Bratva Boss’s Secret Triplets by Bella King

Chapter 4

April

“Ididn’t get a name,” I lie, shaking my head. “I don’t know who he was.”

The police officer taps the back of his pen on his notepad, raising an eyebrow. “You slept with him, but you didn’t get his name?” he asks.

“I never said I slept with him,” I reply, feeling a surge of heat to my cheeks. I don’t know what I was thinking letting Rebel into my apartment without knowing who he was. Now, this officer is telling me that I’ve been fucking a criminal?

“Drive-bys usually have targets, ma’am,” the officer says. “And I’ve questioned just about every resident here about it, and they said someone came out of your apartment and shot back at the car.”

“I don’t recall what he did,” I reply. “I was in a bit of a panic inside.”

“But he did leave, right?”

I shrug. “He did eventually.”

I can tell the police officer isn’t happy with my answers, but I don’t owe him an explanation. Rebel wasn’t the instigator of the shooting, so whether or not he’s a criminal doesn’t matter to me. Whoever drove by here trying to kill him is the one the police should be worried about.

“Ma’am, I’m going to need you to come down to the station,” the police office says, tucking his notepad into the front of his vest.

I take a step back in surprise. “What? Why?”

“It’s just for further questioning. That’s all,” he says. “You’re not a suspect.”

“And why the hell would I be?” I ask, raising my voice as anger swells in my chest. “I wasn’t driving around shooting at apartment buildings.”

“But you were with the man we assume to be involved in this.”

“He didn’t do anything,” I reply, feeling a strong need to defend Rebel even though I barely know him. He protected me. I hardly want him in spending the night in jail because of something I said.

The police officer holds out his arm, trying to cull me toward his car. “Ma’am, we’re only interested in finding out the truth. If your… friend… knows the shooter, then we’d like to talk with him.”

“Then talk to him, not me,” I say, shrugging off the officer’s hand as he tries to place it on my shoulder.

“I’m no longer asking you,” he replies, giving me a stern look. “Get in the car.”

“Are you fucking serious?” I ask, hardly believing that I’m being detained for doing nothing.

“Yes.”

I’m already starting to regret sticking up for Rebel, but if he’s as dangerous as this cop is making him out to be, perhaps it’s better that I don’t rat him out. He could come back, and the police wouldn’t be able to stop him.

I doubt Rebel would want to kill me, but I’m not taking my chances. I know that he could, and that’s all that really matters. His motivations will remain a mystery to me, hopefully forever. I don’t want to end up as a witness in court. Having to come down to the police station is more than I’m in the mood for as is.

As much as I wish to believe I would be the exception to the rule, I fear that I’m greatly underestimating Rebel’s capacity for violence. If I accidentally said something that would lead the cops to him, he could be back on my doorstep with a gun to my head sooner than I could remember his name.

I have a terrible habit of trusting people much too quickly, and my misplaced trust in this newly-revealed criminal could easily cost me my life. All for a good lay.

So, adhering to the principles of mind-your-own-business, I promise myself that I’m not going to give the police anything useful. I do my thing, and everyone else does theirs, and there’s no need to be put into the back of a police car and taken away from my home, because I’m not going to talk.

But here I am.

There’s not much to see on the drive downtown. This city has sunken pretty low since I first moved here. I figured with cheaper rent and a remote job in a better paying city, I’d be happier because I could save more money, but this town is nothing less than depressing.

I’ve been dreaming of leaving since the day I arrived, but I’m sticking it out until I have enough money to buy back the ring I had to pawn off in my early twenties to pay rent. I know where it is. I just have to get a few thousand dollars and it’ll be back on my finger.

My mom would kill me for selling it if she were alive, but if she was, I probably wouldn’t have had to sell it. It was the only gift my father was able to give to her before he disappeared while he was out fishing. I was too young to remember him, but my mother held onto that ring until she fell sick and passed it on to me.

The image of her pale, drained face still haunts me in my dreams. She’s always there, always on her last breath, always wanting to tell me something but unable to because she can’t get the words out of her tired lungs.

I watched her die. I wish I didn’t, but I was in the room when it happened. The nurses didn’t expect it, and by the time I had alerted them, it was too late. She was gone.

I feel like a fool for pawning off that damn ring, but there’s no sense in crying about it. I’ve shed enough tears for a lifetime already. I just want to save the money and get it back. That’s all I need to do.

“I’m not going to put your in cuffs,” the police officer says as we pull into the station. “I just want you to talk with one of our detectives. He’s an expert on cases like these.”

“There would be no reason for cuffs,” I reply dryly.

“Sometimes there is,” he says.

I shake my head. The police around here have attitudes. They think they run the town because it’s so small, but in actuality, they have no control over anything. Crime is up, and they’ve resorted to taking in innocent women for questioning.

I’ll talk, but only enough to get myself back home. It’s late, and I need to find arrangements for tonight. Staying back at my apartment strikes me as a horrible idea in light of the shooting.

The night air is especially cold when I step outside. Bumps rise on my skin. I managed to change into real clothes before the police came, but I didn’t wear a jacket. I’m going to freeze my ass off in that station. I just know it.

The inside of the building isn’t much warmer than outside. There’s barely anyone inside, save for a woman at the front desk smacking her gum and lethargically scrolling through a rugged orange and black phone. She doesn’t acknowledge me or the other officer as we walk past her toward the back of the station.

“Make yourself comfortable,” the officer says as he ushers me into a room that consists of just two chairs and a cheap fiberboard table.

Was that meant in jest?

The door closes behind me, and I hear the thick sound of a bolt sliding into place. Maybe I’m not a suspect, but I sure do feel like one. I get the feeling I’m going to be here for a while.

Ten minutes tick by, and rubbing my shoulders does little to make me warmer. I wish I could still feel the searing heat of Rebel’s bare skin stretched tight over his heavy muscles. He gave me such a deep warmth that I’m afraid I’ll be permanently cold now that he’s gone.

Why do the best men always have to be so fucked up?

Finally, as my eyes start to lose focus and I drift out into a daydream of the evening I shared with Rebel, the door opens.

In walks a man who looks more like a computer programmer from the 80s than a detective. His brown hair is a disheveled mess, and his shoulders are hunched like he’s been typing all day. He’s holding a cup of coffee in either hand. I guess I’m not going to sleep any time soon.

“So,” he says as he sits down across from me. “Tell me about your boyfriend.”

“Coffee first,” I reply.

He slides it over to me, and I take a large gulp, ignoring the fact that it’s hot enough to burn my mouth to the point of numbness. I wait a moment, then take another one. It might be the only coffee they give me for a while.

Once I’ve had enough, I look back up at the sloppy detective and smirk. “I’d like to speak to a lawyer.”