Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 67966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 340(@200wpm)___ 272(@250wpm)___ 227(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 340(@200wpm)___ 272(@250wpm)___ 227(@300wpm)
“Is it nothing?” Lincoln asked, opening the passenger door, the locks disengaged.
“I certainly hope so,” Thorn murmured as he backed his car past Lincoln’s Ducati and Axel’s Range Rover.
Virginia Beach Police Department
Second Precinct
1:59 a.m.
Lincoln wasn’t surprised to see Detective Channing Sharpe and his partner, Kelly, waiting as soon as they walked through the double doors of the Second Precinct on Baltic Avenue.
Sharpe’s cocky stance and smugness behind that gold badge served to reignite the fiery energy that burned between them.
The look Lincoln fired back was pure contempt and animosity.
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Blackwell,” Detective Kelly said.
“As if he had a choice,” Lincoln snarled.
Kelly raised her hands in a let’s-all-relax gesture. “There’s always a choice, Mr. Blackwell.”
“Yeah. Our way or the hard way,” Sharpe added for good measure.
Lincoln rolled his eyes, “Great. So we have to deal with Butch Kelly and the Mean-Ass Kid.”
“Real fuckin’ funny.” Sharpe took an aggressive step in his direction.
Kelly slammed her hand against her partner’s chest and hissed, “Cool it, Sharpe.”
“Later, motherfucker,” Sharpe mouthed in Lincoln’s direction the moment his partner turned away.
Lincoln was tempted to flip up his middle finger, but a fraction of his bravado faltered as he glanced around at the weary faces of the few officers hunched at their desks, appearing tired, underpaid, and suffocated by the monotony.
The thought of this life made Lincoln’s skin itch. He couldn’t fathom existing in such a bleak environment.
Instead of voicing the contempt for Sharpe resting on the back of his tongue, he smothered it behind a gentlemanly smile—elegant, peaceful, and well-rehearsed from Thorn’s teachings.
Sharpe’s brows dipped into a sharp, condescending scowl, seeming pissed that Lincoln refused to rise to the bait, disappointment marring his stern face.
His gaze dropped and lingered at the hollow of Lincoln’s throat, as if he could taste the words Lincoln swallowed back—every vicious retort and curse smothered beneath his charming grin.
“Follow me, Mr. Blackwell.” Detective Kelly pointed toward a steel door with a keypad entrance. “This shouldn’t take long. Your company can wait in the lobby.”
“The hell I will,” Lincoln growled.
“Linc, it’s fine. Let’s not cause a scene.” Thorn touched his shoulder, his warm palm a comforting touch Lincoln had come to rely on over the years. “Be a sweetheart for me, please.”
“Anything for you.” Lincoln hugged Thorn. “I’ll be right here.”
Thorn smiled softly before he disappeared with Kelly behind the door. Lincoln was positive Thorn had nothing to do with his ex’s murder, but the story he’d told him on their way downtown about Lucas and the encounter they’d all had in the restaurant last week would not look good to a homicide detective.
The thought of Thorn being in legal trouble again made his stomach ball into knots.
Thorn might be back there a while since he and Evan had a sordid, complex, and oftentimes violent history.
Lincoln kept his mouth shut when he strolled past Detective Sharpe. There was no way he could sit and wait in such a drab environment.
He walked to the corner of the street, leaned against the bus stop bench, and lit a cigarette.
It was a nice night, cold but clean, that calming coolness he loved before the beginning of a winter storm.
The sky was dark and littered with gray rain clouds, making it impossible to see the stars.
Lincoln pulled on his cigarette and inhaled deeply, unsure when he’d be able to enjoy his next one. Thorn hated his smoking habit and had been on him for a while about quitting.
He was almost finished with his cigarette and debating lighting another when movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention.
A figure was creeping toward him from a half-block up.
Lincoln narrowed his eyes, not blinking until a passing car’s headlights cut across the figure and bared the persona’s face.
Fuckin’ Sharpe.
Annoyance flared and knocked at the back of Lincoln’s skull as he flicked his cigarette toward the gutter.
No matter how much he tried, Lincoln couldn’t tear his eyes away. Sharpe’s casual gait, brooding dark aura, and the mystery that wrapped and protected him formed a trifecta Lincoln was despised to find hot as fuck.
If only the guy weren’t such a dick. Literally.
Sharpe didn’t say a word, and after a long, weird moment of silence, Lincoln scoffed.
“Is this your superior detective strategy? Stare someone down until they confess something.”
“You got something you wanna confess?”
Lincoln hated how his cock took notice of Sharpe’s raspy voice and threatening tone.
Why does that turn me on so fuckin’ much?
Lincoln ignored the jab.
“I’m done playing these games with you. As soon as Thorn proves he had nothing to do with Evan’s murder, we’re outta here.”
Lincoln inched a step closer, close enough to inhale Sharpe’s true scent, the dark musk threaded with the stench of leather worn too long, subtle smokiness from his last cigarette, undercut by the sharp tang of black coffee.
Sharpe’s skin was tanned and sun-roughened, the kind of tone and texture worn by a man who potentially spent his days away from the precinct, working outside under the punishing sun.