Dishing It Out. Molly O'Keefe

didn’t say that, though. He was not going to ruin whatever weird equilibrium he and his not-at-all close little sister had managed over the past few months with his—some might say—paranoid worry. He liked to call it concerned with safety.

      “It’s a little rough, but I’ll have plenty of time to clean it up. Besides, the price was right.”

      Leah and Jacob shared a look. Marc wasn’t a big fan of when they did that. Unfortunately, the brief time he’d spent visiting in order to facilitate this move to Bluff City, Iowa hadn’t given him any insight into what those shared looks meant.

      “Jacob and I could move into the big house,” Leah said, referencing the large house Jacob’s company had restored and used as an office. But Marc knew they were trying to sell it, and living in Leah’s house was more practical for them. Or more private, anyway.

      “I want a space of my own. Somewhere small that I don’t have to clean.”

      Leah let out a pained sigh. “I don’t think Mom will like this.”

      Marc ignored the bitterness that coated his stomach. He’d made strides with Leah over the course of the past few months, but his relationship with their parents, Mom especially, remained complicated.

      He didn’t want to analyze it, or to feel that bitter asshole part of himself that, even at thirty-two, was jealous of his sister. A sister whose health problems had been the center of his childhood.

      No, his entire life, as evidenced by him being here right now.

      “Mom won’t care.” She only cared about Leah. “Besides, by the time she visits I’ll have it looking better.”

      Another pained sigh from his sister. “That doesn’t fix what the outside looks like.”

      “Mom won’t care,” he repeated, keeping the snap out of his tone by sheer force of will, but she seemed to get it. Instead of arguing further she leaned against Jacob.

      “We should go.”

      Marc liked Jacob well enough, but since the guy was in love with Leah he always got a little prickly over Marc’s terse way with her when they got on a topic like this. Which was great, as it should be and all that.

      But sometimes Marc wanted to give the guy a shove. Which he would never do. He was a cop. He’d dealt with people a lot more annoying than a protective boyfriend, and he always kept his temper in check. Always, even when the guys he worked with lost their cool. Marc kept it under control.

      That was him. So he simply nodded. “Thanks for the help.”

      “Anytime, you know. Anytime.” Leah offered an awkward wave and a paltry smile and he did his best not to scowl. Until they were gone, and then his mouth did that of its own accord.

      Scowled at the closed door. Dingy, a little rust around the doorknob. Leah was right that he couldn’t fix what the whole complex looked like, but he had no doubt he could have his apartment looking decent in a week or two.

      His new job at Bluff City Police Department might start tomorrow, but he had no life in Bluff City. All he had was a sister he was childishly resentful over.

       So why the hell did you agree to this?

      Though his mind poked him with the question on a fairly regular basis, he knew the answer. His parents had asked him to, and he didn’t say no to them. Ever.

       Pathetic, Santino.

      No doubt. But they wanted to move near Leah. They wanted their little family to be a real close-knit one. And Leah had built a life for herself here. So he’d gotten a new job, moved from his place in Minnesota, and Mom and Dad would be moving as soon as they could.

      Because of Leah. The motivation for every Santino family decision. Even when she’d run away. Even when she hadn’t given the family an ounce of her attention, Leah had been the center of Mom and Dad’s wants and needs, and he was nothing.

      He glared at his boxes, ready to tackle the task of unpacking. A task that wouldn’t take long at all, but would at least take his mind off all this shit. Dumb shit.

      A loud thumping from out in the hall caught his attention before he made any progress unpacking. Followed by muffled cursing. Yeah, the walls weren’t exactly thick, were they?

      He walked to the door, wondering if he should get his gun out of its safe first. The peephole was murky and he couldn’t make out much. Still, as run-down as this apartment complex down by the river was, it wasn’t grab-your-gun-before-you-check-out-the-hallway bad.

      So he opened the door. And, okay, he strategically placed himself to be ready for whatever situation he might find.

      He did not expect a woman standing at the top of the stairs, cradling one arm, leaning against the wall, cursing as though her life depended on it. Cursing really creatively.

      “Are you—”

      Her head jerked up, hand coming off her arm long enough for him to notice a bloody piece of fabric beneath.

      “You’re hurt.” He moved toward her, his initial reaction. Someone was hurt, you moved in to help.

      “Yeah, I noticed,” she muttered, staring down at the bloody fabric on her forearm before squeezing her hand over it again.

      “Let me help.” She stiffened when he reached toward her, so he did his best to seem unthreatening. “It’s okay. I’m a cop. I can show you my badge if you’d like.”

      She snorted and pushed herself away from the wall, very much ignoring and avoiding his outstretched hand. “Yeah, well, I’m a cop, too, buddy. Badge and all. Which means I can help myself.” She walked past him to the door at the end of the hall, then turned around.

      “Wait. I know you.”

      He was pretty sure he’d remember eyes like that. Which was a weird-ass thing to think, but they weren’t really blue, instead nearly gray. He’d never seen gray eyes before. Paired with the half assessing, half go-screw-yourself expression in them, he was pretty sure he’d remember her.

      “New guy. San...San...San Francisco?” She flashed a grin, some of the go-screw-yourself fading.

      The corner of his mouth inched upward against his permission. “Santino.”

      “Right. Right. Matt Santino.”

      “Marc.”

      “Yeah, that’s what I said, right?” She half smiled at him and he felt like a dumb teenager scrambling to say something. Something that might impress her.

      Idiot. If she knew him and was a cop, she had to work at BCPD, which meant no impressing.

      “Tess. Tess Camden.” She nodded at his open door, blood starting to drip onto the hallway floor. “You live here?”

      “Um, yeah.” He moved toward her again, gesturing at the next blood drop threatening to fall. “Don’t you think you should—”

      “Good. That’ll be convenient.”

      “Convenient? What do you—”

      But she’d opened her door, was stepping inside. “See you tomorrow, San Francisco.” With a wave, she slammed the door shut.

      Marc wasn’t sure how long he stood there in shock. Sure, it hadn’t been a seriously painful injury or she’d probably be screaming or going to the hospital or something. But she’d been dripping blood in the hallway, and that wasn’t good. At all.

      But it was none of his business, and surely if she was a cop she knew how to take care of herself. Still, the image of that bloody scrap of fabric stayed with him, and he didn’t think he’d shake it until he knew what all that was about.

      * * *

      TESS WISHED SHE could muster some anger. Frustration. Determination. But all she could feel with her arm stinging