Being a cop, I’m always first up—my body’s attuned to a different rhythm. Truth is, I like silence—it gives me time to think.
The sun’s red at the horizon and the sky’s peach and purple—kinda somber and kinda quiet—sorta like me.
I light a fire against the March chill and lean back in the sofa—the quietness of the creaking house, the smell of coffee and the scent of burning wood lulls me—slows me down enough to take stock of who I am and where I’ve been.
It hasn’t been easy and hasn’t been pretty—it’s not always been like this. Jill and I struggled through the first five years and now it’s paying off.
I hate you and I hate this. What kind of a life is this for us, when you gotta bury your best friend?
She pounds at my chest with her fists. I let her. The tears I cried earlier still haven’t dried—new trails are starting. I let grief pound me too.
That was four years ago when we buried Danny—he took a slug pushing me out of harm’s way.
Now, I’ve got a new partner—Carol Baker, but the pain’s back again in a different way—last night, she told me she loved me.
We were working a sting operation and it was tricky—frankly, I was worried about her—she hasn’t been at this as long as me, and she’s a woman. Turns out, I had nothing to worry about.
The Latino informant turned on us and was about to pull the trigger. She fired right through the satchel she was carrying.
“I never trusted the bastard,” was all she said. I was still trembling when we booked off for the night.
As we’re leaving the precinct—she pushes me into a photocopy room and kisses me so hard, I almost faint. “I’m in love with you, Michael,” she says.
“No, you’re not,” I tell her. “We almost bought it tonight—it messes with your head—but thanks to you, I get to go home and sleep in my own bed.”
“Or, in my mine.”
She turns her huge, black eyes on me and whenever she does that, I feel like the plug’s pulled on my reason.
“Naw, Carol—go home, get some sleep. Get some of your own pain—you don’t need mine.”
The bravado’s all I can muster—I don’t think she buys it, but she leaves. Another two minutes, I might have changed my mind.
When she crushed me in that embrace, I felt the firmness of her body—no baby bump like Jilly Bean—no stretch marks from two previous childbirths either.
She’s only twenty-seven—I’m eight years older, but more settled. Jilly’s settled too— but hell, I’m no prize either.
I don’t know what Carol sees in me—I know what I see in her. I’m playing out this fantasy and it’s a lot more pleasant with her than the other slobs.
The sun’s up now and I hear Emma upstairs talking to her dolly. I push the garbage to the curb, along with the job stuff, and then head upstairs to see if she wants pancakes.
The Sarge wants Carol to go undercover as a streetwalker tonight—thinks he can get this John who’s beating up local prostitutes.
The catcalls and hooting start, with Wilson leading the way. He’s a porcine version of a Tennessee Williams nightmare.
“Yeah, don’t know if you can pull it off, Baker—you can’t wear cop boots.”
She bats her eyes seductively. “Ah jes don know if I can, Sugar.”
The men roar—I feel the color creeping up my neck—I feel like slamming my fist into Wilson’s leering face.
“Browning,” the Sarge addresses me, “You watch Baker’s back.”
The men roar again. Carol spins to show me her backside. I’ve seen her in uniform, but not in civvies—certainly not the way she’s gonna look tonight.
Am I up for this? I don’t think so.
Just past seven, and Carol comes waltzing into the precinct room, looking like Donna Mills from the old Knots Landing TV series. Her eyes are heavily made-up and she’s wearing a short, sequined dress that doesn’t leave much to the imagination.
“How do you like me so far?” she whispers seductively in my ear.
I smile and shrug. “Don’t know much about street girls, but I’d say you look the part.”
“Maybe afterwards, I’ll just go home to bed this way.” She says it in a pouty, little girl hurt voice, but the meaning is clear.
“I hope you’ve got understanding neighbors.”
She smiles as if to say, like I care.
By ten o’clock, the streets are clogged with slow-moving cars and creepers in the curb lane. I’m dressed like a hundred other guys, roughing it on the streets.
Carol’s strutting her stuff, getting into her role—she’s drawing a lot of interest. We’ve got a line on the perp—a sketch of what he looks like and the typical lines he uses—he won’t be hard to spot, if he shows up.
Every now and then, Carol looks my way and sashays like a runway model—then, embellishes her movements with a sensual ease that amazes even me.
I’m wondering if this seductive game is instinctive to women or learned, when suddenly a brown sedan pulls up. Wilson gives me code sign this is our boy.
I watch the guy—a two hundred pound mean-looking Asian—he leans over and shouts to Carol. She ignores him.
I chuckle inside. She’s making it up as she goes.
The guy’s not impressed—he leans on his horn and jerks his arm toward her. She doesn’t move. I watch him pound his steering wheel and drive off.
Wilson looks at me like, what the hell just happened?
I shrug and saunter toward Carol. She’s creating a buzz, but her improvising just cost us a chance at the perp.
I’m about to say something to her, when Wilson flashes code again—the guy’s back. I casually saunter away.
I watch Carol now as she approaches the car—then, does something totally unexpected—she gets in.
Before any of us can move, the guy guns the gas and speeds away.
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what an amazing end great story
Before any of us can move, the guy guns the gas and speeds away.
thanks,@hassanabid
Upvoted and RESTEEMED :)
Are you threatening me!?
thank you, kate
they story is nice. the end awesome. thanks for sharing. how long do you need to write such awesome thing?