Things We Hide from the Light (Knockemout Series, 2)
Things We Hide from the Light: Chapter 4

With our scruffy prize fed, watered, and wrapped in a fresh T-shirt, I climbed into the passenger seat wearing the chief of police’s Knockemout PD sweatshirt. Not exactly the way I’d seen my morning going. I thought a long run would clear my head, not end up “doggy style” with Nash Morgan.

The man with the impressive self-control closed my door, rounded the hood, and slid behind the wheel. He sat for a beat. Exhaustion and tension pumped off him as he stared through the windshield.

“Is this where it happened?” I asked. I’d read the news articles, the reports, about the traffic stop turned trap.

“Where what happened?” he hedged, feigning innocence as he fastened his seat belt.

“Oh, so we’re going to play it like that? Okay. You just happened to be driving by the spot where you were shot and then used your X-ray vision to determine there was a dog trapped in a storm pipe.”

“Nope,” he said, then started the engine and cranked the heat. “It was my super hearing, not my X-ray vision.”

I bit my lip and then went for it. “Is it true you don’t remember it?”

He grunted, swinging the vehicle across both lanes in a U-turn and heading for town.

Okay then.

Nash pulled into the spot next to my cherry-red Charger at the back of our building. The parking lot for Honky Tonk, Knox’s hillbilly biker bar, was deserted except for a handful of cars left behind by last night’s responsible drinkers.

We stared down at the smelly bundle of fur and leaves in my arms, then Nash raised his gaze to me. Those denim-blue eyes were troubled and I felt the very feminine, very annoying desire to make it all better.

“Thanks for the assistance out there,” he said finally.

“Anytime. I hope you weren’t too scandalized,” I teased.

He looked away and rubbed at the spot between his eyebrows, a nervous tell.

“Don’t you dare start apologizing again,” I warned.

He looked back at me, a curve on his lips. “What do you want me to say?” he asked.

“How about ‘Let’s go give this fur ball a bath’?” I suggested and opened my door.

He climbed out after me. “You don’t have to do that. I can take it from here.”

“I’m invested. Besides, I’m already a mess. And if childhood memories serve, four hands are better than two when it comes to dog baths.”

I headed for the door to the back stairs and hid a smile when I heard him swear under his breath before following me.

He caught up to me, walking just a little closer than necessary, then held the door for me. The dog’s head peeked out of her T-shirt wrap and I felt her scraggly tail wag against my stomach.

I took the stairs slower than usual, conscious of the bundle I was carrying and the man next to me.

“Mind if we clean her up at your place?” I asked as we hit the stairs. There was a box of files that I definitely did not need Nash to see on my table.

“Yeah, sure,” he said after a beat.

We reached the top of the stairs and his shoulder brushed mine when he dug into his pocket for his keys. I felt it again. That zing of awareness every time we touched. That wasn’t supposed to be there. I didn’t like spontaneous physical touch. I was always hyperaware of it. But with Nash it felt…different.

He unlocked the door and opened it, stepping back so I could go first.

I blinked. His place was the mirror image of mine with our bedrooms and bathrooms sharing a wall. But where mine was an unrenovated blank slate, Nash’s apartment had been updated sometime this decade. It had also been trashed.

Nothing about the man struck me as a slob, but the evidence was undeniably strewn everywhere.

The blinds were drawn over the front windows, blocking out the light and view of the street. There was a partially folded mound of laundry on the coffee table. It looked as though he’d given up on the folding and had just been plucking clean clothes off the top for a while. The floor was littered with dirty clothes, resistance bands most likely for physical therapy, and get-well cards. There was a rumpled blanket and pillow on the couch.

The kitchen had new appliances and granite counters and opened to the main living space, which gave me an unobstructed view of dirty dishes, old to-go containers, and at least four dead flower arrangements. His dining room table, like my own, was covered in files and more unopened mail.

The whole place smelled stuffy like it had been closed up, unused. Like there was no life in it.

“It’s…uh…usually not this cluttered. I’ve been busy lately,” he said, sounding embarrassed.

I was now one million percent positive that those wounds of his went deeper than he was letting on.

“Bathroom?” I asked.

“That way,” he said, pointing in the direction of the bedroom and looking just a little sheepish.

The bedroom wasn’t as much of a disaster as the rest of the place. In fact, it looked like a vacant hotel room. The furniture—a bed, dresser, and pair of nightstands—all matched. Above the neatly made bed was a framed collection of country music prints. Prescription bottles were lined up like a row of soldiers on one of the nightstands. There was a fine layer of dust on the surface.

The man was definitely sleeping on the couch.

The bathroom was typical for a bachelor. Few products and absolutely no attempt at atmosphere. The shower curtain and towels were beige for God’s sake.

My bathtub was better, a claw-foot to his more modern tile surround. There was a pile of dirty laundry on the floor next to a perfectly good hamper. If the man hadn’t been obviously battling some kind of demons, his hotness would have dropped several points for that infraction.

“Mind closing the door?” I asked.

He still looked a little dazed. There was something about the wounded Nash Morgan that tugged at me. And the temptation to tug back was nearly overwhelming.

“Nash?” I reached out and gave his arm a squeeze.

He jolted, then gave a little head shake. “Yeah. Sorry. What?”

“Mind closing the door so our smelly little pal can’t get out?”

“Sure.” He closed the door softly, then rubbed that spot between his brows again. “Sorry about the mess.”

He looked so lost I had to fight the urge to tackle him and kiss it better. Instead, I hefted the dog into his line of sight. “The only mess I’m concerned with is this one.”

I put her down and unwound the T-shirt. She immediately put her nose to the tile and started sniffing. A brave girl scoping out her new environment.

Nash sprang into action like a wooden puppet becoming a real boy. He bent and turned on the water in the tub. The town was not wrong about that very fine ass, I decided as I stripped his sweatshirt off over my head.

I held up the filthy dog T-shirt. “You might have to burn this.”

“Might have to burn this bathroom.” He nodded at the dog, who was leaving tiny muddy footprints everywhere.

I dragged my stained crop top off and added it to the pile of questionable laundry.

Nash took one long look at my sports bra and then nearly gave himself whiplash spinning around to test the water temperature with his hand and unnecessarily adjusting the shower curtain.

Sweet and gentlemanly.

Definitely not my type. But I had to admit, I liked seeing him riled.

Still avoiding looking directly at me, Nash grabbed a pile of towels from the linen closet and dropped two folded ones on the floor next to the tub before draping a third over the sink.

“Better lose the shirt, hotshot,” I advised.

He glanced down at his uniform button-down that was covered in streaks of mud and grass stains. On a grimace, he worked the buttons open and stripped it off, dropping it into the hamper. Then he scooped the pile of dirty laundry from the floor and added it to the hamper.

He had on a white undershirt that hugged his chest. A strip of the colorful adhesive tape athletes used on injuries was visible under the left sleeve.

“Why don’t you grab a big cup or something from the kitchen? I don’t want to use the sprayer on her if it’s gonna scare the hell out of her,” he suggested.

“Sure.” I left him and the dog and began my quest for a dog-washing vessel.

A quick search of his cabinets proved that most every dish the man owned was either in the sink or the overflowing dishwasher that, judging by the smell, hadn’t been run recently. I dumped detergent into the dishwasher, started the cycle, then hand-washed a large, plastic Dino’s Pizza cup.

I only felt the smallest splinter of guilt when I wandered past his table to peruse the files.

It was on the way back to the bathroom, so it wasn’t like I’d made a special trip. Besides, I had a job to do. And it wasn’t my fault he’d left them out in the open, I reasoned.

It took me less than thirty seconds to zero in on three folders.

HUGO, DUNCAN.

WITT, TINA.

217.

217 was a police code for assault with attempt to murder. It didn’t take a genius to guess that it was probably the police report on Nash’s shooting. I was definitely curious. But I only had time for a quick peek, which meant prioritizing. Sending a glance in the direction of the bedroom, I lifted the top of the Hugo file with one finger. The folder felt gritty and I realized that, like the nightstand in his bedroom, it was covered in a fine layer of dust.

I’d barely glanced at the paper on top, an unflattering mug shot from a few years ago, when I heard, “You replace something?”

Startled, I dropped the folder closed, my heart kicking into high gear, before realizing Nash was calling from the bathroom.

I took a step back from the table and blew out a breath. “Coming,” I yelled back weakly.

When I returned to the bathroom, my heart tripped over itself. Nash was now shirtless, his sopping wet undershirt on the floor next to the tub. And he was smiling. Like full-on hot-guy smile.

Between the half-frontal and the grin, I froze in place and appreciated the view.

“If you don’t stop flinging water everywhere, you’re gonna flood the barbershop,” Nash warned the dog as she raced from one end of the tub to the other. He splashed water from the faucet at her and she let out a series of hoarse yet delighted barks.

I let out a laugh. Both man and dog turned to look at me.

“Figured I’d get her in the tub to make sure she wasn’t gonna go all gremlin on us,” Nash said.

The man’s life might be gathering dust, but that heroism went bone-deep. The splinter of guilt grew into something bigger, sharper, and I counted my lucky stars that he hadn’t actually caught me snooping.

There was a fine line between necessary risk and stupidity.

I joined him on the floor, kneeling on one of the folded towels, and handed over the cup. “You two look like you’re having fun,” I said, trying to sound like a woman who hadn’t just invaded Nash’s privacy.

The soggy little gremlin set her front paws on the lip of the tub and looked up at us with adoration. Her ratty tail blurred with happiness, sending droplets of dirty water everywhere.

“See if you can hang on to her while I douse her,” Nash suggested, filling the cup with clean water.

“Come here, little hairy mermaid.”

We worked side by side, scrubbing, sudsing, rinsing, and laughing.

Every time Nash’s bare arm brushed mine, goose bumps exploded across my skin. Every time I felt the urge to move closer instead of putting some distance between us, I wondered what the hell was wrong with me. I was close enough to see every wince he made when he moved his shoulder in a way that didn’t agree with the damaged muscles. But he never once complained.

It took four water changes and half an hour before the dog was finally clean.

Her wiry fur was mostly white with a scattering of dark patches on her legs. She had one spotted ear and one brown and black one.

“What are you going to call her?” I asked as Nash plucked the dog from the tub. She licked his face with exuberance.

“Me?” He maneuvered his head away from the pink tongue. “Stop licking me.”

“Can’t blame her. You’ve got a lickable face.”

He gave me one of those smoldering looks before gently setting her down. She shook, sending water in a six-foot radius.

I grabbed the towel and draped it over her. “You found her. You get naming rights.”

“She had a collar. She’s probably already got a name.”

She wiggled under my hands as I rubbed her furry little body dry. “Maybe she deserves a new one. A new name for a fresh start.”

He eyed me for a long beat until I wanted to squirm under his perusal. Then he said, “You hungry?”

“Scout? Lucky?” I peered down at the now clean dog as I programmed a pot of coffee.

Nash looked over from the pan of eggs he was scrambling. “Scrappy?”

“Nope. No reaction. Lula?” I sank down to the floor and clapped my hands. She pranced over to me and happily accepted my affectionate petting.

“Gizmo? Splinter?”

“Splinter?” I scoffed.

“Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles,” Nash said, that hint of a smile visible again.

“Splinter was a sewer rat.”

“A sewer rat with martial arts skills,” he pointed out.

“This young lady needs a debutante name,” I insisted. “Like Poppy or Jennifer.”

No reaction from the canine, but the man in the room worked his way up to a full smirk of amusement. “How about Buffy?”

I smiled into the dog’s fur. “The vampire slayer?”

He pointed the spatula at me. “That’s the one.”

“I like it, but she seems ambivalent to Buffy,” I observed.

I could have gone next door to change while Nash made breakfast, but I’d decided instead to pull on his sweatshirt again and hang out. He—unfortunately—had changed, putting on a clean shirt and jeans.

Now we were performing some sort of cozy, domestic scene in the kitchen. Coffee brewed, a gorgeous, barefoot man did breakfasty things at the stove, and the faithful dog danced at our feet.

Nash scooped a portion of the eggs onto one of the three paper plates he’d lined up and set it aside. The little dog sprang out of my lap to paw at Nash’s leg.

“Hold your horses. Let it cool off first,” he advised her. Her raspy yip said she wasn’t interested in holding anyone’s horses.

I got up and washed my hands. Nash tossed me the hand towel he wore over his shoulder, then started sprinkling cheese over the eggs. Feeling companionable, I found two dirty mugs on the counter and washed them.

The toaster spit out two pieces of nicely browned bread just as I poured the first cup of coffee.

“We found her in a pipe. So how about Piper?” Nash suggested suddenly.

The dog perked up, then sat, cocking her head.

“She likes that one,” I noted. “Don’t you, Piper?”

She wiggled her little hind end in acknowledgment.

“Think we’ve got ourselves a winner,” Nash agreed.

I poured the second mug, watching as he deposited the plate of eggs on the floor. “Come and get it, Piper.”

The dog pounced, both front paws landing on the plate as she scarfed up her breakfast.

“She’s going to need another bath,” I said with a laugh.

Nash dropped a piece of toast on each of the remaining plates, then awkwardly used his right hand to top them with the cheesy egg mixture.

“And more breakfast,” he observed, handing me a plate.

Nash Morgan was going to make some woman very lucky someday.

We ate standing in the kitchen, which felt safer and less domestic to me than clearing a spot at the table. Though I wouldn’t have minded another look at those files.

I was here to do a job, not complicate things by getting cozy with an unfairly hot neighbor.

Even if he did make really good cheesy eggs. And looked really good with his fresh shirt and soulfully wounded eyes. Every time our gazes connected, I felt…something. Like the space between us was charged with energy that kept intensifying.

“What makes you feel alive?” he asked abruptly.

“Huh?” was my witty response, my mouth crammed full of the last bite of toast.

He was holding his mug and staring at me, half of his breakfast abandoned on the plate.

He needed to eat. The body needed fuel to heal.

“It used to be walking into the station for me. Every morning, not knowing what the day would hold but feeling like I was ready for anything,” he said almost to himself.

“Doesn’t it make you feel the same now?” I asked.

He gave a one-shouldered shrug, but the way his eyes locked on me was anything but casual. “What about you?”

“Driving fast. Loud music. Finding the perfect pair of shoes on sale. Dancing. Running. The chase. Sweaty, desperate sex.”

His gaze turned hot and the temperature in the room seemed to rise several degrees.

Need. It was the only word I could think to describe what I saw in those blue eyes of his, and that still didn’t do it justice.

He took a step toward me and my breath caught in my throat thanks to a wild mix of anticipation, adrenaline, and fear. Wow. Wow. Wow.

My heart was about to explode out of my chest. But in a good way for once.

I needed to get a hold of myself. Wasn’t I trying to avoid impulsive leaps?

Before either of us could say or—dear lord—do anything, my phone rang shrilly, jolting me out of whatever bad idea I’d been about to jump into.

“I, uh, need to take this,” I told him, holding up my phone.

His gaze was still locked on me in a way that made everything inside feel just a little desperate. Okay, fine. A lot desperate. And a million degrees of hot.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “Thanks for the help.”

“Anytime, hotshot,” I managed weakly as I tried not to run for the door.

“Hi, Daley,” I said, answering the call as I closed Nash’s door behind me.

“Lina,” my boss said by way of a greeting. Daley Matterhorn was an efficient sort of woman who didn’t use two words when one would do. At fifty-two, she oversaw a team of a dozen investigators, held a black belt in karate, and participated in triathlons for fun.

“What’s up?” Our line of work didn’t respect the Monday through Friday nine-to-five hours, so it wasn’t concerning that she’d called on a Saturday morning.

“I know you’re in the middle of an investigation, but I’d like you to put that on pause. We could use your help in Miami. Ronald tracked the missing Renaux painting to the home of a recently arrested drug kingpin. We need someone to lead a retrieval team tomorrow night before some officer of the law decides the painting is either evidence or an asset to be frozen. There’s only a handful of security on-site. Should be a piece of cake for you.”

I felt the familiar quickening of my pulse, excitement rising at the thought of tiptoeing just over the line for another win.

But putting together an operation in twenty-four hours wasn’t just risky, it was downright dangerous. And Daley knew it.

Damn it.

“You’re asking me to lead a team after what happened on the last job?”

“You got the job done. The client was thrilled. And I didn’t hear you complaining when you collected your bonus.”

“Someone got hurt,” I reminded her. I got someone hurt.

“Lewis knew the risks. We’re not selling life insurance policies and pushing papers here. This job comes with a certain amount of risk and anyone who doesn’t have the balls to face that is welcome to seek employment elsewhere.”

“I can’t do it.” I don’t know which one of us was more surprised when the words came out of my mouth. “I’m making progress here and now isn’t a good time to leave.”

“You’re basically doing on-site research. I can send someone else to ask questions and search property records. Literally anyone else.”

“I’d prefer to see this through,” I said, digging in my heels.

“You know, there’s a position opening up in High Net Assets,” Daley said, casually dangling my dream job in front of me like it was a pair of sparkly Jimmy Choos.

“I heard rumors,” I said, my heart beating a little faster.

The High Net Assets department meant more travel, longer jobs, deeper cover, and bigger bonuses. It also meant more solo assignments. It was my big, scary goal and now here it was.

“Something to keep in mind. It’ll take someone with guts, someone who isn’t intimidated by dangerous situations, someone who isn’t afraid of being the best.”

“I understand,” I said.

“Good. If you change your mind about tomorrow, call me.”

“Will do.” I hung up and shoved my hands into the front pocket of Nash’s hoodie.

Part of me wanted to say yes. To get on a plane, dig into the intel, and replace a way in. But the bigger, louder part of me knew I wasn’t prepared to lead a team. I’d proven that resoundingly.

And there was another smaller, barely audible part that was getting tired of shitty motels and endless hours of surveillance. The one that carried the mantel of guilt and frustration for an op gone wrong. The one that might be losing her edge.