Swat Standoff. Lena Diaz
She counted to ten and tried to remember all the reasons she liked this man enough not to shoot him with real bullets. But she couldn’t seem to think of even one at the moment. “Just step outside so we can talk. You can drink yourself under the table later.”
“Bar.”
It was her time to frown in confusion. “What?”
“Drink myself under the bar.” He thumped the polished surface for emphasis. “You called it a table.”
“No, I...” She drew a deep breath. “Whatever. Let’s go.”
“Nope. You have something to say to me, say it right here. Then you can skedaddle on home and let me drink in peace.” He waved toward the bartender and held out his glass.
The bartender took one look at Donna and shook his head. “Sorry, man. No can do.”
She snatched the shot glass from him and set it out of his reach. When he opened his mouth to complain, she stepped closer, sandwiching her hips between his open thighs. The way his breath caught when she leaned in close would have been satisfying if she thought he was reacting to her as a woman. But as drunk as he was, there had to be another explanation. Like maybe the smell of shampoo and soap from her recent shower was too startling a contrast to the odor of urine and stale cigarettes he’d been basking in this afternoon.
She whispered in his ear. “You smell like a brewery, so I’m betting your bladder is full. I’m also betting you’d rather not wet yourself in front of all your lovely friends—which is exactly what you’ll do if I have to come back in here with my Taser and take you on a five-second ride.” She stepped back and shrugged. “Your choice. Walk out of here on your own with me. Or wait here for my Taser.”
Her threat carried the weight of sincerity. She wasn’t bluffing. He mumbled some coarse words and threw a few bills on the counter. But he didn’t argue anymore as he stumbled after her to the parking lot outside.
When they reached her previously white Ford Escape, courtesy of the muddy back roads she’d slogged through to find him, she leaned against the front passenger door. A raindrop splatted on the top of her head.
She glanced up at the dark, ominous-looking clouds. The weatherman had predicted more thunderstorms tonight, which was why Dillon had cut their training exercise short. He’d wanted them to have enough time to thoroughly clean and stow their equipment, real guns or not, before it started to pour.
Normally Donna would have been right there with her teammates, helping out. But she’d been so upset over Blake getting fired that she couldn’t focus and started making mistakes. Dillon had finally told her to go home and come back fresh in the morning for the second part of the training.
After a hot shower failed to make her feel any better, she’d done the only thing she could think to do. She’d called Blake. A lot. And texted. When that failed to get a response, she’d started to worry. That was when she’d put out a few feelers, trying to figure out where he might have gone.
Now, watching him sway on his feet in front of her, she was questioning her sanity in thinking she could undo the damage that he’d done today. After all, he’d accomplished what no one else had ever done.
He’d made Dillon Gray give up.
For goodness’ sake, Dillon lived on a horse rescue ranch. He and his wife ran horse clinics every summer to help disabled and underprivileged children. He believed every living being could be helped or rehabilitated if given enough trust and support. For him to wash his hands of Blake was a shock that still had Donna reeling. But even if Dillon was ready to give up on him, she wasn’t.
Not yet, anyway.
“I’ll make this quick before we get soaked,” she said. “I think Dillon overreacted. Calling you toxic, staging our fake deaths in that exercise to try to shock you and make his point, then firing you anyway, was a bit extreme.”
“No kidding,” he drawled, a note of bitterness creeping into his voice.
“But,” she continued, “I do agree that you’re not a team player. And he had every right to kick your butt after the stunts you pulled today.”
Thunder sounded overhead. But it was nothing compared to the dark look in Blake’s eyes as he stared down at her.
“I got two of the perpetrators all by myself. Two.”
“Whoop-de-do. Any one of us could have done what you did. But that wasn’t the point of the training.”
He arched a brow. “Seriously? Catching the bad guys wasn’t the point?”
“Well, yes, of course it was. But not on your own. The purpose was to teach us how to operate together, to have each other’s backs.”
“I need another drink.” He started back toward the building.
She jumped in front of him, boots crunching on gravel as she shoved him against her car. “I drove halfway across this county looking for you. It was only through dumb luck that I drove past this place and saw your truck out front. The least you can do is listen to what I have to say.”
He arched his brows. “Call tree didn’t work the way you’d hoped, huh?” he mocked.
“You fool.” She shoved him again. “I wouldn’t have even known that you’d driven out this direction if it hadn’t worked.” Another raindrop plopped onto her cheek. She wiped it off and glared up at him.
“I never asked you to come after me,” he said. “What the heck do you want, anyway?”
“What I want is to know that I didn’t waste the last four months of my life trying to turn your sorry butt into a decent detective and SWAT team member. I’ve been showing you everything that I know—”
“Stuff I already know.” He thumped his chest for emphasis. “This whole teach me how to do things the Destiny way is an insult. I was in the military before I became a cop. Surprisingly, I never once needed a babysitter. And I wasn’t too shabby a detective in Knoxville after that. And yet you people all treat me like I’m a rookie. I’ve been putting away criminals just as long as any of you—longer than some. But you ignore any suggestions I make and criticize every little thing I do. You feel like you’ve wasted your time with me for the past four months? Welcome to my world, lady. I’m not exactly feeling like coming to Destiny was my smartest move either.”
She blinked up at him, surprised at both his words and the hurt and resentment in his tone. Did he really feel that way? Or was it the liquor talking? He sure sounded coherent, even if his words were slurred. More important, could he be right? In their zeal to help him fit into the team, had they done just the opposite? Pushed him away?
“Blake, I don’t know what to—”
He waved his hand in the air as if to erase their conversation and stepped to the side, forcing her to turn to face him.
“Forget it,” he said, sounding angry and weary. “You wanna light me up with fifty-thousand volts? Be my guest. It won’t be the first time I’ve been on that ride. But I’m not hanging around to listen to another lecture. I’m done.” He started toward the bar.
“Blake, wait.” When he didn’t stop, she added, “Please.”
He stiffened and halted in his tracks. But he didn’t turn around.
She hurried over and stood in front of him. The defeated look on his face had guilt curling inside her even more. All along, she’d never once considered that the problem might be on both sides—maybe because blaming him was easier than facing her own failures.
“I’m sorry. Really, I am. I never meant to make you feel like you weren’t a valued member of the team. It never occurred to me that—”
He shook his head. “Don’t. Don’t apologize, Donna. You’ve been the one good thing in my life since coming