The Vigilant: A Reverse Harem Dark Cop Romance

by Anna Belle

  If I did that, I’d never be able to let her sleep. Not with her naked curves beckoning me for Round 2.

  Though it was too late to not be an idiot. The mistake was made. Her, me – our bodies getting to know each other.

  Shit. I hadn’t had a choice – her very rain scent had gotten me hard.

  Shit though. After the night we’d had, her forgetting me had gotten a whole lot more unlikely.

  Chapter 7: Myla

  God bless double-decker buses.

  I kept my eyes closed. Otherwise, it’d break the spell, the comfyness that actually made me feel like I was spread out on some comfy couch instead of a bus….

  My legs spread out – too far - my eyes snapped open. Hang the hell on -

  I scrambled upright. My gaze skittered around the room, unsure of where to stop. The black leather couch I’d been sleeping on and the imprint of where I’d been sleeping was definitely not a bus seat. Neither was the flat screen TV built into the wall the measly little screens they gave you if you somehow managed first class.

  As for the front door, with the silver knob and the black-paneled frame… that was no accordion bus-door. That was the door I could remember going through last night.

  Last night, when….

  Oh shit.

  My hand went to my lips, now a shocked ‘O’. Last night was no dream. Or nightmare. Last night…

  Had happened.

  And Angel…

  I grabbed my clothes before that thought could unspool any further. As I stumbled into my boring bleh-colored undies and faded jeans, my gaze was already on the door.

  Angel wasn’t here anyway, which I was pretty sure translated from guy speak to ‘thanks, bye’.

  Anyway, I had to get going. The Ottawa-Vancouver bus only left at 9 am and 9 pm, and, considering it was- great 8:58 am- I’d better go to the bus station and buy a bunch of Mars bars to drown my sorrows. No way was I putting off leaving even a second longer. I’d been putting it off for a week before last night.

  I needed to get on that bus.

  But first… I went to the bathroom, and splashed cool water on my cheeks. The sleepy eyes that met mine in the mirror were cold accusers: What were you thinking?

  Something wavered in my chest. That was just it: I hadn’t.

  It had been pure bodily impulse…

  How his agile hands had just pulled me to him, just how I needed them to…

  How his skillful lips had claimed mine so naturally, as if we’d both been born for that single perfection of a moment…

  I twisted on the tap and got some more cold water in my palms to splash on the back of my neck.

  I wrenched around and away. No point in obsessing over it now, trying to make sense of it. Trying to figure out whether it was because I was stressed and sad from missing the bunch and the whole Taylor madness, or because I was horny after that weirdly suggestive encounter with Angel and the other two men. No.

  I could do some self-diagnosing/analyzing/ obsessing on the bumpy bus ride – as soon as I got on it.

  Maybe on the road I could message Ivy too. Sure, the last few weeks with her had been no-contact, and the weeks before had been shitty contact, but still. Maybe there was a chance. Maybe we could make a fresh start together some day somewhere.

  At the front door, I took one last token look around. Just leaving felt a bit callous, after last night. But it wasn’t like Angel had curled up on the couch with me to cuddle or anything like that.

  No, he’d been the one who’d left me – to go to the bed.

  But then – my bag, oh yeah.

  My scraggly knapsack was flung by the counter. As I went to pick it up, my shoulder disturbed something. I caught the bag of Doritos just in time.

  I stared at it. Beside it on the countertop, carefully laid out was a plate and cutlery. Had Angel intended this for…

  I shook my head firmly, physically dislodging the thought.

  No. It didn’t matter.

  Although I was starving, and Doritos were Doritos.

  There weren’t many chips left, so I emptied the rest of the bag onto the plate.

  Before I dug in, I arranged them all nicely, into a grinning face.

  Back in the bad old days with Taylor, little pointless amusements was what had gotten me through –taping my fork and knife onto my plate to the tune of ‘We Will Rock You’, arranging my carrots into a pudgy butterfly.

  Who knows why I was doing it here now…

  Screw that, I knew. I was wasting time, half wanting him to come out. To see him again.

  Screw that. Screw Doritos. Screw Angel.

  I had to go.

  Leaving the plate, I slung my bag on my shoulder. And then I left.

  Only once I was out of his apartment building and on the street outside did I get out my phone and check Google Maps. Turns out, Angel’s place was right downtown, although not super close to the bus station. So, it was walkable, only a half hour or so to get there. No point in me spending money unless I absolutely had to.

  My wrists creaked as I made my way along the street. As if sensing that they were going to take one for the team the next week or so, or however long it took me to get a new wrist brace. If only I’d had time to pack that one before…

  That and about two suitcases’ worth of my personal belongings.

  At least I wouldn’t be tapping away on keys to make it worse. No, I was done with my crap secretary office job. Done with Toronto. Or, more correctly, it was done with me. The way things had gone with Taylor had left me no choice.

  And yet, had there really been no choice?

  As my mind began to play its favorite game, Question the Major Life Decision, I stopped it in its tracks. If I started thinking about that, about Taylor and what had happened, I wouldn’t go to the bus station at all. No, I’d go to 517 Clair Creek, knock on the door I’d had my first kiss in front of.

  I’d ruin everything.

  No, there was no going back now.

  There was only going forward – walking to the bus station and then leaving.

  Chapter 8: Myla

  I kept my phone off. I already had five missed calls from Taylor, and didn’t need to add any more to the count. Each and every call rattled me, like the phone was somehow wedged inside my chest.

  I walked down Connor Street in a determined haze. Until finally, there I was – at the bus station waiting in the long-ass line, then, at the first teller I saw, asking an unimpressed teller with a slumped dark ponytail for Juan.

  As my cousin approached, his smile was off. “Did you hear?”

  “No, what?” I asked.

  This was odd. Juan didn’t know much about my life. We’d never been close, mainly because we’d met only a handful of times when we were kids and our parents still bothered trying to have family time with all of us together. Since then, our relationship had consisted of the odd Facebook like as well as friendly waves the few times we ran into each other.

  “Ivy’s back,” he said.

  I blinked at him. It had to be a mistake. He hardly knew Ivy.

  But Juan was nodding vigorously, jamming his thumb to the lineup I had been standing in only minutes before. “I saw her pass by here a couple hours ago.”

  “But was she….” I began.

  “Arriving,” he said, “I think. She and some guy. They left that way.” Another thumb jab to the doors on his left.

  His gaze went to the lineup behind me, where a Hawaiian muumuu-wearing woman with a buffalo-sized pile of luggage was glaring at us pointedly.

  “Listen Myla,” he said quietly yet firmly, “if you want that deal, we have to do it now. There’s a lot of people waiting.”

  “Of course,” I said, blinking.

  Ivy was back. More than back, she was here….

  Behind the counter on his Windows 1990-something computer, Juan was tapping away industriously, presumably getting my tickets.

  “Wait,” I said abruptly.

  His dark eyes flickered
to me wearily. “Myla….”

  “I can’t take that ticket,” I said, “Not today.”

  He scrutinized me. “You sure?”

  I was already starting to walk away. “I’m sure.”

  As I flopped into an empty waiting area seat, I clicked her number.

  At the first ring, I nearly dropped the phone. Her phone was in service again.

  “Hello?” she said in a sullen voice.

  I exhaled.

  My little sister was back. She was really back.

  “You’re back in town?” I said.

  A pause, then, “Yeah.”

  My fingertips were drumming anxiously on the top of my knapsack. I stopped them. “Well, we should meet up then.” I tried to keep the anxious quaver out of my voice.

  Another unpromising pause. “How did you find out? I just got here.”

  “Juan saw you.”

  An unsurprised exhale. “Good old Toronto.”

  “It’s good to have you back,” I said. “Do you know where you’re staying, and….”

  “Don’t.”

  I shut up.

  There it was - Ivy hadn’t forgiven me. Probably never would.

  “Just please, don’t,” Ivy was saying, more tired now.

  My fingers had set themselves on the task of smoothing out the wrinkles in my grey sweatpants.

  “Jared’s got some friends at this pizza place,” Ivy said, “We can meet at the bar next door.”

  I scrawled down the address she gave me, then said, “So, see you there at nine?”

  “Ten,” Ivy said, and hung up.

  A glance back at the ticket counter found Juan eyeing me curiously.

  I gave him a thin smile, got up.

  I could always get a bus ticket for tomorrow, find some cheap Airbnb or hostel to crash in nearby for tonight. Now that Ivy was back, I couldn’t just go to BC right away.

  I had to make sure that she was okay first. I had to be there for her this time.

  Chapter 9: Angel

  Why am I here again?

  I glared at the crowded bar I should’ve been smiling at. It was only 10 pm and my bar was every-stool-and-booth-occupied packed. Mainly with noisy college kids, but who cared when they paid how they did?

  As long as they didn’t get into those dumbass glass-breaking, fist-smashing fights, I was good.

  Anyway, I knew why I was here. To avoid Kohl.

  The man had an ebony gaze like a chainsaw, cutting through all the crap to the core bone of the matter, no matter what it was. I didn’t want Kohl asking his questions and seeing the truth in my tattletale eyes. That I’d screwed up with Myla. Screwed up bad -literally, figuratively, completely.

  And yet, it was one screw up I couldn’t make myself regret. Even now, my cock ached with the memory of it. How good it felt to be inside her, to be the one sending those galling moans coming out of her.

  Not to mention her face: the kind of deep blue eyes color contacts were made to emulate. The kind of real, insanely full lips they had in brochures for lip enhancement.

  And then, that number-416-613-2686. Her number.

  The one I couldn’t, under any circumstances, call again.

  I grabbed the nearest beer bottle and took a deep swig. Enough of that. Not only was Myla gone, and her number pointless, but I actually had something way more important to think about.

  The latest case the Chief had us on.

  It was a case that shouldn’t have seen the light of day, and yet, here we were. Trying to figure out the hit-and-run of the Chief’s daughter that the local police force couldn’t make any headway on.

  Her daughter, Guinevere was as wild as her name didn’t suggest. Instead of the wispy elf-woman the name suggested, the reality of Guinevere was: mismatched red-orange-green scraggles of hair, an array of tattoos so botched they were funny (‘never don’t give up’, and ‘it’s is my life – Bon Jovi’ only a couple of regretful examples), and a really bad potty mouth.

  Bad enough to earn her a whole slew of piss-poor boyfriends and fist-fights, and get her fired from a shit-ton of jobs. Whether any of this had to do with the hit-and-run was dubious at best. Most times, hit and runs were just some accident; some terrified person who couldn’t deal with the consequences of what they’d done.

  Red, Kohl and I had gone through the whole procedure earlier today.

  We’d gone to the scene, inspected the smear of tire tracks and the still taped-off splay of Guinevere’s fire engine red- snakeskin print bag and its items in the grass nearby, as well as marked down nearby buildings and people who could’ve seen anything. We’d questioned everyone who’d been home, but so far there was still nothing.

  Normally, we would’ve called it a day after a few hours, but the Chief made us stick it out hours more, milling about to harass anyone nearby that we could. A waste of time, and we all knew it, Kohl most of all, growled, “There are real criminals out there, and the Chief is having us waste time on this shit of a dead end.”

  There was nothing we could do. The Chief was the chief, and we were ther loyal soldiers. At least by day.

  By night, well…

  I paused and stared. Hold up, there on the bar stool, that wasn’t…

  It was.

  Ms. I’ll-be-gone-tomorrow Myla, who was very much here, beside a blonde girl who looked similarly unenthused to be here. Huh.

  Guinevere slid back to mind. I could almost see her flaccid over-tanned face now – scowling at all the attention. She’d hated cops, hated her mom – they hadn’t spoken in five years.

  But now she was dead, and her mom was trying to make up for their shit relationship by going above and beyond in the investigation. Would Dad do that if my brother or I ended up dead?

  As Myla’s friend left, I took another swig of my drink, then went over to her at the bar.

  Her eyes went to mine, surprised.

  “Got lost?” I said.

  She managed to smile. “Maybe.”

  I sat down on the empty stool beside her. “You look like you need a drink.”

  Myla’s mouth looked like it was considering smiling before it settled into a frown. “Are you stalking me?”

  I laughed. “I could say the same thing.” With my open beer, I gestured around. “This is my bar.”

  “No.” She said it automatically, her gaze doing the rounds. Then, probably seeing the interior’s chic black resemblance to my apartment, she said quietly, “Hm.”

  There was something forlorn about the way her hands were clasped on the end of the bar counter.

  “You never answered the question,” I pointed out.

  Her lips pressed together as her head shook. “It’s my sister. She’s back.”

  I was already on my way to the other side of the bar. “If your sister is anything like my brother, then you definitely need a drink.”

  I got her a martini on the rocks. As I set it down, her eyebrows arced. “How did you….”

  I shrugged. “Before I became a cop, I worked part-time as a bartender. Got to be quite good at it too. Being able to tell what people wanted.”

  Like my cock inside you again.

  I froze as my cock stirred in my jeans. For fuck’s sake…

  She eyed the drink for a few seconds before finally taking a sip.

  “That was my sister,” she explained. “It’s the first time she’s been back in … A while. I was trying to see if we could … If maybe I could….” She shook her head. “Forget it. It doesn’t matter.”

  “You and your sister,” I began.

  “Don’t really look alike,” she finished for me. “I know.

  “Same for my brother and I,” I said. “Opposite in every way.”

  Myla had only half heard me. Her gaze was still on the door her sister had left by. “We’re not opposites in every way.”

  I left it at that. Let her sip at her drink, while I sipped mine.

  Myla’s gaze returned to me, growing curious. “So, you own a bar. I would’ve tho
ught….”

  I grinned. “Thought what?”

  “I don’t know,” she said after minute. “It doesn’t matter.”

  Tonight’s quote.

  Already, Myla had reached the end of her drink. She smiled a little at me. “Thanks.”

  “You still leaving then?” I asked.

  Myla blinked, tried to smile again. “No. Not right now, at least. I might stick around a couple more days, just to make sure Ivy’s settled then….”

  “A couple of days,” I said. “That’s long enough for us to go out together again.”

  She didn’t look at me. “That’s not a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m not in a good place right now to date anyone.”

  And then, with a “Thanks for the drink and last night” and a too-long look, she left. Leaving me with a tapping foot and a clenched hand, getting out my phone.

  She answered on the first ring. “Seriously, I-”

  “What about a non-date then?” I interrupted her.

  A pause. “What kind of non-date?” she finally said.

  I threw my gaze around desperately for inspiration.

  A tipped-over translucent brown beer bottle. Some scuffed red and white Nike shoes. A peeled curl of wallpaper I really needed to get at. No, no and no.

  My gaze went back to my phone, where Kohl’s latest text had just appeared: We still on tomorrow?

  “Bowling,” I said to the phone triumphantly. “The bowling kind.”

  Chapter 10: Myla

  Bowling.

  I glared at the wall to combat the smile crawling up my face.

  After agreeing to join Angel bowling with his friends last night, I’d successfully avoided thinking about it as I figured out a place to say. What I’d seen right after, then the hotel calls and Airbnb attempts had made it easy.

  But this morning, stuck in my bathroom-sized Airbnb room, the excitement returned to me full force. It had taken all the self-control I had last night not to give into the demand in Angel’s eyes – the request punctuated by his glances at my lips.

  Fuck, even now…

  A purely visceral response, the wetness between my legs.