Page 59 of Like You Know
“Hey,” he whispered, dragging his hand down my back.
I shook him off. “I need to wash my hands.”
He sighed, then shifted until his front was at my back, his arms coming around me.
“You’ve been washing your hands for ten minutes. Enough.” He said it in a gentle, coaxing tone, but his hands closed around my wrists, and he rinsed my hands for me.
I pushed away from the sink, fully intending to wrench out of his grip, scream at him, kick, punch,something. But once I was leaning back into him, all the fight drained out of me, and to my horror, my vision blurred with tears.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
Jet shut the water off and ripped a good chunk of paper towel from the dispenser. The brown paper felt rough against my hands, but he was gentle, patting them dry gingerly, even getting between my fingers.
He dropped the wadded-up towel in the sink, then gripped my shoulders and turned me to face him.
“Amaya,” he whispered. So much emotion filled his voice, regret and conviction somehow riding the three syllables of my name.
“Don’t,” I rushed out. Fucking great. Now my voice was shaky too. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Just don’t ask me if I’m OK. I fucking hate it when people ask that. Shit’s fucked up. No need to pretend otherwise.”
He rubbed my arms up and down, shoulder to elbow, and pulled me in for a hug.
I was too weak to resist. I told myself I’d react the same way if it were anyone else offering me a hug after this nightmare of a night, but that wasn’t true. Despite the fact I now knew Jet had been lying to me about many things, I still felt comforted by him—his fresh smell, his sure arms around me, his firm chest under my cheek, his breath fanning the top of my head.
He’d put on a blue T-shirt with the police logo on it. His dress shirt would be totally ruined from all the blood.
I wrapped my arms around his middle and let him hold me, because it was what I needed in that moment. His strength grounded me; my breathing matched to his until the infuriating urge to cry subsided. I refused to shed tears during the conversation we were about to have.
“We don’t have to talk about what went down tonight if you don’t want to,” he said, his arms still tight around my back. “But we do need to talk about what you learned because of it. About who I am.”
My time to pull myself together was up. Because he was right—no way in hell was I leaving before I got some answers.
I extracted myself from his embrace and leaned back against the sink. With no idea where to start, I just stared at him. He was the one who had been lying to me from the first time I laid eyes on him—he could explain himself.
He licked his lips and straightened his spine. “I’m an officer with SFPD.”
I rolled my eyes. No shit.
“I’ve been a beat cop since I graduated from the academy, but last year I applied for a spot on a task force, and I got it. It didn’t take long for the task force to turn into something much bigger than anticipated. Suddenly, I was in a job that required secrecy, and most of the people I was working with were feds. I mostly just pushed papers, did grunt work for the detectives, but I was happy to be involved.”
“I don’t need your life story. How the fuck did you end up at my school?” I was being a total bitch, but I’d had one hell of a night, and I felt betrayed. I just wanted to know what was going on.
Jet narrowed his eyes—just slightly, just enough to tell me he wasn’t going to take my shit. That was why I liked him so much in the first place.
“Amaya, you need to understand that it’s not like I set out to fall for you and deceive you. I was doing my job. I’m telling you way more than I have to, because I want you to know me. I want to be real with you.”
He was falling for me? I crossed my arms and chewed on the inside of my cheek. I refused to melt into him before he finished explaining himself. I wasn’t about to let him hurt me again if I could avoid it.
Jet dragged a hand down his face and powered on. “A couple of months ago, my superior officers offered me an undercover gig. Some shit had gone down at a private school in Devilbend, and they wanted to see if they could get more info.”
“Irene Richards,” I said. That whole situation with Harlow and Easton and all the blackmail and threats was insane. It had solidified for us how sinister and dangerous BestLyf was. But then Irene conveniently died in jail before they could get more information from her, and we had to just go on with our lives, keeping our mouths shut and hoping the police did something about it. I guessed this was it.
Jet stared blankly at me, then, reluctantly, gave me a tiny nod.
“I’m guessing one of your superior officers is Detective Hopkins? You’re on the BestLyf task force.”
He sighed. “There’s only so much I can tell you.”
It was as good as a confirmation. What the hell else could possibly be happening at Fulton that they decided to set up a21 Jump Streetsituation?