Rhapsody

19: lovers wild

Pitter patter. Pitter patter.

The rain beats against the windshield of Emery's car. Maverick, curled up in the passenger seat, can only stare at the wipers as they rhythmically dance across the glass. The engine's deep rumble reverberates throughout his chest, invasive yet comforting all the same. He focuses on the cacophony of sounds. The pitter patter. The whooshing. The rumbling.

He kissed Emery.

No, scratch that. He made out with Emery, a werewolf (and likely the hottest one Maverick has ever seen, for that matter), in the shitty light of his unworthy kitchen.

And Cassie, his best friend, saw it all.

Pam saw it all.

That poor cat.

Pitter patter. Pitter patter.

Brake lights wash Maverick's vision red. Peering through the rain-soaked windshield, he makes out the shape Cassie's cruiser in front of them. Shit, it had all happened so fast. One moment, he was finding religion in the cathedral of Emery's mouth, and the next, he was a heretic on trial. Exposed, vulnerable, caught in a blasphemous secret he thought he'd take to his grave.

Okay, so maybe he's being a bit dramatic. Cassie is a good friend; she'd never tell a soul. Still, Maverick can't help but feel shame at his little scandal being so prematurely exposed.

"Detective," a voice says beside him. "Are you all right?"

"What? Oh, yeah." Maverick blinks away. Red fades from his vision, and he clears his throat. "Just peachy."

He dares to steal a glance at Emery. The bastard is as composed as Maverick has ever seen him, with those piercing eyes and that glasslike skin, just a little too beautiful to ever truly be human. Maverick's eyes roam along the line of his jaw, down his neck, across the curve of his arm, to the fingers clasped around the stick shift. He watches the veins in his hand shift with each gear change. Watches the rhythmic tap of his thumb against the smooth leather.

Almost subconsciously, Maverick finds himself searching for the parts of Emery's appearance that bear his touch. The usually pristine clothing is now slightly rumpled. The neat black coif, now hopelessly tousled. The perfect lips, now salaciously flushed.

"Have you read Mr. Turner's file?" Emery asks, sparing Maverick a glance.

Ah, yes, the file. The real reason Cassie showed up at his apartment, aside from ruining a perfectly good night. Apparently their murder suspect—and the person who shot Emery, lest Maverick forget—is a rather high profile suspect, and high profile suspects almost always mean quick calls to lawyers. They need to move fast if they're to glean any information from him. Lieutenant Darcy tried his damnedest in the interrogation room tonight, but with no luck. Apparently, their suspect wishes to speak only to Maverick.

Lovely. Even if he isn't the murderer, Maverick will certainly find him guilty of being a cock block.

"Detective?"

"Don't rush me, asshat," Maverick retorts. He turns over the file, still damp from the rain. "Shit of them to call us back to the precinct this late."

"I suspect Captain Vaughn had something to do with it," Emery muses. "He needs this case solved."

"Yeah, and I need my beauty sleep. Which, if you ask me, is more important than trying to prove his little werewolf K-9 experiment can work."

Emery shifts his gaze towards the passenger seat. The streetlights collide with his eyes, and just for a moment, Maverick swears they flicker silver.