School of Fish (Fish Out of Water #6) - Amy Lane Page 0,41

Ellery met was classified as a friend. Ellery wasn’t great at small talk with colleagues.

“Medical leave,” he said, waiting to see if she knew about him and Ellery or not.

“That’s funny,” she said, frowning. “Ellery said his partner had been out on medical lea… oh!”

She blinked at him, the expression dispelling some of the arctic coolness she projected by mere virtue of her cheekbones.

He batted his lashes prettily. “Not what you expected?”

She raked him up and down with her sharp black eyes. “Let’s just say I’m personally disappointed.”

It was Jackson’s turn to blink. Wow, how had he missed the signs? “Well, that’s flattering, and a year ago I might not have been such a disappointment.”

Her full lips curved into a smile. “What happened a year ago?”

Jackson’s eyes flickered to Ellery, the way the sharp brows snapped down in the middle because he was displeased, the strong, bony jaw, the lean mouth that could be mobile and full with kisses and humor.

“Oh,” Herrera said again. “I guess there is someone for everyone.”

Jackson ignored her, watching the guard’s posture, his hands clenched at his sides, the ugly expression of distaste on his face.

“Excuse me,” he murmured, stepping through the door and into the guard’s personal space.

The guard’s clumsy swipe at his head wasn’t exactly a surprise. Jackson dodged back neatly and was dismayed when the guard’s loose fist whooshed past Jackson and into Ellery’s jaw.

Ellery wobbled on his feet, and Jackson caught the guard’s hand as he yanked it back, and twisted the man’s arm behind him, forcing him to lie facedown on the floor.

“Herrera!” he barked, relieved when he heard her coming from the conference room.

“I saw that,” she said, lunging for the phone on the wall. “Herrera, Conference Room Two. We have an incident. Repeat, an incident. We need a supervisor here stat!”

Jackson was pressing most of his weight on his elbows into the guard’s back as he struggled, but he managed to check Ellery out from his position on the floor.

“Counselor, how you doing?”

“Ou. Ch,” Ellery managed, rubbing his jaw. “How do you do that for fun?”

Jackson let out a weak laugh. “Mostly I duck. Sorry about that. He wasn’t really focused—I didn’t expect it to get to you.” Jackson put some more weight on the small of the guy’s back. “Why did you do that?” he asked, right as a group of really angry men with guns, Tasers, and billy clubs came charging down the hallway.

Siren Herrera stood in front of them, hand out, in what was a balls-out act of bravery.

“Your man swung on a civilian,” she said. “We can resolve this in-house, or we can press charges, but we’re not doing a thing until you get him in hand so Mr. Rivers here can stop restraining him.”

The group of five men slowed to a halt, and the leader eyeballed Jackson as he struggled to keep his perch on top of the much bigger guard.

“The actual fuck, Mayer!”

J. Mayer—or that’s what it said on his nametag—turned his head and rested it on the floor. “He got in my space,” he muttered.

“He was threatening Mr. Cramer,” Jackson retorted. “His body language, his raised voice—I was trying to de-escalate the situation, and he swung.”

“True story,” Herrera said, backing him up. Jackson sent her a grateful look, and she gave him a hard nod. “We saw their argument from the conference room, but—” She turned to Ellery. “—I’m afraid we don’t know what it was about.”

Ellery was still rubbing his jaw, and Jackson saw a mild swelling already erupting.

“Could somebody get this asshole so I can get him some ice?” Jackson demanded, and immediately two of the other guards were at his side. Jackson slid off and waited for them to cuff Mayer before moving away completely.

“I’ll go get an ice pack,” said a younger guard, smaller, with dark hair, dark eyes, and skin of the palest clay color.

“Thanks,” Jackson said, as M. Garcia took off for the infirmary.

“Great, now that that’s taken care of,” the lead guard said, “what exactly happened here?” He was an older man, retirement age, with thinning brown hair, a mustache, ruddy skin, and piercing blue eyes. His nametag proclaimed him to be J. Codromac, and he looked both Jackson and Mayer over with a canny gaze.

“Officer Mayer and I were talking about our client,” Ellery said, wincing as he spoke. “Mr. Dobrevk was in Mayer’s custody when he received a beating that bruised his face and ended up with Mr. Dobrevk having to spend