Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 92043 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92043 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
The breeze was cool enough to relieve the heat from an afternoon of beautiful skies and bright sunshine. He was glad. The fresh air went a long way toward cleansing the tension lingering in his muscles. It was so quiet. Some part of him forgot he was in a city of over eight million people. He liked the eerie silence. Here he could clear his mind. He still felt like a coward for running away.
He continued on and the rest of the two-hour walk gave him time to think. Eventually, he reached the reservoir and turned toward East Harlem and out of the park. It was like stepping back into the world. Noise rushed at him from everywhere, cars, people, horns—the ever-present rumble of the city.
As he passed a homeless man, he tossed a few quarters into the can near his feet.
The guy mumbled thanks, but Connelly didn’t reply. It had been an automatic gesture, just like most everything else he did. Helping his sister? Automatic. Catching the bad guys? Automatic. Eating lunch at the same place every day? Auto-fucking-matic.
He’d thought the routine would keep him sane in a world full of chaos. But, it turned out, he was just boring.
Mundane.
It irritated him, but it was true. He’d become just like his father in all the ways he’d never wanted to be. What had he thought today at his mom’s? That he’d wished his dad could see him now? That he’d be proud?
Hell. That was such a load of bullshit.
Even after he’d accomplished so much, making detective faster than any other officer in a decade, and taking care of the family. There was still one thing that his father had possessed that Connelly didn’t.
A goddamn fucking life.
The building was oddly quiet when he entered. He waved at Roger, who manned the front desk, and headed to the elevators. Inside, he grabbed the brass bar with both hands and looked at his feet. He didn’t even know what he was doing there. He had no new leads on their shooting case. The shit with Hopkins and Martin was over, nothing he could do about that no matter how much it pissed him off. Hell, most of the shit on his desk was stalled because of the glacial pace of the forensics lab.
And it wasn’t like he had enough information to proceed with any kind of investigation into the drugs at the club. A face. That’s all he had. No name. No proof a crime had even been committed. Nothing but his gut and that wasn’t enough.
The elevator dinged the arrival to his floor and the doors opened. He stopped by the soda machine and bought a bottle of water hoping it would wash away the sourness in his mouth.
Only a few detectives were still working so late, those that didn’t have families waiting for them at home. Those that were too dedicated to the job to have anything else to live for.
Those like him.
For the first time since he’d joined the police force, he felt the prick of regret.
He’d signed up because of his father, because he’d had something to prove. He didn’t know who he was without the badge and hoped he’d never find out. It was too late for anything else now. He’d made his choice a long time ago. Sitting at his desk, he flipped on the computer then twisted the top off his water and took a long swallow. The screen blinked on, its blue light shining over the files he’d left neatly stacked. He’d prepped them for tomorrow morning.
Might as well get ahead of the game.
He grabbed the top one and flicked it open. Paperwork wasn’t his favorite part of the job, but it was necessary. Filling out forms and cutting through the departmental red tape could be a pain in the ass. Especially with a partner like Raoul who insisted on doing everything the hard way. But Connelly understood the importance of it, so he tried not to let the tediousness add to his already sullen mood.
Later, his phone vibrated with an incoming text. Raoul had sent an image. It was blurry and dark, but Connelly recognized the shoulder-length blond hair and that goddamn smile. He copied it into the computer and printed it out.
Got a name? He texted back.
Keller. Raoul wrote. Sounds fake.
Keller. Well, that was something at least. A fraction of the tension that had kept his chest tight since he’d witnessed the deal finally loosened. But with that gone, his brain seemed to think it was okay to flood him with everything else that was bothering him.
Namely, the idea that Azariah was, right now, stripping for strangers. Their hands were roaming over that pale skin, their eyes were feasting on that strong jaw and those full lips. Hell, if they were anything like Connelly, their cocks were probably hard as a rock and begging for attention.