Tatted

By Renee LaRuse

An Interracial Romance Novel
Good Cop Meets Bad Boy... What would you follow? Your Heart or The Law?
Life paths that crossed momentarily in a Miami high school converge once more, ten years later on the Miami streets, when Officer Misha Barrett, daughter of a fallen cop, arrests Mark "Nello" Giovanello, an ex-con and the son of a drug addict. This time, the pull of lust, curiosity and admiration keeps these paths entwined. Soon there is no fighting the profound love that binds them together. Both, however, will find themselves fighting for their very lives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Renee LaRuse
• Release date: Dec 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781310424243

Book preview

TATTED

By Renée LaRuse

Copyright 2012 Renee LaRuse

Smashwords Edition

ReneeRomance Books

http://www.ReneeRomance.com

All rights reserved. Except for brief excerpts for review purposes, no part of this book may be reproduced or used in any form without written permission from the publisher.

This story is a work of fiction. All characters and events are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is coincidental.

Cover Design: ReneeRomance Book Design, ReneeRomance.com

Cover Photo: Man and woman in love © Suprijono Suharjoto — Depositphotos

DEDICATION

To the women who judge books by their covers, but judge people by their hearts.

****

TABLE OF CONTENTS

1: Saltine

2: F-Word

3: XXX

4: Dessert

5: Water, Water, Everywhere

6: Serve and Protect

7: All of Me

8: Under My Skin

More books from Renee Lewin a.k.a. Renee LaRuse

1: Saltine

Almost 1:30 p.m., almost lunchtime. If the dispatcher didn’t call her badge number in the next few minutes Misha could get a hot, juicy pressed Cuban sandwich with extra pickles, some salty plantain chips, and a fresh can of lemony diet soda pop from her favorite bodega. She glanced down at the two empty diet soda cans in the cup holder and shook her head. Addict. Under the shade of an oak tree, Officer Misha Barrett sat in her white Dodge Charger squad car at the corner of an abandoned lot, watching the seedy motel across the way for suspicious activity while keeping radar on the traffic on 20th Street in front of her. Misha was parked under the tree to escape the relentless heat of a Florida summer and to hide the words Miami-Dade Police written in green and gold on the side of her vehicle.

Ten extra pounds were added on to her 5 foot, 7 inch frame in the last year alone, despite her weekly fitness routine. Her doctor’s advice was that in addition to stress and depression, six sodas a day was undoubtedly a contributing factor to her weight gain. I’m not depressed. I’m realistic. I see the worst of Miami six days a week, and it gets crazier every year. Plus, whether I’m a slim size 5 or a curvy size 12, men are still disappointing, lying shits. So, tell me, what should I be content about? Huh. Misha’s police radio chirped and crackled.

443, copy? a Hispanic female dispatcher questioned in a distant voice.

Misha sighed deeply. She half hoped it was something worth pushing her lunch break back for, like a high speed chase. PIT maneuvers were best done on an empty stomach anyway. Her French manicured thumb pressed the button on the side of the speaker mic that was clipped onto the shoulder of her brown uniform. 443. Go ahead, Misha replied.

443, what’s your location?

443, Northwest 20th Street, 17th Ave.

443, please 10-40 to Overton, 15th Street and 18th Ave.  Hernandez is ending shift. Transport needed for detained subject. 1:26.

10-4. 443, en route.

No chase, just a family friend going off-duty and wanting someone to bring a perp in for processing. Sergeant Sanwel Hernandez and Officer Jamal Barrett, Misha’s father, had been best friends for the twelve years they were on the force together. Misha drove the cruiser out of the parking lot and made it to Hernandez’s location within five minutes. An intimidating maroon-colored ’85 Buick Regal with large matching reddish-purple rims had been pulled over along the crumbling curb. The street was one of many in the low-income, crime-ridden neighborhood that was in dire need of repair. She swerved slowly around a pothole, parked behind Hernandez, and radioed the dispatcher as she stepped out of her car. 443, with Hernandez.

10-4. 1:31, the radio quipped.  

The driver’s door of the cruiser opened as Misha neared. Hernandez tiredly emerged from the car, his knees straining a moment with the weight of his body. His deep tan skin and the gel in his curly salt and pepper hair glistened in the hot sun. The two officers exchanged smiles. When Misha was a rookie six years ago, he was her field training officer, the person that guided her through the first few months of being a policewoman. Since he was like an uncle to her and her younger brother, a part of their lives since they were toddlers, she received the best field training any cadet could ask for. Sergeant Hernandez now had 23 years on the Miami police force, almost as long as she’d been alive. Misha let out a sigh when she heard the muffled hollering coming from the back seat of his car.  

Hernandez shook his head. Sorry. This one’s a talker.

Lovely. So who am I dealing with, Sarge? Misha rested her hip on the side of the car.

Mark Giovanello. This is his eleventh run-in with the law. I stopped him for speeding and found a marijuana pipe and a digital scale in the glove compartment. All the looks and record of a dealer. I had an officer bring a K-9 out to check the vehicle. Clean, surprisingly, except for the pipe and the scale. I guess he learned a few things during his stints in jail, but off to TGK he goes.

Alright. I’ll bring him in. Heading home early today?

January has a basketball game at 2:30. I don’t want to miss seeing my baby girl destroy Olympia Heights, he grinned.

A sad smile pulled at her lips. Her father had been the same way when she was involved in sports as a teenager. Of course not. I don’t want you to be late. Okay, pass the scum over. She nodded toward the tinted rear door window. Hernandez pulled the door open. A smooth, deep, angry male voice blasted out at them.

"You pulled me over because you thought I was black, man! You looked at my car and my 22s and thought ‘Imma shake down anotha nigga today’. Fo’ real. Fuckin’ prejudiced!"

I pulled you over because you were speeding, bruh. Step out, Hernandez instructed.

Large black Timberland boots with loose laces plunked down one after the other onto the gray asphalt. The legs of dark jeans were tucked into the boots. The man unfolded his tall frame from the back of the vehicle with his hands cuffed behind his back. She was surprised to see that he was Caucasian. Upon hearing the low timbre of his voice, she had pinned him as African-American. My bad. I guess you did get profiled. By me, not by Hernandez. His pants sagged down to his hips but his long black cutoff-sleeve tank covered his backside, thankfully. One of Misha’s biggest pet peeves was the eyesore of a man’s dingy drawers billowing out from pants that were falling down to his knees. Although, it did make the idiots easier to chase down.

The firm curved facets of both of his muscled arms were covered in a sleeve of black, dark blue, yellow, red and dark green ink; ghoulish Japanese hannya masks and fire breathing Chinese dragons mixed with pimped hotrods and 50s pinup girls. Some chick’s name was on one lightly tanned shoulder, and Nello written in cursive filled the side of his neck. Nello was his street name, she figured. Through the gaping armholes of his tank she caught a flash of more tattoos on his hard chest. He had an eyebrow piercing but not much eyebrows. The little curved silver barbell in his skin caught the sunlight. Modest diamond studs glimmered in each of his earlobes. Below his straight nose were wide pink lips, the top lip lined by a ridge that further defined the sensual shape of his mouth. A faint brown goatee framed his mouth and chin. His hair, faded in the back and the sides, and longish on top, was a lighter shade of brown. His eyes were dark brown, so dark they looked black and almost bottomless, like you might get lost and lose track of time looking into them. He looked like a Calvin Klein underwear model gone gangsta. Jarring at first, to see suburban pretty boy looks wrapped up in an urban package, but he wasn’t a wannabe. It was clear he wasn’t acting. This fine specimen was indigenous. Good genes gone to waste in the ghetto.

Giovanello’s rant continued. "I was drivin’ maybe four miles over the limit! Shit. If I was drivin’ a Prius, you’d have let me— He stopped midsentence when his gaze fell on Misha’s face. His scowl slowly transformed into a curious smile as he looked her up and down with those deep brown eyes smoldering. His pierced left brow jumped up and his smile revealed a dimple in his right cheek. Heyyy…Don’t I know you from somewhere?"

Misha was momentarily frozen by the sight of the subject’s nearly perfect white teeth. A big goofy smile was one of her biggest turn-ons. Dammit. No.

Hernandez chuckled at Giovanello’s expression. Most male arrestees were absolutely fascinated by female cops, especially pretty ones like Misha. It was amusing to see how the twinkle in a perp’s eyes disappeared once they realized Officer Barrett was much tougher and stronger than she looked. He’d seen Misha take down men twice her size.

Misha rolled her amber eyes at the perp. Doubtful. She’d never seen this person before in her life.

His eyebrows furrowed and his lips pursed as he tried to remember where he’d seen her face. He looked kind of…cute, harmless, when he was concentrating. Misha clenched her jaw.

Damn, where do I know you from? Don’t your name start with an M?

Lucky guess?

"Miss Officer, I’m not kidding. I swear I know you. From…somewhere…High school! We went to Booker T. Washington together!"

Hmm. Yeah, I went there.

You were a track star, he smiled. Mark evaluated her soft lips, almond-shaped hazel eyes with long lashes, black hair in a slick bun, and curvy hips, vaguely remembering her as a skinny tomboy. She’d filled out since high school. She was thick now. Nice and thick. Huggable. Squeezeable. Touchable. Downright loveable. The tan shirt of her uniform against her dark chocolate brown skin reminded him of peanut butter cups. What he’d do for a taste…When was the last time he’d seen a dark-skinned chick so fine? When’s the last time he’d seen any female so beautiful? He stepped forward, closer to her, instinctively.

She nodded. I won a couple track meets. Misha secured her hand on Mark’s forearm and began to guide him forward to her cruiser, walking behind him. You never turn your back to a criminal.

"Thanks, niña. I appreciate it, Hernandez called out. Say hi to your mom for me."

Yep. Tell January I’m still waiting on that autograph.

10-4, he said with a smile, police ten-code for ‘Affirmative’. Tow will show up in a few minutes. He sauntered back to his car and drove away.

Misha looked up at the side of Mark’s face as they walked. Sorry I don’t remember you. It’s been a while.

That’s okay. Not like we were tight back then. Probably didn’t know I existed. It’s…Meeka, right?

Officer Misha Barrett.

"Misha, Misha. Good to see you. His steps slowed as he glanced at her figure over his shoulder. Real good to see you."

She glared and pressed the metal handcuffs deeper into his wrist. Walk forward, she ordered.

He hissed in pain. That’s brutality, you know. You’re lucky I like you, or else my lawyer would be all over this.

She stopped at the side of her car and pulled the door open. Get in. She pushed his head down—soft, golden-brown hair—so that he wouldn’t bump it on the frame of the car. Once he pulled his long legs in, she shoved the door shut. 443. I have the sergeant’s subject in custody. Waiting on impound, she radioed.

10-4. 1:40.

Misha was reluctant to remain in her car with the perp to wait for the tow truck to arrive, but it was too hot out. She’d have to deal with the talker in exchange for the relief of the A/C. She slid into the driver’s seat. The cool air in the car smelled of him; good cologne and salty sweat. The scent was distinctly male. Bold and comforting. In response to the combo of his hard muscles, sexy smile, arrogant swagger, and delicious cologne, her mind was bellowing Caution!, but her traitorous flesh was whispering Yield.

Mark leaned his forehead against the gate and peered at the reflection of Misha’s angular eyes in the rearview mirror as she stared through the windshield, looking bored out of her mind. So, what’ve you been up to, you know, besides taking me to jail? You married?

Nope.

Boyfriend?

Misha was silent. Why did the inappropriate question sting so much? Mouthy thugs made passes at her almost every day and she shot them down like silhouette targets at a practice range, but then this rock slinger with nice teeth and intense eyes who she apparently went to school with back in the day asks her the same questions and a lump of embarrassment forms in her throat. It felt like she wasn’t wearing her bulletproof vest, exposed.

Mark wouldn’t have believed for a second that she didn’t have a man if he hadn’t seen the resentment flash in

Reviews for Tatted

[Mpho Angela Ashworth · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I have yet to be disappointed by this author, I love all her work I've read so far. Mark and Misha' s love story was such a sweet, funny and true to life romance. I loved Mark's transformation from a career criminal to a decent human being. What I wasn't so hot on was the cancer thing. I know that's life, but I go to my romance novels to escape the doom and gloom that we're faced with in life and this made my heart ache a little.