Apache Nights. Sheri WhiteFeather
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me? Do you know how offensive that is?”
“It doesn’t help that you’re a cop.”
“Screw you, Kyle. On both counts.”
He wanted to move closer, to touch her, to stop her from being so angry, but he kept his hands to himself. “You’re making a bigger deal out of this than it is.”
“Am I?” She rounded on him. “You’re part white. So what does that say about you?”
He wasn’t about to answer her question. He didn’t want to discuss his childhood with her. Or his adulthood, for that matter. Being a half-blood wasn’t easy, not then and not now. “Drop it, Joyce. Let it go.”
“Why? Because you don’t want to admit that you’re a bigot? Do you know how many hate crimes are committed in this country? People bashing other people because—”
“I’m not committing a hate crime. I’m not hurting anyone.” As soon as those words spilled out of his mouth, he wanted to take them back. He’d just hurt her. He could see it in her eyes.
Blue eyes. White eyes, as his ancestors used to say.
“Why do you hate being attracted to me?” he asked, turning the tables on her.
“Not because you’re Apache. I don’t let someone’s race get in the way.”
“Then what is it?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe it’s the way you make me feel. All hot and jumbled. Not like myself.”
“You do that to me, too.”
“I know.” She grabbed her gym bag. “But I’m not interested in training with you anymore.”
“So that’s it? We’re done?” He shouldn’t care. It shouldn’t matter. But it did. The thought of losing her clenched his gut. He didn’t want her to disappear.
Yet when she left, when she walked away, he let her go, unable to admit that the choice he’d made was based on prejudice.
At 9:00 p.m. Kyle walked through the courtyard of Joyce’s apartment building. She lived in a large complex, with flourishing flower beds, lush greenbelts and winding hardscape.
He approached the sidewalk that led to her stairwell and frowned at the path in front of him. He’d called Olivia and asked her for Joyce’s address, and now he was taking reluctant steps to her door.
He’d never apologized to a woman before and the notion of saying “I’m sorry” was making him squeamish. He’d rather be tortured, stretched on a medieval rack with metal thumbscrews on his hands and an iron mask on his face.
Then what was he doing here?
He ignored the question and started up the stairs. Her unit, D-2, was on the right. On the left was D-4. Both doors displayed Halloween decorations. Joyce had chosen a glow-in-the-dark skeleton, a friendly looking fellow who mocked him with a toothy grin.
He knocked on D-2 and waited for her to answer. She didn’t respond. So he knocked again, harder this time. He knew she was home. He’d seen her car in the parking structure and if he listened close enough, he could hear strains of one of those crime scene investigation shows on her TV.
As if she didn’t get enough of that in real life.
Finally footsteps sounded. But she didn’t open the door. He assumed she was peering through the peephole to see who was standing on her second-story stoop.
He made a face, letting her know that he felt like a fool, keeping company with a plastic skeleton. Lucky for him, the Halloween decoration wasn’t obstructing her view.
Or maybe it was unlucky. She still didn’t answer.
“Come on, Joyce. Let me in.”
Nothing. Nada.
“I didn’t even bring a gun.” He stepped back and turned in a small circle.
Still nothing.
He cursed and removed the skeleton. “Check this out.” He waltzed with the bony creature, making its legs dangle. “I bet you didn’t know I could dance.”
Suddenly a door opened. But it wasn’t Joyce. Still romancing the skeleton, he turned around and made eye contact with her neighbors, an elderly couple staring at him as if he’d lost his mind.
“Evening,” he said, switching to a tango and dipping the neon bag of bones.
They continued gaping at him. The old man was as bald as a billiard ball and his wife had a neck like a turkey. Kyle figured they’d been married for at least a hundred years.
“What are you doing?” the man finally asked.
“Trying to make Detective Riggs swoon.” He used the skeleton’s hand to gesture to his loose-fitting shirt, snug jeans and battered moccasins. “Can’t you tell? I’m a regular Romeo.”
“He’s crazy,” the woman murmured.
“I’ll bet he’s an undercover cop.” The husband gave his six-foot-four frame a serious gander. “He’s just the type.”
Without another word, they closed the door in his face, assuming he was one of Joyce’s offbeat peers. Kyle didn’t know whether to laugh or defend his own pathetic honor.
“I see you met Mr. and Mrs. Winkler.”
He spun around. Joyce had managed to open her door without him knowing it. So much for his warrior skills. She was holding a pistol on him, too.
Him and the skeleton.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“As if you don’t know.” She closed her door and came outside, instructing him to assume the frisk position.
He couldn’t help but grin. “Is this a sexual thing?”
“Don’t get cute.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He decided it might be fun to let a lady cop pat him down. He hung the skeleton back on its nail, spread his legs and pressed his palms against her door. The only problem was that he’d lied about not being armed. He had his favorite SIG shoved in the waistband of his pants, aimed at the family jewels and covered by his shirt.
Good thing the safety was on.
She searched him, getting familiar in all the right places. “Just what I figured.” She confiscated the semiautomatic, grazing his abdomen in the process. “Where’s your CCW license, Kyle?”
“I don’t have one.” He’d never bothered to apply for a permit to carry a concealed weapon. Mostly because he knew he’d never get one. California was stingy that way. He turned around, his stomach muscles jumping. Her hands on his body had felt damn good. “Are you going to bust me?”
She motioned with the barrel of his gun. She’d already holstered hers. “Get inside.”
He entered her apartment, wondering if she liked cartoons. Quick Draw McGraw had been one of his favorites when he was a kid.
She followed him into the living room, closed the door and removed the magazine from his weapon. Then she retrieved a metal pistol box, put his unloaded SIG inside and locked it. Only then, did she return his now useless gun.
He frowned at her. She hadn’t given him the key. Or the magazine. He set the locked box on a nearby table. “I ought to file a complaint against you. Illegal search and seizure. Or sexual harassment or something.”
Her smile was brief. Faint. Barely there. By now, she’d stored her pistol, too, keeping it away from him. “You do have nice abs.”
“Oh, yeah?” He moved closer, attempting to touch her hair. As much as he hated to admit it, the pale yellow color fascinated him. “So it was a sexual thing.”
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