Page 7 of Tied Over

“Who is this Whitmore, and where is he now?” Clark interrupted, glaring at me.

Was she kidding? “How am I supposed to know? I don’t work for the CPD.”

Her sigh was long.

“You know, the good news is, Whitmore is probably at home, not knowing he’s got community service to do, because you and I both know you guys don’t just lose people in the system anymore. Right?”

“Anymore?”

“Don’t be defensive,” I told her sweetly.

“I hate you.” She was then quiet for a moment, thinking. “You realize it’s possible that Whitmore has taken Washington’s place in MCC.”

Esposito shook his head. “That’s stuff from a movie. In real life, guards know what people look like, like I used to, but there might be other reasons”—he looked at me—“why Washington was set loose.”

“Like?” Clark asked.

“Like maybe he talked to someone he shouldn’t’ve, and someone is hoping to tie up loose ends,” Esposito concluded.

“That seems reasonable,” I said with a yawn.

“I don’t like that at all,” Washington added.

“Still, it makes the most sense. Somebody wanted Washington out for a reason. Why would that be?”

On cue, I saw a man walking toward us. He was tall, handsome, and wearing a great suit that showed off the breadth of his shoulders and the broadness of his chest. I groaned, realizing when he took off his sunglasses—and what kind of a douche wore their sunglasses inside anyway—that I was looking at Special Agent Spencer Crouse.

Along with Hayden Burdine the Third, I hated him too.

He picked up a chair, carried it with him, put it down next to me, then took a seat, smiling like the asshole he was.

“No,” I said.

“Oh, c’mon, you haven’t even heard what I did yet.”

I shook my head and gestured at Clark.

Crouse had that thing going for him where half of you really wanted to slug him, while at the very same time, the other half wanted to see what would happen if you went to bed with him. Raw sex appeal and charm rolled off the man in waves, and combined with the fact that he was ruggedly handsome, with dimples under his artfully styled stubble-lined jaw, I was certain he could have anyone he wanted.

“Hi,” he said, getting up and offering her his hand. “Special Agent Spencer Crouse.”

She mapped his shoulders, the thousand-dollar suit, the tie that wasn’t in any kind of knot I’d ever seen, far too fancy, and then, of course, his eyes. They were that dark liquid deep brown, and she was probably thinking at the moment how pretty they were. The thing with him was, the spell his looks and his deep baritone always cast was quickly destroyed when your brain turned on and you actually listened to what he was saying.

“I’m the guy who got your guy out of jail,” he announced to Clark.

“Thank you, my brother,” Washington said to him, a thing I’d heard him do before when talking to any Black law-enforcement officers. It never helped.

“I am not your brother,” Crouse corrected him.

Clark said, “I’m sorry, what?”

“I sprang him,” he said, giving her his dazzler.

“Are you kidding?” she yelled, yanking her hand from his and standing up.

He stepped back, chuckling, like her indignation was cute—I wanted to punch him whenever he did that to me—and lifted his hands in mock surrender.

“Listen, it was the only way we could lure Burian Petrov out of hiding.”