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I do not own Glee or the characters, neither do I own It Had To Be You.
Mercedes worked at not swallowing her tongue, as Sam...after a speculative, edgy look...turned and vanished down the hall without responding to her question.
Good Lord, the man wore nothing but boxers like no one else.
She knew he was good looking, but she hadn't known he had acres of hard sinew, that bunched and flexed with his every move.
And she had no idea what she'd been doing baiting him like that. And she certainly hadn't expected to feel scorched by heat, just from looking at him.
The man was drop-dead sexy, that was for sure.
Equally for sure, was relief that he hadn't responded to her.
It'd been a rhetorical question anyway, one uttered only because her brain had clicked off at the realization, that he was half naked.
But before she could reboot, he was back, wearing low-slung Levi's, and shrugging into a shirt that he didn't bother to button.
He had that whole dangerous, brooding air going on, spilling testosterone and bad boy vibes all over the place.
And it did something very unwelcome in the pit of her belly.
And lower.
Mercedes cleared her throat and said,
"I found two possible rentals today."
Sam didn't reply.
'Good to know where I stand. Poor guy...he's probably so thrilled and overjoyed, he couldn't speak.'
He went to the fridge.
"One's on the outer edge of the county," Mercedes went on. "In the Highlands. The other's a room from the guy who owns the hardwood store. Michael something."
"No," Sam said.
"No?"
"The Highlands is a bad neighborhood. And you're not renting a room from Michael. Hell no!"
Mercedes stared at him, a bit puzzled, but he was head first in the fridge.
"You still hungry?" she asked. "I can make you something."
She moved towards him, just as he turned to her and tried to nudge him out of her way, her palms settling on his chest, absorbing the heated, hard strength of him.
But he didn't budge.
She pushed a little harder and this time he stepped back.
"Thanks for the omelet," he said.
"Want another?"
"Sure."
Mercedes pulled out the eggs, cheese, broccoli, and a red pepper.
Grabbing a pan, she turned on a burner.
"Oh, I almost forgot. I have something for you," she said.
Sam's gaze went hooded, and she felt her face heat. She wasn't sure what he thought she might be offering, but given what she'd said about the gun in his boxers, it was probably far more than she'd meant to offer.
"There," she said, gesturing with her chin to the envelope on the kitchen table. It was the cash equivalent of three nights' worth of rent. Last night, tonight, and hopefully tomorrow night as well.
She had a healthy dose of optimism. Guess her mom wasn't the only Jones with that particular trait after all.
The fact was that, she'd hoped to get into a place tomorrow, but Sam had just shut down her two current options, leaving her in the same boat as before.
Sam didn't make a move for the envelope, a fact Mercedes ignored, as she began cutting up the pepper and grating cheese, while he just stood there looking rumpled and sleepy and on edge...and as sexy as ever.
"Ironic, don't you think?" she asked.
"That you're more at home in my kitchen than I am?"
"The fact that we're complete strangers, and yet we've already seen each other in our underwear."
"Yeah." He stole a piece of cheese and popped it into his mouth. "I noticed that you didn't hand me a sweater like I did for you."
She smiled. Her first of the day...probably of the week.
And he actually smiled back, which had to count for something, especially since he had a pretty great smile.
She flipped the omelet and then a moment later transferred it to a plate, placing a few small broccoli spears on top, before handing it to him.
Sam stared down at the broccoli.
"I don't like broccoli."
"Why not?" Mercedes asked.
"Because it's green."
"When was the last time you tried it?" she asked.
"I don't like it," he repeated, as if this answered her question.
"Eat around it."
He stood there eyeing the offending vegetable like it was a bomb, and then his stomach grumbled loudly.
"Eat," she gently commanded.
Kicking out a chair, he sat and dug in.
"Thanks," he said around a mouthful. "I hate to cook."
She smiled.
"My mom always say, I should know how to feed a man. She says, most women assume a guy's most critical body part, is considerably lower than his stomach, but they're wrong. She says, it's a man's stomach that does his thinking for him, not..."
She broke off and felt herself flush.
"Anyway, cooking is how she caught all her boyfriends."
"Was your dad one of those boyfriends?" Sam asked.
"He didn't stick around."
Her dad actually lived in Tacoma, and last she'd heard, he was a bartender.
By all accounts, he was an effortless charmer who meant well, but she knew him as the guy with all the unfulfilled promises.
Long gone were the days where she'd wait by the phone for the call he'd promised, but the memories still made her ache a little bit.
"The first boyfriend who stuck around was a dentist," Mercedes went on, and let out an involuntary shudder. "He was a pincher."
"A pincher?" Sam asked.
"Yeah." She opened and closed her first finger and thumb together a few times to demonstrate. "Whenever we annoyed him, he'd pinch. Always where the bruise wouldn't show too. Hurt like hell."
Sam didn't show much in expression or body language, he had a way of staying very still. But his eyes had gone hard, and pissed off, on behalf of a young girl he'd never known.
"Your mom let him touch you?" he asked.
"Oh, we didn't tell her," Mercedes said. "She liked him so much, it would have killed her. But one day we were shopping and she saw a bruise on my sister in the dressing room."
"I hope she kicked his ass," Sam said.
Mercedes smiled.
"She took a baseball bat to him."
Her smile faded, because her mother had cried for a week when he'd moved out.
"She didn't bring another guy home for a long time after that," she ended.
"Good." Hooking his bare foot in a chair, Sam pushed it towards her. "Sit with me."
She put the pan in the sink and sat, shaking her head when he offered her a bite.
"So you learned to cook so you could catch a man?" he asked.
"No. I learned to cook because I like to eat," she said, "Not because I want a string of boyfriends. Because I don't."
'Not until I figure out how to pick them anyway,' she thought to herself.
Mercedes watched as Sam worked his way carefully around the broccoli.
"Broccoli has almost as much calcium as milk," she told him, amused. "It gives you strong bones."
His gaze slid to hers, and she felt her face heat again.
He had strong bones. And as they both knew, a few minutes ago, he'd had one particularly strong boner to boot. But mercifully, he let the comment go.
Setting down his fork, Sam opened the envelope she'd left on the table, staring in surprise at the cash she'd carefully counted out.
"What's this?" he asked.
"What I owe you for a few nights' stay. I prorated what I was paying monthly. I hope that's okay."
He was quiet for a full sixty seconds, and when he spoke, his voice was low.
"I got the impression you were hard up for money."
"Not that hard up."
He looked at her for a long moment, then set the envelope back on the table and pushed it towards her with one finger.
But she slid it back.
"I pay my debts."
"How much does it leave you?" he asked.
She felt a small smile curve her lips.
"Worried I won't have enough to find another place?"
"Hell yes!"
She laughed softly.
"Don't be. I'm not your responsibility."
She wasn't anyone's responsibility and hadn't been in a long time.
Sam went back to eating.
When a tiny piece of broccoli found its way on his fork, he gave it a look, but shoved it in his mouth.
Mercedes waited, an amused smile on her face, but he just shrugged and eat it.
"Don't overwhelm me with praise or anything," she said dryly.
He flashed a quick grin.
"It's good," he said. "Really good. You're holding up your end of the bargain." His smile faded. "But I'm not taking your money, Mercedes."
'Bossy alpha.'
She got up and loaded the few dishes into the dishwasher, trying to pay no attention to the silent man behind her.
It was hard to do, when he rose and put his dish in for her.
'A neat, bossy alpha.'
"You should go back to bed," she said softly. "You look beat."
He gave her a long look...which she decided was best not to decipher...before walking away, leaving her alone with her thoughts.
Mercedes didn't sleep well and got up before dawn.
With several hours before she had to be at the shop, she quietly made her way to the garage.
She pulled on an apron that said Florists Do It with Style and retrieving fresh clay from her storage bin, she worked it for a few minutes, trying to lose herself in it.
From the other side of the garage door, she heard a car pull up, but it didn't really register, until the doorbell sounded.
Startled at the early hour and pissed that another reporter might have found Sam, she wiped her hands on her apron and left the garage, moving quickly through the house to the living room.
Prepared to kick some ass, she opened the front door, shocked to find two police officers standing there, flanking Brody.
"Are you Mercedes Jones?" one of the cops asked.
"Yes, yes, it's her," Brody said impatiently.
"Is something wrong?" she asked. Her heart dropped. "Is it my mom? My sister, Heather? Are they okay?"
"This isn't about your damn family," Brody said in disbelief. "It's about the fact that you stole that money to fuck me over. You're that pissed at me, that you had to try to ruin me?"
Mercedes shook her head, clearly in confusion.
"What?"
"Ma'am," one of the cops said, "We need to bring you down to the station to ask you some questions."
Her heart stuttered to a stop, just as someone came up behind her.
Sam.
She could feel the warm strength of him at her back.
"What's the problem here?" he asked calmly.
"Who the hell are you?" Brody demanded.
Sam ignored him and waited for the officers to speak.
"We have a situation in regard to a theft, that occurred at the town offices over the weekend," the first cop said. "A briefcase of money went missing from Brody Wesson's office."
Horror filled Mercedes...they thought she'd stolen the money?
"It didn't go missing," Brody said. "She stole it to get back at me for breaking up with her."
"Hold up!" Mercedes said, "I broke up with you!"
The officer went on as if neither of them had spoken.
"The missing cash was from Friday night's town auction. According to several eyewitnesses, you were the last one in his office."
"Twice," Brody said. "You were let into the office by James first, on Saturday and then again by Andrea on Sunday. Christ, Mercedes, how could you do this to me? I thought we were friends, at least."
"Friends don't sneak out in the middle of the night," she said, hating that they had an avid audience soaking up the exchange. "And I didn't steal anything."
She recognized one of the cops. He'd been in the shop to buy flowers for his girlfriend.
She spoke directly to him.
"I've never stolen anything. Not once in my whole life."
Except she had.
She winced.
"Okay," she said, "So maybe one time I took a lip gloss from the drugstore, but I was twelve and stupid and my mom made me take it back. And I had to work there for free for a whole day to make up for it. I haven't stolen anything since."
The second cop was rubbing his temple.
Men did that a lot around her. Apparently, she gave good headache.
"You have to believe me," Mercedes said. "I didn't take any cash. How much is missing?"
"All of it," Brody snapped. He was wearing khakis and an un-tucked, white button-down, rolled to his elbows.
He looked like he'd walked right out of a GQ ad, but instead of feeling her heart sigh, it hardened. The dreamy quotient of Brody Wesson had run out.
"So, you just showed up here to accuse Mercedes?" Sam asked Brody.
Brody stared at him.
"Seriously, who the hell are you?"
"Detective Lieutenant Sam Evans."
"My landlord?"
"Ex-landlord," Sam said.
At the moment, Mercedes' stomach was somewhere in the vicinity of her toes, so she couldn't process the exchange of testosterone at the moment.
"So what now?" she asked the first cop.
"You come to the station for some questions, ma'am."
"Even though I didn't do it?" she asked.
"Yes, ma'am."
"It's Mercedes," she managed. "You keep saying ma'am, and I want to look over my shoulder to see who you're talking to. Why can't you just question me right here?"
"That's not policy, ma'..."
At her glare, he wisely swallowed the 'ma'am' part.
"Look, Mercedes," Brody said, clearly attempting to soften his voice. And once upon a time that might have charmed her, but not today. "You're pissed at me," he said. "I get that. So just give us the money back, and we'll all go to our separate corners. No harm, no foul."
"I don't have the money, you idiot! I didn't take it!"
When the two cops just looked at her, she let out a breath.
"I didn't. I swear."
"Go through her stuff," Brody said wearily. "There isn't much. It shouldn't take long."
Sam put a hand to Brody's chest, halting his forward progress.
"No one's searching her or the premises," he said, still calm, but with one-hundred-percent authority. "Not without consent or a warrant."
Mercedes turned and looked at him for the first time. He was in black board shorts, still damp enough to cling to his body. And no shirt. Also, bare feet.
A towel was slung over his shoulder, and his hair wet and uncombed.
He'd been in the water, she realized, swimming, or maybe on the paddle-board she'd seen leaning against the back deck.
She wasn't sure if she was grateful for his intervention, or pissed that he clearly thought she needed the protection from a search, due to what they might find.
"I didn't do it," she told him. "They can search."
"Good." Brody pushed his way in through the door. "Where's the stuff you took out of Town Hall?" he asked.
"I brought the floral arrangements to the senior center yesterday," Mercedes said.
She pointed to her purse and the box of small ceramics on the foyer bench.
"That's all that's left from the auction."
Brody reached for the box, but the first cop stopped him.
"It can't be you, Wesson, sorry," the cop said, and grabbed the box.
Mercedes heard all her things clink together.
"Careful..."
She broke off when the officer pulled out the pine tree pencil pot.
"What the hell?" Brody said incredulously. "You gave that to me." He turned to her, brows knit together. "You stole it out of my office?"
"Took back," she corrected. "I took it back because you didn't deserve it."
"You stole it. Where's the money, Mercedes?"
"I didn't take the money!"
The first cop pulled something out of the pot.
"Jesus!" Brody said, as they all stared at a bank bill wrapper, the kind that was used to hold together a stack of money, exactly like the bill wrappers that'd been used on the auction money.
He whirled on her now, eyes furious.
"Where's the money?"
"I..." At a loss, Mercedes shook her head. "I didn't know that was in there."
The cops looked at each other, faces impenetrable, their entire demeanor shifting from fairly relaxed to on guard and far more alert.
"Oh no," she told them. "This isn't what you think. That bill wrapper must have been in there when I took the pot."
"So you admit to taking the pot, ma'am?" the first cop asked.
"Well, yes, but..."
She trailed off at their expressions.
Clearly, they thought she was full of shit.
She didn't dare turn to look at Sam, to see if he felt the same.
"I didn't steal the money," she said, suddenly feeling very small and very alone. "I didn't."
Brody blew out a breath and shoved his fingers through his hair.
"What now?" he asked the two cops.
"Do we still have your permission to search the premises?" one of them asked her.
"You don't need her permission," Brody said. "I shared this place with her. It's half mine. I give you permission."
"Wrong," Sam said, with that same steely authority in his voice. "You no longer live here or have rights to the property."
Again, Mercedes didn't know whether to be touched or upset. So she went with upset.
"Search," she said. "Please. You'll see..."
The search started in the living room, and then the kitchen. And Sam stood by, watchful and impassive.
Not Mercedes.
Her thoughts raced.
Why was Brody was acting so sure that it'd been her?
Had he set her up?
And what was the motive for that?
Did he think that would keep her quiet, about what he'd been doing in his office that night?
"Where was the money in the first place?" she asked.
"In my locked bottom desk drawer," Brody said stiffly. "As you very well know."
"I don't know," she said, just as stiffly. But she'd gone through his desk looking for the pencil pot. Had there been a locked drawer?
She didn't think so.
"You sure you locked it?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Sure sure?"
"Jesus! Yes!" he barked.
But Mercedes knew that expression and defensive tone. He wasn't sure.
"You're lying about being sure," she said. "What else are you lying about, Brody?"
Both officers straightened and gave him a long, appraising look.
He raised his hands.
"Hey, I'm the wronged party here! I put the briefcase in the bottom drawer to keep it locked up, until the bank opened, so I could deposit it. Hell, it was all just for show to begin with. Most of the money that had been actually collected was in electronic form. But we wanted to display cash that night to make it look impressive and to encourage more donations. I had it in my bottom desk drawer. I just..."
"What?" asked one of the cops.
Brody sighed.
"Okay, so maybe I can't remember if I locked the drawer. I was in a hurry."
"To do what?" Mercedes asked, knowing damn well what...just not who.
"It's not pertinent," he said.
The cop looked pained, and the look he gave Brody, said he didn't appreciate being put in the position of having to push.
"It's pertinent. What did you do directly after putting the money in your bottom desk drawer?" the officer asked.
Brody opened his mouth, and then closed it. After a long pause, he sighed again.
"Mandy Martin."
"What?" the cop asked.
Brody sighed. "I was doing Mandy Martin."
There was a beat of stunned silence.
Mandy Martin was a local manicurist, fun and sweet and pretty. She worked at the Hair's the Way salon, a few doors down from the flower shop.
Mercedes absorbed the hit and stared at Brody.
Surprisingly, he had the balls to meet her gaze, an apology there, behind his lingering temper.
"I'm sorry, Mercy. But we'd been over for a while."
That was not even close to the truth, but she didn't dispute it. Because, he meant for him.
It'd been over for him, and she'd not paid close enough attention to notice. But hell if she'd admit to being stupid.
"So you had Mandy in your office," the second cop said, "With the money."
"Yes," Brody said. "Apparently, money is an aphrodisiac."
Mercedes felt the snarl catch in her throat and thought about how satisfying it'd be to wrap her fingers around his neck. But the witnesses were problematic.
If she was in trouble for a crime she hadn't committed, she could just imagine how much trouble she'd be in for murder...in front of three lawmen.
A hand settled on her shoulder. Sam's. Clearly, she'd projected the murderous urge.
Brody took in the touch and narrowed his eyes.
"And afterwards?" the first police officer asked him.
He was still eyeing Sam's hand on Mercedes' shoulder, when he answered.
"I gave Mandy a ride home."
"You gave her a ride home," Mercedes repeated slowly. "Let me see if I have this right. You stood up your girlfriend...me...dumped fifty thousand into your desk, maybe forgot to lock the drawer, had sex with Mandy, then gave her a ride home...and left the money there."
Brody grimaced again.
"Listen, I realize that makes me look bad..."
"Actually," Sam said, "It makes you look like a first-class douche."
Brody flushed an angry red.
"Which still doesn't make me a thief."
The cops moved on to check the rest of the house, including the bedroom Mercedes was using.
They went through her drawers, which was embarrassing enough, and then the closet.
One of the cops pulled out the Fun 'N Pleasure bag, that she'd gotten as a gag gift for her birthday from her sister.
"No!" she said quickly. "Wait! That's not mine..."
Cop number two pulled a Cat-woman costume from the bag and then a massive, eye-popping, neon-pink vibrator.
Brody gawked at the sheer size of the thing.
"You have a vibrator?" he asked.
"It was a gag gift," Mercedes said, her face as hot and fire..
Still standing stoic and steady as ever, Sam eyed the items without a word.
"You have a vibrator," Brody repeated in disbelief. "Is that why we hadn't had sex in two months?"
Once again, Sam's hand settled on Mercedes...which was just as well, since there were three cops in total watching... so she didn't go for Brody's throat...a fact she considered, a real test in the area of restraint.
But it wasn't restraint at all.
It was burning humiliation, anger, and something else.
Terror.
And that terror was tripled, when the cops finished searching both the house and her truck.
And though they didn't find the money, they took her downtown anyway.
Stay safe!
