It Must be Love

Some people believe you draw positive or negative events toward you, that you attract the people you deserve.”

One was thrill, and Joe could certainly understand the pull of living on the edge. Adrenaline was a powerful drug. God knows he’d loved it. He’d loved the way it crawled across his skin and tingled his flesh and raised the hair on his head.
The second was more common—love. Love tended to get a lot of women in trouble. Joe had met more than his share of women who’d do anything for some worthless son of a bitch who wouldn’t hesitate to turn her in to save himself. Joe was no longer surprised by what some women would do for love. He was no longer surprised to find women sitting in jail doing time for their men, tears flowing, mascara running, saying shit like, “I can’t tell you anything bad about so-and-so, I love him

Two men in bright blue running suits jogged up the greenbelt toward him. The second they passed Ms. Breedlove, they craned their necks around and eyed the sway of her white shorts. When they turned back, they wore identical smiles of appreciation. Joe didn’t blame them for straining their eyes for one last look at her. She had great legs and a great ass. Too bad she was destined for a prison uniform.

The greenbelt followed the Boise River and wove a path through the capital city, connecting eight major parks along its way. The strong scent of river water and cottonwood trees filled the morning air, while bits of fuzzy cotton blew on the breeze and stuck to the front of Joe’s sweatshirt

Joe exhaled slowly and watched the smoke hang in front of his face. Last time he’d quit smoking for three months, and he’d quit again. But not today. Probably not tomorrow either. He’d just been given a good ream by Captain Luchetti, and if he was going to get fucked over, he damn sure wanted a cigarette afterward.

One
DETECTIVE JOSEPH SHANAHAN HATED rain. He hated it about as much as he hated dirt-bag criminals, slick defense lawyers, and stupid geese. The first were scum, the second bottom feeders, the third an embarrassment to the bird family in general.
He set his foot on the front bumper of a beige Chevy, leaned forward, and stretched his muscles. He didn’t need to see the metal-colored clouds forming over Ann Morrison Park to know he was in for a good shower. The dull ache in his right thigh let him know this just wasn’t going to be his day.
Once he felt the muscles

bucks so I could get that makeover in