“Yup.”
When I was about thirteen or fourteen, I finally realized that not all parents and households were as messed up as mine, so I decided that I needed to get away for my own sanity. I looked at a map of the United States and determined then and there that I would do whatever it took to get accepted to a decent college on the East Coast, and New York, New Jersey, and Massachusetts all seemed like perfect candidates. They were just about as far away from California as you could get.
I met with my guidance counselor at school and found out exactly what I needed to do to give me the best chances for college acceptance and an academic scholarship. My future was in my own hands. If I failed to get good grades, I could kiss college good-bye. My parents would never be able to afford to send me to school, let alone out of state.
It had been one of the few times I was thankful I didn’t play any sports. Being an athlete would have been a time-consuming luxury I couldn’t afford. Instead, I focused on my studies, participated in student council, ran for class president when I was able to, and joined various clubs. I was nothing if not a kid determined to change his future, even if I had no clue what I wanted to do.
“Let’s talk about this weekend,” Tucker suggested. “What are you going to say to her?”
“I’m not discussing this with you.”
He punched my arm, and I stiffened as he said, “Don’t be like that. We both know I’m your best friend. If you don’t tell me, who the hell else are you gonna tell?”
Tucker was right. He had grown to become my closest friend since we became partners three years ago back in New York. We had been working undercover on different aspects of this case in separate divisions before the Feds got involved and paired us together to join forces, minds, and information. He was a stubborn ass at first, but I eventually wore him down, and we’d been joined at the hip ever since.
I even convinced him to transfer out to LA with me when one of our lead crime family members, Mickey Scarino, moved to the area to expand operations to the West Coast. It didn’t hurt that Tucker’s girlfriend had dumped him a few months prior, and he figured it was time to seek greener pastures.
Mickey Scarino was one scary son of a bitch who never gave second chances. His temper was legendary, and it usually entered the room before he did. If anyone so much as spoke out against him or questioned his reasoning, he chopped off a finger. Allegedly. He was also smart as hell. In this day and age, you didn’t climb the ranks of a crime organization without being extremely intelligent and one step ahead of everyone, including our squad.
We were on surveillance duty pretty much twenty-four/seven, fed by leads thanks to my informant Eddie, who was still located on the East Coast. Eddie was the guy who let me know about the West Coast move and the planned operations there. He had been feeding me information for years, and so far, everything he told me had panned out. I trusted him as much as I could trust a member of the mob who wanted to stay out of federal prison.
Born and raised in Brooklyn, Tucker never thought he’d leave. But one visit to Santa Monica and he was convinced he had found his new home. “These are some of the best tits I’ve ever seen in my life. They’re everywhere. And I want to meet them all,” he confessed to me after a day at the beach. I laughed, knowing that eventually even fake tits got old, especially when they were attached to vapid, self-absorbed, brainless females.
Tucker gave me a knowing look. “You don’t even have a plan, do you?”
“I have a plan!” I lied, knowing that it wasn’t really a plan per se, as much as it was a mission. Get Cammie. The end.
“What is it? You Cammie, me Dalton,” he mocked as he pounded his chest like Tarzan. “You my woman now.”
I narrowed my eyes. “I like it.”
“You would. Fucking caveman.” He reached down toward his feet and pulled up a bag filled with snacks.
Shrugging my shoulders, I glanced at him. “I figured I’d try and start with talking.”
“You should start with kissing,” he said seriously.
“Now who’s the caveman?”
He snorted as he pawed through the contents of the bag in his lap. “Still you. You’re just the new kind of caveman. The sensitive kind. A metrosexual caveman who cares about feelings and shit, but secretly still wants to drag her by the hair and pull her into your lair.”
“I’m not metrosexual, and you’re an idiot.”
“Yeah, but I’m your idiot.” He smiled before taking a bite of a cold egg sandwich.
“Are you in love with me? Is that what this is about?” I said, fucking with him.
He snorted again. “You wish I was in love with you.” His accent came out even thicker as his mouth was filled with food. “Right now I’m in love with this healthy egg white sandwich crap you made me eat.”
“It’s good for you,” I insisted, relieved that he liked the sandwich. Tucker ate like a Mack truck, and ever since we moved here, I’d been trying to get him to eat better things.
“I said I liked it,” he mumbled around a mouthful.
“You said you loved it. See, I’m smart.”
“I might not be as smart as you, but our guy just walked out to have a smoke.” He pointed with the hand holding his sandwich two blocks ahead at the man we’d been gathering information on ever since we transferred to California.
I reached into the backseat to pull out the department-issued camera and started taking pictures of our suspect using a long lens. Anyone who came outside to talk to him got their picture taken as well. It was like being in photography class all over again . . .