Omg guys, I'm back! Did you miss me? Lol, I present to you what you've all been asking for: a continuation of Curious Hearts! Warning: You should probably read Curious Hearts before this, or there might be some stuff you don't understand. I tried to make it as readable as possible without any prior knowledge of Curious Hearts, but I can't make any promises. Also, this is a love triangle so, if you're not into that, you're gonna have a bad time haha. Enjoy!

I yawned, the soft graze of sweetly familiar lips over my cheek roused me from my slumber.

"Tracey, wake up," the low, masculine sensuality of Franklin's voice brought a smile to my face. My husband and I have been sharing the same bed for a year now but waking up beside him still felt unreal, like an amazing dream. How did I get so lucky? "Ain't you late for class, girl?"

"Class?" I murmured sleepily, half-awake. "What class?"

"Your performing arts classes, you know, the ones you been takin' at the university for like three months now." He grinned teasingly. "Ring any bells?"

I struggled to sit up, shielding my weary eyes from the vivid sunlight gliding through the windowpane. "Jeez, that's bright. What time is it?"

He glanced at his gold Rolex. "Twelve o'clock."

"Seriously?" I shot up from bed and scrambled to the walk-in closet, sifting through my vast assortment of clothes for an outfit to wear. I'm so late. Smith is going to kill me!

"Can't you take the day off, babe?" Franklin pleaded, his powerful arms circled my waist, squeezing me affectionately. "I could use the help around the house, and with the baby…" He dropped his head to nuzzle my neck, planting kisses and tiny love bites to my skin, the tantalizing caress set my body aflame. Surrounded by man, my brain faltered once the aroma of his woodsy cologne filled my senses. He always smelled so good.

I melted against him, each tempting stroke of his lips subtly urging me closer and closer to him…

As much as I wanted to stay with him, I couldn't. There was an obligation I had to keep, places I needed to be. Maybe I could tell him the truth? No, he'd never understand. It took all the willpower I could muster to pull away from him.

"Frank, I have to go," I slipped on a pair of jeans, shrugged into a blouse, and pushed my feet into the nearest pair of sneakers I could find. "I'll be back tonight, okay?"

"Tonight?" he frowned, his hazel gaze somewhat brooding. "For real? You finna leave me here all day by myself? What am I gonna do—"

"You're gonna take care of the baby, like the hot, amazing dad that you are."

"Uh-huh." He gave my butt a light smack, and then turned away to work on his first household duty of the day: making the bed. "You can save the flattery, a'ight? It won't work. I know you in school and all, but this is a lot of responsibility to dump on one person, you feel me? I thought we were a team—"

"We are a team," I hastily interject. "We've always been a team."

He continued, "I don't mean to give you a hard time, but damn, it's exhaustin' to do all this shit alone, babe. Why don't I ever get a damn break…"

While Franklin went off on his impassioned rant, my phone was vibrating like crazy on the nightstand. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. High-pitched wailing split the air. Oh no, Emma was awake.

Franklin winced at the sound, rubbing his temples. "Trace, you finna answer that or what?"

I hurried over to my phone and pocketed it. "Sorry, one of my friends from class was calling," I lied, knowing full well it was actually my partner, Smith. "She's probably wondering why I'm so late. I'll check on Emma before I leave—"

He waved a hand in a dismissive gesture, shooing me away. "Nah, I got this," he grumbled, jaw clenched. "Go, have fun. I'll see you tonight."

My husband was clearly agitated, and I didn't blame him one bit. He had every right to be. In a desperate effort to console him, I cupped his soft bearded cheek, my fingers toyed with the expensive diamond glinting in his ear. "I love you, Frank. So much."

He kissed my palm, a half smile crossed his rugged face. "Love you too."

Agent Smith steered our black sedan to the curb. Gingerly I sipped my coffee, my stare fixed on the derelict building before us. The exterior was tagged with colorful graffiti, stained with mildew, bullet holes were lodged into the weathered red brick. A small mob of men loitered by the entrance, their bodies covered with gang-affiliated tattoos, and red bandanas were tied to their face. Yikes. Those guys were bad news. Anxious-looking strangers hurried past them, as well as the occasional hooker who waddled along in high heels and an uncomfortably skimpy outfit, her drug-addled figure thin as a needle.

The ghettos in South Los Santos were terrifying. There was a tight knot in my gut, every nerve in my body begged me to steer clear of this place. It was dangerous. Anything could happen! "I don't like this, Smith," I said. "What are we doing here again?"

"Eleven-year-old Nancy Jones is missing and it's our moral duty to bring her home safe, agreed?" Smith cut the gas. "According to intel, she disappeared without a trace, no evidence, no witnesses, twelve suspects questioned, not a single arrest. Police are stumped, so the bureau put me on the case—"

"Us on the case," I corrected.

"Right." He smiled apologetically. "Nancy's mother, Shanice Jones, may be able to point us in the right direction."

"Wasn't she interviewed by the police already?"

"Yes. She maintains her innocence. However, I am not entirely convinced."

"What about the father? Are we questioning him too?"

"We would, but no one knows where he is. From what I gathered, the father skipped town shortly after the child was born. No social media, no debit card purchases, no phone records, all known acquaintances claim they haven't seen him in years."

"Wow. What a dad," I scoffed. "Okay, let's make this quick. I don't like the look of this place."

With a teasing grin, he replied, "Why so apprehensive? We've ventured into far scarier places, have we not?"

I sighed. I hate to admit it, but he had a point. Over the course of three months, we've gone on multiple missing person investigations. A few of our cases led to dead ends, and we found ourselves with more questions than answers. But oftentimes, our investigations were packed with danger and adventure and tons of bad guys—we put some real terrible, sadistic men behind bars, and saved a lot of lives. Sure, it was scary, but the satisfaction of solving the case made it all worth it.

Agent Smith clasped my shoulder, his protective touch calmed my jittery nerves. "I am with you, love," he said, his voice quiet, completely composed and cool, his lips tipped into a smile as if he hadn't a worry in the world. "Do not lose faith. Together, we can do this. We'll crack the case. Together, we can do anything."

I nodded, his pep talk renewed the courage within me. "Let's do this."

We stepped out of the car. With my trusted partner taking the lead and me following closely behind him, he confronted the gang of men blocking the building entrance. "Pardon, coming through—"

A big, hulking man with an obnoxious amount of chains dangling from his neck pushed him back. "Hold up, playa." He gave Agent Smith a once-over. "Nice suit. You a cop? Private detective or some shit?"

"FIB," Smith flashed his badge. "Now stand aside, and try to be less of a tosser, will you?"

The hulking man turned to his buddy next to him. "Yo, what the fuck he just call me?"

"A tosser," his buddy replied. "Don't know what that means, but it sounds mad disrespectful, bruh. You gonna let some FIB bitch talk to you like that, Cadillac?"

The hulking man known as 'Cadillac' stomped up to Smith. Although he was a wide, muscular man, Cadillac seemed rather small due to my partner's abnormal height. He gazed up at Smith with heated, open hostility. Smith stared down at him, silent, his brows arched over his black Aviator sunglasses.

Cadillac lowered the bandana covering his face, "You must be new here. In case you ain't heard, this is my hood, motherfucker. The concrete you standing on belongs to me, the curb you parked your whip on belongs to me, the air you breathin' right now? All that shit belongs to me. I don't care who the fuck you think you are, or whatever badge you got—my word is law around here. The cops work for me." He grinned, his gold teeth glimmered in the sunlight. "There ain't nothing you can't buy in Los Santos, you dig?"

I narrowed my eyes. Did he seriously have the cops in his pocket, or was he full of crap? Trying to scare us off with intimidation tactics and lies? He was slowly reaching for something tucked in his jeans, a gun most likely! My heart jerked, the muscles in my stomach clenched in panic. I yanked on Smith's jacket, a silent warning that things were about to take a turn for the worse.

Unlike me, Smith seemed to be unfazed by the dangerous situation unfolding before us, his shoulders high, hands folded behind his back, and expression a stoic mask of unbreakable composure. Finally, he broke his silence, "This neighborhood belongs to you? Ah, I see. Forgive me, I must have missed the memo. I have no intention of meddling in your business. All I ask is that you grant us passage so we may visit a friend, if you would be so kind."

"You trippin', cus'," Cadillac replied. "Ain't nobody here stupid enough to be cool with a fed." He whipped out a handgun from the depths of his jeans and took aim at Smith. "I'm tired of wasting my breath, man. Take a walk, or take a bullet, bitch. What's it gonna be?"

Although it was best to steer clear of armed maniacs, I stepped in front of the gun, staring into the barrel with lethal determination. I wasn't going to stand by and let my partner get killed. I had to do something. "We don't give a crap about your stupid gang, or your guns, or your drugs—whatever illegal crap you have going on—we don't care. We're here to visit a friend. So how about you let us pass already so we can all get on with our day?"

Cadillac gave me a vicious glare, his muddy brown eyes bulging from the sockets. His muscles quaked, the gun in his grasp trembled. Uh-oh. He's pissed.

Smith took my hand and pulled me back. He was facing the gun now, more than willing to give up his life for me as always. Reaching for the solid strength of his arm, I clung to him, palms damp and stomach queasy as I held onto a silver of hope that he'd do something, anything to defuse the situation.

A coarse-faced man with dreadlocks tapped Cadillac's shoulder. "Yo, boss, they're engaged."

Cadillac glanced at the ring on my finger. His tension-filled expression faded abruptly, he lowered the pistol. "Y'all together?"

"Yes!" I blurted. "We are totally in love and engaged to be wed, right Oliver?"

"Why, of course we are." Like a doting lover, Smith draped his arms around my shoulders and drew me in for a hug. "Look at her! Isn't she lovely? In all my life, I never thought I'd find a love like this."

I squeezed his clean-shaven cheeks. "Honey, you're embarrassing me."

He cupped my chin in his hand, and gravitated closer. His scent surrounded me, a clean blend of leather, and cologne. His sunglasses falling to the tip of his nose, a pair of twinkling blue eyes stared at me, alarmingly intense and filled with tender longing. Sunlight glimmered over his tall frame, illuminating his square-cut jaw and straight nose.

Wow. I don't think I've ever been this close to him before. His hair! Short, moisturized, and trimmed, there wasn't a single strand of ash blonde out of place. His brows were perfectly shaped, plucked carefully by a steady hand.

I envied his tailored suit, and clear, youthful skin, completely devoid of bumps and unpleasant blemishes, like some superstar straight out of a movie screen without the expensive plastic surgery or makeup. His cheeks were dusted with just the right amount of tiny ginger colored freckles—not too dark, not too light, and the single beauty mark adorning his right temple contrasted pleasingly with his pale complexion.

The guy was flawless, his dapper, well-groomed features so impeccable, so symmetrical, that anymore delicacy would have made him far too beautiful for a man. And the worst part was, he didn't even know it.

How did he do it? What was his secret? I need to know his skin care routine, like yesterday. I skimmed a finger over the nape of his neck, counting the small moles dotting his freckled skin. One, two, three, four…

A sheepish smile played at the corner of his mouth, his proud cheekbones blushing red. "Forgive me," he murmured in that charmingly accented voice of his. "Try as I may, mere words truly aren't enough to express my devotion to you. Can't you see? Destiny has brought us together, love."

I froze as his finely shaped nose nuzzled mine, my heart thumped against my chest like a jackhammer, heat sizzling in my veins from his shameless affection. Either he was a great actor, or this was real—I couldn't tell. Wait, no, it can't be. Isn't he gay?

Cadillac squinted at us critically. "Alright, that's enough. This ain't the time or place for none of that cute, kissy-kissy, touchy-feely shit, alright?"

Reluctantly, Smith pulled away, but his grasp on my hand remained firm. "Not fond of PDA, I assume?" he asked.

"Nah, it's just him," one of Cadillac's men budded in. "Personally, I think love is a beautiful thing, man."

The other men nodded in agreement.

"Nobody give a fuck what y'all think," Cadillac barked. "Shut y'all soft asses up." His gaze darted to me. "You and your man wanna get in? Fine, but there's a visitor's fee. Pay the toll or get gone."

I grabbed a handful of cash from my purse and shoved it in his hand. "Here, take it. Now can you please let us through?"

After a moment of counting the money, he moved aside. "Fine by me. And congrats, now y'all have a real nice life together someplace else, preferably outside of my hood, you feel me?"

"Yep, I feel you. Bye forever." I pushed open the creaking building door. Yes! Finally, we made it! I pressed a hand to my racing heart. "Jesus, no matter how many times people pull a gun on me, I'll never get used to it."

"Well, that could've gone worse," Smith dusted off his suit jacket with the palm of his hand, casual as ever. "Are you alright?"

"Are you?" I countered, breathing heavily, struggling to regain my composure after our prolonged moment of intimacy. "There was a gun pointed in your face majority of the time, not mine."

"Nothing out of the ordinary for me, I'm afraid." He lowered his shades from the bridge of his nose, his blue gaze scanned our dim-lit surroundings. "Goodness, how unsanitary."

I took a careful step over the cigarette buds and empty beer bottles strewn across the concrete floor, a shard of broken glass crushed beneath my sneakers. The stench of cheap alcohol and mildew lingered in the air. I wrinkled my nose and shook my head. Gross!

Smith approached the aged elevator. Yellow barricade tape covered the doors. He frowned. "Unfortunate. Come, love, we'll take the stairs."

"What floor was it again?" I asked.

"Sixth."

I sighed heavily. "Can you carry me?"

"What?" He cocked a brow. "Carry you for six floors? Are you outside of your mind?"

"Pretty please?"

"Tracey, no. You have legs, sweetheart. Use them."

"Come on. I thought we were best friends!"

A smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. "We are. However, friendship and servitude are two different things."

"Oh, whatever. I'd carry you if I could."

"Right. Of course you would."

Glass and broken pieces of plaster crunching underfoot, we began our long ascent to sixth floor. This place was so unsettling. The pitter-patter of unknown footsteps crossed the floor from above, strange groans and creaks came from the walls around us, and the lights overhead blinked on and off repeatedly. We just got inside, and I was already dying to leave.

"Smith, is this place creepy, or is it just me?"

"It is quite foreboding, indeed," he replied. "But we will persevere."

Despite our dark, oddly quiet surroundings, my mind was fuddled by Smith's display of affection earlier. We've been working with one another for a while, and we had good chemistry. Whatever role we needed to play to get the job done, whether it was the traditional good cop, bad cop, or something else entirely, we did it with ease. But this time, it felt different…

"Y'know, Smith," I said, "To be gay—"

"I am not gay," he parried.

I continued, "You put on a really convincing act in front of those bad guys. You had everyone fooled, even me! I seriously couldn't tell if you were bluffing or like, actually admitting that you have feelings for me."

Hands shoved deep within his pockets, my partner grew quiet.

Is he okay? I tapped his shoulder. "Hey, I was talking to you."

Smith's melodic voice grew dull, lowering to almost a whisper. "My feelings are irrelevant. They do not pertain to this case."

"That's not true," I argued. "Since the day we became partners, we've been inseparable. I put my marriage and my kid on the backburner. We spent so many days, and so many sleepless nights working on these cases together, and you expect me not to care about your feelings?"

"This is hardly the time nor place for such a discussion, but I'll indulge you, if it so pleases you." He glanced at me. "Outside, you called me Oliver."

I scratched my head. "I did?"

"You did. After all this time we've spent together, that was the first time you've ever called me by something other than my very boring, generic surname."

"Mr. Secret Agent Man is a better fit if you ask me."

"Amusing," he snorted. "I'd like to believe I am more than my occupation."

"Considering I can't imagine you being anything other than a federal agent, I'm gonna have to disagree with you on that one," I teased. "Sorry, not sorry."

He winced, his expression downturned and grim as if his pride had been severely wounded. "Truly? Am I nothing more to you than a suit and a pair of shades?"

"I'm just joking!" I hugged his arm, yanking him in playfully. "And all jokes aside, I want you to know that it's okay for you to show your feelings every now and then. You don't have to keep them all bottled up inside. This is a safe place, you can tell me anything—"

"You sound like my old therapist." His expression grew somber, pretty blue eyes glinting with sadness like a wounded puppy. "The mere thought of him makes my skin crawl. That egotistical twit—I spilled my heart and soul to that man, my deepest, darkest secrets laid bare before him, my life on the verge of disintegrating to bloody oblivion," he went on with a heavy sigh. "All he ever did was sit in that god-awful chair and stare with those cold, emotionless eyes, judging, judging, judging…and for what? Why confide in a man who never does anything, rarely ever says anything? Such a waste, so many hours of my life I'll never get back—"

I grabbed his shoulders and turned to face him, stopping our advance, as well as his rant. "Smith, are you okay? How long has it been since you've seen your therapist?"

"Erm…it's been quite some time," he straightened his tie, quickly regaining his composure, his face contracted into its usual passive mask. "But I am fine. No need to worry."

Ugh. Here he goes again, retreating into that dumb shell of his. I frowned. "You're a lot more sensitive than you let on, you know that?"

He tilted his head slightly and stole a slanted look at me. His strikingly blue eyes met mine. My heart fluttered involuntarily. "Whatever do you mean, love?"

"Um…" I fumbled, rendered speechless by his compelling gaze. What's wrong with me today? Clearly, I was still shaken up by the passionate moment we shared outside. Pull yourself together! "Forget it." We continued our ascent. "So like, I've been thinking. We should totally attend couples therapy together. BFFs need counseling too. My husband refuses to go, he thinks talking to a stranger about his emotions is stupid, but they're not strangers, they're professionals, y'know?"

"Can't say I'm surprised. He can be rather closed-minded, that one."

"He…tries…" I panted, my legs burning from the seemingly countless steps. "Are we…almost there?"

He snickered. "Sweetheart, we are only on the second floor. Goodness, you are out of shape."

"Which is why…you do all the running and fighting…and I do all the brainy stuff."

"Brains? No, you don't have much of that, I'm afraid."

"Whatever…numb nuts." I halted, drawing in air as if I was drowning. These stairs were killing me! "I help you all the time. Huff. Huff. You'd be dead like, a hundred times over if it weren't for me."

Smith leaned on the railing, patiently waiting for me to catch my breath. Somehow, he was able to climb this monstrosity of a staircase with ease. Arms crossed, he silently gazed down at me with those keen, judgmental eyes of his.

"Don't look at me like that, it's so degrading." I continued my painful advance up the stairs. "Oh my god, is there someone we can call about that broken effing elevator? Seriously, this is not cool. I'm suffering here. This sucks. The owner of this building deserves to be sued! Are all the people living here Olympic athletes or something? How the hell do ordinary people make it up six flights of stairs without dying?"

"Has anyone ever told you you are absolutely adorable when you complain like that?"

My cheeks heated. "No."

"No wonder, because it's bloody annoying. If you spent less time babbling, and more time walking, we would've been at our destination by now."

"Wow. Y'know, sometimes you can be a real dickhole, Smith."

Smirking smugly, he glanced at me and winked. "Who's the sensitive one now?"

After about ten years of stair climbing, we finally made it to the stupid sixth floor. "Here we are," Smith approached a green door to the left. The knob was lying on the floor, torn off by force probably. Weird. Who would leave their door open and exposed in a crime-ridden neighborhood like this?

Something wasn't right. There was a stench coming from the other side, so strong vomit clawed up my throat. "Jeez," I coughed. "What is that?"

"Hush now," Smith touched my elbow, urging yet protective. "Keep close, will you?"

I swallowed deep. Who knows what was waiting on the other side? I huddled close to him, clutching his jacket. He drew his gun and eased the door open. Darkness clung to the cracked, narrow walls and water-stained ceilings, the awful, rancid smell grew more and more severe with every stride we took. The peeling linoleum floors were coated in dust, as if no one had frequented the home for quite some time. Except for the dudes yelling downstairs and the annoying blare of someone's car alarm outside, the apartment was uncomfortably silent.

But we weren't alone. In the shadowy bedroom, below the warped fan blades slowly circling clockwise, a garbage bag laid on a bare mattress. There was something stuffed inside. Whatever it was, it reeked. Bad.

Smith raised a hand, gesturing me to stay back. He approached the stinky bag and ripped it open. "Bloody hell," he wheezed, shielding his nose with his forearm.

"What is it?" I asked.

"It's our suspect, Shanice. Poor Nancy Jones's mother is dead. Looks like a homicide."

My heart dropped. "W-what? Are you serious?"

He wrangled a pair of black gloves from his pocket. "Tracey, do me a favor, will you? Shine a light on me while I examine the body. Do not touch anything. No fingerprints, do you understand?"

"Okay, okay." I took his side and rooted through my purse, my hands were shaking like crazy. "Promise me you'll be quick. It smells horrible in here." Once I obtained my cell phone, I flicked on the flashlight and shone it directly over the corpse.

"If I rush, I might miss something. It's the little details that count…" Pocketknife in hand, he began cutting through the bag. A mess of bloody, tangled hair peeked out from the plastic. My stomach twisted with nausea, the odor of rotting flesh and bodily fluid—it was too much! I looked away, desperately fighting the sickness swirling inside me.

There was a business card to a mechanic's shop on the night stand. I stuffed it in my purse. Could be a lead. I'll take a look at it later, when I'm feeling better…

"Small blood splatter on the bedframe," Smith spoke into a recorder. "Large gash on the torso, wounds on her face caused by blunt force, possibly a hammer…no signs of defensive wounds, no sign of a struggle, could the victim have been killed in her sleep? No, that can't be right. There's no blood, except the small smear on the headboard. Was she moved? She couldn't have been beaten to death here. Unless…someone went through the legwork to clean up the evidence. Why leave the body out in the open—"

"Shouldn't we call the cops?" I interrupted. "We aren't forensics, dead bodies aren't our specialty, Smith."

"The LSPD?" He rolled his eyes. "Those useless, brainless brutes would sooner ruin the crime scene and tamper with evidence than provide any real aid. It would be best if we avoid the cheeky bastards, for now. I am sure the lot of them are having a grand time terrorizing the innocent, murdering people, committing blackmail and fraud—we wouldn't want to ruin their fun by bringing them here, now would we?"

"We can't just collect the evidence we need and then leave her to rot here—"

"Worry not, I will make the call, after I'm done here…"

Smith's voice faded into incomprehensible muttering as the room began to spin, my skin drenched in sweat. My throat constricted so tightly, I could barely breathe. I staggered a few paces back, woozy, "Smith, I…I don't feel too good…"

He turned, catching me before my legs gave out. Everything was foggy, I tried to stand, but my knees locked, refusing to comply. Dazed, sick, and miserable, I closed my eyes. Smith called out to me, over and over, but I couldn't make out the words. I couldn't even muster the strength to reply.

There was a sudden change in light, the fresh air flowing into my nostrils calmed my queasy stomach. A pair of strong arms kept me afloat, someone was carrying me. Where am I? I forced my eyes open, squinting at the blinding sunlight above.

"Tracey?" A fair, clean-shaven face hovered over mine, a pair of shades concealed the eyes, not a single strand of his silvery-blonde hair in disarray…it was Smith. "You are awake! Are you alright? Say something, love. Speak to me."

I smiled weakly. "I'm okay, I think…"

"Are you? Can you stand?"

I nodded. Smith set me down on the sidewalk, his arm curved around my waist, supporting me. "You are disorientated," he cradled my cheek, his palm was warm, and surprisingly soft. "Must I take you home?"

"No. I'm fine." I pulled away, stumbling to the car. With an effort, I climbed into my seat, and Smith appeared at the wheel, his finger outstretched in front of my face.

"Tracey, focus on me. Follow my finger. Concentrate." Slowly, he moved his hand from left to right, up and down. My eyes mirrored his every movement, the fogginess gradually faded away and the world regained its clarity. "How are you feeling, love? Better?"

"Just drive," I murmured breathlessly.

Smith turned on the ignition, the engine roared to life at his command. Once we were back on the road and gliding steadily along with traffic, moving farther and farther away from that crime-infested block, the nausea in my stomach finally ceased. Oh, thank God I didn't barf…

I could feel the heat of my partner's gaze on me. "Tracey, you are scaring me. I am taking you home—"

"I'm fine!" I blurted. "How many times do I have to say it?"

"Until I am convinced. If something were to happen to you—"

"Don't be ridiculous. I'm fine, I'm great, I feel amazing, nothing is going to happen to me."

"How can you be so sure? This is a dangerous job. Anything could happen. You fainted out of the blue, I was terrified. I thought you were dying. Do you care anything for your own wellbeing and how it affects others? Think of your family, what will they do without you…" He went on and on and on…

I was seriously tempted to tear my own ears off.

"Smith, can you stop please? You are totally overreacting right now. You're nagging me, okay? I hate when you do that."

His insistent voice cut through my throbbing head. "You are insubordinate, unreasonable, so set in your stubborn ways, it's going to be the death of you. Why don't you ever listen to me? If you were to meet some unfortunate demise under my care, those bank robbing psychopaths you call a family would kill me—"

I glared at him. "Are you kidding me? The only reason you're worried about my wellbeing is because you're scared of Trevor, Michael, and Franklin, is that it? You don't care about me at all, do you?"

He winced as if he's been slapped. "What?"

"You're such an effing asshole." I rummaged through my purse and flung the first thing I could find at his stupid face—a tube of lipstick.

It struck him in the eye. "Ah!" He flinched, the car swerved out of control. The blasting beep beep of car horns going off all around us was near deafening. There was a pounding in my temples from all the noise. I had to make it stop!

I grabbed the wheel and steered us to the side of the road. "Smith! Stop the car!"

Smith stomped on the breaks, the tires screeching. I pressed a hand to my chest, my heart pounding an erratic rhythm. That could've ended badly.

He stared into the rearview mirror at his bloodshot eye, swelled with tears, the right side of his shades had cracked from the impact. My cheeks burned. I hurt him…

Despite the pain I caused, his lips curved into a self-deprecating grin. "Now that was quite the throw, love. I daresay I'm impressed."

I turned away, unable to face him. "I didn't mean to…you know…"

"I know." With an exhausted sigh, he closed his eyes and leaned back into his seat.

I hazard a glimpse at him. His smile vanished, his expression bland once more. Completely unreadable. Why was he always so calm? I hurt him, and it was like he didn't even care. What was he thinking? How could he be so well composed? He was like a freaking robot. "Well? I almost took your effing eye out. Are you mad at me? Aren't you going to say something? Do anything?"

He furrowed his brows. "And what would you have me do?"

"I don't know. You could hit me back?"

He grimaced, lips pursed in disgust as if the thought of it alone put a sour taste in his mouth. "Hit you? Goodness, no. That would be most ungentlemanly."

"So you're just gonna let me abuse you then?"

"Apparently, yes. But you'd be surprised how much I can handle." Smith winked his dark lashes at me, the sunlight glinted over his classically handsome face and my heart stuttered. Jeez. He's pretty. Really pretty. I clenched my head, shaking the taboo thoughts away. Uh…what was going on again?

Oh yeah, I threw a fit while we were on the road and almost got us both killed. A thick silence oozed between us. I'm such a terrible friend, and even worse of a partner. But maybe I could make up for it. "Here." I set the business card I found at the crime scene on his lap. "It was on the dead lady's nightstand. Do you think it's a lead?"

He opened his good eye and scrutinized the card closely. "Otto's Autos, an automobile parts shop in Sandy Shores. How strange. Shanice Jones does not own a car."

"Seriously? Sandy Shores?" I gaped at the business card. "That place is full of redneck bigots. Why would she go there?"

"Why don't we go and find out?" Smith peeled off into traffic.

"Sandy Shores is pretty far, we're gonna be on the road for a while. Are you sure you're okay to drive?"

"I am fine. Wish I could say the same for my sunglasses," he smiled sadly. "They were name brand, you know."

"Whatever. I'll buy you a new pair, my husband can afford it." I yanked on the seat recline mechanism and stretched my legs, sinking comfortably into the soft leather. "I'm going to take a nap. Wake me up when we get there."

"Yes, of course. Sleep well."

The rough, playful sensation of fingers squeezing my cheeks jerked me from my sleep. "Wakey-wakey, my dear," Smith greeted me with a wide, dazzling smile. "You snore like a grizzly bear, simply adorable—"

"Shut up," I looked groggily at my phone. Three missed calls from Franklin. Dang. I better call him back soon.

Smith nosed our car into a narrow spot between two banged up campervans. The merciless desert sun found its way through the window slats, the dry, oppressive warmth made my skin feel like parchment. Ugh, I hate this place. Nothing good was to be found here, it was a wasteland of dirt, roadkill, and ignorant hillbillies. The sooner we were outta here, the better.

Smith and I stepped out into the desert heat. I swept my hair into a pony-tail to accommodate to the rising temperature, and Smith shrugged out of his dark jacket, revealing the white, buttoned up shirt underneath and the gun holstered to his hip. He loosened his black tie, rolled up his sleeves, and then nodded at me, a silent gesture that he was ready. I smiled at his comfortable, yet stylish look. Rarely did I ever see him without that stiff, overly expensive jacket.

Does he ever get tired of wearing that same boring outfit to work every day? Did he even own a pair of jeans? Or a pair of sweats? A t-shirt? I'm sure he'd look great in normal, casual clothes. He'd probably look even better without anything on at all…

I drew in a sharp breath. Holy crap. What am I thinking? I'm a married woman who is very much in love with her husband, I should not be having thoughts like this—

"Tracey?" Smith called out, snapping me back to reality. He stood outside of Otto's Autos, hands deep within the pockets of his slacks as he waited for me to join him before entering. "Come now. Time is of the essence."

"Coming!" I jogged to his side.

I strained my eyes on the storefront windows, the glass so stained with dust and grime, it was impossible to see through. There was a filthy bum sitting on the ground adjacent to the door, majority of his ruddy face covered by a crummy, frayed scarf, he held out rusty can of coins toward us, silently begging for a handout.

Careful to avoid stepping on his long, ratty coat, I scrounged my pockets for some loose change and dropped a few quarters into his can. Instead of thanking me like a proper bum ought to do, his gnarled, dirt-encrusted hands latched onto my wrist. I flinched, nearly jumping out of my skin. Ew, gross!

"Turn back," the beggar warned, his smoke cured voice barely audible. "Go…go while you still can…"

A handgun appeared in Smith's grasp, he pressed the steel against the beggar's head. "Release her. Now."

The beggar set me free, scrambling a few paces away on all fours. He hugged his legs to his chest, rocking in place like some nutjob straight out of a mental institution. Instinctively, I snuggled close to my partner, seeking his comfort, my wrist ached. That bum had one hell of a grip.

The front door of the shop swung open, a redheaded, craggy-faced man with blue, oil-stained overalls emerged from within. Judging by the toolbelt strapped to his waist, and the black smudges all over his pasty skin, the dude must be a mechanic. He scowled at the sight of us. "We all know he's a good for nothin' hobo, but I reckon he don't deserve," he glanced at the gun, "that."

"Drifter or not, he should know better than to lay hands on a woman," Smith holstered his weapon. "Are you Otto?"

"Depends who's askin'," the mechanic replied. "You a cop?"

"FIB. A little girl has gone missing, and we have reason to believe a suspect may have passed through here. Do you mind if we ask you some questions?"

"Yeah, as a matter of fact, I do mind." The mechanic pursed his lips and spat at our feet. "Folks 'round here don't take too kindly to lawmen like yourself. Be best if y'all move on, get on back to the big city where ya came from before you two go missing next."

My stomach twisted in knots. Was that a threat?

Smith cocked a brow. "Very cheeky of you to threaten a federal agent."

"Just a friendly piece of advice, Agent," said the mechanic. "Don't take it the wrong way, now."

"Thanks for the advice, but we're not going anywhere," I said. "We have questions that need answering, and if you don't cooperate, you're gonna go missing long before we do, douche bag. So what's it gonna be?"

"Don't got much of a choice, do I?" the mechanic turned away into the store. "Get on in the shop then, I ain't got all day."

I took a step forward to follow him, but Smith slipped in front of me. He took my hand, our fingers intertwined, the pad of his thumb caressed my aching wrist. "Are you alright, love?"

I looked up into the intelligent blue eyes glinting with heartfelt concern for me. "I'm fine, but crap like this wouldn't happen if you gave me a gun—"

"You have asked countless times, and the answer remains the same. No, I cannot give you a gun. You are not properly trained to handle firearms, sweetheart," he stole a furtive glance through the glass door at the mechanic. "Now be on your guard. This one is not to be trusted."

"I have a bad feeling about him too," I mumbled. "I'll be careful. Promise."

Lightly, teasingly, he fingered a loose tendril of hair on my cheek. "Come then. This case won't solve itself."

Hand in hand, we reconvened with the mechanic inside. He had gone back to work, carrying some huge tires toward a rusty pickup truck. The small garage didn't seem to get much business, there weren't many cars, and no customers at all.

"The name's Otto. This here is my shop." The mechanic tossed the tires aside the truck, and swerved around, glaring at us. "I'm sure it ain't much compared to what y'all city folks are used to, but it gets the job done. Now, let me guess, you're looking for a woman, a long-haired negro with a little girl?"

"Why, yes," Smith replied. "How did you know?"

"She barged into my shop a few days ago, demanded I tell her the whereabouts of her baby daddy. Told her I didn't know where the fuck he was, so the crazy bitch keyed my client's car, and stormed out, threatenin' to report me to the sheriff." He pointed at the hood of the pickup truck, the metal marred with scratches. "My customer ain't gonna be too happy about this. Business is slow enough 'round here, I don't need no more city folk waltzing into my establishment and fuckin' shit up—"

"Well now she's dead," I said. "And it sounds like you had motive to hurt her."

"Dead? Someone got rid of her, huh?" An ugly smirk spread across his face. "Well, ain't that somethin'. Poor little girl is gonna grow up without a momma or a daddy."

In an instant, my partner's cordiality toward the mechanic disappeared. Smith approached him. The men were eye to eye, sizing each other up in direct challenge like two fighters in a ring. "She damaged your client's vehicle," Smith stated. "A few scratches on the hood, a couple hundred dollars lost—you snapped, struck her down with a blunt object," he pointed to the hammer within his toolbelt. "Hid the body in a garbage bag…did you kill her daughter too?"

Otto threw his head back and laughed, a humorless, vicious sound. "You are real funny, for a lawman. I didn't lay a finger on that woman, or her snot-nosed brat, you hear me? I ain't gotta answer to you, Agent. The sheriff is the only law 'round here. Now, if you're done wasting my time with them wild, crazy accusations, I oughta get back to work." He directed us to the door with the tip of his chin. "Have a nice day, fuckface."

Smith glowered, the paleness of his skin flushed with color. Tight-jawed and trembling, he was seething, his composure breaking at the seams. I stood back. Whatever was about to happen, I did not wanna get caught in the crossfire.

Suddenly, like a switch had gone off inside him, the severity of Smith's demeanor altered entirely. He grew unnaturally still, his mouth rippled in what may have been an attempt at a smile. "Good day, Otto," he said with seemingly forced civility. "We shall be in touch."

My partner turned on a heel and strode for the door. I shuffled after him. We retreated to the car, only to find the tires slashed, saggy and deflated. My eyes widened. "Oh my god! Smith! Do you see that?"

He squatted down before one of the punctured wheels, inspecting it closely. "Hm…"

Paranoid, my gaze snapped behind me. Otto watched us from behind the glass door of his shop. With that same hideous smirk still plastered on his face, he turned the "OPEN" sign to "CLOSED", and then backpedaled away from the window, disappearing into the darkness.

My flesh crawled. What a fucking creep.

I veered around full circle, examining the endless stretch of hot desert surrounding us. I couldn't shake this feeling that we weren't alone, that there was somebody or something lying in wait behind the shadowy cactuses. Adrenaline flooded my system. I wasn't gonna stand here out in the open like helpless prey to be ambushed and slaughtered. No—something wasn't right. We weren't safe here. I was on the verge of having a panic attack, breathless, lungs constricting, warning spasms overwhelmed every fiber of my being.

How are we going to get home without a car? We were stranded! Thoughts of my daughter swept through my mind. She needed a mother. I can't die here…

"Smith," I latched onto his shoulders, shaking him violently. "We have to go. Please, please, w-we have to go."

Tears stung my eyes. He rose, his expression softened at the sight of me. Without a word, he took my hand and we began to walk briskly away from the auto shop, further into town. "We must find the sheriff. His office is nearby."

We crossed the sandy boulevard, the searing heat beating down on us as we passed by multiple mom-and-pop businesses. A group of beer-bellied alcoholics spilled out from a bar, waddling along in a drunken daze directly ahead of us. Smith hooked an arm around mine and took the lead, attempting to weave through the crowd. However, there was one chunky, brown bearded redneck who made it his personal duty to impede our advance.

We tried to move around him repeatedly, but time and time again, the bearded asshole swerved into the way, stopping us dead in our tracks. His friends left him behind as he continued to relentlessly harass us.

"Where do ya think your goin'?" the bearded prick slurred. "You're outsiders. Y'all don't belong here."

I tensed, my chest pressed against Smith's muscled back. We just couldn't get a break…

Smith attempted to reason with him. "Please, we've had a long day. Let us pass, we have no quarrel with you—"

The bearded redneck rose his fist, swinging viciously with his right arm. Smith tipped his head back ever so slightly, miraculously dodging the sudden attack with ease. I gaped at my partner, slack-jawed, as the intoxicated redneck lost his balance and tumbled over clumsily, face-first on the ground. Although I've witnessed Smith's lightning fast reflexes countless times before, I could never quite get used to it.

How many years of martial arts training did it take to move like that?

With the annoying, drunken redneck out of the way, we resumed our sweltering quest through the dangerous town. Every pedestrian we passed glared daggers at us, an unnerving, silent warning to pack up and leave town before it was too late.

Why were people so unwelcoming here? What were they hiding? Did that sicko of a mechanic kill Shanice? What did he do to her daughter, Nancy? I had so many questions, and literally no answers. I needed a moment to think, to talk things through with my partner, but I was on edge, taut as a wire, my mind consumed by dread and unease. If we didn't find refuge soon…

My heart lurched once I laid eyes on the sheriff's office. We made it! I sprinted full speed toward the building, pushing through the double doors. The office was…underwhelming. Cramped. Small. The empty waiting room consisted of a few chairs, and the single prison cell in the back deserted as well, nothing like the huge police stations in Los Santos, overbooked with criminals. Where are all the cops? There was one, at least—a young, brunette lady officer at the reception desk, eating fruit out of a can.

"Excuse me," I approached her. "Can you help me? I'm looking—"

"I'm on break," grumbled the woman, not even bothering to look away from her lunch. She seemed completely uninterested. "Scram. Quit bothering me, outsider."

My blood boiled. Rude. "Listen, bitch—"

My partner strode in. "Greetings," he extended a hand over the desk. "Agent Oliver Smith, a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Her brown eyes flicked up, widening slightly, cheeks coloring fiercely at the sight of him. She shot up from her seat, tongue-tied, nervously patting down her sloppily wrapped bun, smoothing her uniform. "Oh, um, wow…" She beamed, flustered, starstruck and out of breath. "Who are you?"

"Agent Oliver Smith," he repeated, raising his badge. "And you are?"

She lunged for his hand, shaking it eagerly. "I'm the deputy—Deputy Marie, b-but you can call me Angela."

"Angela Marie, that's a lovely name," he smiled, flashing those pearly white teeth of his, and the deputy swooned, giggling like a school girl.

Oh, jeez. I think I'm gonna barf.

"You're a federal agent?" Deputy Angela asked. "Oh, wow. Wow. You must not be from around here. Are you from the city? Los Santos?"

My partner answered, "Indeed I am."

"Wow!" She exclaimed dreamily. "A secret agent, oh, wow." She leaned over the desk, her pouty lips only inches from Smith. "Are all men in the bureau as beautiful as you?"

Yikes. Talk about desperate.

"Beautiful? Me?" As if he had never been complimented a day in his life over his blatantly good looks, his face, neck, and arms flushed crimson. "Aw, how…how flattering. You shouldn't have."

The deputy's hand still clasped around Smith's, she sashayed around the desk, closing the distance between them. "Do you need something, Agent?" Her manicured fingers wrapped around his tie, stroking up and down sensually. "I'm a resourceful woman, you know, being the deputy and all."

"Ah, yes, if you would be so kind…" He grew rigid under her touch, his gaze shifted to me, doe-eyed and pleading like a puppy seeking comfort. "Help would be greatly appreciated right now."

Poor Smith. He looked so uncomfortable. Which was weird. Sure, she was a flat-chested, willowy whore, basic in like every way, super desperate, but not unsightly. The average dude would be feeling pretty lucky right now.

However, my partner was far from average, too sensitive and modest for his own good. He was strong, intelligent, observative, borderline fearless most of the time, but froze up like a deer in headlights whenever women came onto him. It was so entertaining to watch.

I thrust an arm between them, giving Smith some much needed space. "Back up lady, my partner isn't an object you can touch whenever you please. He's a human being, not a toy, okay?"

She waved at me dismissively. "He's a man, he can speak for himself, can't he?"

"Not when you're feeling him up like that—"

Smith cleared his throat. "Deputy Angela, I've been assigned a very important case, and I think you can help me. If you could answer some questions, preferably without the touching or fondling, I would be very much in your debt."

As if the remark about touching went right over the deputy's head, she invaded his personal space yet again, caressing his cheek with the back of her knuckles. "Information doesn't come free, Agent. You're going to have to do something for me first, handsome."

Smith swallowed hard.

"Open your mouth," she demanded.

At a lost of words, I stood there, frozen, as the vile woman slipped two fingers between Smith's lips. Whoa. She smiled wide, reveling in the weirdly sexual, indecent act of violating my partner's mouth, right in front of me. Tension tightened the symmetrical features of his face. He shivered visibly, the arteries in his neck throbbing violently.

Okay. It's official. Everyone in this town was effing nuts.

I winced, biting my lips so hard, I could taste the bitter tang of my own blood. There was a band of tight discomfort in my ribs. That bitch! I wanted to hurt her—peel her disgusting hands off my partner and beat her until she stopped moving. I hate her. I hate her so much.

Finally, finally, she stopped. "You're a good, good boy," she patted Smith's head like an obedient dog before pulling away. "So, what do you wanna know?"

"The sheriff," Smith blurted, his voice shaky and wheezing as if he had forgotten how to breathe. "Where is…the sheriff?"

The deputy returned to her seat, casually filing her saliva-drenched nails as if she hadn't just raped someone's mouth with her fingers. "We got a frantic call from Andy Hamilton's neighbors, claimed they heard weird noises and screaming coming from his place. He's an old feller who lives in a trailer across town, him and his wife are always getting into it. If you wanna find the sheriff, check there. He loves poking his nose in domestic violence disputes."

"Our tires were slit shortly after arriving in your precious little town," I said. "Can you help us? Give us a ride, or something?"

She rolled her eyes. "No."

"But I insist," Smith forced himself to smile. "You wouldn't leave me stranded, would you, Angela?"

The deputy grabbed a pair of keys from under the desk and handed them to Smith. "You're far too pretty of a man to be left out here, high and dry. Wouldn't want someone to snatch you up." She pinched his butt.

He jerked back as if he had been touched by a cattle prod. Muttering a tight-lipped good-bye, he swerved, rushing for the exit. Concerned for my friend, I ran after him.

Night had descended over the desert. Smith was hunched over by the curb, hands on his knees and heaving, on the verge of vomiting. Lightly, I stroked his silky hair, trying to soothe him. "Hey. Are you okay?"

"I feel so…" For a long moment, he hesitated. "Unclean."

For a small town, Sandy Shores sure had a lot of trailers, all packed tight together, stretching haphazardly across the park. We tailed the flashing lights piercing the star-speckled night sky, the ugly wail of a police siren led us to the sheriff, slumped against his cruiser outside of what we presumed to be Andy Hamilton's mobile home.

An old loudspeaker pressed against his shriveled lips, the sheriff spewed a warning boisterous enough for the whole park to hear, "Come on outta there, Andy, I ain't gonna ask you again. If you don't comply, I will use force. I repeat, I will use force, and I reckon you're not gonna like it one bit."

We pulled up before a row of garbage bins aligned on the road and met the sheriff by his cruiser. He was a heavy-built man with warty sunburnt skin, a pair of crinkled, emerald eyes peeked out from beneath his wide-brimmed cowboy hat. He was stoop-shouldered, posture slouched like a weeping tree branch. Poor old guy, maybe he had some kind of back injury in the past?

Smith greeted him with a flash of his badge. "Agent Oliver Smith, and this is my partner, Tracey DeSanta."

He lowered his loudspeaker slightly and gave us a once-over. "Long way from home, ain't cha? What're you doin' here? I ain't call for backup—"

Ignoring his questions, Smith asked, "What seems to be the problem here, Sheriff?"

"Got a call from Andy Hamilton's neighbors, sounded like he was beatin' on his wife again, screamin', shoutin', throwin' furniture—the whole shebang. Things got real quiet once I arrived, but I ain't stupid. I know he's hidin' in there with his tail under his legs, shifty bastard. This is my town, damn it, and I'm gettin' real tired of him disrupting the peace. The boy is nuttier than a squirrel turd. He's gotta go, and he's gotta go now." The sheriff rose the loudspeaker to his lips once again. "Did you hear that, Hamilton? You either come outta that rat hole of a home right now, or I'll come in there and toss you out myself!"

The sheriff's threat fell on deaf ears. There was no response, except for the pleasant jangle of wind chimes from the front porch.

"Guess we're doing things the hard way then," grumbled the sheriff. He dipped into his cruiser and snatched out a shotgun.

I gawked at the weapon. "Um, with all due respect, Sheriff, is that really necessary?"

"This is my town, little missy. I decide what's necessary and what ain't, got it?" Gun in tow, he marched toward the trailer.

I glanced at Smith. "Well? What do we do?"

"Best we keep an eye on the sheriff," Smith advised. "If something unfortunate were to befall the old geezer before we can question him, we would be, as you Americans like to say, 'shit outta luck.'" His firm mouth curled into a disarming grin, the humidity in the air gave his hair an attractively tousled look, a ringlet of white-blonde dangled over his forehead. My heart did a cartwheel, he had no idea what a captivating sight he made right now, the glow of his smile alone illuminated the night.

Crash! The sheriff's foot collided with the trailer's front door, kicking it open, the harsh noise jerked me back to reality. "Where ya at, Andy?" he shouted, disappearing inside.

Smith and I barreled after him. Below the cluttered kitchen table, beside a vase of wilting flowers and broken beer bottles lying on the floor, a bare bulb light shone over the petite body of a black-haired woman, her face pale as death and lifeless eyes transfixed on the ceiling. Her flowery nightgown was drenched in blood. Oh no. What the hell happened to her?

"God almighty, that's Mrs. Hamilton…" Shaking his head, the sheriff dragged his feet to her side, gently, he checked her pulse. "She's dead, alright. I knew it was only a matter of time. What a mess…" His gaze flitted to us. "Stand aside while I search the premises, don't go touchin' anything neither. This is my crime scene, ya hear?"

The old sheriff limped out the door. Totally disregarding his instructions, Smith approached the woman, slipped on his leather gloves, and touched the bloody, gaping wound on her neck. "Deep incision on the collar bone," he mumbled to himself. "Cause of death appears to be exsanguination from a knife wound, a machete perhaps—"

"Exsanguination?" I blinked. "What's that mean?"

"Excessive blood loss, enough to result in, well, dying horribly." Smith scrutinized the black and white vinyl floor, his trained eye locked on an few faint droplets of blood in the narrow hallway. "Victim was attacked there, in the corridor," he asserted, his gaze drifted to the shattered beer bottles. "She fled to the kitchen, tripped over the beverages…"

"Then she was stabbed in the throat," I completed his sentence and looked away, my eyes dropped to my feet. Whoever this woman was, she didn't deserve to die like that…

Smith swiveled his blue gaze upward, his eyes settled on me for a moment. "The dead—no matter how many bodies you've seen, you can never quite get used to them, can you?"

"No. I hate it." There was rice boiling on the stovetop, on the verge of spilling over. I turned off the gas. Looks like they were about to have dinner. Three plates were on the counter, cold chicken breast on each—wait, there was someone else here? At the time of the murder? "Smith, they were making dinner for three, not two."

"Dinner?" he murmured calmly, his focus fully immersed in examining the dead body. "Ah, dinner. That sounds lovely right now. When this is all over, would you like to make a stop at Bean Machine for pastries?"

My mouth watered. Yum, sweets! "Or you could put those infamous baking skills of yours to use and make us a cake? Tiramisu sounds so good right now…" I shook my head. Focus! "Smith, stop distracting me with food! I'm trying to tell you something."

"Sweetheart, you have my ears. I am here to listen, always."

"There was someone else here, not just Andy and his wife—"

A strange man burst out from the living room closet. My pulse skipped. Holy crap! He scurried for the window and recklessly flung himself into the glass, shattering it. Crash! Smith's head snapped in the direction of the man. With those godlike reflexes of his, he immediately sprang into action, bolting after the fleeing suspect.

"Wait for me!" I scrambled behind my partner.

Smith vaulted through the window with grace, hot on the suspect's trail, while I clumsily climbed out and fell to the ground, right on my butt. Ouch. Shrugging off the pain, I hopped up and hurled myself forward. The trailer park was laced in shadows. I followed the tall, shadowy silhouettes in the distance. My partner was fast, and the guy he was chasing after seemed to be just as agile, hopping over white fences, and random furniture scattered across patchy lawns.

No way I was gonna be able to perform jumps like that, not without dislocating a couple of bones, at least. I took the safer, yet longer way around, running on the road to avoid the stupid fences altogether.

Buzz. Buzz. Crap, my phone was ringing. It had to be Franklin, he must be worried sick, I've been ignoring his calls all day. Slowing to a jogging pace, I wrangled the device from my pocket and answered the call. "Hello, my amazing husband?"

Franklin's deep, resonant voice filled my ear. "Baby, why you ain't pickin' up your phone? What's goin' on? You a'ight?"

"I'm fine," I replied chirpily, panting heavily from exhaustion. "I've been…huff…so busy with class—"

"Trace, why you breathin' so hard?"

Think, Tracey, think! "I'm…I'm jogging! Yeah, I always go for a jog after class."

"You do?"

"Yeah, I told you this a million times. Babe, I swear, you can be so forgetful sometimes. You're so silly. But it's okay…huff…I still love you."

"Uh…" He went quiet, the piercing cry of a baby, our baby, was in the background of the call. "I guess it slipped my mind. Damn, my bad."

"The baby is crying," I pointed out. "Did you feed her? Burp her? Change her diaper?"

"Did that, and more. Girl, I'm runnin' out of ideas. She just won't stop."

I frowned, "Aw, well maybe she's upset because she misses her mommy."

"She ain't the only one," his voice lowered, sweet and subdued. "I miss her too."

"Frank…" My cheeks burnt. Ugh, I hate lying to him, but I had no other choice. He'd never approve of what I'm doing, working aside Smith—

We were a long way out from the trailer park now, the endless expanse of desert stretched as far as the eye could see. Smith caught up with the suspect, tackling him onto the ground. Yes! He struggled frantically, resisting arrest. They wrestled with one another, rolling about in the sand. Franklin was muttering something in my ear, but I was too preoccupied with watching the intense scuffle to listen.

Thump. Thump. Thump. There were heavy footsteps coming from behind. From the corner of my eye, I spotted a man speeding straight toward me, the pointy silver steel in his hand winked beneath the moonlight, wet with crimson.

Oh my god, that's a machete. The murder weapon!

A cold chill raced up my spine. "Shit!" Nearly dropping the phone, I lunged out of the way. He went for my partner instead, the machete chopped down with savage fury. Smith rolled off the suspect, evading the slice just in the nick of time. He rose, casually straightening his tie as the two perpetrators circled around him with murderous intent.

Not good.

"Trace?" Franklin asked. "What was that? I heard somethin'—"

"Babe, I'll be home soon, okay? Bye!" I hung up, dropped my phone in my purse, and began scanning our gloomy surroundings. There had to be something around this piece of crap wasteland I could use. Hm…there's plenty of rocks in the sand. Bet one of them could come in handy if I manage to get close enough.

"Surrender now, while you still have a chance," Smith warned. "There is no need for more bloodshed. Lay down your arms. Do the right thing."

"Lookie here, Andy," the suspect nudged his friend. "One of them British folk from the TV, you know, them fellers from the royal family."

Andy, the machete wielding maniac wearing blood-smeared overalls and suspenders, glowered at Smith. "You mean to tell me he's one of those fellers from that big 'ol castle, the ones with their nose stuck up higher than a light pole? Good, I'm gon' enjoy skinnin' his hide, then. Send the queen my condolences."

"I am not…" Smith blew out a breath. "Never mind. Please, go ahead," he beckoned his enemies, daring them to come at him. "You may proceed to try and kill me now."

"At least ya asked kindly." The bad guys charged. My partner put his years of training to good use, evading every single strike that came his way. While the creeps were distracted, totally ignoring me as if I weren't a threat—their mistake—I swept up a rock, and skulked close to Andy—bam! A good whack to the head and he dropped like a hot potato.

His buddy froze. "Andy!" Consumed by concern for his partner in crime, Smith whipped his elbow around and drove the point to his jaw, knocking him senseless. Adrenaline zipped through me. Heck yeah! We won!

High off air, I bounced in place, clapping my hands. "Woo! We did it! We're invincible!"

"Tracey! Now that is what I call teamwork!" As if my energy was contagious, Smith beamed, opening his arms to me. "Bring it in!"

I jumped into his grasp and he spun me around, his hug strong and playful. Our cheeks nuzzling, his warm breath on my neck, the hypnotic sound of his accented voice graced my ear. "You caught up to us, love. How? You hate running with a passion."

The breeze shifted, and his wonderfully intimate scent of male heat, sweat and cologne filled my nostrils. "We're partners," I replied. "We're supposed to stick together. And I didn't want you to get hurt."

"You were worried about me?" Smith's crystal blue gaze found mine, our noses brushed, his stare so focused, my heartbeat skyrocketed from the unblinking intensity. A hot blush crept over me, everywhere he touched me burned. I didn't want to cross over any lines I'd regret, but he made it so hard. His fighting finesse, exceptional intelligence, beautiful accent, attractively symmetrical face, and that imperfectly perfect mole on his temple—God, why did he have to be so damn sexy? It wasn't fair.

"We have two suspects lying at our feet, murderers who must be taken into custody, yet…" He drew a ragged breath, the paleness of his skin flushed with scarlet. "You are absolutely lovely, breathtaking—my love, you are such a distraction. But how can I be without you? No, the pain would be too much for a man to bare. Quite the dilemma, isn't it? To adore someone you can never have, someone who is not good for you…"

I stared at him blankly, his big, charming words going through one ear and out the other. What was he even talking about? I had no clue. My attention was glued to his face. He was really nice to look at, the sight of him borderline addicting—

"Well I'll be damned," the sheriff's drawling voice yanked me out of my trance. "Nice work catching them sumbitches. Now if y'all done doing that weird thing you're doin', making sweet love to each other with your eyes or whatever, I sure can use y'all help getting these two criminals back to the station."

I edged away from Smith, an awkward giggle escaped me. "Don't get the wrong idea, Sheriff. It was just a hug."

In an instant, Smith's expression was stoic once more, the softness in his eyes faded. "Indeed. Just a hug—nothing more."

The sheriff's glare shifted between me and Smith suspiciously. "Uh-huh," he muttered, unconvinced. "Well, don't mind me. Long as it ain't breaking no laws of this here land, whatever goes on in the dark ain't none of my damned business."

I hope you enjoyed the chapter! If you guys like this, I'll continue it as a mini-series, so lemme know what you think! It totally depends on the feedback! Leave a review, I love you guys!