SEIZED Part 1: New Adult Romantic Suspense (Seize Me Romance Fiction Series) by JC Coulton

concussion, then I think it’s best you stay somewhere else for now. Whoever has April will be wondering where you are, so I suggest you don’t take any risks.”
    The thought that they’re looking for me sends a shiver down my spine. I’m tired and hungry, and I don’t have the strength to run again. I’m also cold. My jacket was long gone by the time I got here, and my skin feels prickly. My nose and forehead are less sore, but I gingerly touch my fingers to the bruises on my neck and wince. This is what hurt the most, such ruthless pressure. It brings back a flood of other unpleasant memories that I just can’t handle right now.
    I need to get out of here before he sees me cry. I don’t need him or anyone thinking I’m a victim. I tell him that I’ll stay wherever, but I need some clothes. That’s when he sees how cold I am. The bloodstained skirt was short to begin with, but now it rides treacherously up my thighs. I reach over and pick up the blanket again just as I see that he’s going to try to be a gentleman. Keep your jacket to yourself, I think to myself, because there’s no way I’m going to turn into submissive little Carrie just because I’m hurt. He had his chance to be a hero ten years ago. But he missed out then, and I’m sure as hell not going to give him another chance now.
    My coffee arrives and I wrap my hands around it. Then I decide to let him do the talking. I need to find out as much as I can before I go. If he’s going to muscle me off like a sick kid, then I’ll do my own investigating.

CHAPTER SIX
    Blake
    S omething in her eyes seems to be mocking me. I can’t work it out. I just offered her a jacket, for Gods’ sake. It’s not like I strapped her to a stove, and said, ‘cook me some eggs, bitch.’ Jesus, I don’t understand women. One minute they’re crying and needing a cuddle, the next they freeze up if you offer to open a door. No wonder therapists make so much money. It’s like translating between two foreign languages.
    I can see she’s had enough of the questions, though. The weight of the night’s events is showing in the tension around her neck and shoulders. But she still looks beautiful. Carrie has always been beautiful. Even when she’s been rolling under cars and fighting off thugs. My thoughts are interrupted by a crash of something heavy against the door of the interview room. Carrie flinches, and I instinctively grab my gun. I motion her to quickly get under the table, and when I hear a woman’s screech through the wall, I throw open the door, weapon drawn.
    The station hallway is a mess, but not because of a lazy shift. Paperwork and folders are flying from the fingers of the most outrageous and angry looking hooker I’ve ever seen. She’s one of our regulars, but every time she ends up here, I marvel at the poison she spews around. She’s dressed to the nines this morning in a flesh colored bandage dress that barely covers her breasts, and heels that make her nearly as tall as me. It’s a sight to be seen. The desk officer meets my eyes. He looks horrified as he tries to move her along, but this woman has something more to say to him at the top of her lungs about her supposedly unjust visit to 43rd Street.
    “You don’t fucking know.” Her shriek has become a snarl now. “Sitting here playing high and mighty while the rest of us just get by. How dare you judge me!”
    I feel Carrie edge up and stand beside me, and we watch as the woman seems overtaken by an itch that runs the length of both arms. She’s slashing at her skin, the diamantes and sequins on her acrylic nails twinkling, and she forgets whatever it was she was saying in order to satisfy the itch. I can see her arms from here. There are no bugs or welts except the ones she’s laying into them now. She must be on the crack pipe to be acting this way. I do feel compassion for her. After all, addiction is a disease, but mostly I’m annoyed. I don’t have time for this shit. I want