#TeaserTuesday - Long Way Down

A couple of scenes from Long Way Down, Lean Dogs Legacy Book Four, for #TeaserTuesday.  

Seemingly from two different worlds, Pongo and Melissa (Detective Dixon from TWC) have a lot more in common than she first thinks - namely, their willingness to do the difficult, right thing, whether or not it's the legal thing. A police procedural thriller gets a Lean Dogs twist in the next Dartmoor installment, coming soon 

When she sat down next to him, water glasses on cork coasters in front of them, she saw that he was mindlessly flipping through channels.

“Was I right?” he asked, ice pressed to his face.

She frowned. “About what?”

He twisted his upper body so he was leaned back against the arm of the couch, facing her, half of his grin concealed by the dangling edge of the towel. “Were you off doing important detective shit when I texted?”

“Obviously.”

His grin stretched.

“Yeah? You liking Sex Crimes? Bet it’s more exciting than talking to working girls with Detective Blockhead.”

She frowned. “You know it’s Morris.”

“I know his head’s shaped like A Raisin Bran box,” he said. “But it’s better, right? You’re like, saving the world or whatever, like you always wanted, yeah?”

Her frown deepened, and her pulse gave a little kick in the pit of her stomach. “Who says I want to save the world? I certainly didn’t.”

To her horror, his expression softened. No, no, soft was bad, especially coming from him.

His voice softened, too, the bastard. “You didn’t say. I could tell, though.”

It was a not-small effort to keep her breathing steady; to keep her tone calm and frosty when she said, “You can’t tell shit.”

He’d never been put off but her unpleasant personality. His head cocked to the side, and he said, “No. You…it’s like this, right? There’s different reasons people get into law enforcement, same as everything else. Some people like the power trip. Some have got a lot of aggression they wanna channel in shitty ways. But there’s people who really do think they can make a difference. That’s you.” He pointed with his free hand and then reached over to pick up his water glass, like he hadn’t just smiled right through every wall she’d ever put up and picked her apart like it was nothing, as effortless as getting himself punched in a bar. “Oh, don’t make that face. You can be prickly as a cactus if you want, but you wanna help people. You don’t care about hours, or benefits, and you don’t get your rocks off collaring some douchebag. That’s why you swapped to Sex Crimes, yeah? You wanna get hold of the sickos and make sure they can’t hurt anybody again.”

He took a noisy slurp of water afterward, and smacked his lips in satisfaction like a little kid. He had no idea how devastatingly accurate his words or been – or that they’d landed in her gut like a depth charge.

She tried to keep her voice steady and her face blank. “Who knows how it is: I just started.” She faced the TV – he’d stopped on an infomercial for a kitchen slicer/dicer plastic thing that probably couldn’t cut warm butter. She fumbled the remote up from the seat where she’d left it and said, “Tonight was my first hot case.”

“They got you on the trail already, huh? Is it a good one?”

She tossed him a disbelieving look, and was grateful for a surge of anger, the familiarity and safety of it. “It’s a rape, Pongo. Of course it’s not good for anybody, least of all the victim.”

He winced. “Yeah. Shit. Sorry.” Then rushed on, undeterred; nothing ever deterred the idiot. “But that’s – okay, I won’t say ‘cool.’ I’ll say ‘good for you.’ How ‘bout that?”

“Ugh.” She hit the channel button. October baseball game replay. Home shopping. A movie where Keanu Reeves shot a bunch of people. A different movie where Keanu Reeves shot a bunch of people.

“Got any leads?” he pressed. “Witnesses?”

“I can’t discuss an active case with you. You know that.”

“That’s not fair – ooh, Jurassic Park, stop here – I’m always sharing confidential stuff with you.”

She sent him a look.

“Good confidential stuff, even.”

“You only tell me what Maverick tells you to tell me.” She was a little disappointed in herself for knowing Maverick’s name. And Toly’s, and Topino’s, and Fox’s, and Walsh’s, and their dad’s…

He winked. “Shit. I forgot you were smart.”

*****

They reached the elevator, and when the doors slid open, Contreras waved her in first. Not, she noted, with the elaborate gesture and shit-eating grin Pongo had used last night, the dumbass, but with a casual, automatic flex of his hand. This was normal behavior for him, she could tell. Ladies first. A habit. And far less offensive than when Pongo feigned gentlemanly manners.

“Dixon?”

“What? Oh.” They were onboard, now, the doors shut, and he’d asked her a question.

When she turned to him, he wore concern in the grooves around his mouth. Instead of repeating his question, he said, “Okay, now, maybe I’m overstepping. I know we haven’t worked together long. But I get the feeling something’s been on your mind the last couple of days.”

She started to protest, realized she couldn’t in any sort of way that would be convincing, and bit her lip instead.

“I won’t pry if it’s personal. Everybody’s entitled to a little personal drama. But if it’s about the case, I’ve been doing this a long time. I’ve seen some things.” He tilted his head. “Might even have some advice on how to sleep through the night when the ghosts get too loud.”

Fuck off, was her first, knee-jerk thought. Fuck anyone who thought they could peel back her mask and read what was going on inside her head. It was what she would have said to Pongo, when she couldn’t bear his smile any more, friendly and guileless and edged with a bright mischief that left her stomach turning somersaults. Was what she would have said to someone back home, just for the satisfaction of their appalled reaction. You couldn’t use words like fuck there. On, no. A monster could hide in plain sight, supported by everyone around him, but cursing…bad manners…well, that just wouldn’t do.

She’d taken too long to respond. He frowned. “At first I felt like it was polite to ask – but now I’m actually concerned.” He said it with all the care and gentleness her own father had never shown her, and it was nearly her undoing; left her throat tight and stinging, her hackles raised. “You okay?”

She took a deep breath, and swallowed down all the poison that had pooled on her tongue. Glanced away from him and toward the doors – God, this was the slowest elevator ride ever – and said, “I guess this case – swapping to Sex Crimes in general – has brought up some old stuff I buried a long time ago.” She could be honest: the dreams of Mississippi had begun before the call came in last night about Lana Preston. Had started the night she’d dragged herself home from that crazy raid on the Beaumont Building and crashed face-first without bothering to undress. She’d woken an hour later in a cold sweat, Ivy’s voice chanting Pissy Missy, Pissy Missy in the back of her mind.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Contreras nod. “This division’ll do that to you, no doubt. We wind up seeing a lot of bad shit. I know some of the guys wanna act like they’re all cool and unbothered, but those are the ones with drinking problems.”

She glanced over fully, surprised.

“We’ve got a great department therapist, if you ever want to talk to a pro. And Maria says I’m a damn good listener.” He grinned, and it was so genuine, so harmless, she felt an unexpected tug of longing. Not romantic…but the longing of friendship. Of confession. Of sharing secrets in order to get a it’s fine, it wasn’t your fault, you were just a kid.

Leslie had done some of that, over the years, because she knew the whole ugly backstory.

But even if it was tempting, she wasn’t ready to share any of that with Contreras. Not yet. Probably not ever.

“I appreciate the offer,” she said. “Really. But I’m okay. I’ll get my head outta my ass, I swear.” She squared her shoulders and offered a smile to prove the point. “I just…didn’t get enough sleep. I’ll get over it.”

He didn’t look convinced, but let it drop, thankfully. The elevator finally arrived and he said, “I’ve been taking these melatonin gummies. My kids swear by ‘em. I don’t know if they actually help, or if it’s more of a placebo thing, you know? But they taste good.”

“My friend swears by chamomile tea, but I’m not crazy about it,” Melissa said as they headed out of the cab and down the hall, and she realized it was the first thing she’d told him about her personal life.

Contreras realized it, too, if his small, pleased hum was anything to go by.