple in their early twenties was making-out on one of the benches. No Russians. No reason to be on edge, though Tasha knew she couldn’t let her guard drop until Kevin was here. In a matter of minutes she spotted him across 110th Street. He jogged towards the crosswalk, but missed the signal. Like a heat seeking missile, his eyes locked on her and though he smiled, the sentiment didn’t reach his eyes. Did she know him well enough to be certain he looked shaken up? She wasn't sure she should trust her instincts and yet his expression, the way his shoulders seemed hunched and stiff,

the fact that his hands were hidden in his pockets, told her that he had discovered something about Vishnevsky... and it wasn’t good. The traffic light changed and Kevin walked briskly across the street, pulling his hands from the front pockets of his jeans. The denim fit him well, hugging his thighs, falling loose around his calves, the waistband riding low. He wore a light jacket, but it was unzipped down the front, affording her a peek at the gray tee shirt he wore, his chest firm beneath the taut fabric. As he stepped onto the curb, he plowed his fingers through his dark hair and the smile he gave her had a degree of ease. She smiled back, feeling

butterflies over whether or not they would kiss or hug or do nothing at all... They neared one another and Tasha let out a small breath of relief that his gaze was traveling the length of her, lingering on the floral button-down and short skirt she was wearing. When his eyes snapped up again to meet hers, his hands drifted to her waist and he pulled her in so naturally that she wondered why she’d been nervous to see him. She whispered, “That was fast,” as Kevin tilted his head, coming in for a kiss. When their lips met, the kiss was slow and soft, nothing too passionate for public and yet it conveyed a deeper hunger.

He drew back, studying her face, and asked, “Taking photos?” “As many as I can,” she said. “I’m not interrupting you, am I?” “That depends on what you had in mind.” He cocked his head and a playful smile spread across his face. “What I have in mind probably shouldn’t be done in a park,” he said, grinning. “But if you want to keep taking photos, I’ll tag along.” She snorted a laugh and squeezed his arm. “You are distracting,” she admitted before letting out a long sigh. “But you could make for a decent model.” “Yeah? You want to take my picture?” “If it’s candid and if I can get you

near a few homeless people.” “Homeless people love me,” he teased, cradling her lower back with his arm as they started off down the cobblestone path that led into the park. Soon they were walking hand-inhand, the warm wind breezing through and the sun casting the most beautiful light on the scenery. Being with Kevin was natural and easy. She felt relaxed, all prior anxiety about Vishnevsky and the dark underbelly of this city having been washed away simply because she was with him. He asked about the art opening he'd missed and anecdotes began pouring out of her, which made him laugh. She then segued into telling him about the meeting

she'd had with Abigail Sorenson, the curator at Windsor Fine Art. Tasha had shown the influential woman six of her prints, explaining she would have them blown-up for the exhibition, and Abigail had given her advice on the additional shots she would need to round out the collection. When they came to a pond surrounded by cherry blossoms, he pulled her in and kissed her deeply. A gust of wind rushed in from the water, causing a flurry of pink pedals to flutter all around them. It wasn’t until after they had walked deeper into the park and Tasha had captured several shots of unsuspecting vagabonds as well as of Kevin standing under a tree, near the water, beside a

statue that to Tasha couldn’t compare to her new man’s good looks, that she asked him about what had kept him from meeting her and her friends at the gallery. They were sitting on a bench, his arm around her, her hand on his thigh, the late afternoon sun lowering with the onset of dusk. The lamps around the park came on and soon the darkening park twinkled with amber light. “I know my text was a cop out,” he said in a smooth voice edged with remorse. She latched on to his pun. “Cop out?” “I didn’t want to say too much.” He let that hang for a moment as he gazed across the pond. She analyzed his

expression, but couldn’t get a firm read on him, and when he looked at her again, his eyes were so intense that she found her gaze falling to his lap. “Avandeyev has his hooks in Reilly, my sergeant,” he went on, grimacing. “I had no idea how bad it was. The Russians own my precinct.” “Jesus Christ,” she breathed. “I mean I’m not naive. I know dirty cops exist, but as soon as Reilly saw I wasn’t going to drop it... maybe I pushed too hard-” “You didn’t,” she said to reassure him. His brows drifted up as if to say, That’s debatable, and then he disclosed, “He’s trying to turn me.”

“Turn you? What do you mean?” “He sent me down to Coney Island,” he explained. “That’s why I couldn’t meet you last night. Reilly thinks the best way to get me to walk away from what happened, what you saw, is to drag me so deep into it that I’m convinced I’m as much to blame as they are.” “What are you talking about?” “He gave me an address to a meat packing facility,” he said. “It’s not a legitimate business, but a front for Avandeyev. Vishnevsky was there-” “What?” she blurted out, squaring her shoulders to him and so stunned that she didn’t even blink. “I went in full uniform,” he said as if it might calm her down. It didn’t. “I

threatened to arrest him.” He began shaking his head and his gaze softened as though he was remembering the ugly encounter. “I played it all wrong. I should’ve gone in plain clothes. I should’ve acted like I was there to sign up for whatever depraved operation they had going. But I went in with two fists in the air... sort of. My sense is that they’re selling drugs, but I couldn’t get a read on it. Instead of welcoming me onto the payroll, as if I’d ever turn like that. Christ, I’d rather be dead than dirty.” “Don’t say that.” “Yeah, well...” he trailed off then came to his point. “They threatened me so I threatened them back.” He locked eyes with her, stating, “Manhattan is

bigger than the 26th. There are dozens of precincts throughout the city and Avandeyev doesn’t own all of them.” He was shaking his head again and looking off into the darkness that was peppered with twinkling lights. “I’m looking at suspension.” “Reilly can’t suspend you,” she objected. “You haven’t done anything wrong.” “They’ll put something on me,” he insisted. “They’ll find something and connect it to me. With the heat every cop gets in this city for all the bureaucratic mistakes that have been made... bad search and seizures, bad stop and frisks, even using too much physical force to make an arrest could get you pulled off

the job. He’ll find something.” Tasha wanted to convince him that they wouldn’t, that he’d be fine, that he was doing the right thing, and though she knew with every fiber of her being that Kevin Wright was quite possibly the only cop who was doing the right thing, she couldn’t promise the rest. All she could do was lean in and kiss him. His hands grasped her shoulders then slid up her neck until he was holding her face and kissing her with such passion that she could feel his anxiety. After a long moment—the kiss deepening, Kevin breathing her in, and Tasha moaning softly and resting her hands against his firm chest—he drew

back, looked at her, and said, “When threatening to arrest Avandeyev didn't work, I affirmed that no one was going to find out about what happened on the pier. It made me sick to grovel, but I did everything I could to convince him that the crime had been buried so deep it would never see the light of day.” She nodded to show she was on his side. “But then I told him that if anyone came after you, Tasha, I would kill them.” Stunned, her mouth drifted open, but she drew in a deep breath, closing it. He added, “I don’t think that was the right thing to do. It was a bad move. I could see it in his eyes. He’s too proud,

too powerful to stand for a threat like that.” “Shit,” she said softly. Staring deep into her eyes, he told her, “I don’t know what’s going to happen. I can’t strike first.” “So I’m a sitting duck?” she asked fearfully. “No,” he cut in. “You’re not. I’m not walking away from this. If I have to go to another precinct, get an entire department on board, if I have to go to Internal Affairs and shine a light on this whole thing, I will, whether it means risking my career or not.” “How could it risk your career if you’re doing the right thing?” He was somewhere else entirely for a

moment, gazing off in no particular direction and shaking his head. “Six months ago, one of the detectives in my precinct was arrested for murdering a prostitute. His name was Whitmore. He didn’t remember picking the girl up. He didn’t remember going back to his place and he didn’t have one shred of memory that he’d slashed her throat. He woke up to discover this poor woman’s body in his bed.” Kevin locked eyes with her. “It was Avandeyev. He had his goons drug Whitmore and all because the detective had tried to get out from under him.” “How do you know this? I mean how do you know it was Avandeyev?” “Because he told me after I’d threatened him.”

Tasha was so shocked that she couldn’t even breathe. After a long moment, she asked, “What are we going to do?” He shot her a stressed smirk at her use of the word we then said, “For starters, I don’t want you alone ever.” She wasn’t going to fight him on that. She didn’t want to be alone either and started mentally brainstorming her schedule and how she might get away with being with Greer and Jennifer every second. But would the mere presence of her artsy friends dissuade the Russian mob from coming after her? She didn't think so. “Do you always have your gun on you even when you’re off duty?”

“Always,” he said. It made her feel slightly better, but it wasn’t as though she could be near him when he was working at the station. “It’s getting cold,” he said, rubbing her bare arm to warm her up. Capsleeves were fine in the afternoon, but this button-down was too thin for the night air. “My place?” Glancing down at her camera, she said, “I have to transfer my shots onto my computer.” “If we go to your place, we should stay there.” “Are you okay with that?” He smiled and kissed her cheek. “Of course.” As they walked along the cobblestone

path and out of the park, he asked, “So this photography exhibition of yours...?” “What about it?” His arm was around her shoulder and he pulled her in, kissing the side of her head and causing her to sidestep as they trailed along. “Am I invited?” “Ha!” she blurted out. “Will you show up if you are?” “Hey, it’s not like your work was on display last night,” he pointed out. “And yes I’ll show up. You’ve got at least twelve pictures of me now. I need to know if I could have a second career as a model.” When his joke landed, they both tensed a bit, each hoping that Kevin

wouldn’t lose his position at the 26th just because he’d gone up against a monster whose reach could be farther than either of them could foresee. Ten blocks later, Tasha keyed into her building and they trekked the five flights of stairs up to her studio apartment. She turned on a few lights, as Kevin shut and locked the door. The air felt stuffy, the day having warmed up quite a bit, so she drew the curtains back and opened the window then set her camera down on the coffee table. A cool breeze flowed into the space and as she turned, Kevin wrapped his arms around her waist. “Are you trying to kill me with that short skirt?” he whispered, his face near hers, his chest pressing against her

breasts, his hips angling into her body. “I didn’t know I’d be seeing you today,” she told him playfully and their lips met. As he kissed her, he hooked his fingers down the waist of her skirt, feeling for the edge of her panties. It was relaxed yet teasing and Tasha realized this was the first time in a long time that she felt like she had a boyfriend. Sure, she might be jumping the gun. This was all so new and they hadn’t talked about where their relationship was going and if it would last beyond the clear and present danger they faced, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t savor the moment. They traveled around the coffee table, kissing their way to her bed, as Kevin

fumbled to unbutton her shirt. She helped him, shrugging the garment off her shoulders and tossing it to the floor. As if seeing her in her bra had compelled him, he wriggled out of his jacket, letting it fall, and yanked his tee shirt up and over his head. He looked damn fine, bare-chested in his tight jeans. After a moment of eyeing him, however, she asked, “Where’s your gun?” as she worked his jeans open, popping the button and drawing the zipper down. “Ankle holster,” he said softly in a deep voice. He stepped back to show her, lifting the hem of his jeans and revealing a black gun braced against his outer ankle.

“You had it with you last time?” she asked. He shot her a crooked smile, breathing, “Yeah,” and as he unfastened the holster and set the weapon on her desk, he mentioned, “I can be discrete about slipping it off.” She had to admit if only to herself that it was a turn on. In general, the idea of guns scared her, but knowing that Kevin was trained and licensed to carry was a different story. She grabbed his hips, feeling his smooth skin, the hard flanks of muscles spanning around his abs—lick lines, she thought. And wouldn’t she like to? They stared at each other for a lustful moment and then quickly Kevin wrestled

out of his boots and jeans, as she popped the clasp of her bra open and let the black lace fall. She didn’t know she’d be seeing Kevin tonight, but she had certainly dressed with him in mind. He helped her out of her skirt, groaning at the sight of her black panties and angling to see her ass. He let out a satisfied breath, discovering she was wearing a thong, and then pressed against her. She could feel his erection through his navy briefs—hard and big—but without warning, he swung her around, lifting and setting her gently on the desk. Instinctively and in anticipation, she spread her legs and placed her heels on the surface, while Kevin took a step

back and drank in the sight of her— breasts swelling with each inhale, her head tipping back against the wall, her thighs long and shapely, a thin strip of black satin between her legs. He neared her and with warm fingers pulled the black material aside, exposing her vagina and groaning at the sight. When he began gently fondling her, running his fingertips up and down her labia and exploring the silken folds, she let out a moaning breath. Using his free hand, he worked his briefs down, his hard erection springing free and slapping against his lower abdomen, as sculpted as it was. He angled his penis against her inner thigh as he stimulated her with his

fingers, making her wet and slippery, playing with her clitoris and causing her to ache. Then in a quick, confident motion, he lifted her hips, slipping her panties down her legs, which she straightened only to assist him in discarding the garment before planting her heels against the desk again. He let his briefs fall and stepped out of them then grasped her waist firmly, as he began teasing her, running the tip of his erection along her slippery genitals. She focused on the feel of him. The head of his penis felt hot and firm. Watching him pleasure her with teasing strokes turned her on. Her breathing quickened and soon she was dying for

him to press into her—the sweet sting of his body entering her to soothe the hot ache inside—and fill her with his hard erection. “Do you even know how sexy you are?” he asked in a smooth and quiet voice. She smiled and grasped hold of his penis, feeling how hard he was for her and helping him to angle in. As he penetrated, slowly and groaning, she savored every inch, his girth sending a hot wave through her loins and causing sweat to bead between her breasts. “Oh God, Tasha,” he moaned, filling her. When his erection was met with firm

resistance deep inside and his hips rested flush against her inner thighs, he began grinding. The heat and friction, slippery and smooth, was enough to launch her towards the peak, but she breathed deeply and soon he started thrusting in slow, deliberate strokes that hit her gspot. “If not being alone,” she said, moaning between each word, “means having you inside of me like this, then sign me up.” He let out a breathy laugh, angling deeper, as he found her clitoris with his thumb and began delivering a firm massage. That was all it took. Suddenly a

powerful stream of heat flooded through her and she knew she was close to climaxing, but she didn’t want this to end so she grabbed his hand and sucked his index finger into her mouth. He groaned, thrusting and gazing down at her. He cupped her breast with his other hand as if holding on for dear life and quickened his pace. The next thing she knew, he had lifted her, scooping his arms under her ass and carrying her towards the bed, his erection still angled deep inside of her. They fell together, but he rolled her and Tasha found herself straddling him and gazing down at Kevin who was now lying on his back. She held his hands, lacing their

fingers, as she grinded on top of him, but soon he was cupping her breasts, as she worked his body to her pleasure. “Yes,” she breathed, overcome with a tight surge of ecstasy rushing through her. “I want to come with you,” he said and her eyes popped open. They had completely forgotten a condom and realizing this, she settled and stared at him, mouth gaping. “We didn’t put on-” “Shit,” he said, lifting onto his elbows. Though her mind was locked on their error, her body hadn’t quite caught up. He felt too good inside of her and when she began gyrating her hips and relishing the feel of him, long and thick and hard,

he smiled and took her hand. “We should put on a condom,” he told her then quickly added, “for the record, I’ve been tested and I’m clean.” Was this bad? She didn’t want to stop. “Are you on birth control?” Her answer flew out of her even before she had thought it, “Yes.” And hearing as much must have been enough, because Kevin pulled her against him and rolled so that he was on top. Pumping into her, Kevin groaned in her ear. Suddenly, a hot wave began building inside of her and her entire body relaxed in the throes of a surging orgasm. She

plowed her fingers through his dark hair and moaned, her head tilting back as the mounting pleasure seized her. He could tell she was on the brink of climaxing. He quickened his pace accordingly, thrusting to bring himself there in perfect timing. She cried out, the peak of her orgasm hitting her hard, and Kevin groaned, overcome with the same bliss. Smiling as wave upon wave coursed through her, Tasha had never felt so close to another man. It felt like he was hers, her guy, her person. Emotions flooded her and they felt so close to love that she had to question whether or not she was crazy. He slowed, settling on top of her, and

gazed into her eyes. His forehead was sweaty so she brushed it dry with her hand. “I like you,” he said, making her smile. “I like you, too.” The look of ease on his face was enough to melt her heart. He rolled off of her, curling her into his arms and they laid there for a long while, Kevin stroking her wild, black curls and Tasha breathing in the scent of him. After drifting into sleep, he woke her as he climbed off the bed, whispering, “Gotta use the bathroom.” Though her eyes floated shut again, she heard him pad down the short

hallway and close the door. When the distinct sound of the shower running came muffled through the bathroom door, Tasha fell asleep again. But it didn’t last. She woke with a start, as a gloved hand covered her mouth. Terrified, she tried to scream, but it was no use. The man glaring down at her was pressing his hand to her mouth so hard that she couldn't breathe. He spat through his teeth, “Don’t you dare make a sound.” Vishnevsky. She bucked and twisted, but couldn’t break free as he dragged her off the bed, the curtains billowing out from a cool breeze. The window.

He had climbed up the fire escape. How long had he been out there, watching and waiting for his moment? She could barely think and was no match for him physically, as he yanked her towards the apartment door. Praying that Kevin would hear, she kept fighting—elbowing him and doing her best to stomp on his feet—but her blows hardly affected him. In seconds, he unlocked the door and jerked her into the hallway, naked as she was, and in an instant she felt the sting of a needle prick into the side of her neck. And her world went dark.

Chapter Ten Kevin emerged from the bathroom— his hair damp, skin glistening, a towel wrapped around his waist—and immediately sensed something was off. As he edged down the short hallway, his gaze locked on the apartment door. Were his eyes playing tricks on him or was it ajar? Rushing over, he discovered the door was open a crack and a sting of dread hit his chest. His gaze darted to the bed. Empty. A breeze blew into the apartment, causing the curtains to rustle. Tasha was gone.

Panicking, his mind was both racing and going blank, and he felt like he was jumping out of his skin, as he began pacing. He plowed his fingers through his damp hair, trying to get a hold of himself enough to think. He knew Avandeyev was behind this. Kevin shouldn’t have threatened him. But in all practical terms, what could he do about it? Decisively, he traded the towel around his waist for his briefs and dressed quickly, stumbling around the room. He planted his boot on the desk, hiking his pant-leg up, and attached his holster then double-checked that his gun was primed with the safety latch disengaged before securing the weapon

against his ankle. If he was about to go head-to-head with a crime organization, there was no sense in extra obstacles. He’d draw and shoot. This was insane. Pacing to the coffee table, he pulled his cell phone from his back pocket and quickly looked up the telephone number for Internal Affairs using the Google app. As he sent the call through, he tried to calm his pounding heart by breathing deeply, but it did little to alleviate his anxiety. When he heard the department’s outgoing voice message, he quickly glanced at his cell’s screen, noting the time. “Damn it.”

He hung up and entered 911 into the keypad. His thumb hovered over the Send icon. If he called the police, the responding precinct would be the 26th. Even if officers arrived within minutes and they weren’t dirty, he would still be advised to wait a number of days before filing a missing persons report. And dealing with police in the meantime could potentially eat up hours since they’d have to take Kevin’s statement and comb through every inch of the apartment. He cursed again then his eyes locked on Tasha’s telephoto camera that was resting on the coffee table. He grabbed it, yanked the window down and locked it as well as the

apartment door, and stepped out into the poorly lit corridor. Racing down the stairwell, he went over his options—barge into Vishnevsky’s brownstone or speck out the meat packing facility owned by Avandeyev. Both of those locations were in Coney Island so when he spilled onto the sidewalk, cool air blowing through the avenue, he started jogging south along Amsterdam. He had parked his car a block west of his building and couldn’t get there fast enough. He sprinted, slowing only to look both ways at each intersection, and tried not to obsess over the horrors that Tasha might be suffering. But how could he not?

This was his fault. In retaliation, Avandeyev had abducted the beautiful black girl who had seen too much, and Kevin was terrified of what the crime boss intended to do with her. He couldn’t let himself go there, but it was a damned challenge not to. When he reached his beat-up sedan, he wasted no time scraping the key in the lock and jumping in. He used the same haste turning the engine and it wasn’t until he had peeled away from the curb, tires screeching as he flew into the street, that he remembered to flip on the headlights. If getting to his car felt like it had taken an eternity, driving to Coney Island

was even more excruciating. He drove, pedal-to-metal, weaving between slower moving vehicles, swerving and at times braking to dodge bumpers and avoid an accident, all the while he jerked the steering wheel in a whiteknuckle grip. When Kevin turned onto Vishnevsky’s street, a line of dilapidated brownstones coming into view, he killed the headlights and proceeded at a crawl. But as he neared the address that he had staked out days prior, there was no sign of anyone inside. He slammed his palm against the steering wheel, gritting his teeth, then stepped on the gas, driving off. Twelve blocks later, he came to the

meat packing facility, having never turned his headlights back on, and pulled along the curb, a solid one hundred yards from the building. He grabbed Tasha’s camera, which he had set on the passenger’s seat, popped the lens cap off, and found the On switch. Angling the telephoto lens out of the driver’s side window after rolling it down, he spied four men guarding the front. It was enough of a confirmation that Tasha was inside. But how would he get to her? The weakest part of him wanted to call Reilly, beg for mercy, promise to never again mess with Avandeyev, and take the cowards route in order to free

the woman who had whirled into his life —the woman he was almost certain he was falling in love with—but could he indenture his career to a crime family? He wasn’t sure he’d be able to live with himself. So he called the one person who had known Reilly for years, the only person who might have sway over the corrupt sergeant. Kevin’s father. With his cell dialing, ringtone blaring through the earpiece, he pressed his phone to his ear and checked the clock on the dashboard. It was a little after two in the morning and he had very little faith that his dad would pick up. He jolted forward when he heard his

father groan, “Kev?” “Dad, yeah I need you to go to your old precinct-” “It’s the middle of the night. What the hell is going on?” “It’s Reilly,” he cut in. “He’s gone off the deep end with the Avandeyev crime family-” “Slow down.” “Just listen,” he insisted, finally setting the camera on the passenger’s seat. “I need backup.” He rushed through relaying the Coney Island address then explained, “Avandeyev has kidnapped someone and Reilly’s in cahoots.” “You’re talking crazy, Kevin.” “I’m about to go in.” “The hell you are,” he barked. Kevin

could almost see him bolting upright in bed, waking Ma. “He tried to sweep a murder under the rug, Dad. I have reason to believe he’s being paid off. Shit, I don’t care about that. I’m just giving you context so you can tell the 12th and get Uni’s down here. The woman he abducted witnessed the murder, that’s all you need to know.” “Kev, I don’t want you going off halfcocked.” “Just call the 12th!” he yelled, going out of his mind with urgency. “She’s in there right now and I don’t know what they’re doing to her.” He popped the driver’s side door and stepped out onto the street, as his father rattled off ideas about what to do and

none of them included sneaking around to the back of the warehouse like he was in the throes of doing. “You’re the only person I trust,” said Kevin before hanging up and slipping his cell into his back pocket. He eyed one of the warehouse’s steel doors, which wasn’t being guarded. As he grabbed his gun, he winced at the thought of Tasha scared and alone—and undressed. God, she hadn’t had a stitch of clothing on when Kevin had slipped out of bed for the bathroom. If they’d laid one finger on her, he’d lose his mind. Jogging to the rear door and aiming his gun low at the ground, he saw that the steel was set flush against bricks,

indicating it was likely shut and locked. When he reached it, he yanked hard on the handle, confirming his guess, and cursed under his breath. He didn’t want to announce himself, but he had to get inside and get inside fast so he aimed his GLOCK at the lock and fired. The door bucked, springing open and slamming into the frame. He widened it and proceeded with quiet, cautious steps. It was dark. The sharp smell of raw meat filled the air, choking him, and as his eyes adjusted he soon made out the shapes of animal carcasses hanging on hooks throughout the space. He didn’t see movement or figures,

no sign that anyone was around. Edging deeper into the room and trailing up an aisle of hanging meat, he heard the muffled and echoing cries of a woman. Tasha. He pivoted, sweeping his gun towards the cries, which sounded far off, and discovered a stairwell at the far corner of the warehouse. He jogged towards it, keeping his eyes peeled and scanning, and his gun poised. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, Tasha’s distress came clear as a bell, as she demanded in a weak voice, “Let me go.” Her words were slurred and her tone ragged.

Taking the treads two at a time, Kevin hurled himself up to the landing, but as he rounded the corner, preparing to sprint towards the second floor doorway, two men dressed in dark clothing and smoking cigarettes locked eyes with him. Before he could react, aim his gun, fire at will, the taller of the two Russians yelled, “Hey,” and the other whipped a gun out. “Where is she?” Kevin seethed, training his GLOCK on the shorter man. In a thick accent, the taller man said, “Drop your weapon.” Clenching his jaw and glaring at the man, Kevin didn’t budge. In an instant, an arm was around his

neck, the man behind strangling him with a chokehold. He jerked and twisted, lowering his weapon in favor of fighting, but the man had too strong a grip. Before he knew what was happening, he was being shoved through the doorway, his gun having been snatched from his hand. “I’m a cop!” he shouted. “You’re making a huge mistake.” “Shut up,” the man behind him ordered. And when Kevin did, it wasn’t because he felt like obeying. The sight of Tasha strapped to a chair in the middle of the room—her hair hanging over her face, her shoulders slumped, the ratty tee shirt they’d thrown on her bunched and

balled around her waist—had sent his mind reeling with sudden panic. Vishnevsky was smoking a cigarette a few feet off and Avandeyev, the sick bastard, was stroking Tasha’s hair. The crime boss said, “I told you what you would have to do. Fall in line. It’s not difficult.” “Let her go,” he yelled and groggily Tasha lifted her head at the familiar voice. Her eyes were lolling and glazed over, and she didn’t seem to understand her surroundings, though she began repeating, “You won’t get away with this. You won’t.” Kevin grimaced and spat words through his teeth at Avandeyev, saying,

“You might think you have Reilly in your pocket, but once he hears about this... You’re going down, all of you!” As the men jerked Kevin closer to Avandeyev, Sergeant Reilly stepped out from the shadows. “I gave you an in. It didn’t have to be like this.” “You,” he snarled. “Why didn’t you take the cash?” Reilly asked him, looking almost pained. “You could’ve looked the other way.” “And leave Tasha to fend for herself?” “Isn’t that where we are now anyway?” Avandeyev countered, grinning as if the situation almost pleased him. The man behind Kevin loosened his

grip, shoving him even closer and causing Kevin to stumble, but in an instant he righted his footing and swung around, throwing the hardest right-hook of his life. His fist landed squarely against the man’s cheek with a slam and Kevin felt a bone in his hand crack, but he didn’t stop. As the man fell, Kevin yanked the gun from the Russian’s waistband and in a flash, whipped around. From out of nowhere a spray of bullets shattered the windows behind Vishnevsky and he plummeted to the floor, Avandeyev falling after him. Kevin sprang towards Tasha and leapt, taking her to the ground with him, as gunfire leveled Reilly and the rest of

the men. Clenching his eyes shut and using his body as a shield to protect her, Kevin felt shattered glass raining over his back and stinging the side of his face, as Tasha whimpered confusedly beneath him. “I’ve got you,” he told her, as the pops and bangs gradually died out. When it was finally quiet, Kevin didn’t trust it. He lifted his head slowly, glancing around—men on the floor, blood, sirens shrieking outside—as red and blue police lights flared through the dingy warehouse. As the sound of boots stomping up the stairwell replaced the quiet, Kevin lifted off of Tasha and helped her to her feet.

He cradled her in his arms, as she rested her cheek on his shoulder and groaned, “I think they drugged me.” “Help is on the way.” Police officers outfitted in helmets and bullet proof vests swarmed into the room, as Tasha lifted her head, glancing up at Kevin. “You saved me,” she whispered. He feigned a smile, but all he could think was, Not soon enough. When he heard a gruff voice say, “I owe you one,” Kevin turned and found his father stalking into the room with the Lieutenant of the 12th Precinct by his side. His hard-ass father looked at him and nodded. As he neared them, the older

man studied Tasha and the devastation all around them then said, “A hell of a mess. I hope she’s worth it.” Kevin glanced at the woman in his arms then met his father’s gaze. “She is, trust me.”

Chapter Eleven Sunlight streaming through the window gently woke Tasha from a long night’s rest. She inhaled deeply and nuzzled into Kevin’s arm, curling up beside him. She had come to crave his scent during their week together after he’d rescued her from Avandeyev’s warehouse. In moments like this when dreams clung and the brand new day hadn’t yet begun, she couldn’t get enough of him—the sight of his bedraggled hair, his face in profile, the rise and fall of his sculpted chest, the feel of him where her arm and leg draped over his body. Kevin had fought for her. He could’ve

died. But thank God they had both walked away from that terrifying night unscathed. Though Sergeant Reilly had been shot twice—between his shoulder blades and lower back—he was alive and as far as the District Attorney had told her, he was still handcuffed to his hospital bed in the Intensive Care Unit at Beth Israel. It was only a matter of time before he would be incarcerated for conspiracy, corruption, and aiding and abetting murder, among other charges that Tasha didn’t trouble herself to remember. Avandeyev didn’t make it out of the warehouse that night and with his death, his entire crime organization would soon crumble, or so the D.A. had assured her.

Tasha’s stalker, Alexi Vishnevsky would also do hard time and was currently being held in jail pending sentencing. And most importantly, the 26th Precinct in Harlem was now on track for complete redemption, Kevin having ferreted out all of the dirty cops with the help of Internal Affairs. Kevin drew in a deep breath, waking up. His eyes drifted open and he rolled on his side, facing her. “Hey,” she said softly, as he stroked her black curls, tucking a lock behind her ear. “Are you excited?” “It’s practically Christmas morning,” she said with a smile. She had spent the week walking

around several parks and taking photos. At times Kevin had joined her, but for the most part Tasha had been content to wander alone. And the images she had captured, the stories they told, were the best she’d ever produced. She couldn’t wait to find out how the guests at Windsor Fine Art would react later today. She was practically buzzing with anticipation. And Kevin could tell. He found her waist beneath the covers and shifted her on top of him, their nude bodies aligning, his warm skin and firm muscles arousing her. The air conditioner they had bought whirred in the window. Though they both knew the danger they’d survived

had long since passed, neither felt entirely comfortable with leaving the window open while they slept. Straddling Kevin, she rocked her hips to turn him on and felt his erection grow where it lay between their stomachs. Gently, he ran his fingers through her hair and pulled her in for a kiss. When their lips met, Tasha breathed in the scent of him and grew wet, as she began stimulating herself along his shaft. She planted her palms against the mattress, lifting up and angling his penis into her. The initial contact made her gasp and as he penetrated her, her skin flared hot in response. Straightening her back and gazing down at him, she began riding him, the

feel of his hard erection inside of her stirring up heat and friction in the sweetest way. He held her hips and squeezed—one of his quirks. He liked to feel her flesh, the meat on her bones, whenever he could. She quickened the pace and he groaned, finding her breasts, cupping their shape and feeling them jiggle with her every thrust. He breathed, “How did I get so lucky?” as he watched her, feeling himself inside her, the slippery hot sheath of her body. That was the irony and she had thought about it many times. She never would’ve met Kevin had the Russian

crime organization not killed one of their own on the pier. Destiny had a funny way of working itself out... Hungry to be in control, Kevin grasped hold of her waist and effortlessly flipped her onto her back, and again pressed into her. With strong, rhythmic thrusts he began working her towards climax—Tasha’s breath quickening, her mouth drawing open. As if they shared a mind, she lifted her legs just as he hooked his arms under her knees, and she cried out in pleasure at the exquisite angle—their new favorite. She liked watching him as he drank in

the sight of her. She snuck a peek at his thick erection sliding in and out of her then rested her head back again and smiled. “I can’t get enough of you,” he groaned. “You’ll never have to,” she said softly. “I’m not going anywhere. You can have me as much as you want.” He thrust into her, holding himself deep inside, and began grinding, hitting all of her most sensitive spots. A burst of pleasure coursed through her and she knew she was close. She held onto his muscular biceps, as a swell of heat flared in her loins. Every thrust he delivered brought her a breath closer to the peak, every grind—those

creamy seconds when he’d work her good and deep—caused her to surge higher and higher. On a trembling exhale, she whispered, “I’m coming,” and he smiled as though making her climax gave him more satisfaction than actually ejaculating. She loved that smile. Reflexes taking hold, her head tipped back and a long moan escaped her, as wave upon wave began rolling, the tight sheath of her body clutching and clamping powerfully around his hard penis. He felt it and stared at her with intrigue, as he quickened his pace, eager to come now that she was.

As the wash of heat in her loins subsided, she held his face. Kevin let out a deep groan, pumping harder and faster, her body beneath him—relaxed and bouncing in rhythm. She always knew the moment he was finished and it made her smile. He released her legs, lowering against her, and then rolled to his side. She followed suit so they could face one another. He caressed her arm, his fingers traveling its length and then grazing over her hip and thigh before changing direction. Kevin had a way of soothing her. Now that she knew what love—real love—could be like, she never wanted to be without it.

It gave her pause. Love? Was she in love with him? The answer came smooth and swift, but only in her mind—Yes! He stroked her cheek and said in a quiet voice, “There’s something I should tell you.” Her heart skipped a beat. Good news was never prefaced like that. “What?” she asked. He leaned in, kissed her, and when he drew back, he said, “I love you.” She melted. They looked at each other for a long moment and finally she said, “I love you, too.” Tasha and Kevin spent the morning in bed, talking and caressing each other,

making love and drinking coffee when the craving for either struck. They spent the afternoon in Central Park, kissing and taking in the scenery—cherry blossoms in bloom, tourists meandering at a snails pace, jugglers and mimes panhandling for change. As the sun set, they made love again in her apartment then got ready for her art exhibition. Tasha dressed in a slinky black dress with her signature wedge-heeled sneakers, and Kevin wore a dark suit, his gun hidden in an ankle holster under the pant-leg, not that he had any use for his weapon when he wasn't on the job. They took a cab down to Chelsea and after it had pulled up to the curb in front of Windsor Fine Art, Tasha popped the

rear door open, stepping onto the sidewalk. As soon as Kevin had paid the fare and joined her, she said, “You’re finally going to meet my friends.” “Can’t wait,” he said easily and they crossed the sidewalk and entered the brightly lit gallery. Inside, a crowd of tailored-looking guests were milling about with wine in their hands, their eyes on the art. Tasha was one of five local artists whose work was on display. She suggested they grab a glass of wine and as soon as they did, the gallery curator, Abigail Sorenson rushed up, booming out a whirlwind greeting. “Tasha, everyone loves your

photographs.” Her eyes widened excitedly and when she glanced around the gallery she saw small red stickers on the price tags of several of her prints, indicating they had already been sold. “I’ll let you get acclimated,” Abigail went on. “Then I have a number of people I’d like you to meet.” The curator rushed off as quickly as she had come, greeting another artist who was now arriving. “Star of the party,” Kevin commented teasingly then grew sincere as he said, “these really are incredible.” They crossed through the crowd to one of her photos—a homeless man sleeping on a darkened street directly in

front of the 5th Avenue bedroom display at West Elm. The richest of the rich brushing up against the poorest of the poor—that was Manhattan in a nutshell. From across the crowd, Greer called out, “Congratulations,” throwing her arms open for Tasha as she worked her way over. Jennifer was in tow with Greer’s boyfriend, Hunter Black, who smiled proudly at his photographer friend. They took turns hugging Tasha and then formed a circle. “This is Kevin Wright,” she told them, making introductions. “The cop,” Jennifer supplied, being the first to shake his hand and give him the once over in a way that made Tasha blush with embarrassment.

Kevin was gracious about it and made small talk of praising Tasha’s accomplishment and marveling at the gallery. Then Hans Janz's distinct voice cut through the air, as he complained, “Utter crap.” Tasha turned to find her employer frowning at the photo she had taken of Catholic schoolgirls sitting on one of the large rocks in Central Park near an aged homeless woman who was scarfing down a sandwich. She told Kevin and her friends, “Excuse me,” and worked her way through the crowd. Hans didn’t even acknowledge her presence when she reached him, but began a scathing

critique of all the mistakes she had made in the darkroom. Interrupting his crass tirade, she squared her shoulders at him and used a firm tone to assert, “My work is getting a positive response.” As if he wasn’t convinced, he shot her a sideways glance and snorted. Quickly, she scanned the room, counting all the red stickers next to her photos—enough to get by for three months, she calculated, assuming the gallery would pay promptly. Regardless of whether it did or not, she’d had enough of Hans Janz, that was for damn sure. “It was nice of you to come,” she said, “but...” She hesitated, mentally

checking the gate—there would be no turning back. Good, she thought as she announced, “I quit.” “You what?” he asked, astounded. With a smile she said, “You heard me” and then quickly joined Kevin, who was standing in front of the one photograph she had included in the exhibit even though it didn’t match the others. Blown-up to the dimensions of fourby-four feet, the photo was a selfie of Tasha and Kevin kissing in the park as cherry blossom petals fluttered all around them. He turned, touching eyes with her, and an unspoken conversation ensued. She knew exactly what he was

thinking. She laced her fingers with his and as they kissed, the guests began taking photos of them, flashes bursting and her friends awing from the wayside. It didn’t get any better than this. ***If you enjoyed this story, please leave a review!***

AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY Click here to "like" me on Facebook Mira Gibson is a playwright, screenwriter, and novelist. After majoring in Playwriting at Bard College, Mira was accepted into Youngblood, the playwrights group at Ensemble Studio Theatre (NYC). There, Mira's plays received developmental readings and workshops. Most notably: Daddy Soda (2009), Old Flame (2012), and Diamond in the House of Thieves (2012). Her one-act play The Red White and Blue Process received a commission from The Sloan Foundation. And her one-act

play Old Flame won the Samuel French Playwriting Competition and is available for licensing via Samuel French Play Publishers. In 2012 Mira's first screenplay, Warfield was produced by Summer Smoke Productions. It is available on Amazon Direct. She lives in Los Angeles, CA. Story is her life. www.mira-gibson.com If you liked this story, please CLICK HERE to join my mailing list where you will be the first to know about new releases, discounts, and giveaways!

Copyright © 2016 Published by: Mira Gibson All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. For questions and comments about this book, please contact http://www.mira-gibson.com

Cover photo Shutterstock.com

image

credit: