Chapter 1
Marisol Santiago wasn't what some would call a 'people person.' And she definitely wasn't the high-society type. In fact, she avoided even travelling to any sort of crime scene in that area if she could, though she couldn't avoid living in it. She stood outside of a brick apartment building uptown with a grimace. She left early on a first date for this? Jesse Cardoza was a very attractive lawyer that she'd met through one of her best friends. After a few months of flirting, she'd agreed to go out to dinner with him. When Marisol received the call to the crime scene, she'd been forced to apologize and had to leave.
"Hey, Santiago, nice legs. What time do they open?" a uniform cracked when she set down her kit. She rolled her eyes and tied her long navy blue coat closed to cover up the red halter-neck cocktail dress she wore.
"When your mother closes hers," she retorted. After all the fuss she'd put into getting ready, it seemed like a total waste to go to a crime scene. She saw uniforms surrounding Wolfe and pursed her lips. Marisol had worked with the crime lab for two and a half years and she tried to refuse to let herself get sucked in by the womanizer of the Miami Police Department. But with the dry, sarcastic sense of humor they both possessed, along with a mutual love of classic rock among other things, it wasn't easy. "What did you do now?"
"Zip it, Latina, I'm not in the mood. I just chased down a car that's got the bounce-back of a jellyfish," he told her.
"What kinda car was it?" Marisol asked, pulling a notepad out of her coat pocket. She glanced up at him. His dark hair was mussed, his white dress shirt open to show his muscular frame, and he was a bit scruffy. Her face warmed when she caught herself gaping at him. She'd been around attractive people her entire life; what was it about him that turned her from cool and confident into a babbling idiot?
"You're the car buff," he replied. "It just...looked like a James Bond car."
She perked up at that. "An Aston Martin?" she inquired. A blue-collar girl at heart, she knew a lot about a few things: forensics, horses, and cars.
"You're the car buff," he repeated. She grinned at him and wrote down his descriptions of the car as he listed them off.
"Would I have liked the car, Wolfe?"
"Latina, you would have flipped your lid over it."
And until Yelena had called Marisol to interview Elena, the night had gone pretty well. Elena Gilbert was a spoiled little rich girl in a candy store for raging cop fetishes. Marisol never felt more disgusted of anyone in her life. Even Wolfe looked a little embarrassed at Elena's gushing of the earlier events.
"What?" he asked her when Elena left the room? Marisol looked up at him incredulously. There were no words of her disgust.
"Nothing. She just doesn't seem to..." she let herself trail off. She shook her head to cut herself from saying what she was thinking. Elena didn't respect him one bit. She treated him like an accessory, like a dog she could cart around in her purse.
"You at least have the decency to cut yourself off. You should have heard how Calleigh berated me earlier," he commented. Marisol pursed her lips to hold her tongue. Calliope "Calleigh" Duquesne was infamous for saying stuff other people were thinking.
"You don't wanna hear my opinion," Marisol responded. She crossed her arms across her chest, blue-flame meeting dark blue. "Because my mama raised me better than that."
"Let me guess. Whore with a raging cop fetish or just flat-out whore?" Wolfe snarled. It was her turn to get taken aback.
"I met her all of two minutes ago. What the honest hell would I know about Elena Gilberto or whatever the hell her name is?" she pointed out.
Marisol slammed the door shut to her apartment, growling in annoyance. She kicked off her black and white heels and hung up her coat.
"I hate him, I hate him, I hate him!" she declared to the quiet dimness of her apartment.
If you hate him, then why are you thinking about him again? That little voice in her mind asked. Ryan Wolfe was definitely the type of man she couldn't afford to pay any attention.
Ever since she'd met him, he'd had the power to cut her to jelly.
She saw a bouquet of dark red roses sitting in a glass vase on the granite counter-top. As an act of panic, Marisol's grandfather had told Marisol to live in his South Beach penthouse and pitch in with utilities. The building had a doorman and she appreciated the sentiment; she needed someone to look after her while she was off the clock. Her name was on a card in the depths of the sweet-smelling blossoms.
"Looks like you made an impression on Jesse," Calleigh voice came from the back room. She lived with Marisol and Ellie in the spacious five-bedroom space. "He called me up, singing your praises."
"I had a good time with him," Marisol replied, pulling the little card from the envelope, realizing it'd been opened. Sitting by the glass vase was a little white teddy bear with a little red heart perched on its little lap. She read the card aloud. "Marisol. So sorry our enchanting evening got cut short. Looking forward to seeing you again. Love, Jesse."
"Sorry, I had to read it. He got you dark chocolate truffles from Godiva. Didn't I tell you he was a total catch?" Calleigh said, leaning against the door-frame of her bedroom. Her ivory cocktail dress was loose on her tall, willowy frame and she stood barefoot on the plush white carpeting.
"He was really sweet and gentlemanly to me during dinner," Marisol replied, slipping the card back in the envelope and set it back on the holder. "These roses are gorgeous." It'd been a long time since she'd been spoiled silly on a date without being expected to 'hold up her end of the bargain' later. Jesse had been attentive and flat-out perfect. It didn't hurt that they were cut from the same cloth. The same way she came from a long line of horse breeders and mobsters, he'd come from a long line of cattle ranchers in Tennessee.
"I knew he was perfect for you," Calleigh crowed. She crossed her arms over her chest, surveying the petite woman before her. "Now if only Wolfe would listen to me about that whore Elena..."
Marisol's moony expression vanished at the sound of his name. She padded into the kitchen for a bottle of water. "Well, he's a grown man. If he wants to date someone who's clearly a badge bunny, that's his business," she responded.
"Elena's dad and my dad were best friends. I know that bitch like the back of my hand," Calleigh said sourly. Marisol rolled her eyes again and took a sip of the chilled water. "You met her, too, huh? She'll stab you in the back as pretty as you please. I'm pretty sure you have some down-home sayings about that, right?"
Marisol snorted. "What, just because my cotton ain't as high quality as yours doesn't make me some sorta bumpkin, Cal. I don't think she respects him at all, but I'm not gonna get involved."
"Honey, she doesn't even respect herself. She's the kinda girl who thinks it's a tease to wait till the third date to...you know," Calleigh said, gesturing wildly with her slim hands. Her blue eyes were glittering in irritation, her dark blonde hair let loose from its earlier up-do.
"Dance the horizontal tango?" Marisol guessed. Calleigh cackled as she turned around to unzip the dress. Marisol pulled the zipper down the track to expose a black lace bra. "I guess a thief interrupted them before they could do it."
"Good. Wolfe might catch something from her."
When Calleigh disapproved of something, everyone knew about it. Her belligerence meant that she cared, unfortunately. Ryan knew that getting an opinionated friend was part of the package when he met Calliope Duquesne. It didn't surprise him that she disapproved of Elena. Hell, Elena had her own opinion of the tall, willowy brunette and made it no secret that she detested her.
Yelena hadn't voiced her disapproval, but it was in her green-gray eyes as she talked to him, along with Horatio.
But Marisol was a different story. She started to say something, but cut herself off. She'd never been good at hiding anything and her pursed lips had said it all. He valued her opinion, merely because she didn't blow things out of proportion. She stated it, then let it go.
Ryan liked Marisol, he always had. The first thing he noticed when he first met her was her smile. It scrunched up her small nose and crinkled the corners of her pretty green eyes.
He pulled out his phone and dialed her number. For what seemed like ages, it rang.
"Hello?" a sleepy voice rasped.
"Sorry to wake you up, but I wanted to apologize for jumping on you earlier. I asked your opinion and bit your head off when you almost said what I didn't wanna hear," he told her in a rush. It was three in the morning and his shift at the station started in four hours. Being cranky seemed unavoidable at this point.
"It's fine. I kept my opinion to myself because it wasn't very nice," she murmured.
"And thanks for that," he said.
"Hey, Ryan?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm gonna go back to sleep now. See you at work tomorrow."
"Alright, Latina. See you then."
Chapter 2
Marisol hated the way things were sometimes. As it turned out, dating a lawyer wasn't such a good idea. After she'd arrested Maude for murder and for stealing an Aston Martin, Jesse turned out as her legal representation. It became a little clear that cops and lawyers weren't a good mix.
She had her Martin guitar set across her lap as she sprawled out on the couch, strumming absent-mindedly at the strings. So much to think about that she didn't want to think about. Every time she looked at the background on her phone of herself with Grandma Helena, her fingers strummed the song her grandmother sang so many times while she did housework and barn work.
"I'll be yours until the sun doesn't shine, 'til time stands still, until the winds don't blow. When today's just a memory to me, I know I'll still be loving, I'll still be loving you, I'll still be loving you," she murmured the lyrics.
Then she strummed out the intro and sighed deeply.
Changing my life with your love Has been so easy for you And I'm amazed every day and I'll need you 'Till all the mountains are valleys And every ocean is dry, my love
I'll be yours until the sun doesn't shine' Till time stands still, until the winds don't blow When today's just a memory to me, I know I'll still be loving, I'll still be loving you I'll still be loving you
Never before did I know how loving someone could be now I can see you and me for a life time Until the last moon is rising, you'll see the love in my eyes, my love
I'll be yours until the sun doesn't shine 'Till time stands still, until the winds don't blow When today's just a memory to me, I know I'll still be loving, I'll still be loving you I'll still be loving you
"Wow, I haven't heard that one in a long time," Marco commented. Marisol smiled shyly from her perch and picked at the strings again. "Grandma Helena used to sing that song about Granddaddy and to the horses."
"I couldn't forget that song if I tried," she replied. "It's one of my favorite songs."
She could picture Eli Helena singing the old Restless Heart song in that off-key croak of hers with her mess of coppery red hair piled on top of her head and carrying a feed bucket, dressed in a pair of beat-up jeans and a sleeveless plaid blouse.
Marisol put the guitar back in its case and flipped the lid shut, locking it securely. "I gotta get dressed; I'm going out to lunch. Ellie is gonna be back soon. You kinda kept her up late last night."
She stifled a yawn and carried the black guitar case to her bedroom. Marco stared at her in complete shock.
"What, you thought I wouldn't put two and two together and figure out that you're sleeping with my roommate?" she remarked. "Besides, I saw you sneaking out last night."
She left her brother standing in shock in the kitchen while she shut the door.
It was warm in the coffee shop, thank goodness. Miami had a cold snap early this year and though there wasn't a promise for snow, Marisol knew better to be safe than sorry. She picked a teal sweater, her thickest pair of what she called her 'barn jeans', a pair of knee-high boots, and her black Carhartt jacket. Marco tried being sarcastic with her, but Marisol supposed he was still reeling that he'd been busted with Ellie Sloan.
"Well, aren't you a sight for sore eyes, Detective Santiago," the barista commented. Kim was a sweet blonde girl who attended school at Miami University. She had Marisol's coffee order memorized, though Marisol hadn't been in a few weeks. "Two Kona mocha frappes with caramel, shortbread syrup, hazelnut, three shots of espresso, and extra whip, right?"
"You're amazing, Kim," Marisol replied, shucking her coat off and draping it over her arm. She shivered at the lone chill that breezed into the coffee shop when the door opened as she stood in line.
"This place just got classier!" someone crowed. She looked over her shoulder to see Ian Wolfe standing behind her. The little coffee shop by the lab made her feel like she was Norm on the classic TV shows Cheers. Everybody knew her name there. "Long time, no see, Santiago."
"How's your brother doing?" Marisol asked. Wolfe and Ian were brothers, but they both tried to deny it. Ian worked for the MDFD and Ryan Wolfe was MDPD. It was sibling rivalry.
"You tell me. You see Ry more than I do," Ian shrugged. He was nearly as tall as his older brother with the same shaggy dark hair and dark blue eyes and broad frame.
"Pardon me for trying to make conversation," Marisol teased, tilting her head to the side. He simply smirked at her and shook his head. "So those slave drivers in the firehouse let you come outside and play today?"
"I was gonna ask the same thing of you. Funny," he returned. Then he leaned over to talk low in her ear. "But the firemen do have the better selling calendars than the cops do."
"Mm, is that why more people have cop fetishes than they have firemen fetishes?" she said, fluttering her eyelashes innocently. He grinned crookedly at her. For a second, he looked exactly like his older brother. "It's the cuffs."
"You sounded just like my brother just then," he stated.
"So, today, I was just compared to you," Marisol commented, leaning against Ryan's desk. She set down a frappe next to him and took a seat in the plastic chair next to his desk. His eyebrow arched questioningly as he looked up from his paperwork. "Again."
"Oh? By whom?" he asked, taking a sip of the coffee. The tiny brunette was forever bringing him new coffee concoctions to try and so far, she'd been spot on with her ideas. "How is it that I've lived here longer than you, but you still know where all the good coffee is?"
"Because I'm talented, that's why," she replied. "And it was by your brother, Ian. He goes to the same coffee shop I do and he made a joke about firemen and cops, so I got him back by saying people have more cop fetishes than fireman fetishes." That didn't surprise him. Newbies and visiting detectives were thrown off by their friendship. According to them, no two people could be as close as they were without dating.
"The cuffs, right?"
She laughed, sipping her frappe from a straw. "Yup. That's exactly what I said," she confirmed.
"You one of those women with a cop fetish, Latina?" he commented. Marisol grinned broadly at him.
"Hell, no, Wolfe, I got a cowboy fetish that I inherited from the Helena side of the family," she declared.
"There aren't any cowboys in the city," Ryan reminded her. She stuck her tongue out at him and crossed her legs. "Okay, I'm done looking at all this paperwork. I think I'm caught up from my past cases. Wanna go ahead and head out for lunch?"
"Sure. This place is a freaking rumor mill," she answered, standing up. She looked around the bullpen warily. "I swear, I learn new things about me every day."
"You and me both. Did you know that I dumped Elena for you after I found out I got you pregnant?" he returned. That made her laugh hysterically.
"No, I didn't," she giggled. She pulled on her thick black jacket and zipped it up, burying herself in its warmth. "God, it's colder than a witch's boob in a brass bra out there."
He laughed out loud. "I don't think I've ever heard that saying before. You've lived here for two and a half years and you're still not used to the winters here?"
"Notice how I'm used to the summers? Besides, it's making my knee hurt."
"You getting old on me, Santiago?"
"Shut it, Wolfe."
After lunch, it was a contest to see who knew scarier movies. Ryan had insisted on Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Marisol cringed into the sofa, her eyes glued to the TV screen. He glanced over at her and made the mistake of brushing his fingers along the back of the couch to her head.
"Holy fucking shit!" she screeched, jumping a mile on the couch. It caused a chain reaction of events. She smacked him hard, for one, and Jazzy, Calleigh beloved white long-haired Chihuahua barked loudly. Ryan snorted in laughter and she glared at him balefully. "That's not funny, you ass!"
"I didn't mean to scare you," he apologized. He held out his arm and she slowly scooted back over to him. If he played his cards right, he might end up with a petrified Marisol on his lap. "Sorry, okay?"
"Yeah, just you wait until you see my pick. I picked a movie that will psychologically fuck you up," she muttered. He'd seen Texas Chainsaw Massacre a thousand times and he found himself glancing over at her. "Jesus, I might have to sleep in Calleigh's room tonight."
"Take pictures," he joked. Another hard smack to his chest and he grunted. "Kidding. If I knew you were such a lightweight, I would've picked The Shining."
"Red rum," she growled, imitating Al Pacino. Then she cringed when one of the people became bound to a chair made of human body parts. "I swear, if there was a crime scene we found like this, I might throw up."
"We can shut it off, if you want," he suggested. She shook her head, her dark hair flying. Her small hands flew to her face and her tiny body tensed during a particularly bloody scene.
"I just don't like horror movies based on true stories," she explained once the movie was over.
"You'd rather watch the movies that are the outcome of a writer's sick, twisted imagination?" he guessed. She nodded.
"At least it's imaginary," she pointed out. Ryan stared at the face of his watch in the dim lamplight. Thank God he had the day off tomorrow. It was his first full day off in two weeks. "I'm hungry. Want something?"
"After watching a movie chock-full of gore and guts, you're hungry?" he commented with an arch of his eyebrow. Marisol shrugged and slid off the couch, her petite body dressed in a pair of black and white polka dot pajama pants and a red T-shirt that fit snugly to her lithe form. He'd be lying if he said he'd never thought about what that body looked like under the clothes she wore. He'd seen it outlined in various clothes and hadn't stopped wondering since.
"So you're not hungry?" she called. He chuckled low in his throat.
"I didn't say that."
She giggled and he heard dishes being moved around. "Dammit, Marco!" she cursed.
"What'd he do now?" Ryan asked, looking from the living room into the kitchen. It was open-concept, thank God. He could see her in there if he craned his neck upward. One thing the South Beach got right was their floor plans.
"He ate all my bacon!" Marisol lamented. "That jerk-face ate all of my bacon!"
"A serious crime against nature!" he joked. He got up from the couch to check through the movie titles she had spread out on the antique-looking coffee table.
"Uh-uh. My turn, Wolfe," she reminded him. "I say we watch Psycho."
"Anything but a chick flick, please," he requested, popping in the DVD.
It was hard for Marisol to focus on the movie when she felt Wolfe playing with her hair. It was something he'd done before, but when his fingers brushed her face or her ear, her skin prickled. She'd seen the movie millions of times, so she let her mind wander.
"You alright?" His breath tickled her ear and she nodded. She cuddled deeper into her warm blanket, suppressing a shiver. "Cold?"
"Creeped out is more like it."
"Mari, I'm not gonna bite you."
No, but it's taking all my self-control to keep from jumping you, she thought to herself. The blanket did more than just keep her warm; it was a physical barrier between them so she wasn't doing anything inappropriate. They'd nearly kissed twice since they met and they were interrupted by someone each time. Come on, Ellie, Calleigh, Marco, Eric, someone! Get the distraction over with!
"I know," she said instead. Then he picked up the remote to the DVD player and paused the movie. "What?"
"I was hoping you'd tell me. You're fairly predictable and I'm getting mixed signals here," Wolfe stated. Marisol glanced at the clock on the cable box. Calleigh got off work in fifteen minutes and Ellie got off at ten.
"Every time we get any closer than this," she explained, sliding closer to him. "Someone interrupts. I'm waiting for someone to come in."
"Well, you said earlier that Calleigh gets off at nine and Ellie gets off at ten. We have a whole fifteen minutes, plus the traffic factor," he pointed out. She leaned forward to collect their dishes from the table and his strong hands encircled on her waist, gently tugging her back to a sitting position on the couch. "I just wanna know if this thing is one-sided."
"It's not," she murmured. Her eyes flicked up to meet his. "Look, Ryan..."
His hands didn't leave her sides and the parts that were touching her bare skin sent shivers rolling down her spine. Did she want to kiss him? Yes.
Should she? No. There was a certain line one didn't cross and kissing someone you worked with was one of them. Marisol had a strict no-dating policy when it came to co-workers. Just because Calleigh flipped it the bird in her dramatic way so she could date Eric didn't mean that Marisol could. It was immoral, it was risky, it was...
Then his hands slipped lower to tug her forward, erasing any doubt. Wolfe's fingers traced the little divots on the small of her back.
She leaned forward, hesitating just inches from his mouth. Her fingers gripped that little patch of hair on the back of his neck and he pulled her in.
The door flew open and she jumped away immediately, smoothing the front of her T-shirt. Her gaze snapped up to the door and a flood of annoyance filled her.
Calleigh grinned as she shut the door behind her. "Hey, what'd I miss?" she asked.
Chapter 3
Marisol hated dumpster diving with a passion. She blew her dark bangs out of her pale face as she rifled through the trash. It smelled horrific.
"Anything on your end, Eric?" she heard Calleigh call. There was a cough and a huff.
"Nothing yet, Princess. You?" Eric replied. Callie let out a shriek and Marisol's head popped up and saw her friend waving her arms to keep her balance.
"Nothing at all!" she said angrily. Eric looked over at Marisol.
"I haven't found a damn thing," she shrugged. She hoisted herself out of the dumpster and landed with a thud. A tiny mew came from under the dumpster.
"Dammit, Marisol, you may have grown up around animals, but do you have to keep meowing?" Calleigh retorted. Marisol held up her hands in defense.
"That's not me," she insisted. Then she heard it a mew, this time desperate. She got to her knees and pulled out her flashlight, beaming it under. A tiny grungy kitten peered back at her and mewed again. "It's a kitten!"
"Well, no shit," Calleigh muttered. Marisol clicked her tongue and reached under the dumpster, rubbing her fingers.
"Here kitty, kitty, kitty," she cooed. She felt her fingers wrap around the kitten's body and she pulled it out. It blinked at the sunlight and mewed again, tilting its little head back. "Hi, kitty-kitty."
Underneath the grime was a pair of light green eyes and a white blaze splattered with freckles on its muzzle and a ginger pelt. It blinked at her slowly, extending its tiny claws into her palms.
"Well, look at Doctor Doolittle, guys!" Eric commented. Marisol cupped the kitten in her small hands, examining it carefully.
"You're just a little thing, aren't you, honey?" she murmured, tucking it closer to her chest. It butted her chin, beginning to purr under her gentle touch. "Poor kitty-kitty." It couldn't be more than eight weeks old, if it was even that age.
"He's so cute," Calleigh said, extending a finger to stroke along its back. Marisol lifted it up to check under its tail. Sure enough, she was cuddling a little tomcat.
"Isn't he? Look at those eyes," she crooned, scratching the kitten's ears. His purr increased with volume, rubbing his nose along her fingers in a show of affection. "Hi, little Sebastian."
"Well, my mom calls me Ry Ry, but if you wanna call me Sebastian, I won't complain," she heard Wolfe tease. He stood in the mouth of the alley, taking in the two women and the tiny orange kitten. "Oh, shit. Keep that thing away from me."
Marisol gasped and tucked the kitten under her chin. "Don't talk about Sebastian that way!" she scolded with a scowl. "He's a kitten, not a thing!"
"I'm allergic to cats!" he reminded her. She frowned deeper and petted the kitten. Sebastian attached himself to the navy blue coveralls, climbing around on her shoulder. He seemed pleased with his new friends.
"Then you don't have to keep him," she returned.
Ryan Wolfe hated cats. Not only was he allergic to them, but they were mass weapons of pure evil, in his opinion. He woke up in the morning with a stuffy nose and watery eyes. He looked around to see the penthouse around him. After hanging out at the girls' place, he must have fallen asleep. There was a warm ball on his chest and he looked over to see Sebastian curled up in a content ball, fast asleep.
"Little bastard," he muttered, scooping up the kitten and setting him down on the floor. Don rolled off the couch and stretched, rolling the kinks out of his spine.
"Oh, you slept over," he heard Marisol comment. He looked over into the kitchen and immediately looked away. Her blue plaid shorts barely covered her ass and her purple tank top showed off a strip of her pale skin. "Want some coffee?"
"Uh, sure," he replied. His gaze dropped to the curve of her ass, watching the sway of her hips as she moved about the kitchen. If he was honest, he was definitely an ass man. Breasts were a close second. "You still got those cream singles?"
"Uh, no, Calleigh used the last of it," she answered. He walked into the kitchen and leaned against the counter, watching her move about. She set down a white ceramic coffee cup in front of him and he could smell the rich coffee wafting up. "It's not Brewster's, but I still think it's pretty damn good."
He turned away and sneezed. "I woke up to your damn cat on my chest this morning," he said. She frowned and picked up the kitten, walking out of the kitchen with it.
"I have some allergy medicine, if you need some," she offered. "I know I have some non-drowsy stuff." Then the damn thing got bold and nuzzled her, cuddling closer to her chest.
"Whatever happened to 'cats are evil and I wouldn't even be caught dead with one'?" Ryan asked. Marisol stuck her tongue out, setting the orange fuzz ball on the window sill to sunbathe.
"I'm more of a dog person, it's true, but this little guy needed me," she replied. That was her. If he counted correctly, this was her fifth stray that she'd brought home, named, and nursed back to health. "Who knows, maybe this'll be the one I keep."
His phone rang on his holster and he picked it up. It was Marco. "Hey, man, what's up?" he said.
"When was the last time you talked to my sister?" Marco asked in a rush. He sounded worried and panicked. Ryan looked up to see the sister in question playing with the kitten.
"She's right here, playing with that damn kitten she rescued. What's going on?" he asked.
"Make sure Marisol does not turn on the TV until I get there. If you get a call from Seethe, tell him you're there with Marisol. Whatever you do, make sure no one turns on the TV until we get there," Marco instructed him. When Marisol reached for the remote to the TV, Ryan slapped it out of her hand without thinking and she gave him an incredulous look.
"What the fuck?" she wondered. He held up his finger.
"There's been an accident with the FBI and our dad was involved." Martin Santiago the Third was Marisol and Marco's father. The older man was former Mafia, but turned his life around for good and became a respected name in the MDPD and the FBI. "If Marisol finds out, she's going to freak. Make sure no one goes near the TV until I get there, to reiterate."
"Alright, I'll do that," Ryan replied. He snapped his phone shut and took the remote from her. "Your brother's on his way and it's important."
She watched him warily, her blue-flame eyes searching his face. "That's your cop voice. Something's happened," she stated.
Sirens screamed outside and she rushed to the window to look. "I'm getting my phone and I'm gonna call Horatio."
He stood up and gripped her wrist. "Don't. Not until your brother gets here."
"Where do you get off telling me what I can and can't do?" Marisol demanded. She wrenched her wrist from his hand and stormed into her room, emerging five minutes later dressed in a pair of baggy jeans and a black pull-over. "Something's wrong and you're not telling me."
"Because Marco wanted to tell you himself," Ryan explained.
"To hell with Marco! There's something wrong and I want to know. Now," she said, crossing her arms in front of her chest. Then the door opened and the tall, lanky form of Marco Santiago was revealed.
"Come here," he told her. They met each other halfway before Marco pulled his sister into his arms. His muscular arms completely engulfed her petite body and he held her tightly. "There's been an accident, Meme..."
Marisol was numb all over as she leaned against the wall of the waiting room. Her father had been shot by a crack dealer and was in surgery at Queen of Mercy Hospital to remove the bullet. She needed to get there now. It was the closest she could be to her father, but there was nothing she could do.
God, she hated feeling helpless. There was nothing she could do. Her vision became blurred with hot tears and she grabbed the stack of mail, throwing it into the wall as hard as she could.
"That's not gonna help," her cousin Carmen commented from her perch in a chair. The words made Marisol snap.
"Well, excuse the ever-living fuck out of me!" she snarled. "That's my father in there that your boyfriend shot, Carmen. Nice to know the company our family keeps!"
"There's no need to turn into a raging bitch because your oh-so perfect daddy got shot," Carmen defended, her brown eyes flashing.
"By your oh-so perfect crack-dealing boyfriend!" Marisol didn't hesitate to point out. Truth be told, she was absolutely itching for a fight. She wanted to beat the ever-loving hell out of something or someone.
"Marisol, don't," she heard her Zia Serena warn. Marisol turned to face her aunt, her teeth gritting.
"He's your brother, why the fuck don't you defend him? Or is blood no longer thick between us because we're on opposite sides of the law?" she demanded. She slammed her hand into the wall and stormed out of the ICU waiting room. Her aggression hit an all-time high and she was about to punch someone.
Anger, confusion, fear, depression all welled within her and she could feel herself breaking down. Being there was only going to psyche her out and piss her off even more.
Marisol didn't care where she drove, but she needed to get out of there. Her father's family was chock-full of hypocrites and criminals.
"Welcome to the fucking family," she muttered, gripping the steering wheel of the beat-up Chevy. Rain pelted the windshield and she switched on the wipers. She wanted to hear her father tell her to calm down with his words. She wanted to hear that thick Italian accent, smell gunpowder and Old Spice, and feel him tug at her hair or play with her toes when he knew she was upset. Her phone rang in the cup-holder next to her and she snatched it up. Yelena. "Santiago."
"Hey, kiddo, how are you holding up?" she asked. Marisol let out a bitter, humorless laugh.
"I'll let you know when I find out," she replied. She looked outside of the window to see she'd driven out to the coffee shop she frequented. Brewster's. A cup of tea would soothe her frazzled nerves. Ordinarily, she despised tea, but it sounded too damn good to pass up. Her conversation with Yelena was short, thankfully. It wasn't that she didn't like her co-boss, she adored her, but at the moment, she wasn't a good conversationalist. "Hey, Kim. Can I get some of that lavender chamomile tea, please?"
She took a seat in one of the overstuffed armchairs by the large window and cradled her head in her hands. Tension made her shoulders hurt and she was confident she was going crazy.
"I'm afraid to ask you if you're okay," she heard a deep male voice comment. It wasn't Wolfe's but it was his brother's. Marisol glanced up to see Ian towering over her.
"I'm fine," she said flatly. She ran her hands through her dark hair, exhaling deeply through her nose. "Just fan-fucking-tastic."
A bell sounded through the air and her head lifted to see Wolfe walking through the door. Kim handed her the cup of tea and Marisol thanked her, pulling out a couple dollars to pay for it. The flowery scent was enough to partially soothe her nerves.
"I thought I might find you here in the infamous Brewster's," he remarked. She shook her head and took a sip of the tea, wrinkling her nose. "You hate tea."
"Aromatherapy," she explained. She couldn't explain why she hated hot tea, but loved sweet tea, but she did. "I nearly decked my cousin and my aunt at the hospital, so I had to get out of there. Carmen's dating the fucktard that shot my father."
Saying the words made the hot tears spring to her eyes again and she set down the cup. The last thing she wanted to think about was her life without her father. She couldn't even picture it.
"I can't even think about what might happen if he..." she forced herself to trail off. "God, I can't even make myself finish that sentence. I can't let myself think about the possible reality that he might not make it."
"Then don't," Wolfe suggested gently. The tears fell down her cheeks and she wiped them away quickly. "Come take a walk with me, Scout."
Her old nickname offered little comfort, but she accepted his outstretched hand in her own and let him help her up.
Ryan met Marisol two and a half years ago during the Lauren Redgrave case. She was a tiny little thing, her CSI windbreaker nearly hanging to her knees.
A pair of pale blue eyes met his and a small smile flickered on her lips. This woman was petite with dark hair pulled back in a tight pony-tail, bangs sweeping across the left side of her pale face. She couldn't be much older than twenty-four, if she was even that old.
"Excuse me, I'm looking for Detective Soles," she requested in a twangy Southern accent. "Detective Caine gave me this address for the crime scene."
Yelena came around the corner and she sized up the petite woman. "Marisol Santiago, right?" she said. The woman nodded. "Wow...you're a lot younger than I expected."
"I get that a lot. Let's just say I'm the smart one of my family and leave it at that," she responded. Ryan had to laugh at her spunk.
Yelena smiled. "Well, if you're here to work, then I've got just the job for you..."
Now here she was on the verge of an absolute breakdown and he knew enough to get her out of a public establishment. She hated pity and they would pity her for the shit in her life.
Taking her back to his cluttered apartment was the least he could do after all she'd done. How many times had she scraped his drunk ass out of a bar and patiently put him to bed in one of the guest rooms, politely turning down his drunken advances?
More times than he'd like to admit, unfortunately. After that first case, he couldn't deny he felt something for her. That there was something about her that touched something in him that he wasn't sure he wanted anyone to touch. There was a connection.
"Thanks for putting up with me," she spoke up for the first time in five minutes, playing with the strings of her purple sweatshirt. The sleeves were pushed up to her elbows. "I needed that."
"Consider it even. You've scraped up my drunk ass out of a bar and stopped me from getting into fights. You needed somewhere to go for a little while, I'm what you need," he replied.