The Man Who Crossed Worlds (Miles Franco #1)

Chapter Eight

I swear I’d only been asleep five minutes before I was awakened by an insistent rapping at my door. I groaned, wrenched my eyes apart, then snapped them closed again as sunlight flooded them. I hadn’t closed the curtains before I collapsed into bed, and I was sure as hell regretting it now.

I was halfway back to sleep before the knocking on my door came again, louder this time.

“If you’re in there, Mr. Franco, I’d advise you to open this door before I shoot the bloody lock off.”

I groaned again as I recognized Detective Reed’s voice. Couldn’t everyone just leave me alone? Did they want to work me right into the ground?

With a final groan for good measure, I hauled myself out of bed and snatched some clothes off the floor.

“Mr. Franco!”

“Jesus Christ, I’m coming, give me a goddamn minute,” I yelled at the door while I tried to work out which trouser leg to put my foot through. My bruises screamed at me as I slid into my shirt, and I grabbed the packet of paracetamol from the coffee table in the living room before padding to the door in bare feet.

I pulled open the door and found a large, round object hurtling toward my head. By instinct, I snatched it out of the air, and realized it was my motorcycle helmet. A series of large cracks ran along the black fiberglass, and one side of it was dented.

“Fuck me,” I said. “The hell happened to it?”

I glanced up and found Vivian Reed staring at me, a cell phone pressed to her ear in one hand. “Yeah, he’s here. He looks like shit. I’ll meet you back at the station.” She paused as someone responded, then snapped the phone shut and slipped it into the pocket of her slim-fitting black jacket. “Someone worked over your bike,” she said. “I’ve got half a mind to do the same to you.”

“Son of a bitch,” I whispered to myself. That was a good bike.

Vivian looked like she’d had a much better night than I had. Her dark hair hung perfect against her cheeks, and her eyes weren’t bloodshot or puffy, like I expected mine were. She wore a hint of eye shadow and foundation, but no other makeup that I could see. She didn’t need it. Goddamn beautiful women.

She raised an eyebrow at me, and my hand went to my head of its own volition, trying to smooth down my curls. “It don’t matter,” I lied, and held out a hand. “Detective Reed. How’s it going?”

“Save it,” she said, shouldering her way into the apartment and slamming the door closed behind her. These cops sure were belligerent. Didn’t they need a warrant or something to come into my home? “Where the hell have you been, Miles?”

Apparently, we were on a first name basis now. That was promising. “Isn’t it a bit early in the morning to be chewing me up? I’ve had a really shitty night.”

“It’s one in the afternoon,” she said. “I’ve been calling your phone all morning.”

Aw hell. I knew there was something I was supposed to do before I slept. I hadn’t heard my phone ring. Maybe it got smashed during the beating or took on water in the rain. I opened my mouth to defend myself, then took another look at Vivian’s face and thought better of it. “Look—”

“No, forget that. It doesn’t matter. What I want to know is what, in the name of all that is holy, you were doing at John Andrew’s strip club.”

Christ, she was talking loud. My head pounded. That wasn’t fair; I hadn’t even got drunk. I went to the kitchen to pour myself some water and swallowed another handful of painkillers. Even her glare was painful, so I looked away, pulled up a rickety chair at what passed for my dining table, and told her the story.