Slow Burn (MM) (12 page)

“I’ll tell you what.” Lamont wiped his mouth again. “You top your best record, PT, and marksmanship, then lunch is on me for the rest of the damn year. Otherwise, it’s on you.”

“Oh, you are on.” Brody stuck out his hand.

“And
you
are going to lose.” Lamont shook on it.

They finished up lunch, and a heavy silence fell between them. Lamont probably knew he was going to ask, even if he shouldn’t. Technically it was his and Griggs’s case now, not Brody’s. Screw technicalities. It would always be his case until it was solved.

“So…” he began.

“Uh-oh, here we go.” Lamont sat back and folded his hands over his chest.

“You know I have to ask.”

“I know. And you know, on the record, it’s none-ya business. But off the record, I’d like to run a few things by you.”

“You fucking better.”

“I mean, you have been with the case longer than anyone and…”

“And?”

“Something isn’t right. I know you said that when we called on the boyfriend, lover, whatever, and you fucked up your knee, but now there’s more to it.”

Brody scooted his chair closer, leaning in. “Tell me.”

“The labs finally came back on the last vic. Not only no sexual assault, but no assault at all, other than the strangulation marks.”

“So why work so hard to make it appear like it was a sexual assault? Skirt torn, underwear gone…”

“Exactly.” Lamont rubbed his shaved head. “She was left exposed, but…nothing. No contusions, nothing besides the neck.”

“So all of the stuff with scene happened postmortem. Our perp set it all up after Amber was already dead.”

“And it’s like she didn’t even defend herself. We keep chasing these guys they were with, but we know it’s not them. Next we’re chasing some mystery assailant that what? Strangles women and then takes the time to make it seem like they were sexually assaulted? It just doesn’t…”

“It doesn’t jive,” Brody agreed.

“No, it doesn’t.”

“So what do you think?”

“I don’t know.” Lamont shoved back in his chair. “I know something ain’t right, but other than that, I’m still looking. I wanted to let you know. Everyone knows what the case is to you, man. So turn it over in that head of yours and let me know what you come up with. But you
did not
hear shit from me, right? Captain is being weird as hell about the case and…just don’t make a stir about it. Think on it. Look over the file if you want, but on the QT.”

“I will.” Brody nodded. “It’ll be good for me. I’m getting back into shape physically, but I have to keep my mind right too. I’ll get back here ASAP and keep you from killing Griggs.”

“In that case”—Lamont chuckled—“better get back here ASA
F
P.”

That was exactly what Brody intended.

Chapter Eleven

The breeze off the ocean cooled his sweaty skin. Even the constantly complaining seagulls seemed welcoming. The beach was always the best way to end the day, and in Zack’s mind, anyone who felt otherwise was freaking nuts.

He jogged past a family strolling and chuckling as their dog attacked the incoming waves. He came to a stop back at the stairs and wiped the sweat from his forehead, sweeping his hair from his face. The late-afternoon sun hung low in the sky, making the water shimmer and giving everything a glow.

He was living the dream.

Well, almost. The only thing missing was Brody’s smirk as he raced him back to the stairs. Shoving at each other as Zack laughed, before completely whooping his ass.

Just as well Brody wasn’t here, though. He was picking out places for them to train later this week, and bringing him along would’ve wiped any concentration from his mind. He couldn’t focus on making Brody sweat and ache for all the thoughts of getting him home…and making him sweat and ache.

Now
that
was a damn good plan.

His phone vibrated against his thigh, yanking him away from the indulgent mental image, and he froze when he saw the caller ID.

His father.

“Shit.”

To say he was surprised was like saying a cow was surprised when hit with a cattle prod.

“Shit. Fire. Damn.”

Last time his father had called, it was his birthday. The workings of his mother, no doubt. His father’s voice had that chastised,
“He’s your son, you can at least call him on the day he was born!”
tone to it.

Zack moved toward the staircase, took a slow, deep breath, and answered. “Hey, Dad.”

With his father’s, “Hey, Zack,” monotone reply, he immediately fell into auto mode. He prepared for the wading-pool depth of conversation that was about to take place and the painful awkward silences that would draw out into infinity. Amazing how quickly he could fall into this mode, able to neglect everything he felt about his father, everything his father made him feel about himself, and instead dance along to the lame-ass tune of a “good son.” Everything was “Fine,” and “It’s great to hear from you,” and “Yeah, just working hard. You?”

The artificial sound of his voice left a bad taste in his mouth, but it was a must. Otherwise the thoughts would grow, bigger and bigger until they threatened to crush him. The thoughts he was too chickenshit to ever voice.

I know Mom told you to call me. You remember, the ex-wife you abandoned with a three-year-old son and his two older sisters? Yeah, them, you piece of shit! The family you’ve completely ignored since the day you walked out. That is, until you need something. I know you’re not really interested in talking to me, so drop the act and tell me what you want
from
me—because you never wanted me. You don’t even know who the hell I am.

But he’d never say it.

This time was slightly different in that there was no reason to call. No imminent holidays, no birthdays, his father didn’t sound physically ill or slightly inebriated. He fought the swell of hope that his inner child fought frantically to keep alive. Maybe his father was really just…calling to say hi.

He barely got the notion through his mind before his dad said, “So my son injured himself playing lacrosse.”

Zack froze as his father continued. “Pulled his hamstring. The doctor recommends physical therapy and suggested a place on campus, but I don’t even
know
those people. I’d just take him somewhere close to home, but he wants to do it near school. They started him on this regimen and—”

Zack sat down with a
thump
against the stairs and listened to his father’s heated tirade of money and college and therapy and lacrosse. A huge, heavy lump settled in his stomach as he listened and interjected with appropriate “mmm-hmms” and “oh reallys?”

But inside, all he heard was, “
My son
.” Not once had his father ever referred to Zack as “my son,” and Zack knew he never would. Biologically he was every bit the man’s kid, but emotionally, they were strangers.

Trent and his not-so-new-anymore wife were his father’s family. Not Zack and his sisters and his mom. His new family had somehow earned his attention and affection, while Zack’s family had had to fight and silently hope and pray for any kind of interest growing up. Some kind of sign that they were worth his time or even worth a damn.

Zack quickly rattled off a PT he knew from grad school who worked in the area. It was enough to placate his father. A quick “thanks” and “I better go now. Dinner’s on the table,” and he listened to his father hang up. Fighting everything back, Zack gripped the phone so hard his fingers went numb as a sharp beeping filled his head.

He was rooted to the steps. Pressure rose from the pit of his stomach, up into his throat, choking him. The little flame of hope that had flickered at the start of the call was stamped out. He dropped his head into his hands at his own stupidity. He was nearly thirty and still hadn’t learned
not
to expect.
Not
to hope. He’d completed seven years of college, finished with top grades, had a dream job and a pristine practice reputation, yet the concept of not expecting anything from his father was so damn difficult to grasp.

The pressure spread across his chest, down into his arms, pinpricks of fire sparked in his eyes, and his heart began to race. It’d been ages since he’d felt like this, but the familiar rise of nausea and rapid breathing were all too familiar. He blinked. And blinked again. Gripping the phone like he would crush it, he fought the tears burning his eyes. His dad would always be a selfish dickhead. He’d never appreciate or give two shits about Zack. Why couldn’t he just accept that fact and move on?

“Fuck.” It came out as a deep sob. Holding it back caused his jaw to grind and ache, but he fought it. He ground his teeth as the tears rolled hot.

“
Fuck
this.” He stood and shook his head, blinking hard. There was no way in hell he was going to go through this because of his fucking father. Already the attack was imminent, but if he gave in, it was a dive into a nest of deep, dark shit that only reminded him how he wasn’t good enough, never would be, and the clincher, he was the world’s biggest coward for never telling his father how he felt about him as a dear old dad.

He zipped his phone into his shorts and tightened his shoelaces. He jogged onto the sand, and once he reached the hard-packed stretch near the water, he let loose.

Zack ran. Harder and faster than he had in months. Drawing in long, deep breaths, he pushed and pushed. Thighs burning in protest as he ran toward…something. Or maybe it was away. Fuck if he cared, he just had to keep going, keep moving, or lose himself to panic.

He ran until he felt light-headed, until his legs quivered, until the world around him swirled and tilted and nausea gripped him, this time from exhaustion. He collapsed, landing face-first in the sand. He spat out a mouthful of sand at the epic fail he’d managed not to avoid. As he rolled over onto his back, he was surprised his muscles even let him after the thrashing he gave them. It went beyond the feel-good burn, the rush of endorphins that went with a great workout.

This was a premeditated plummet into oblivion.

Zack stared up at the sky and realized it was dark. How long had he been at it? The lights from the pier shone in the distance, and a breeze held a few notes from an outdoor band. His legs screamed in protest as he reached for his phone and laughed bitterly.

“Mission friggin’ accomplished, genius.”

He slumped back from the effort, phone in hand. He’d started today’s run from his front door and now, smart guy that he was, he’d smashed his ass to the point he could barely move.

The light from his phone’s display caused him to squint. It was nearly nine at night. How the hell? He could probably make it home. He’d have to walk, or hobble more like, but his legs weren’t broken. Yet.

He really didn’t want to. He didn’t want to go home to an empty house. Empty rooms he’d fill with all his thoughts and memories, only to feel like shit again.

He did not want to be alone.

His fingers moved across the touch pad before he could doubt himself.
SOS. Half-dead at beach. Come pick me up?

Seconds later, he got a message back.
I’m assuming this isn’t literal, or I’m sending a unit.

Zack replied with a winky face. It was all he could muster.

A second later.
Folly Beach?

He shot off a quick
Yep
before he let his head fall back onto the sand.

Brody didn’t take long. Zack heard a car pull off to the side of the road near the access and the slam of a heavy car door, some steps in the sand, a fair amount of low cussing about the sand, and then the beam from a flashlight sweeping the beach.

“Zack?” Brody called out. “You okay?”

Zack gave a little wave from his supine position. “Basically.” He hadn’t moved, and now his ass was getting itchy from the sand. The light blinded him as Brody stood above, the flashlight shining on him from head to toe.

“I’ve fallen, and I can’t get up,” Zack said with a smirk.

“You don’t look injured or like you’ve been attacked, so what the fuck happened?” Brody turned off his flashlight, the rising moon creating enough of a glow to see.

“I whipped my own ass.”

There was certainly enough light to see the hint of a smile as it crossed Brody’s handsome face. Fuck, he dug that smile.

“I needed backup.” Zack groaned as he raised himself into a sitting position. “Thanks for coming here.” He lifted his hand, preparing to be hauled up. But Brody ignored his hand and instead sat next to him.

He gave Zack an assessing look.

“I didn’t realize you were training for the Iron Man. What the hell are you trying to do out here?”

Zack laughed. It was forced, but it gave him something to do as he dusted the sand off his chest. He knew he had to look like hell.

Brody’s face was unreadable as Zack felt the solid weight of his hand resting on his back. Brody was in detective mode. Fine-tooth-comb level looking him over, not missing a damn thing, and Zack knew he had a big neon sign, flashing,
SOMETHING IS WAY WRONG WITH THIS ONE.

He just wasn’t sure Brody wanted to hear about it. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to talk about it.

“You sure you’re all right?”

Wasn’t that the question of the century? Most of the time, yeah, he was all right. His great life was the perfect defense mechanism for coping with the fact he’d been thrown away by someone who was supposed to love him the most. He was okay, just…a little crazy sometimes. Crazy like over the cuckoo’s nest or crazy as in just a spaz—that was debatable. But Brody wouldn’t want to hear all that.

“Fine, I think,” he said instead. “I mean, I’m fine. I am.” Brody’s gaze darted to his then, eyebrows raised. Not convinced. “You sure about that?” He moved his hand on Zack’s back to gently grip his neck, warm and a little sandy. Brody wasn’t a touchy-feely guy, so the affection in the gesture warmed Zack to his toes and broke through any bullshit answer he might have come up with.

“I’m not all right. My dad called. He’s an asshole. He’s always been an asshole.”

Brody started rubbing, edge of his hand brushing against Zack’s wet hair. “Yeah?”

“I mean, he wasn’t violent or a drunk or anything. Not like that. But we—my mom and sisters—were
completely
a waste of time to him. Nothing we did was ever worth his interest. Right up until he decided to make it official and left. He was an emotional void and has been my whole life. He lived at our house, but he merely existed. There was nothing there.”