“I’m sorry, what, Captain?”

​

Rider had to have misheard what he thought he heard. He hadn’t been involved in narcotics since he’d been a rookie. And he’d done it the one time.

​

And that one time had ruined his life irrevocably. He’d lost the woman he loved by one tiny lie. Not something he wanted to think about right now. Or ever.

​

“They need help with an undercover case. They’re strapped right now. I know you’ve done undercover before. It’s been a few years, but you did a damn good job on that case.”

​

A damn good job? Yeah, of messing up his life.

​

The torture. The pain etched on her face at what she thought he did. He would never touch another woman. Never! Since that day, he’d never been able to get her devastated face out of his mind. And damn it, he had tried. So many times.

​

He loved her so much it hurt to breathe sometimes. He’d never stopped loving her, even after all this time. She’d shoved him out of her life without giving him a chance to explain. Of course, it wasn’t as if he could explain the real reason he’d let that woman cling to him. He couldn’t have told her he was undercover trying to take down one of the largest drug dealers in the city. He couldn’t have told her that the woman he had his arm around was nothing more than a means to an end to make the bust.

​

He hadn’t been able to tell her shit.

​

All he ever wanted was to be a detective. To solve crimes. To help people. To make a difference.

​

Being a beat cop had sucked at times. But that’s where everyone started. Nobody magically moved into detective status with a snap of their fingers. He had been prepared to crawl his way up the ladder. Because being a detective was his dream.

​

Just like his dad.

​

Three years on the force and given the opportunity to go undercover to show off his skills, he couldn’t pass it up.

 

He couldn’t say no.

​

Well, he could now. Because he worked homicide. He was a detective.

​

“I’ll pass.”

​

“I need you on this, Rider.”

​

“I can’t.”

​

Captain Wilson stared at him for the longest time. “I’ve heard a few rumors.”

​

Okay. He could imagine what those rumors were. He wasn’t going to ask though.

​

“That you’ve been withdrawn. Not yourself. I have to agree.”

​

He wouldn’t disagree either. Getting stabbed so damn close to his heart and nearly dying changed a person. It made them reevaluate their life. He had decided, after much contemplation lying in the hospital, his life was shit. And he should’ve died that day. That was the conclusion he’d come up with. What was the point of anything anymore?

​

But even if that hadn’t happened, he wouldn’t have taken the undercover gig. Not after what happened the last time.

​

“Which means I’m not up to the task, Captain. So the answer is no.”

​

Captain Wilson leaned back in his chair, sighing. “I see I’m not going to win this argument. I have to agree with your assessment. You’re not up to the task. I’m not even sure you’re up to the task of anything at this point.”

​

He sat up straighter in his chair. “Now, wait a minute, Cap—”

​

“You nearly died and I’m not sure you’ve processed that. Perhaps you need to take a step back. I let you come back too soon.”

​

From his job? From his livelihood? From the one thing keeping him sane? From the only thing forcing him to wake up every day?

​

Hell no!

​

“I’m fine. I work my cases with precision and all the due diligence they deserve. I’m focused. But I don’t want to go undercover. That’s a whole other ball game I don’t want to play around with.”

​

Captain Wilson didn’t answer his plea. Instead, he grabbed the phone and asked Detective Stromberg and Powell to join them. What the hell was his captain up to?

​

The two men entered without a sound and stood by the door. He didn’t even look in their direction or offer a greeting.

​

“Stromberg!” his captain barked. “What are your thoughts on Rider and his performance lately?”

​

Was he serious?

​

Rider turned his gaze toward Stromberg, cocking a brow. Challenging him to say the wrong thing. He was done caring what others thought of him, but he would fight anyone that tried to take his livelihood away. Stromberg would be wise to choose his words carefully.

​

Damn the captain!

​

Putting his fellow detectives under the spotlight. He’d been a jackass to everyone the last four months since he’d been stabbed. The other day, Stromberg tried to offer him an olive branch and invited him to watch a baseball game. He loved baseball. But he’d declined—and was rather curt about it.

​

No matter how hard he glared at them, he knew they were about to throw him under the bus. He could sense it like a live wire was about to scorch his skin.

​

“He’s laser focused and doing his job, sir.”

​

Captain Wilson growled, as if unsatisfied with that answer. Rider wanted to clap Stromberg on the back for being on his side. He understood the silent message.

​

“Powell?”

​

Detective Powell, or rather Tate, as most people called him, cleared his throat. “He’s been an asshole, but he gets shit done.”

​

Tate produced a shit-eating grin as if he enjoyed getting him in trouble. Stromberg was side-eyeing Tate, like he couldn’t believe he said that.

​

“Okay, Rider. You’re getting glowing recommendations from your co-workers.”

​

He damn near chuckled. Tate called him an asshole. How was that glowing?

​

“But what I’m actually hearing is you’re so focused on your cases, you’re not taking care of yourself.”

​

“What is this, Captain? Are you suspending me for doing my job?” He stood up so fast, his chair scraped backward against the floor, nearly toppling over. “If you’re taking my badge from me for not going undercover, then do it!”

​

“I’m not taking your badge from you. But you will be working with Stromberg and Powell from here on out. When Powell tells me you’re not an asshole anymore, you can go back to being solo.”

​

He glared at the two men he thought were his friends, then back at his captain. “You’re giving me babysitters because one of them thinks I’m an asshole?”

​

“Yes. And you are being an asshole. I don’t like it. You never were one until…”

​

Yeah, until he knocked on heaven’s door and wished like hell he would’ve gotten an answer.

​

“Get out and go do your job. With those two!”

​

Captain Wilson went back to the paperwork splattered across his desk, effectively dismissing them. He pushed by Tate, not even caring he’d smacked Tate’s shoulder hard with his own. Though he should’ve because a shot of pain hit his chest. Right where the knife had gone in with the second sweep. One would think his shoulder would hurt more where he’d been stabbed first, but no, the wound in his chest gave him more fits than anything.

​

He swore he could feel the knife still embedded in his chest at times, like a phantom pain. Not that he’d lost a limb or needed a new heart. But the pain was always there, even more when he exerted more energy than he should.

​

Stromberg and Tate gathered by his desk, forcing him to look up at them.

​

“Piss off.”

​

Then he put his attention back to his latest case.

​

“Hey, man, we don’t like this any more than you, but—”

​

“But what, Stromberg?” Rider asked, glaring. “You didn’t give a damn a few months ago when the captain suspended you. You kept on working. And guess what? I kept my damn mouth shut. You can give me the same courtesy and let me do my own thing.”

​

“Except we’re not going to do that,” Tate replied. That annoying shit-eating grin was back. “While I hate it as much as you, I’m not going to ignore what the captain said. I’m sorry I didn’t lie like Stromberg. We wouldn’t be in this situation if I had.”

​

“Hey,” Stromberg pouted. “I didn’t lie.”

​

“You omitted the truth. Same thing.” Tate jerked a finger at him. “He has been an asshole and you know it. Even he knows it.”

​

Rider slumped into his chair, unable to argue because Tate was right. He couldn’t even say he tried not to be an asshole. He just didn’t care about anything anymore.

​

“We’re working together until I tell the captain you’re not an asshole. We’re not arguing about it anymore.” Tate’s harsh expression and clipped words said Rider shouldn’t even waste his breath disagreeing. While he wanted to, the zeal to do it wasn’t there.

​

“Yo, Tate. Got a dead body for you. Her name’s Molly. Here’s the address,” Roco said, handing him a piece of paper. Rider didn’t miss the way he snickered as he walked away. Though Tate must’ve because he didn’t call him out on it. Tate was never one to let anything like that slide.

​

“Let’s go,” Tate ordered, waving the piece of paper. “Work calls.”