by Forgy, M. N.
“So, why are you riding around with me today? Shouldn’t Joey be training me?” Joey is the field training officer in our department. He’s actually really laidback and easy to talk to.
Lieutenant Oaks’s fingers drum against his knees, and his chest rises with thought. His thin, black hair is slicked back, pieces of gray splicing through the front. Even for being in his fifties, he’s still in shape.
“First off, Deputy Adams, he’s to be called by his title. It’s Officer Hills, not Joey.”
My brows furrow with frustration, but I nod anyway. “Yes, sir.”
I knew better than to be so flippant in front of him. Around here, a deputy wears their rank with pride, since it’s all we got. Hell, ever since I was able to speak correctly, I was ordered to call him by his ranking. It was awkward as a child when I had to introduce him to my friends, but other than that I never really paid it much thought. He’s been my stepdad since I was five and taught me to live by the blue rules. I don’t remember much of my mother before she met my stepdad, but after they got married, I was introduced to a whole new family: the Clark County Sheriff’s department. To be one of them, and wear a badge… it’s all I’ve ever wanted. Hell, I even lost my virginity in the back of a squad car.
He rubs his thumb and index finger along his chin, the pads of his fingers rubbing against his five o'clock shadow.
“To answer your question, I ride with all the deputies when they are almost done with field training, I want to make sure they’re ready, since I’m responsible for you all.”
“Right, of course.” I nod, regretting my question.
His meaty fingers pat my arm tenderly.
“But that is just the lieutenant in me talking. The father in me, well, I’m nervous that you’re going to be on your own.”
I smile, the feeling of fatherly love almost too much. I know he cares, but all I care about is getting out there and showing my worth.
“Even after all these years, people still surprise me.” He shakes his head, his eyes wide as he stares out the front of the windshield. I follow his gaze and find a woman wearing flippers on her feet, like the kind you swim with, and a pink top that is three sizes too big hanging off one shoulder, exposing one of her breasts and her stomach. Her pants look like she tried to cut them into shorts, but they’re cut off right above the knee, making them a bit long. Her blonde hair appears to be dirty and tangled, and her legs are scratched up and bruised. She looks rough.
Lieutenant Oaks hits the lights, and the lady jumps where she stands. She slowly turns, her boney hand shielding her eyes as our lights beam on her without mercy.
Quickly, I unbuckle my seatbelt and step out, the mechanism sounding as I lock the car behind us. It’s one of the most important rules—always lock your car when you leave it. A couple years back, a deputy forgot this rule and had his car stolen. Not something you want in your file.
“What seems to be the problem?” Lieutenant Oaks hollers, one hand on his holster.
“Wha? I just- I mean. I ain’t doing nothing wrong.” She waves her hands around erratically, making me nervous. She appears to be strung out on something, and those types of people can be the most dangerous. They’re unpredictable, and often don’t know of their actions until they’ve come down from their high.
“Ma’am, can you please put your arms down at your sides and explain to us why you’re on the side of the road waving down cars?” I question, my voice holding a tone of authority to it. That took months of practicing.
Her dull eyes snap to me, and she sneers.
“Who da fuck do you think you’re talking to, bitch?” She props her hand on her hip, and her other tit pops out of her top. Stepping up to her, a rancid smell swims past, making me hold my breath.
“You got some ID on you?” I ask, ignoring her insult. It comes with the job, and I’ve been called far worse than ‘bitch.’ Most of the degrading insults have something to do with a pig in some way.
“I don’t gotta tell you shit!” She turns to walk away, and I grab her wrist to stop her.
“Let go of me!” She tries to pull from my grasp, and I have to hold on tighter. She turns, her stance defensive. “I know my rights, you can’t arrest me!” she screams, the sour smell coming from her making me want to gag.
“I am not arresting you, I am detaining you until we get this figured out.” I push her toward the car and kick her feet apart to search her.
“I don’t have any drugs,” she informs.
“I didn’t say anything about drugs.” She goes still for the first time since we stepped out of the car. Half the time, you don’t even have to ask the suspects questions; they tell on themselves. “Do you have anything on you I should know about?”
“No!” she responds quickly. Reaching into my pant pocket, I pull out some latex gloves, protecting myself. She is clearly a drug user, and I don’t want to chance coming across a needle or open wound while searching her.
I pat her top and caress along her sides, but feel nothing. “Oh, baby, why don’t you go a little lower, take this to the next level.” She laughs.
I step back and look down at her… flippers, and see something glint against the street lights. Dipping down to get a better look, I find a small baggy and pull it from the flipper. It’s meth. We were taught about drugs in the academy, and meth is hard to miss.
I toss it onto the hood right in front of her, and her back rises with a sharp breath.
“That’s not mine.” They always say that. You’d be surprised how many people say the drugs we find on them, or evidence of a crime, is not theirs. At some point, it just gets ridiculous.
“It was in your flipper,” I state.
“These aren’t my flippers.” She begins to laugh, and Lieutenant Oaks starts to chuckle.
I read the woman her Miranda rights then put her in the back of the cruiser. The whole time, she is cursing me and my existence.
“5Paul69, status check,” the radio asks, checking in to make sure we’ve handled the situation and don’t need assistance.
“5Paul69, clear,” I inform, clarifying that I have everything under control. If I don’t, they send backup very quickly. There will be cops, sheriffs, security—you name it, they show up in a flash. It’s nice to know we all work together and have each other’s backs.
“Copy that.”
“Let me out of here, you bitch!” the woman from the back yells, her flippers stomping into the floorboard. I exhale a large breath and buckle my seat belt. Finding random people who are high and disturbing the peace happens several times a night. Between the city police and us, we still can’t keep up.
“Do you know how you could have handled that better?”
I turn my head toward Lieutenant Oaks and scowl. I’m not sure if he’s just an ass, or knows I’m capable of better.
“You bitch. You’re a bitch, of a bitch, who was a bitch!” the woman screams from the back, not making any sense, jumping her boney body around.
I raise my eyebrows. “I shouldn’t have been a bitch, born from a bitch?”
He scowls, not seeing my humor. I turn my head quickly to hide my smile and put the car in drive.
“5Paul69?”
Coming into the city was a bad idea; they always send us to calls within the city limits. Sheriffs deal with the county, and police handle the city. We can take calls within the city, we can work both if we want, but the police are strictly city.
“5Paul69, copy.”
“Witness called, said a group of bikers were becoming physical at The Gold Bana Casino. We believe it’s the Sin City Outlaws, be advised.” My spine runs cold hearing the name of the most infamous outlaw motorcycle club in the area. They are one-percenters, meaning they don’t obey the law.
They think they are the law.
There was an entire course on them alone when I was in the academy. They kill our kind without remorse and pave the road of anarchy. Each member of the club has a record that needs its own filing cabinet.
Rape, murder, theft, possession. I knew I would come face-to-face with them one day when I took this job, I just didn’t realize how soon.
“5Paul69, en route.”
“Damn it,” Lieutenant Oaks hisses.
“What?”
He turns his head, his face tight. “They’re bad news is all.”
I turn the wheel heading down the main strip. The Gold Bana is a newer casino that just had a grand opening two weeks ago. Knowing the Sin City Outlaws, they’re probably letting them know who runs this city, and what casino runs the strip. The Outlaws are a tight knit community, with family members holding top positions. Zevin Deluca is the president of the motorcycle club, but his uncle, Frank Deluca, runs the casino at the end of the strip. You can’t miss it; it’s bigger than any of the other casinos or hotels. The building is made of a mirror-like material and it has red lights that beam off the glass, illuminating the menacing color of sex and sin from its structure.
I look back at the female we picked up, noticing she has been quiet, and find her passed out snoring, drool dripping off her chin.
“Classy,” I mutter, turning back in my seat.
“I don’t need to warn you about the Sin City Outlaws, do I?”
I huff. “No, I learned everything I need to know about them. They are what they say they are—outlaws.”
“Exactly, but just stay clear of them, Jillian. Let the city police deal with them. I know the president of the club, and he’s dangerous.” He flicks his gaze to me, and little wrinkles form between his brows.
“Understood,” I reply, but really I don’t understand. What am I supposed to do when I get a call similar to this and I’m by myself, ignore it? I have been on plenty of shifts the last few weeks, and every time someone called in an incident of the Sin City Outlaws, it went overlooked. Seems everyone around here fears the Outlaws, and it pisses me off. We are the law, we reign over Vegas, yet my fellow officers yield the path of mayhem the Outlaws have paved. It makes me wonder what the hell they’ve done to earn such fear and respect.
We pull up beside the curb, and motorcycles of all shapes, sizes, and colors are lined up on the sidewalk. Illegal.
We quickly get out of the car, following protocol and removing the keys from the ignition before locking the doors. I don’t make it very far before I hear shouting. I’m nearly knocked over by random pedestrians running from the casino, panic etched on their faces. I place my hand on my weapon, ready to draw. We were trained to respond calmly, yet accordingly. But I’d be lying if I said my heart wasn’t beating with a touch of panic.
“Las Vegas Sheriff’s Department!” Lieutenant Oaks announces. The crowd quiets and people start moving, the oval ring of pedestrians splitting down the middle. A biker from the gang with curly red hair steps out, his skin tan and covered with tattoos climbing up both his arms and collarbone. He has on a leather cut, the sleeveless leather vest the Sin City Outlaws wear proudly, announcing their position in the motorcycle club. This member is Machete, the road captain. He leads them on runs and trips. I know because I studied all of their mugshots, committing all of their faces to memory. His lips are in a tight smile, his head lowered as he glares at Lieutenant Oaks and me.
Following closely behind him is Zeek, the president, ranking him the highest and most dangerous of the club. He sees my stepfather first and stops in his tracks, the bottom of his boots scuffing against the concrete. His chest rises as he inhales, his hand swiping through his dark hair that has shifted out of place.
“Lieutenant Oaks,” Zeek growls, and my heart freezes. His words are spoken with such an edge it rips through my bulletproof vest. “How’d I know the fine law enforcement of Las Vegas would show its fucking face tonight? Putting their pig noses where they clearly don’t belong.” He raises his finger. “Tsk tsk tsk,” he mutters as his finger swipes back and forth.
He’s bigger than his mugshot lets on; his arms are muscled, causing his white shirt, splattered with blood, to strain. His shoulders are broad, portraying just how easily it would be to manhandle anyone who crosses him. His knuckles are split open, clear evidence that he was in an altercation recently. He looks like an animal.
Zeek’s intense stare slowly pulls from Lieutenant Oaks to me. His eyes are dark and furious, and my toes curl in my boots with the way they suddenly light up when they land on me. Brown eyes that hold mine, ominous irises that capture the words I was about to speak. He is obviously dangerous, making anyone shrink in fear. But looking at him closely, looking past the scar on his chin and the rap sheet in his record that could scare Jack the Ripper, he’s quite attractive. I swallow, trying to regain my composure as he stares right through me.
“Lieutenant Oaks, you didn’t inform me that we had a little girl present.” Little girl? I look around the crowd, searching for a child. He chuckles, and it hits me… he’s talking about me. My moment of lust vanishes into irritation. Who does he think he’s talking to?
“She’s new, Zeek, so why don’t you make this easy on the both of us tonight?”
Zeek’s lips curl into a menacing grin, his white teeth shining with the casino lights.
“Where’s the fun in that?” He tilts his head to the side and winks at me. My stomach clenches in reaction and my lungs burn as I hold my breath, praying he will look away before I pass out.
“Got a call that you all were brawling, so why don’t you just tell me who the altercation was with?”
Zeek’s eyes tear from mine to Lieutenant Oaks, and I finally breathe. The man is intense on so many levels.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Zeek replies, his tone cavalier as he flexes his hand, his knuckles bleeding. I furrow my brows with irritation from his response; he clearly knows what we’re talking about, and to suggest otherwise is an insult.
“There’s blood on your shirt, sir,” I inform curtly. I immediately regret my words because he looks back at me, his strong gaze making my heart palpate.
“You got a witness… Rookie?” My eyes widen, and my lips part. The disrespect he has is unreal and is making me beyond furious. It’s clear I have a temper, something my instructor told me I’d have to work on if I plan on making it into any department. I’ve done good to keep it handled… till now.
My anger propels me forward before my brain can register what the hell I’m even doing. I start pulling my cuffs out. I have enough to take him into custody, even if it’s just for the night.
“Jillian, no!” Lieutenant Oaks steps forward, trying to stop me, but I side-step him, causing his reach to miss me by a few inches.
As I move closer, fear runs up my legs, my stomach trembling. Standing a few feet away from him, I clearly underestimated his size. Now that I am closer, Zeek towers over my five feet, three inches. Everything I have ever been told about him flashes in my mind, making my confidence succumb to my fears. My breathing shallows, and my hands begin to sweat.
Rolling my shoulders, trying to get a hold of myself, I close the gap between us, gripping the cold metal of the cuffs.
His crew becomes tense as I approach their president, and panic flares in my chest like a wildfire.
Zeek holds a hand up, and I stop.
Why did I stop?
He glances over his shoulder and shakes his head. His crew relaxes, stepping back. That’s when I realize he isn’t holding his hand up to me—he’s calling off his boys. Zeek’s men were going to hurt me if I so much as laid a finger on their president. I blink rapidly as I suddenly become aware that this club does not care that I am law enforcement. They’d kill me in front of everyone, and because of who they are, nobody would tell a soul of what they saw.
“You going to arrest me, Rookie?” Zeek rasps, his voice holding an Italian accent to it, the woodsy smell of him making me uncomfortable. I clear my throat, lift my chin, and square my shoulders, trying to muster that bravado deep inside me. He squints, his lashes thick and beautiful, and my resolve instantly starts to fade. The way he looks at me, it makes me lose
sight of who I am, and who he is.
“You’re… um,” I stumble.
“Oh, now you’re going to go soft on me?” He lowers his head and I stiffen, my fingers strangling the hand cuffs. “‘Cause I sure as hell am not soft right now, Rookie.” My eyes widen in shock at his lewd remark, my body surprisingly reacting with a burst of warmth between my thighs.
“There’s no witnesses, Deputy Adams,” Lieutenant Oaks states from behind me. I clear my throat, trying to get a hold of my chaotic emotions, and pull away from Zeek. My cheeks flush, showcasing my embarrassment.
“I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t have—” I lose track of where the hell I was going with that sentence when I look up and see his eyes, his left holding more of a gray iris than brown. They are cold and dark, but they hold a beauty to them. I feel a lot of people don’t really see the man before me. Fear scaring them into looking the other way before they can really see what hides behind those brooding eyes.
Lieutenant Oaks steps up behind me and whispers in my ear, “Drop it. The situation is stable so we need to be on our way. Let the city cops deal with him.”
I shake him off and snap my gaze back to Zeek, who is smiling arrogantly. He knows he’s untouchable, committing crimes with impunity.
“You might want to listen to him, Rookie. You’re in over your head, little girl.” I grit my teeth at his insult and step up to him. Our chests only inches apart, the smell of leather and cologne fills my lungs. For some reason, he’s getting under my skin—every insult, every smirk, making me want to pull my Taser out and hit him where it hurts.
“You may have this whole town fooled, Zevin Deluca, but not me. I will do whatever it takes and go out of my way to bring you down,” I threaten. He smiles and my jaw tenses, my hand brushing against my Taser.
“I’d like to see that, truly.” A growl erupts from my throat at his words. “I’m the law in this town, bitch.”
