BLACK WIDOW (Book #1 of The Black Widow Series) Page 2

  Another sad, dark-haired beauty. Friday nights had never been so fun.

  I pulled out my phone for something to do. And so I wouldn’t feel like a creep staring at her. I searched for the score for the Cubs game and cursed silently when I found it. Everyone was losing tonight.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I watched the woman pull a book from her bag. She opened it, and when she seemed immediately immersed, I finally took the opportunity to check her out. I was always hyper aware of the people around me. Professional curse. I trusted no one. Especially on the L late at night.

  She was more than just a little pretty. Her dark hair, pulled back away from her face, revealed flawless porcelain skin and delicate features. Her lips were full and pouty. If Trevor and I were still speaking to each other, he would say she was exactly my type. I wondered what Melinda would say.

  As she read, the previous heaviness in her expression lifted. She tapped one foot in the air, flashing a red sole at me. I didn’t know much about women’s shoes, but hers looked expensive. She was either too rich to be slumming it on a train that smelled like dirty socks, or she was pretending she was. I’d sworn off both kinds a long time ago.

  I wasn’t much of a reader myself. My ex’s nose had always been buried in a book. Mostly romance novels that set standards no real man could live up to. I am a realist. A facts guy. I generally believed if you were wrapped up in a make-believe world, you'd miss what was right in front of you. Of course, I’d taken it to the other extreme and was so couched in realism, I’d missed what had been right in front of me for the last four years.

  The train hit a curve, and I shifted on my feet. I squared my stance in defiance of all of the bourbon I’d had and gripped the overhead bar tighter. I busied myself with my phone again, pulling up the list I’d made that morning.

  1. Going-away party.

  2. Finish packing.

  3. Clean out fridge and pantry.

  One down. Two to go. The boxes in my apartment were a real problem. They weren’t nearly as full as they needed to be. I should have finished packing days ago, but I was procrastinating. All I’d really managed to do was wreck the place. Drawers had been dumped out so I could sift through them. The master closet had puked its contents onto the bedroom floor.

  My phone vibrated in my hand. When I looked at the screen, my stomach clenched.

  Now, he wants to talk?

  I swiped my finger across the screen. “It’s too late,” I growled as a greeting. A throat cleared on the other end. I didn’t mind it one bit if he was nervous. The traitorous bastard deserved to be a little uncomfortable.

  “It’s eight forty-five,” he said.

  “That's not what I meant, and you know it.”

  “Listen—”

  “No.” I cut Trevor off. “You should have come if you had something to say.”

  “I didn’t think you'd want me there.”

  “You’d be right.”

  It was a lie. I was upset he hadn’t come even if he was probably right not to. If someone had noticed the tension between us, there would have been no way to explain it. But as angry as I was with him, I also knew I wasn’t entirely innocent.

  “You’re mad,” he continued. “I get it. But I have a family to support.”

  “And I don't? So I don't need my job?” I loved my job. I was passionate about it. And for the last four years, it had been the only reason I had to get up every day.

  He sighed. “I'm sorry. For Josie’s sake and the kids, I just can’t afford to take any more chances. I can’t be a part of anything like this again. I don’t like this any more than you do.”

  An oppressive silence stretched between us. I let it linger for a few long seconds as I considered what he’d said. If I were in his position, I might do the same, but it still felt like a betrayal. My partner for almost a decade, and my best friend, had shoved me out of the job I loved.

  “I didn’t mean for it to happen,” I said as if that were excuse enough.

  “I know. Your heart is in the right place, but … frankly, your motivations scare me. You have triggers, man, and truthfully, you scare the hell out of me at times.”

  I scrubbed my free hand down my face. Trevor was the only one on the force who knew about my past. I regretted telling him now.

  “With our jobs—”

  “Your job,” I interjected. “I don’t have one anymore, remember?”

  “You do, too. This is a good move for you.”

  I was tired of hearing it. “This city is my home. Real people with real problems.”

  I wasn’t a Chicago native. Years ago, I’d turned my back on my hometown and chased a dream here. The dream had long since gone up in smoke, but I couldn’t imagine turning my back on the city I’d grown to love. I hadn’t thought I'd ever leave it.

  “They have real problems in HP, too.”

  “Right. Like when the traffic lights go out and they run into each other on their way to Starbucks.”

  He chuckled. “Seriously, there’s a lot of money in Highland Park. And with money comes—”

  “Dogs that wear sweaters and yank on diamond-encrusted leashes pulled along by spandex-wearing society bitches who haven’t eaten a real meal in ten years,” I interrupted. “I’m never going to get laid again.”

  As soon as it was out of my mouth, I remembered I wasn’t alone. My eyes darted to the woman. She was still reading her book, though her eyebrows seemed just a tad higher than they had been before.

  Trevor laughed. “When have you ever had a problem getting laid? You’ll be plenty busy. On and off duty.” In spite of everything, I almost laughed with him. With more than a decade of friendship under our belts, it was so easy to fall back into it. I wanted to blame the bourbon for making me loose and forgiving, but the truth was I hadn't even left town yet, and I was already willing to forgive the bastard who'd driven me out.

  “Have you met your new partner?” he asked as the train pulled to a stop. I looked around to see what station we were at, but the only lights outside the train were those of the city.

  “Not yet,” I said as a kid, dressed in head-to-toe black, approached from the back of the train. His hair was long and unkempt, partially covering his face. A long dirty trench coat hung from his slouched shoulders, and I didn’t like all of the things I could imagine hiding beneath it. Professional hazard.

  “You could actually go all the way to the top if you play your cards right,” Trevor continued.

  “That’ll never happen,” I mumbled, only halfway paying attention now. My hackles were raised. Something about the kid had me wound up. He looked at the closed doors and the darkness beyond and then turned toward the woman.

  “It could … if you get your shit together. Get some therapy, Russell. Some real help. Not the shit doctors that the department pays for.”

  “Hmmmmmm.”

  “You need to let this vendetta you have against mankind go, and I think you need help doing it.”

  “I have nothing but respect for mankind when it behaves,” I said, my eyes still on the kid.

  He stepped around me, momentarily blocking my view of the woman. I moved a fraction to the side so I could see her again.

  “Do you mind if I sit here?” he asked her as he plopped himself down.

  She looked at him warily before glancing around the train at all of the empty seats. Finally, her gaze landed on me. Bright and alert, I saw in them the same mistrust I felt.

  “Well, you know I’m here for you. If you need anything at all, Scott, don’t hesitate to call me.”

  “Okay. I’m going to have to call you back,” I said and abruptly ended the call.

  I took the two steps necessary to plant myself in front of the kid. He pushed his hair back, revealing his eyes. They darted from me to her and back to me again, his pupils large and jumpy.

  “Excuse me,” I said in a voice I generally reserved for work. “That's my seat.”

  “Whatever, man. It looked pretty empty to
me.” He threw me a sideways glance before looking back at her. He directed a crooked, jagged smile at her. “Isn’t that right, baby?”

  I noted the disgusted look on her face and decided to make it a point never to refer to a woman by baby again.

  Less intuitive, the idiot took it one step farther and placed his hand on her leg.

  Her reaction was subtle, but I saw the slight shudder. Without saying a word, she picked up his hand and dropped it back in his own lap. “Don’t touch me again,” she said.

  I didn’t like that he’d touched her or that he wasn’t getting up. “Get out of my seat,” I growled at him. “I won’t ask you nicely again.”

  He stood and glared at me. His shoulders were high and his back straight now, and he bowed up to me as he passed. I stretched to my full height, showing him which one of us had the clear advantage, and then just for fun, I lurched as if I was going to make a move for him.

  He flinched, and I laughed.

  I didn’t take my eyes off him until he’d returned to his seat at the back of the train. Then I smoothly slid into the one he’d abandoned next to her.

  HER

  “I won’t hurt you. I’m a cop.” He leaned in close, so only I could hear him.

  I shifted in my seat, suddenly unsure which of the two men was worse.

  He wasn’t wearing a uniform, and he didn’t look like any of the round, paunchy officers I’d had the misfortune of dealing with, though he certainly had the bravado of one. A few sharp words in a very gruff and authoritative voice were all it had taken to send the greasy-haired kid scurrying off like a cockroach.

  I wondered what he’d look like in a set of Chicago blues. It definitely wasn’t my first choice, but a man in uniform had always been a weakness of mine.

  When he’d sat down, he’d slid his arm around the back of my seat with a sense of easy familiarity. I knew the possessive act was for the benefit of the cockroach. He’d been careful not to actually touch me. Even so, I could feel the heat radiating off him. He smelled of whiskey and hard work—a combination that had gotten me into trouble in the past.

  I slid forward in my seat, putting more distance between us. “A cop, huh? That’s funny. I could’ve sworn I just heard you say you didn’t have a job.” I gave him what was intended only to be a quick sideways glance but turned into more when I realized it was warranted.

  His dark hair and icy blue eyes were a shocking contrast in the very best way. His sharp nose was well proportioned to his face. It gave him a ‘don't mess with me’ credibility. A hint of dark shadow was along his jaw, though not more than a day’s worth. The corner of his mouth quirked upward in amusement.

  “Were you eavesdropping on my conversation?” he asked.

  “Kind of hard not to. You weren’t exactly quiet. I don’t really think you need to worry about never getting laid, though.”

  It was the wine talking. I slapped a hand over my mouth to stop any other booze-inspired outbursts. My cheeks blazed as his eyes widened in surprise. I moved the hand from my mouth to my eyes because there was nowhere else to hide. “Not that I’m propositioning you. Because I’m definitely not.”

  I waited for him to say something. When he didn’t, I slid my fingers open to find his icy blue eyes alight with amusement. He glanced at the back of the train and removed his arm from the back of the seat. “Your non-proposition is duly noted.”

  “It was nice of you to come to my defense, but I’m really quite capable of taking care of myself. I’m pretty good at spotting danger.” After all, I didn’t say, I’d seen the handsome one sitting next to me coming from a mile away.

  “Great. Then I don’t need to give you my standard speech on personal safety.”

  I shook my head. The last thing I needed was a lecture on personal safety from a stranger who'd been staring at me long before he’d found a reason to approach me.

  “I know they say that crime is down because of those.” He pointed at a surveillance camera hanging from the ceiling. “But there’s still more violent crime than you think on these trains. Only one in four ends in an arrest, and those are only the reported ones.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. “One in four, huh? So you really are a police officer.”

  “You doubted me?”

  “Wouldn’t it be incredibly irresponsible of me not to?”

  “Touché,” he said with an appreciative smile.

  “Since you’re a statistics man, how many psychopaths do you think have played the you-can-trust-me-I’m-a-cop card right before they raped and murdered some poor, unsuspecting girl? Wasn’t that one of Ted Bundy’s ruses? Handsome guy pretends to be a cop, though he’s really a serial killer?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You think I’m handsome?”

  “That … and possibly a serial killer,” I reminded him.

  He shook his head and whistled. “Damn. That really doesn’t bode well for me. Serial killer is a pretty hard label to kick.”

  “The title does carry a real negative stigma.”

  He scratched his chin in thought. “I guess the only way for you to know for sure is to get to know me.”

  I tried very hard not to smile at the not-so-sly come-on. Apparently, he was interested, after all. Too bad I wasn’t.

  “And why is that?” I asked.

  “Serial killers don’t usually get to know their victims first. Targets are almost always chosen at random. Ninety-nine percent of the time, anyway.”

  “Did you learn that from the Discovery Channel or do you have firsthand knowledge?”

  “I’ve taken a few criminal psychology classes. Fascinating stuff. I’ve never come across a confirmed serial killer, but I’ve met a few people I thought were capable of it.”

  I shuddered. I wasn’t sure why someone would willingly take on that job every day. “Sounds incredibly dangerous. Anything exciting happen today?” I asked.

  He leaned back in his seat and crossed one leg over the other. “I met a pretty girl on a train and got to save her from a scumbag.” His eyes darted to the back of the train to check on the scumbag’s whereabouts.

  This guy was smooth.

  “Sounds like a real snoozer,” I said.

  “The jury’s still out on that. So where should we start?” he asked.

  “Start with what?” I asked.

  “Getting to know each other. It looks like we have time to kill. There must be something wrong with the train or the track ahead.”

  Up to this point, the happenings on the train had kept me adequately distracted from the actual state of the train. I sat up taller and looked out the window to try to see why we weren’t moving, but nothing but the usual dark houses and businesses were in the distance. I could feel the panic rise up in my throat.

  “Whoa,” he said, turning toward me. “Are you okay? You’re as pale as a ghost.”

  I nodded my head, though my face clearly said otherwise. “I’m just a little claustrophobic. I was better when I was distracted.”

  “Phew. For a second, I thought the idea of getting to know me was actually going to make you vomit. It’s nice to hear it’s not me, it’s you.”

  I forced a smile at his joke but couldn’t find it in me to actually laugh.

  “Okay, well, we need to distract you again. We could make out,” he offered. When I just stared at him in response, he held up his hands. “I was totally kidding. That’s actually rule number one in my personal safety speech. Don’t make out with strangers on broken down trains. Even handsome cops—your words, not mine—who are willing to sacrifice themselves for the good of mankind.”

  A chuckle slipped out of me. “What’s my other option?”

  “Well, it’s not my first choice, but I guess you could tell me about the book.” His lip curled into a slight grimace.

  I looked at the paperback on my lap and laughed. “Not much of a reader, I take it?”

  He smirked. “I’m more of a doer. Why would I want to read about something when I can do it myself?
”

  “I can’t exactly go back in time and experience Casablanca during World War II, now can I?” I asked. What I didn’t say was fiction was something I’d choose over my current reality any day of the week.

  “I suppose that’s a valid point, though I’m not sure that Casablanca is historically accurate.”

  “Touché,” I said, repeating his line from earlier. “But I am actually performing very important research here. Besides, what's that famous quote? I've lived a thousand lives because I’ve read a thousand books. But the man who doesn't read lives only one. Or something like that.”

  “Or maybe you haven’t lived yours fully because your nose is always in a book,” he retorted.

  Such an accusation would normally rile me, but for some reason, it didn’t coming from him. Maybe it was because he’d just saved me from the cockroach, and I was feeling forgiving. Maybe it was because he was currently saving me from a panic attack. Or maybe it was because, if the last year was any indication, there was some truth to it. I’d come to a point where I preferred books to real people, and even I found it to be a little sad.

  “I feel like you have strong feelings about this,” I prodded. “Like you’ve got some kind of vendetta against bookworms.”

  He laughed. “That’s the second time tonight I’ve been accused of having a vendetta.”

  I shrugged. “If the shoe fits. You know, if you’re an angry person, reading is a great way to relax. Studies show that reading reduces stress by seventy-three percent.”

  His eyes narrowed, but his lips pulled up at the corners. “I have a sneaking suspicion that you just pulled that out of your ass to impress me.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. I had pulled the statistic out of my ass, but I was sure I’d read something like it somewhere. My motive for doing so was a little fuzzier. Maybe it was to impress him.

  “It’s a fact, Statistics Man,” I lied.

  He laughed loud enough that the cockroach glanced our way again. “I’ll take your word for it, Bookworm. I will concede one thing, though. You can tell a lot about a person based on what they like to read.”