On the Line [Run Cold Book Two]

13: One-night Stand

Braaten's apartment was situated on the fourth floor of a lavishly decorated complex that had me wondering what sort of salary I'd approved for the upper echelon of the police departments. Whatever it was, he sat firmly on the lower end of the food chain in this place, a status I was certain an ambitious man like him planned on changing. With my coat lost somewhere in the hospital, he'd given me his uniform jacket for the trip; I felt weird walking through the corridors in the coat and my ripped jeans, when every other person we encountered was dressed to the nines. 

He owned a bachelor pad of rich but simple tastes, everything organized and hidden away whenever possible, the way I pictured his mind to work.

"So this is where you retire  when the sun rises." I ran a finger across a black granite kitchen island. The cabinets were equally dark, as was most of his furniture, stiff leather, I noticed, while the walls were painted a hungry red satin. "I'll admit, I was expecting something a little more sinister. This is-"

"Clean? Sexy?" He laid his handcuffs and gun holster beside my hand.

"I was going to say 'Dracula-esque' but sure."

"Good lairs are expensive these days, but if you'd give me a raise, I'll see what I can do."

"Ask your next queen or king for that," I said as he gently took his coat from my shoulders to hang in the closet.  "How does that work, anyway? If there's no monarch, does it just end? Is there an election? A war? Does it default back to Nik? Do we go digging through tiresome family histories to find someone suitable? If it were up to me, I'd convert everything to historical landmarks and be done with it."

Stark white kitchen lights made the counters and his eyes (green enough to really stand out in all this darkness) gleam. "And why isn't it up to you?"

"I'm not your queen."

"I'd say you are." With his back to me, he reached into a cabinet.

"Not really. I'm from Boston, Massachusetts. I just can't shut down something centuries in the making."

"So you are a queen," he corrected over the pop of a corked bottle. "Although your Norwegian needs serious help."

"Jeg har øvd," I responded, careful about pronunciation. I could use more practice. I'd spoken English so long, it was difficult to transition from one language to another. Nik spoke half-a-dozen. While he was a good teacher, I felt embarrassed that I couldn't pick it up so easily. Elementary school students conjugated verbs better than I did. 

Braaten passed a wine glass filled with a sweet, dark burgundy liquid.

"It's early," I protested, sipping regardless. I hated hangovers, didn't like what drinks did to my body, but after a series of dinners and meetings and tiny, pointless parties I'd come to accept a glass where appropriate.

"It's a crime to cook without wine," he replied, pouring himself a glass. "I'm going to change before we start. There might be something in my closet for you. I'll have a look."

"One of your conquests forget her tank top?" If Braaten had one thing going for him, it was how handsome he was; I had a feeling that if the police released one of those calendars Becky loved, he'd be on the cover. Looking around the sterile, unadorned flat, I had to admit that the room's focus wasn't on where he lived, but rather, its occupant. He didn't bring women back here to admire the paintings on his walls or stream Netflix.

"I take care of my ladies" was all he said before disappearing into the back room. Before the door shut I glimpsed a king bed with black sheets and a few burned-low candles.