Soul Rest, Page 2

  "The lasagna doesn't suck," he said behind her. She heard the sterno rattle, the waft of grilled meat smell telling her his selection. Then came the noise of the pump bottle as he chose his nacho cheese. "Jai has some fresh tomatoes up front. One of the ladies who lives nearby has a window garden. She barters tomatoes for cigarettes. If you cut them up over the lasagna, add a little salt, they'll give the lasagna more of a home-cooked taste. If you've got a good imagination."

  She looked over her shoulder at him. Closing the lid of a sturdy cardboard container over a copious amount of meat, cheese, lettuce and tomato, he stacked two sealed packages of nachos on top of it. When he straightened and turned toward her, she found herself sandwiched between a cool refrigerated unit and a warm large male. The contrast was stimulating and the proximity...unsettling.

  In her field, she dealt with a variety of alpha males. If the man in question copped an attitude, she might go balls-out aggressive with him, or shoot calm logic his way, depending on the personality or what she was trying to learn. Once a rapport was established, banter was typically the best way to go, a little on the rough side, so they grew more comfortable around her as the professional relationship progressed. Being seen as "one of the guys" also made her less of a pickup target.

  However, there was one alpha personality type that could knock her off her stride. She couldn't describe it in words, because when she came up against it, her reaction was purely gut level. She'd experienced it firsthand only one night, at a BDSM club fittingly called Surreal, but since that night was stamped forever on her memory, she had a physical and emotional reaction to the quality that was all out of proportion with what it should be. It intrigued her, unbalanced her, scared her.

  She was convinced the reason her dating life was the occasional meaningless hookup was because of that night. Whether it stemmed from the fear that she'd find it again and not know how to handle it, or that she'd discover it had been a fluke, she didn't know.

  Yet when she met Sergeant Keller's gaze, she saw that quality there. Unmistakable Master, a sexual Dominant, whether he actively embraced it or not.

  "Your clothes don't match you," he said. He had a Southern accent, but she didn't think it was from Louisiana. Baton Rouge and New Orleans were melting pots of Southern transplants. His baritone was infused with such natural authority she expected he'd be the top choice for any situation where people needed to believe that someone was in charge, in control, keeping them safe. Or to assure them they were facing someone capable of kicking their asses. Like a Daddy who knew just when a trip to the woodshed was needed to teach the offender the three most important rules about self. Self-control, self-respect, self-discipline.

  Crap. It really was late, if she was letting her mind creep into that area. But instead of escaping to the front of the convenience store, she pivoted on her torturous heel so they were toe to toe.

  "That's rather presumptuous," she said. There really wasn't a lot of room between the end of the counter and the freezer case.

  Since she hadn't detected any suspicious looks at the grunge club, she surmised his comment showed he was exceptionally good at his job, not that she was poor at hers. What was curious was why he'd decided to confront her about it. His tone reflected curiosity, not interrogation, though a lot of cops didn't recognize there was supposed to be a difference between the two.

  Keller did, even if it was after the fact. Rueful amusement crossed his expression. "Sorry. Being nosy."

  She lifted a shoulder. "It's your job to take a second look at something that doesn't quite fit. If you live around here, you watch after things. Like women who trade cigarettes for tomatoes."

  As she blinked, the weight of her lashes reminded her of the excess mascara she was wearing. She regretted not washing it off before coming into the convenience store, but she reminded herself that didn't matter. Cop. Sergeant. Not a fuck buddy. It was important for a career girl to remember her priorities. Whether he had "that" quality or not was irrelevant. Besides, if she pursued it and found out her craving for submission had been a one-time occurrence, it would make that long-ago memorable night a lie. She wasn't in the mood for that kind of reality check.

  She focused past that onto something more important. Being the best at her job. "You picked up on it pretty quick," she said. "What gave me away?"

  "Body language. Vocabulary. The way you wear your clothes. They're a costume, not a fashion statement."

  "I'm undercover," she said. "Slutty tough chick gave the source I was meeting better street cred than earnest Lois Lane with her recorder, trying to nail down details about the latest drug buys."

  Some reporters tried to pretend to be someone else to get information out of cops. She'd followed such unsound advice only once, early in her career, and quickly learned whatever juicy tidbit earned was far outweighed by the permanent destruction of a potentially useful relationship. So she made a habit of letting them know as soon as possible. Best case, wary courtesy; worst case, open hostility.

  She'd received plenty of reactions from both ends, so when his gaze went cool, that lush mouth tight and firm, it wasn't unexpected. But it did sting more than she'd anticipated. "I imagine so," he said. "Good night, ma'am."

  Picking up his nachos, he moved toward the beverage cases. "Well, fine," she muttered. "Fuck off to you, too."

  His reaction was why she'd worked her ass off to establish her own news blog, weaning herself off of working for a paper. It had taken several years and an absurd amount of hours, but now she had enough subscriptions and advertisers to give her more freedom in what kind of stories she'd write, and for whom. And she'd done it purely on faith. The faith that most people wanted news, not a selectively editorialized piece to promote sensational slants or a story released half-baked just to say she reported it first. It had been hard to do in the beginning, but typing "I'll tell you more when I know more" had paid off. Her audience knew they might have to wait a little longer, but when she wrote the story up, it would be thorough, unbiased and accurate.

  It was a fierce source of pride to her, and she'd strive to keep it that way. No matter how many armpits she had to visit in the middle of the night, or how many hot-looking cops treated her like shit until they learned she was different.

  She chose the lasagna and a small side salad and went up front, picking out a tomato from the basket by Jai's cash register. A reporter was only as good as her network, and the value of that network depended on creating solid relationships. She'd made a lot of those connections in this neighborhood, Jai being one of them. The middle-aged potbellied man of Asian Indian descent had been born in Chicago. He owned the store and occasionally did the late shift on the nights his wife was working her 3-day, 12-hour rotation as an ER nurse. When he worked the graveyard hours, he did it with the door unlocked, but on the nights he didn't cover that shift, he had the store rigged for window service only, to protect his employees. His two daughters were in college. One was fanatically pursuing a medical degree. The other was in her first year at LSU and majoring in partying, if his exasperated but always loving comments about her were any indication.

  As she put down her choices, he gave her a considering look. "Rough day?"

  "Eh." She shrugged, thought of Loretta's parents. "A lot worse for others."

  He nodded. "Had the TV on and saw you in the background at that Stiles thing. You didn't ask any questions."

  "No. I didn't have a chance to tag anyone useful for a quick off-the-record to start filling in the blanks. I left when the reporters started being bigger assholes than usual."

  "I thought that's how they get things done." He was teasing her to get her to smile. She obliged him with a faint curve of her lips, but talking about it brought the anger back.

  "They want to get the parents to talk about their daughter, cry on camera. 'How do you feel?' How do you think they feel, you fucking morons? When it was clear they weren't going to give the reporters shit, a couple of them are shouting out things like 'Don't
you want people to know how much you loved your daughter?' They'll probably figure out a way to drag them on air in the next couple days and orgasm behind their cameras if they can trick Mom into blaming a public official, the Second Amendment, or the size of soft drinks for her daughter's death."

  She took a breath as Jai shook his head. One of the things she liked best about the store owner was how emotionally connected he was to his community, which was reflected now by the flash of sorrow in his eyes, as well as some of the anger Mr. Stiles probably felt. Jai's youngest daughter wasn't much older than Loretta, after all.

  "If I'd been Mr. Stiles," she declared, "I'd have sprayed them with buckshot."

  "That would be a felony."

  She started. She hadn't expected Keller to be behind her. Either he'd moved that quietly, or she'd been too caught up in what she was telling Jai.

  "Or a public service," she retorted. "Just depends on your perspective."

  She won an easing of that hard mouth, his eyes studying her a little differently now. "Some of my squad were doing crowd control at that circus."

  "They deserve a medal for not opening fire." Taking a breath, she stuck out a hand. "Celly Lewis. Celeste."

  She frowned. Even though she thought of herself as Celeste, she gave people her sassy, shorter byline name, because it went better with the image she projected. But under his steady gaze, she'd added it without thinking. "I do a news blog for the New Orleans and Baton Rouge areas. And occasionally I do freelance work for those ratings-driven fuck heads that made you dislike me on sight. The reason I do a news blog is because it lets me be a journalist, instead of a collection agent for inflammatory sound bites."

  "She's smart, isn't she, Leland?" Jai said. "And pretty. Girls are pretty. Girls are good."

  Leland gave him a narrow look, putting his nachos down to withdraw his wallet and hand the store owner a crisp twenty for his meal. Sergeant Leland Keller. Celeste made a note to look him up on the BRPD organizational chart. Maybe he had a social media page with photos of him shirtless. Hey, they were in a riverfront community, right on the Mississippi River. It was possible.

  Yeah, right. He looked like the type of cop who'd jump at the chance to share personal info about himself through social media. Not. He put the change Jai handed him back into his wallet without glancing at it, because his eyes were back on her.

  "What would you have asked?" he said, picking up the soda he'd bought and twisting it open with a short hiss. "If you could have asked the parents something?"

  "Not a thing." She rolled her eyes. "They have enough to deal with right now, and the lead detective needs them focusing on vital details for him. He's the one I'd love to interview. Not that the detectives usually give up much of anything. You have to figure stuff out on the periphery."

  "How do you do that?"

  "Trade secrets, Sergeant." She gave him a bland smile. "Research. Networking. Vocabulary. Body language. That kind of thing."

  He snorted at that, offered her the Dr Pepper before he took it to his own lips. "Want a sip?"

  "Yeah, sure." Their fingers brushed, and she saw the flicker in his eyes as he registered the contact. His fingers had heat in them, and she bet his hands were impossibly strong. Gentle. She cleared her throat. She attributed the tingle under her breastbone to the fizz of the soda.

  "But if I could ask him something, I'd want to know if it was a crime of opportunity or personal. Do they think it was someone she knew or was she just a type he preferred? Do we have enough on the suspect to put out a description so we can help catch him?"

  "Are you asking me for that information?" He got that tight look again, as if he'd walked into a trap.

  "No. You asked me what I would ask. I'm just answering you. I figure we've both had a long enough day." Handing the soda back to him after the quick swallow, she glanced at Jai. "How much?"

  "Nothing." Jai tilted his head toward Leland. "He just paid for both of you."

  Leland looked surprised at that, and Celeste suppressed a chuckle. "If your local Mini-Mart employee is matchmaking for you, you haven't had a date in a long, long, long time, have you?"

  "One or two more 'longs' would be necessary," Jai said.

  "I'm sure there are some code violations in here," Leland muttered. "Those tomatoes haven't been through a USDA inspection. Keep it up."

  "Hey, I'm from Chicago. You don't scare me, copper," Jai said, beefing up the Windy City accent.

  Another knot of customers arrived. Celeste guessed them to be three men carpooling from the night shift at one of the petroleum plants. From the way Jai greeted them, they were regulars, so Celeste took her cue for departure. Jai had kindly packed her dinner up in a paper bag the same way he had for Leland. While they were talking, she'd seen the store owner add extra packets of Parmesan cheese and her preferred salad dressing, as well as some crunchy roasted bell peppers. He'd dropped packets of extra sauce into Leland's bag.

  Leland gave Jai a nod and followed her out, holding the door for Celeste with one long arm. "I think he has every kind of condiment or topping you could ever want behind that counter," she said as the door settled closed behind them.

  "He says he keeps them there to prevent sticky fingers from grabbing more than their share, but I think he likes adding them himself. That personal touch."

  She stopped in front of her car. She hadn't had to furnish her car a disguise for her visit with Neil. The battered and ancient Honda in a faded-blue color like old jeans looked exactly like what someone going to a club with a low sanitation rating would drive.

  She shot Leland an amused look, though her radar was on alert. He'd stopped with her, rather than giving her a courteous good night and going on his way. "So you haven't had a date in an exponentially long time?" she ventured. "What's that about?"

  "I haven't found what I'm looking for, and I got tired of fishing." He shifted. "You like sports?"

  "That's pretty general. Are we talking baseball or curling?"

  "The only sport that means anything."

  "Ah. Football."

  He had a breathtaking smile, especially when the golden-brown eyes warmed. She glanced around and only saw Jai's car and the one belonging to the three men. "Are you on foot?"

  "I only live about a half mile that way," he said. "Good to have police living in some of the rougher spots. Makes it a little safer for folks, and shows the kids we're not the enemy."

  "I did a story on that in New Orleans. It's a good idea." She hesitated, then admonished herself to get in her car. Now. "Well, I'll see you around."

  "Would you like to come back to my place and watch some recaps?" he asked. "I usually tape a few game highlights and watch them or ESPN to unwind. Gives you a place to eat your salad. I have a microwave that can handle that lasagna."

  "You're offering to let me use a microwave and watch dated sports news with you." She pursed her lips. "I'm starting to see the problem with your dating life."

  He chuckled, and that baritone did marvelous things to it. She wondered what a full-throated laugh would sound like. Her abused toes wanted to curl.

  "Any other time I'd squeal like a high school cheerleader at the chance to visit the home of a total stranger who outweighs me by a hundred pounds and is a foot taller than me," she said, "but I need to get out of these boots from hell. I don't want you to get the wrong idea when I strip them off. You might think I'm undressing for you and be overcome with lust."

  "I can restrain my baser urges," he said dryly. "And in defense of my dating abilities, I might like watching sports, but I know how to focus on a woman. Though if the Tigers are playing--"

  "Then you better shut the hell up so I can watch," she said. "We can talk about your feelings any old time."

  He grinned. "Nice to know you care."

  "About a man's feelings? One, you have to assume he has any worth considering, and two, no."

  "Ouch. Okay, I'm taking my nachos and my bruised feelings and going home."

  "Fine, you
big pussy." This was her groove. She traded spirited trash talk with the uniforms all the time. She tried to ignore the extra kick she experienced when his eyes twinkled, but apparently her mouth hadn't caught up to her brain. "Maybe I better at least give you a ride to your place. Someone with your tender feelings won't be safe on these streets this late at night."

  "Feisty."

  "Most people prefer bitchy."

  "Maybe they're not looking close enough."

  She glanced up at that. He was looking pretty close. They were standing as near to one another as they'd been at the frozen food case, though they had plenty more room behind them to widen that space. No question that they were flirting, but the way he looked at her touched those deeper things inside her. It made her hold his gaze longer than was wise. His shoulder twitched, and she thought he was going to lift his hand, trace her mouth with one of those long fingers. She'd stay still as he did it, waiting for him to tell her what he wanted next.

  She stepped back, broke the spell. "I'm not trying to assume anything here, but I don't want to be misleading, either," she said. "I don't date people who have a good chance of being a lead or source. It's late, and I know how these things can unfold. Going back to your place can lead to other stuff. We're both adults, no sense denying it."

  "Okay." He pursed that distracting mouth. "Then I'll make you a couple promises. You will never use me as a lead or source. And no matter what, we won't have sex tonight. I won't take off a single item of clothing. Not even my shoes. Even if you taunt me by taking off your boots."

  The man was charming, mainly because he wasn't trying to be charming. Despite the humor of the last statement, every sentence before it had been issued in a straightforward tone, with that unsettling direct eye contact. He was laying down the structure, the rules to dictate how it would be between them. Also a Dom thing. She couldn't help shifting her gaze away when he did that. She tried to snap it right back, but she saw the flicker in his gaze. He'd caught it, and she had a feeling he'd understood why she'd done it better than she did.

  She tried to remain sensible, steer it away from all that. "So if I strip down naked and beg you to bang me like drum, I get nothing."