Becoming Rain: A Novel

An engine roars on the other side of Luke’s office wall, rattling the hanging picture frames. “I hate it when they do that,” Luke mutters, digging the key out of his pocket. “Thanks so much for walking Licks. Poor guy’s probably dying right now.”

“Of course. It’s no big deal.” I look over at the empty chair. “How is Miller doing?”

“He’s back home now, but he’ll be out for most of the week.” Luke slips my key ring from my hand and begins fiddling with it.

Hooking a spare key to his condo onto the ring.

My target is giving me unsupervised access to his personal space.

“You really think this is smart?” I tease, holding it up.

He laughs and grabs my waist, pulling me into him. “I’ve already called security to let them know you’ll be there. They’ll be on the lookout for the gorgeous brunette with the ugly little dog. They shouldn’t give you any problems.”

“Licks isn’t exactly a looker either—you do realize that, right?”

He doesn’t answer, stealing a slow, deep kiss that makes my knees buckle and me forget where I am for a moment.

This can’t happen. I push against his chest. “I’d better head over there now. It’s almost seven. He’s probably about to burst.”

“You know, if I came home tonight and found that same gorgeous brunette lying naked in my bed, I wouldn’t complain.” Luke’s arms curl around my back. He pulls me into him again, until I can feel the bulge in his pants.

My cheeks flush, knowing Warner is listening to every single word right now. Knowing what it feels like to be with Luke, free of a wire and observation, makes the time that I am on the clock with him all the more unpleasant. “What time do you think you’ll be home?”

He sighs. “Fuck, I don’t know. The way things are going, I’d say around ten. This week is really busy and I don’t know how to do half of what needs to be done around here.”

I peck his cheek with a kiss and pull away. “Then you’d better get back to it. I’ll talk to you later.”

“We’re not staying long,” I warn Stanley as the two dogs race for the giant dog bed by the window.

I should just turn around and head home right now. But I can’t help myself from wandering through Luke’s home. I’ve been inside only once, and he was here. Now, I’m free to inspect. For a few hours, if I want. Bill’s watching the garage, in case Luke leaves work early.

What will I find here? Something to incriminate him? Because he handed over his keys to me trustingly, anything I find is admissible. Warner giggled like a schoolgirl when he found out I had access. I’m sure Sinclair’s going to be happy. But I’m not really looking for things pertaining to the case.

I just want to explore Luke’s personal space.

I make my way through his kitchen, opening drawers and cupboards to find neatly piled pots and polished silverware, small appliances still in original packages. The only cupboard that looks well stocked and frequented is the one full of hard liquor.

He is twenty-four, after all.

After sweeping through bare closets and a spare bedroom with nothing but a bed to fill it, I move on to his bedroom with hesitant steps.

Because any curious female would do the same of the guy she was dating. And sleeping with.

Turning his lamp on, I find his sheets in a rumpled mess. He normally makes his bed in the morning, based on what I’ve seen. But he did say he basically ran out today. So, I do him a favor and take the time to make it for him, stealing a quick inhale of his sheets as I smooth out the creases.

And then the hairs on the back of my neck prickle because I feel like I’m being watched. Or I’m simply afraid that I’m being watched.

Glancing out across the way, I see my apartment, blinds closed and dark. I stroll over to the panel and hit the switch, closing his blinds.

Just in case.

Luke’s words earlier replay in my ear and my heart begins to race. I stretch out on his bed, burying my face in his pillow, as I briefly allow myself the luxury of imagining myself granting his request.

Wishing I could.

Just the thought has my thighs burning.

With a groan of frustration, I roll off and gingerly open his nightstand. It’s bare, save for multiple boxes and brands of condoms—some opened and half-empty—and a long, slender black jewelry box. I pull it out and flip it open, catching my breath as sparkling diamonds wink back at me. I finger the delicate chain, instantly mesmerized by the beauty of the stones, each encased with a setting in the shape of a drop.

A raindrop.

“Holy shit,” I mumble, pulling out a folded sheet of yellow paper tucked into the inside of the lid. It’s an appraisal certificate from a jewelry wholesaler here in Portland. A row of digits—the necklace’s value, for insurance purposes—glares up at me.

I snap the case shut and slide it back into the drawer quickly, knowing that I probably wasn’t supposed to see that.

But I’m positive that the necklace is for me, and it’s real. When did he buy that? And why? I don’t have to ask with what money because I know. I also know that when he does give it to me, I’ll have to smile and gush over it. But that won’t be hard. What’ll suck is handing it in to evidence after the case is over, because I can’t keep it.

I should be disgusted with him for giving me gifts bought with dirty money.

But, if I’m completely honest, all I can think about right now is how beautiful that piece of jewelry is and how thoughtful he is and how I can’t wait to feel him slipping it around my neck.

This is exactly what Luke meant when he said that he’s been blinded by wads of cash and a Porsche.

My stomach begins churning with self-loathing.

After searching his bedroom closet and finding nothing but a well-hung, neat wardrobe of dress clothes and more shoes than any man should own, I make a quick stop in Luke’s bathroom, stepping over the towel he left on the floor. I don’t pick it up, not wanting him to know I was in here, too. Scanning his medicine cabinet, closet, and vanity drawers, I find only cold medication and basic hygiene supplies, albeit a lot more of the latter than I’d expect the normal guy to use. Luke is meticulous with his appearance, though, so I’m not surprised.

There are no prescriptions of any kind, no embarrassing rash creams, nothing that tells me I should be heading to the doctor for tests. That’s a relief.

As is the fact that I’ve uncovered nothing to use against him in our case.

So, I grab Stanley and head out.