Dishing It Out. Molly O'Keefe
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know, Mother Hen, which is my new nickname for you, I have never even been to California.” He didn’t slur, but his words, his demeanor, were all loose. So different from usual.
“I thought you said it was a hellhole.”
“Seems like it would be, anyway. Can’t even pay their own damn bills.”
“Yes, Grandpa. Now let’s get you up and out.”
“I can walk.” He got to his feet. No weaving or tripping, but there was a difference in his gait. Not that measured, stiff walk he usually had. This walk was a lot more wiggly.
But he followed her, and even though he was definitely inebriated, he watched her as she made sure the rest of the guys were out the door, too, and she got the weirdest feeling he was silently judging her for it.
Well, let him. He’d obviously come from a department where having each other’s backs was not important. That was not how BCPD worked. Period.
Her phone buzzed and she closed her eyes for a second before slipping into her car. Maybe when they got home she’d call Dad and try to talk him down, but she wasn’t giving in and going over there, and she certainly wasn’t talking to him with Marc in the car next to her.
“So, what were you and Stumpf talking about?”
“Aliens,” he said, deadpan.
“You were not.”
“Oh, yes. He was trying to convince me he’s seen a UFO. To which I said N-O.”
Tess laughed and shook her head. “I hate to encourage drinking, but you’re a lot funnier with a few under your belt.”
“Maybe that’s been my problem all along.”
Her first instinct was to poke and prod and figure out what problem he thought he had. She liked to fix problems. But something about the way he looked grim and stiff again made her clamp her mouth shut as she pulled into their apartment complex parking lot.
Her phone buzzed. Again. She didn’t bother to look this time. Just clicked the ignore button through her pocket.
She should have turned off the phone. Sure, it wouldn’t stop Dad from calling, but it would stop her from the stab of guilt after each ring.
“Seriously, what’s the constant calling about?” Marc asked, gesturing at her pocket as he walked leisurely toward the door.
When she laughed, he squinted at her and his hand missed the handle of the complex door. “What’re you laughing at?”
“Aboot.”
“Huh?”
She giggled again. “Your Minnesota shows when you’re drunk.”
“I’m not drunk! I’ve never been drunk in my life.” He stepped inside and then promptly tripped over the mat, barely catching himself on the wall.
“Never?” She offered Marc her shoulder and he grumbled something before using her as a bit of a steady crutch on their way up the stairs.
“Not once. Didn’t even touch a drop until I was twenty-one. I am a perfect citizen through and through.”
“You really are a superhero.”
“The world loves superheroes. They have women and families falling all over them telling them how great they are. Well, when their parents aren’t dead. Still, I am no superhero.”
Oh, don’t have hidden hurts. Please don’t have hidden hurts. She was such a sucker for hurts of any kind. She wanted to soothe. Then there was the whole fact Marc was all muscle. Yummy, chiseled muscle leaning against her.
That leaning was enough to bring a little sanity into the equation. She couldn’t juggle someone else who needed to lean on her. Dad took all her be-someone-else’s-rock strength.
So she gave Marc a nudge so he leaned, with an ungraceful thud, against his door.
He squinted down at her, and even with the squint and the slightly glazed-over eyes, the color had impact. He had impact, and she did not have the time or energy to be impacted.
But there were certain parts of her body not getting that memo.
“Sleep it off, buddy. You don’t want me storming your gates in the morning, because it won’t be late and I won’t be nice.”
His gaze dropped. A quick, odd, up-and-down once-over. The kind she usually got in a guy’s face for, but because he was drunk and that was kind of her fault, she let it go.
Totally had nothing to do with the fact she liked it from him. You are one sick puppy, Camden.
“Drink some water. Take some aspirin and get some sleep, Captain Quiet.”
“Night, Mother Hen.”
She gave him a mock salute and then walked to her apartment and slipped inside. She pulled out her phone. Twelve missed calls. Six voice mails. All from Dad.
It took a lot of willpower. A lot of thinking about her meeting with Franks earlier today to delete the messages unheard. She knew what they’d be. The first would be sweet, ending in crying. Increasingly belligerent with each message.
She got enough of him calling her a bitch to her face—she didn’t have to deal with it via message. Not tonight.
Are you sure you want to delete all messages?
She stared at the little pop-up, not sure for how long, then clicked yes with more force than necessary. He would not get her in trouble again. Police work was the only thing she could count on in this life, and no amount of crappy guilt or biological duty was going to make her screw that up.
* * *
MARC STARED AT the coffeepot slowly spitting out dark liquid. Scowling was probably a better word. Glowering.
He felt like utter shit. Head pounding, dizzy, queasy. All from a few too many beers and one weird cocktail Stumpf had talked him into. How did all those people who’d rolled their eyes at his two-beer limit over the years enjoy this?
The pounding at the door made him wince, then growl. Then groan because, damn it, that all hurt.
The pounding started again. Moving gingerly, Marc walked to the door and jerked it open. “Do. You. Mind?”
Tess’s sunny smile only served to irritate him further. “Morning, sunshine.” She was in her uniform, like he was, and her hair was back in that tight work braid. Which reminded him of how loose it had been last night, how tight her jeans had—
“I’m just waiting for coffee,” he grumbled, turning away from her. “No thanks to you, I feel like I’m going to die.”
“Hey, I didn’t force-feed you any of those beers. Didn’t buy you any, either.”
“It was whatever concoction Stumpf convinced me to drink. I’m sure of it. But I wouldn’t have been there to drink it if not for you.” He poured his coffee into a travel mug before flipping off the coffeemaker and unplugging it.
“Sorry our welcome was so unwelcome.”
He turned to face her and found her looking around his living room. “Sparse. Stark. Why am I not surprised?”
“Am I going to come home some day when we’re not in each other’s pockets to find you’ve mother henned your way into sneaking throw pillows on my couch and frilly curtains in the window?”
She laughed, a full-bodied, sexy laugh.
This attraction thing was getting really annoying.
“If you ever see my apartment, you’ll know why that’s laughable. Now, can we get going, or what?”
“I’m not late.”
“We will be if you keep chitchatting.”