by A. J. Lape
“Love is blind,” I muttered.
The moment I readied to FaceTime my boyfriend, my phone buzzed. My face glowed with affection, and I lowered myself onto a park bench when I spied the number. “Hey, baby,” I said to Dylan.
“Hi, sweetheart. I’m missing you bad today. So how’s it going with the California girl?”
Dylan had texted a little more than normal, asking how the day was progressing. I figured the treadmill incident was the type of incident delivered best via text. So I’d given him a brief summary to which he literally typed back a “Mother Mary” and an emoji prayer sign.
“Lucky’s sick,” I told him. “He pigged out before our run, and he’s got crude oil running through his intestines. But Fuzzy’s here, and she’s trying to usher him through the worst of it.”
Dylan laughed louder than Lucky’s gas. “I’m sure he’ll feel better now that his girl is next to him.” Dylan winked, and my eyes wandered to the medical machines in the background. Pain gripped my heart in an icy vice. Girlfriends were supposed to support their boyfriends. Girlfriends were supposed to hold their boyfriend’s hand when they had a bad day. And girlfriends were definitely supposed to be onsite when their boyfriend was recovering from a stab wound…make that plural. “I miss you, D,” I whispered. “This isn’t right. Me being here. And you being…there.”
I blinked so fast it felt like someone had thrown sand in my eyes.
Dylan was instrumental in me…like not willingly walking into oncoming traffic when the walls closed in. What had I been to him?
“Shhh,” he murmured when I teared up. “I’m well ahead of the curve. I might get out of here by the end of the week or a little after. No major organs were even nicked, yeah? I’m healing well, and I even bathed myself, so there’s been progress.”
“I’m sure that was a disappointment to the nurses.”
Dylan’s dimples made an appearance. “Aw, Darc, I love it when you’re jealous.” Jealous? I hadn’t even seen him totally naked, okay? Jealous didn’t even begin to cover it. The longer I heard Dylan tell me about his day, the more I concluded I’d made a mistake. I didn’t want to stay in the program. My skills were needed elsewhere—that elsewhere being in Florida to ensure Dylan’s stabber never saw the light of day again. “I don’t want to do this anymore,” I told him. “You need me. This is only going to get harder anyway, and I feel like I’m tapped out as it is.”
Dylan rubbed his heart, like he tried to get it to jumpstart. When he opened his mouth, his words were softer, more tender than normal. “Pump the brakes, sweetheart. You might be down, but you are not out. We’ve had a rough few days. I will agree with you there, but you and I? We don’t quit. And you know why? No matter what’s going on around us, no matter what strife the evil forces of the world throw our way, the one thing we can control is our effort. When things get bad, we’ve always fought harder. God has gifted you, Darc. I swear, if you were a guy, you would be better than me.”
Dylan was my emotional linchpin. One word had the capacity to heal me or wreck me into pieces. “You’re just trying to make me feel better.” And take my mind off of you being stabbed…again, two times.
“I’m speaking the truth,” he murmured. “Ever since we were kids, whatever we tried together for the first time, we always picked it up at the same rate. I only surpassed you when I got larger…but certainly not in scope of talent.”
Seconds from ugly-crying, the doctor making rounds thankfully strode inside Dylan’s room. Dylan introduced us, and of course, I wanted to hear straight from the horse’s mouth how Dylan was progressing. “May I see the wounds?” I asked.
Dylan laughed, low and sexy. “She just wants to see my ass,” he murmured shamelessly. “It’s hard for me to control the animal magnetism between us.”
The doctor chuckled and removed Dylan’s phone from his hand. Dylan rolled his large body to his side—with a wince he tried to mask—and the doctor gently lifted the bandage. He zoomed in and went all E = MC 2 on me, giving me a run-down of how deep the wounds were, what could’ve been hit…and wasn’t…and so on.
“I actually operated on him myself,” the doctor told me. “I sometimes leave some of the wound checks to the doc-on-call,” he said, “but Dylan’s kind of a big deal in these parts. Plus, my grandson would disown me if I let something happen to his favorite player.”
The amount of damage caused by a stab wound actually increased as the knife penetrated. And if the assailant twisted it? Then you were SOL and looking at multiple weeks of recovery, maybe longer, if something of vital importance had been damaged. As knife wounds went, Dylan was as lucky as they came. The wounds didn’t look as ugly as I’d feared which was testament, the doctor claimed, to the astounding rate Dylan’s body was healing itself. Dylan didn’t do anything halfway—even in injuries. The main concern going forward was pain management and being able to get through his days without an infection surfacing.
After Dylan and I said our goodbyes, I coaxed Lucky to all fours and dialed Twenty Bucks to speed things along. I didn’t have a logical bread trail on my end, but his resources could Hansel and Gretel the whole thing for me. If York was mob like he’d suggested, then Dylan’s mere heartbeat meant there was blood in the water.
It was only a matter of time before someone else came back for another bite.
Chapter 6
A GOOD GRAB TO THE BALLS WOULD ALWAYS SHUT A MAN UP.
Thursday morning’s lecture covered traffic enforcement (yawn), and after a lunch of stale chips and a PB&J, we filed to the gym for a session on defensive tactics. Defensive tactics covered how to successfully handcuff a perp, the proper use of Mace, a taser, baton, and a nightstick. DT also covered close quarters combat training, submission holds, and wrestling. Right then, the demonstration included personal defense and how to handle those actively resisting arrest. My nerves relaxed a bit because I’d done takedown technique with Lincoln. I swallowed when Roper found my eyes, however, and stayed on them the entire time he spoke. I thought we’d covered the incident at 7-Eleven on Monday. Evidently, he’d been waiting for this day to rehash it and prove to me how wrong I’d been.
We were lined up in a horizontal line, facing Roper who told us, “We’re going to come at you hard. I want to see where you are and teach you where we want you to be.”
Roper wasn’t dressed in full uniform and hat per usual. He’d donned the same sweats and T-shirts like the rest of us, but one thing undeniable was he sported a harsher edge than normal.
Grumpy stood next to me, muttering under his breath, “Damn, Walker. I’m gonna pray for you because I have a feeling you’re going to be the test subject. I don’t know if that makes me thankful or pisses me off.”
He squeezed the fingers I had behind my waist, assuming the same pose, at attention. Grant Coker moved to the other side of me, groaning. Yup. He felt the same way. He didn’t fold his hands behind him at attention though. He crossed his arms over his chest, PO’d and didn’t care who knew it.
Roper and a small brunette female demonstrated a proper takedown. He pulled on her and placed an unloaded gun at her forehead, demanding she relinquish her purse. In one coordinated show of I’m-better-than-the-rest-of-you, she dropped her purse to the ground and ducked her head underneath his gun, seizing it with both hands while simultaneously kicking him in the crotch. All of that happened in split seconds and knocked Roper off balance long enough for her to then train the weapon on him.
Where I’d expected to be called first, Sunny Swank was ordered to square up against Chan Park. Swank was the twenty-nine-year-old, former beautician who’d driven the getaway car for her baby daddy when a teenager. One look at Park, and I could tell he thought it would be cut and dry.
At Roper’s urging, they moved in front of the group like trained seals. Their sneakers squeaked on the mat, and I couldn’t help but size them both up, speculating who would come out the victor. Park’s gray sweats were neat, almost like they’d been starched. Swank, God
love her, wore the haggard face of a mother up with a sick child. Her brown eyes were trying hard to focus, zooming in and out. My heart thudded like a ticking time bomb, but Swank held her chin high while she got in the zone and waited for Park’s command.
“Give me your purse, bitch!” he barked. Park added the B-word. Jeez. He was going for an Oscar.
Swank went from shrinking violet to total badass in one blink, mimicking every move to precision. When Park was caught off guard with a swift kick to the nuts, Swank pulled on him like a pro and then added, “Drop, you motherfucker, or I’m going to shoot you just for calling me a bitch.”
The class burst into laughter. Roper, however, prayed, “Jesus Christ. Well done, Swank,” he said, taking the gun from her hand, “but you can’t tell him you’re going to shoot him, all right?”
Swank extended her hand to Park in a no-harm-no-foul gesture. “I know that, sir. I just said it because I wanted to prove a point.”
“Which is?”
“Don’t call me a bitch…ever.”
And she proved that for all womankind. Swank was now on my zombie apocalypse team if the world, as we knew it, fell to the undead.
Roper systematically paired people up. There were times the process fell apart like a house of cards. Others, I could tell immediately why some had been picked for the academy. Athletic and decisive, they could one-two-three instructions and perform a proper takedown without nerves getting in the way. Thirty minutes in, my nerves were back like I was up against Jason from Friday the 13th, contemplating why I hadn’t been chosen. I hadn’t appeared weak the past few days. In fact, I’d been rather ho-hum about the whole thing with Anthony. So why, why, why??
I quickly jumped back to attention when Grant Coker and Kip Faulkner squared up against one another. A hush filled the room. Coker was heavily muscled, and the type that could keep his helicopter hovering with one hand while he dropped food to starving refugees with the other. Faulkner, point blank, would be like wrestling a blue whale. Both possessed a quiet confidence. In my experience, the quiet confident ones were those who could knock you on your back quicker than a stampeding bull. Who would I root for? I didn’t know. I was a super fan of both.
Coker was the victim. Faulkner played assailant and aimed his weapon right at Coker’s chest. Instead of going for a standard ducking move, Coker charged underneath the gun and side-swiped Faulkner at the knee, and before you could say, this-is-all-going-to-crap, the gun flew through the air and bounced two times before coming to a rest. Faulkner crawled on all fours to retrieve it, but putting his back to Coker was all Coker needed to get him in some sort of wrestling move, which turned into a submission hold. Faulkner tried to fight his way to freedom—his face going all “Oh Say Can You See” of the red, white, and blue. Coker obviously came with some training the rest of us had only seen on the silver screen. After Faulkner exhausted himself, he literally tapped out and the altercation ended. Coker extended his hand and pulled Faulkner and himself to a stand. Faulkner appeared as though he’d just witnessed a dog get hit by a car—and he was the dog.
“Don’t ever feel defeated if someone bests you in the academy, Faulkner,” Coker said. “We’re here to learn. Remember you’re practically half my age. I’ve seen a lot and have the battle wounds to prove it. When your training goes to shit, rely on your instincts. Take someone out however you can, but never put your back to anyone if you can help it. It most usually doesn’t end well.”
Roper scratched the back of his neck like my father did when he contemplated his reply. “Ditto to everything Coker said, Faulkner,” he finally murmured. “It doesn’t have to be pretty or textbook. Just protect yourself and get the job done.” He then said, “Bradshaw, you and Hemming are next.”
Even the blind could see the panic in Grumpy’s eyes. Although he was in an LTR with Ivy Morrison, Holland Hemming fell into his dream girl category. As predicted, it was all over before I knew it. Grumpy pulled on Holland. She made a move to disarm him with Grumpy not even remotely trying to resist the advance whatsoever. In fact, Grumpy might’ve raised his arms a bit so Holland could effortlessly do her part. Holland beamed. Grumpy beamed because Holland was beaming…and anyone who halfway loved a good love story beamed.
A few more matchups left me gazing into the cocky smirk of Ezra Huxley. Ah, for crying out loud. My heart did another round of pounding. I prayed we weren’t paired up because being with Huxley was like battling a five-alarm fire without protection. You were doomed. Right when I opened my mouth to verbally smack the smirk off his face, the side door creaked wide and Lincoln, Paddy, and Detective Shafer entered the gym. I searched their eyes. Lincoln’s countenance was unreadable and resistant to change—a coping mechanism, or perhaps he had made peace with the fact I was following in his footsteps. Paddy’s face, however, was soft—full of a worldly knowledge and an encouraging nod. And Shafer? One look at the regret in his eyes, and I knew he’d tagged along to make sure I’d ace this part of the course.
After Roper greeted them, he found my eyes. “Walker. Line up with Ezra Huxley,” he said. My pulse sped up. Yup. Bad things just kept a comin’.
“Officer Roper, if I may?” Lincoln interrupted.
Roper turned toward Lincoln’s voice. “Yes, Captain Taylor?”
“I would like Recruit Walker to line up against Detective Shafer,” Lincoln explained. “She knows how to do a proper takedown. I can vouch for that. I would, however, like to see her in a ground fighting situation.”
Shafer’s head swiveled around so fast it was a wonder he didn’t break his own neck. “Sir?” he said to Lincoln. Lincoln ignored him. So did Paddy.
Huxley analyzed Shafer’s size, his eyes going in and out, and then he compared it to mine. His eyes did an around-the-world thing two times, and then he dumbly opened his mouth. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Huxley snapped at Lincoln.
Lincoln slid an eye over so icy that the temp dropped by twenty degrees. His legendary temper fireballed. “Do not question me in front of the recruits again. In front of anyone…ever,” he roared. Lincoln then rolled his neck. An evolution I’d seen Dylan engage in right before he took someone out.
Feet shifted. And you could practically hear the swallows. Huxley straightened his shoulders and said, “I apologize, uh—”
“Captain Taylor,” Paddy completed for Huxley when he became tongue-tied. “And Captain Taylor is so sure you won’t do it again that he accepts your apology.” Paddy caught Lincoln’s sidelong glance, afraid of what his superior would do—that it wouldn’t fall into the handbook of a Captain.
Before Shafer and I squared up, I demonstrated proper takedown technique with Lincoln as the assailant. Aced it…but I knew, and he knew I would. Submission holds were another story because I hadn’t covered those with anyone but Dylan—and then I didn’t try so hard, for obvious carnal reasons.
Here was what I knew: when engaging with a perp, the whole goal was to protect those areas of your body your opponent would consider a prime attack zone. Although the main goal was to stay standing, unfortunately, more often than not the fighting was taken to the ground. If God forbid you went down, you should attack an assailant’s feet and shins while he or she was standing.
Shafer and I stared at one another, circling each other like two MMA fighters in an octagon. I heard my father’s voice in my head. Don’t run from the uncomfortable, he always said. That’s when you run through it. Before I could charge and mutter, “Let’s get this show on the road,” I crashed flat on my back, and Shafer mimicked every single move that had been done to me at 7-Eleven. His hands hadn’t circled my neck, but he had his body in such a position that movement of any kind was virtually impossible. It was total dire straits, and if I didn’t get out of it soon, it might morph into another episode of maybe-Darcy-shouldn’t-be-here. Somehow, I fished my hands up and through Shafer’s stronghold, going for a headbutt. I struck his forehead, and the whack sounded like I’d just hit a golf ball in full swing. Unfortunat
ely, the guy had a skull like a Neanderthal.
“Good,” he said, his icy-blue eyes humored. But all his humor did was tick me off.
We rolled end-over-end and side-to-side, but he was like fighting water—he kept shifting positions. Every time I tried to weasel out of his grasp, he would move. He went left, so I rolled left. He twisted right, so I twisted right. All the while, I prayed inspiration hit, but before I knew it, I found myself facedown. Tears threatened to fall, but I knew they would be a sign of weakness that would go down in infamy. With everything in me, I snapped my head back and struck him in the nose with the crown of my head. I heard an, “Ugh,” and in that moment where he tried to recover, I somehow got myself to a squat. Before I could blink, Shafer—and his bloody nose—had me flat on my back once more.
Again, I heard my father in my head, telling me a good grab to the balls would always shut a man up. Shafer and I locked eyes. I whispered, “I apologize to your fiancée.” Then I latched ahold of his crotch, and squeezed like I extracted juice from a lemon.
Shafer’s high-pitched yelp nearly cracked the windows. He relinquished his hold on me and curled into a ball. “Yes!” I heard Paddy yell. “Jaysus, doll. I’ve been subliminally willing you to grab his nuts since he took you to the mat.”
I rolled to my back. I’d chosen a profession where men talked openly about balls, wanting you to grab someone else’s balls. Some days it was a little much. Trying to get up on all fours, even that proved difficult. The exhaustion was so severe it felt like I’d drank a bottle of booze, run a marathon, and been chased by wild animals in 100 degree So-Cal weather.
Through bleary eyes, I caught the look of satisfaction on Lincoln’s face. He longed to comment but refrained. Coker and Grumpy suddenly stood overtop me. Both beamed like fools and extended their palms. I arched a weary eyebrow because there was no way in the world I would be able to grasp their hands, let alone stand. “Ballsy move,” Coker muttered, grasping ahold of my hand. “Like literally.”
