Fast Burn
Chapter 3 (The End)

Ryan floated in the space halfway between sleep and wakefulness. This spot was pure luxury—most of the time, he vaulted from REM status to house fire in the time it took to replace his bunker pants. But here, in the warmth of his bed, he could bury himself beneath the covers and drift slowly through the memory of last night. Fl!rting with Addison. Bringing her back to his place. Having, wild, impulsive, ridiculously hot se*x with her in his living room, then sharing half a pizza with her before bending her over the counter and doing it all over again. Her sharp wit and sweet laughter as they’d talked about their jobs and mutual friends and hockey and movies and about sixty other things after that.

The way she’d curled up and fallen asleep in his arms after one last round of slow, sweeter se*x in his bed—how she’d felt so good there that he didn’t want her to leave—and yeah, she’d said no strings, but maybe they could be friends with benefits, or even make a casual go of it to see where things led.

Or maybe she was gone.

Ryan bolted upright, blinking back the morning sunshine that seemed intent on attacking his retinas. His muscles were sore from the best sort of overuse, his lower back giving up a twinge as he turned to give the room a thorough, three-sixty perusal.

There wasn’t so much as a trace of her.

The door to the adjoining master bathroom was half-open and the lights were off, just as he’d left them in the wee hours. Maybe Addison had slipped to the kitchen for some coffee or a bagel, he reasoned, throwing off the covers and tugging on a pair of sweats before heading out of his bedroom. Yeah, their night together had been impulsive, but it had also been pretty incredible; plus, they’d known each other for years. She wouldn’t just up and leave in the middle of the night after that.

Would she?

“Addison?” he called out. But the silence he got in reply told him that, unless she was impersonating a statue, she wasn’t anywhere in his condo. His heart beating faster, Ryan grabbed his phone out of his jeans—still on the living room floor, where Addison had left them, even though all of her clothes were gone.

Nothing. No text. No note. No goodbye of any kind.

“Okay,” Ryan murmured, running a hand through his bedhead. Maybe she’d gone home to catch up on some sleep. God knew, she’d probably needed it as much as he had. Scrolling through his contacts, he pulled up the text he’d sent her last night with his address, replying before he could think twice.

Hey. Missed giving you a proper goodbye this morning.

The message turned to “read” almost immediately, the three dots that danced across the screen telling him that a reply was forthcoming. But then the dots disappeared without a message. And as the rest of the day went on, then the week, then the night when he’d seen her at the Crooked Angel and she’d acted like nothing had ever happened, then avoided him like an illness, Ryan had to face the truth.

He’d spent the most intense night of his life with Addison Hale, and she’d ghosted him without a word.

Two months later

Addison Hale’s glass was always half full. To be fair, sometimes it was full of triple-shot espresso (necessity) and other times, it was full of top-shelf tequila (also necessity, in rare but real cases). But she was a detective in the city’s most elite crime-fighting unit. They dealt with literal murder and mayhem on the daily. She’d learned a long time ago to turn her frown upside down.

It was that, or let the world drag her under, and, yeah, Addison had vowed not to let that happen long before she’d become a cop.

Once had been enough, thank you very much.

Blinking her way back to the Intelligence office, she made herself look for something good to focus on. Her gaze landed on Maxwell’s goofy-a*ss grin, and Lord, at least she didn’t have to look far.

“Good God, Maxwell,” Addison said, unable to help her own grin from slipping out. Damned things were more contagious than chicken pox. “You could at least try to contain your happiness at the fact that it’s nearly quitting time. A girl could take that personally.”

Okay, so technically, it was past time to call it a day. The rest of the detectives, along with their tech and surveillance expert, James Capelli, had all ducked out of the office twenty minutes ago. She and Maxwell had stuck around to finish their report on the aggravated assault they’d wrapped up earlier in the day, but the more time dropped off the clock, the more he’d eyeballed the door, looking like that emoji with the big, red hearts for eyes.

At least the big oaf had the good grace to give her a sheepish smile. “Sorry. Frankie will be here any minute, and we’re taking Isla to dance class.”

Ah, the opportunity to dish out some well-intentioned ribbing was far too delicious to pass up. “Look at you, getting all domestic!” Addison gushed. “Seriously, you couldn’t be any cuter if I paid you.”

Maxwell raised a brow, and aw, she loved it when he tried to get all broody and bada*ss. He was such a f*****g cinnamon roll.

“First of all, the three of us have lived together for two months now. I’m pretty sure cohabitating is the definition of domestic.”

“Ooooh, twenty-five cents for the big word,” Addison said.

He added a frown to the mix. “Secondly, I’m pretty sure cute is not my jurisdiction.” Before Addison could argue—and she so wanted to argue—he added, “But happy? Yeah, I’ll own that.”

An odd feeling fired off somewhere of the vicinity of Addison’s chest. She’d felt it the other day, when another detective in their unit, Matteo Garza, had told them he and his girlfriend, Delia Sutton, had gotten engaged, then again when she’d seen Capelli and his girlfriend, Shae McCullough, dancing together all k!ssy-faced as they’d celebrated the engagement at the Crooked Angel. It wasn’t jealousy—Addison knew far better than to be envious of her friends over something she couldn’t ever have. But it had been a while since she’d enjoyed an o****m that wasn’t self-inflicted. Just because she didn’t want a relationship didn’t mean she didn’t get lonely, and it sure as hell didn’t mean she didn’t have se*x.

Do not think of the last time you had an o****m (fine. Three) with another person in the room. Do not think of the smokin’ hot firefighter who made you see God with far too much ease. Definitely do not think of how you can’t stop thinking about him and how unbelievably good he made you feel, or the fact that you broke your cardinal rule and fell asleep in his big, biceppy arms, then ran the next morning without saying goodbye…

Okay, fine. So she was thinking about her unbelievable night with Ryan. Again. And how she’d bolted after a night of preternaturally incredible se*x. And how, yes, seeing him again a week later had been highly awkward, just as she’d feared. But Addison hadn’t been that synced up with anyone in bed since…well, ever, and she’d definitely never felt so post-coitally blissed out that she’d fallen asleep in the guy’s arms. While she had no regrets over the se*x, she’d known better than to break the no-se*x-with-friends rule that had kept her on the level for her entire adult life.

And now she couldn’t stop thinking about how badly she wanted to break it again. And again. Annnnnd again…

“Hello? Earth to Hale?” Maxwell waved a hand in front of her face. “Did you get lost in thought, or what?”

Addison’s cheeks heated, but she laughed it off and went for a full-on swerve in subject. Telling her like-a-brother partner that she’d been having nonstop se*x fantasies about one of their friends—ones that were based on firsthand knowledge, at that—was so not on her agenda. “Sorry. So, how’s Frankie liking her new job?”

Thankfully, Maxwell took the bait. “She’s loving it, although even with Sinclair’s recommendation and the Beck case under her belt, the Vice Unit is making her earn her paycheck.”

To be fair, Frankie had taken a well-earned month off after the Beck case. The first few days had been pure recovery, although her concussion had thankfully turned out to be milder than most. The RPD had been able to close the case fairly quickly—the shoot had been clean, with both Addison and Maxwell having acted with the necessary force to save Frankie’s life. Once Beck was no longer a threat, nearly a dozen people in Atlanta had come forward with testimony that connected him with no less than three unsolved murders and enough drug deals to sink an ocean liner. After Frankie had recovered, she hadn’t wasted any time interviewing for a spot in Remington’s Vice Unit, then moving her things to Remington to make it official. But most of her time off had been spent with Maxwell, who had also taken some highly deserved leave, and Isla. Having worked with Frankie for a solid month on the Beck case and hung out with her for the past two months since she’d moved, Addison had gotten to know Maxwell’s girlfriend (and her work ethic) incredibly well.

“Right. And I’m sure she just hates jumping back into solving cases,” Addison said with a laugh. Reason Nine Hundred Sixty-Two why Frankie and Maxwell made such a good couple: their shared adoration for the job. The only thing stronger was their shared adoration for each other, and for Isla.

And speak of the devil. Or make that devils. “Hey, you guys,” Frankie said, waving from the threshold of the Intelligence office with one hand while holding onto Isla’s with her other.

Maxwell’s rough, gruff demeanor disappeared in an instant as he rose to greet them both. “Hey! How are my two favorite ladies?” he asked, giving Frankie a knowing wink (a wink! God, he was so in love with her—which, by the way, Addison had called months ago, not that she was keeping score) before kneeling down to scoop Isla into a big hug.

“Good.” Isla smiled, then turned to look over Maxwell’s shoulder at Addison. “Hi, Auntie Hale.”

“What’s up, noodle face?” Addison asked, nodding a hello at Frankie and waggling her brows as Isla’s smile turned into a giggle. “I heard you’re going to dance class.”

Isla nodded, disengaging from Maxwell’s hug to show Addison the leotard beneath her zip-up hoodie and leggings. “I get to wear a tutu at the recital. It has sparkles in it.”

She pronounced it “barkles”, and Addison had no choice but to put her hand over her heart and respond with the truth.

“As all things should. I can’t wait to see it.”

Maxwell was halfway into his jacket by the time Addison turned her attention back to him. “You good to go on that report?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” she said, proving it by clicking her way through the last screen and hitting send. She opened her mouth to tell him she was right behind him when the phone on their desk rang.

“Damn it,” Maxwell muttered, far enough under his breath to keep the swear from Isla’s ears. “It’s Riordan.”

Ugh. The desk sergeant had been at the Thirty-Third since the dawn of time, and he was a notorious hard-a*ss. “I’ve got it,” Addison said, scooping the phone to her ear with a bright, “Intelligence Office, Detective Hale speaking.”

Without preamble, Riordan said, “Got a call requesting Intelligence. Girl thinks she’s got a stalker. The brother called it in. Scene is secure, but the boss wants someone to go check it out.”

Addison battled her urge to g***n. There went the bubble bath she’d been planning to sink into. But if this was a true stalker situation, it was no joke, and overprotective brothers could be a handful. This one might be nothing, but if it wasn’t…yeah.

“Copy that,” Addison said, taking down the details. “Hold me down on that call. Thanks, Sarge.”

“What’ve we got?” Maxwell asked, but oh, no. Not a chance.

“Um, you’ve got a dance lesson, my friend.” She did a little twirl in place, then made a shooing motion toward the door. “It’s a look-see. Patrol probably could’ve handled it, but for some reason, Sinclair wants one of us to go.”

Frankie’s brows creased. “What’s the call?”

“Possible 10-62,” Addison said, not wanting to scare Isla. “No suspect on scene. It’s probably nothing.”

“Then why would Sinclair call us in?” Maxwell asked.

Addison grabbed her jacket, double-checking her badge and weapon before putting it on. “Dunno. But I’ve got this.”

“Are you sure?” Maxwell asked. She knew with one hundred percent certainty that if she said no, or if she even wavered, he’d go with her in a heartbeat.

So she didn’t even hesitate to say, “Of course, I’m sure. But you’d better send me, like, a thousand pictures of Isla in her dance class. This auntie has needs.”

“Thanks, Hale,” Maxwell said. “I owe you one.”

She held up her cell phone. “Pictures, dude. I mean it. Bye, Frankie. Bye, noodle face.”

Addison made her way out of the office, Isla’s giggle fading behind her. She did a quick review of the call details, making sure to radio dispatch as soon as she got into the unmarked Charger and started to head to the address Riordan had sent over. Her thoughts wandered as she drove, landing on that odd feeling she hadn’t been able to shake lately.

The one that involved her feeling far too good in Ryan Dempsey’s well-muscled arms, and the fact that she hadn’t even considered sleeping with anyone else, despite their one-and-done having been two months ago.

This was getting unhealthy, she thought as she made a turn toward Remington University. Addison had a strict no-relationship rule, even ones of the casual variety. Her highly curated list of safe strangers was exclusively for booty calls. No potential boyfriends, no co-workers (gah), not even friends with benefits. Sleeping with people she saw on a regular basis, even when she was upfront about not wanting strings, made things weird.

Although…

Her co-workers had nearly all taken the relationship plunge in the past couple of years, and they’d all done fine. Maybe Ryan was worth crossing that line. Those piercing green eyes that spent half their time hidden by a fall of dark hair. The borderline c0cky smirk he wore just as well as that bunker gear, both of which could fuel her fantasies for a solid month. The muscles, ohhhhh the muscles that pressed against his snug T-shirts, just begging to be touched. Licked. Bitten.

“Stop,” Addison whispered, shaking herself back to reality. Okay, yes, so Ryan was hot. Scorching. Whatever. But she knew better than to go (back) there. Friends with benefits never ended well, and she could not, under any circumstances, risk anything she couldn’t walk away from free and clear at the first hint of seriousness.

Relationships like that might be fine for other people. But for Addison?

They were the highest level of dangerous.

Pulling up to the address Riordan had given her, she radioed dispatch to let them know she was on-scene. The apartment building was a large, three-story affair, close enough to the university that Addison would guess it was inhabited mostly by students. Her careful visual sweep yielded nothing out of the ordinary, and she checked her notes as she made her way inside the building.

Chloe Ferguson, Apartment 6A. Addison walked through the lobby, nodding hello at the young woman grabbing her mail from the locked boxes in the lobby. She noted the security camera—a good sign—aimed at the front door, taking in the quiet hallway leading to the first-floor apartments.

4A…5A…and, bingo. She placed a solid knock on the door of apartment 6A and followed it up with, “Remington PD. Please open the door.”

Footsteps sounded off from inside the apartment, followed by a pause, then the distinct click of the deadbolt being turned.

“Hi, I’m Detective…” Addison’s words crashed to a halt in her throat as her brain played connect the dots with her eyes, and she registered the worried green stare of the man standing in front of her. “Dempsey? What are you doing here?”

“It’s my sister,” Ryan said, his expression serious enough to send shivers up Addison’s spine.

“She’s in danger, and I need your help.”

Want to replace out what happens next? Read The Rogue