by Mary Potter
JEREMY
BOYS IN BLUE -
SAN FRANCISCO
BOOK 2
MARY POTTER
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, dialogue, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2020
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval systems, without expressed written permission from the author/publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review in any media format.
Contents
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Epilogue
Other Books By Mary Potter
About The Author
Chapter 1
JEREMY
I love summer in San Francisco. It’s not because of the skinny girls wearing close to nothing while they wander around the park. It’s not because the foggy spring nights give way to hot summer winds that blow in from the south and across the San Francisco Bay. It has to do with my job and the opportunity to get outside more, enjoy the sun and get more exercise than a lot of coworkers. Other boys in blue, like my friends, Benjamin and Corey, have foot patrol at night or ride around in their squad cars during the day. Benjamin likes to work out, and he likes clubbing with me.
That all changed when he fell in love with Sarah. She’s the kind of girl I want, but I can’t have her. Sarah keeps trying to set me up with her Realtor friend, Victoria. It never works out. Sarah shared Victoria’s picture a few times. I like that she’s curvy, she has a great smile and looks like fun. But she’s desperate for her first big sales. That means the few times we talk or text, she’s too busy lining up potential buyers. I gave up on Victoria, though I don’t have the heart to tell Sarah or Benjamin.
His patrol partner, Corey, has similar tastes as I do. We both want what Benjamin and Sarah have. It’s not asking much, but sometimes we have to be realistic about what’s out there and are they the right girls for us. One thing for sure; I have better opportunities patrolling the city than either Benjamin or Corey. I have the same job as my friends, only I get to do it all riding a bicycle.
I know being a bike cop isn’t glamorous. I’m not looking for supermodels. I’m looking to stay fit. I’m a little older than a lot of women I like looking at while riding through Golden Gate Park, but I love watching. I work days mostly, and if I happen to catch bad guys, I call for a patrol officer with a vehicle to swing by and pick up my troublemakers. It’s like sending out for delivery. Only, I’m dropping off, not picking up. I get to stay fit and enjoy the park on the saddle of my bike. I get the sun and fun and a lot of exercises. What’s wrong with that?
MONICA
I live in a decorated shoebox that pretends to be a loft apartment in Haight-Ashbury. I share the space with a select group of highly trained ninja spiders. The house is a lot like the neighborhood. It’s old, and it’s a place once rich with intrigue and art—now a runaway atmosphere clinging to the past. I’ve lived in the sloping ceiling place for so long that I think my head tilts perpetually to the left. The ceiling meets the walls a few feet off the floor. While I’m tall enough to ride the roller coaster, I’m short enough to avoid head injuries walking through the loft. Why do I live in a place where I can stand up straight in the shower, kitchen, and the center of the sitting room? It’s about saving money.
Over the last several years, my landlord, a former actress from New York—living off royalties from the one movie still in circulation where she went full frontal—lets me live in her finished attic for pennies. We have an agreement. She charges me next to nothing for rent, I have no cable TV, I don’t take up a lot of room, I never make noise, and I barely use any electricity. All she requires of me is taking Lady Ginger for a walk twice a day, and making her the best gourmet coffee I know. My landlord has an expensive palate, buys the best-roasted coffee beans from all over the world. I use my elderly landlord as a test subject for my barista ideas. She loves it. Also, I’m a world-class part-time dog walker. So, she’s getting the better end of the deal.
So, I work in a coffee shop, and I get as many hours as I want. I make decent money, and better on tips during the summer when I exchange a long-sleeve pullover for a camisole top. I have a lot on top and businessmen on their way to and from work appreciate a little cleavage with their breves and creamy cappuccinos. Well, they get a lot of cleavage, actually. I’m not rail-thin like some of my coworkers. And I’m okay with that. I know certain men appreciate curvy girls. They like a little weight on their thighs when they give rides. I like men who aren’t afraid to be a bit naughty and a little daring. Unfortunately, I get more looks and tips than dates.
I don’t mind too much. I work a lot of hours. I walk the dog in the park across the street from the Victorian row houses. I get a great view, a great walk in the park, and as long as I remember to duck, I have a great apartment. Man or no man, I have a lot to do, and a few toys in the nightstand for the nights I want more than a little sleep.
It’s all part of my five-year plan. Make a lot of money, sock it all away, and then start up my own business. I’ve got a business plan I keep modifying, and I’ve got distributors ready to start shipping. I don’t have a place, and I’m a little afraid to take that first step. My five-year plan expired two years ago. I’m stuck in limbo, and I feel like sometimes I just need a nudge to get me motivated again.
Chapter 2
JEREMY
I live in a basement apartment that smells like lavender and scented candles sometimes. The lavender comes through the windows from the blossoms around the Victorian house foundations. That’s how I know summer officially arrives. When the lavender blooms, I have a freshly scented apartment.
My landlord runs a homemade candle business out of her house. She’s done it since her husband died. I know the woman likes a cop as a tenant. It makes her feel safer in the neighborhood. I think she’s overprotective and overreacts sometimes. But at least she gives me space, and as many scented candles as I want in the finished basement apartment.
I leave for work a little after six in the morning. It’s around the same time serious runners finish their morning runs, and vacate the bike paths in the park. I get more room to roam as they head home to shower and start their business days. I get the housewives, their strollers, and the occasional creeper who likes watching the women in the parks. Sometimes they arrive as early as me. They get their favorite benches close to the open fields where the girls like to lay out in the sun on beach towels and blankets. Sometimes I warn the creepers. Sometimes I warn the girls. Sometimes I think the girls know the creepers are there to watch. I’m just doing my job.
I get to the park and count the pedestrians. Morning foot traffic is lighter than the vehicle traffic. Stanyan Street, the famous two-lane street, borders Golden Gate Park and the turn of the century rows houses with their eye candy colors, round towers, and wrap around porches. The thoroughfare is a favorite haunt for overnight napping.
I know they see me at a distance and usually I ride slow enough to give them time to move along without me bothering their routines. As long as no one asks for spare change, I don’t have to talk to them.
I�
�m riding my light-weight aluminum police bike, wearing shorts instead of pants. I keep myself trim because I put a lot of miles on my bike during my shifts. The kids like me. I keep them safe without being a dick. Helmets, elbow pads, and designated areas for skateboards and bikes. It’s not hard to follow the rules. I think it takes more energy to break the law than obey it.
It’s still too early for the teenagers. During the summer, they don’t roll out the blankets and beach towels until after noon, when the sun’s highest in the sky. I see a few people I know by face. They give me smiles and morning waves. I feel that crispy overnight breeze from the ocean hasn’t slipped out of the shadows just yet. It makes for pockets of chilling morning air. It’s going to b a lovely day.
When I hear her scream, it isn’t for help. She’s calling a woman’s name. I follow the sound of her anxious voice. I see her running across the rolling park grass toward the two-lane street. For a second I wonder who ‘Lady Ginger’ is and I think the girl’s on a suicide path because the delivery box truck rolling up Stanyan Street has morning deliveries. The driver has his eyes on the manifest and not the road. When I make a break to intercept, I realize my life is about to change forever.
MONICA
I think I’m a relatively relaxed person. I have a lot of energy, and most of it isn’t caffeine-induced. I have my priorities. I know my limits. Unfortunately, this morning when I’m ready to walk Lady Ginger, I didn’t follow my regular routine. I don’t know if Lady Ginger has it in for me this morning, or she’s got a death wish. But somehow, she got ahead of me when we left the house.
Walking the dog is something I really enjoy. She’s a darling most of the time. Sometimes she’s a little energetic, and as far as I know it has nothing to do with caffeine. It’s just her style. She’s a Jack Russell terrier that looks like she’s made of soft white cotton with fluffy butterscotch blotches. She gets a lot of attention. Sometimes I think Lady Ginger likes the boys and girls, men and women coming up asking to pet her. She’s a lot like me. She knows how to work the groups for tips. Her tips are in the form of treats I carry in my pocket. As far as I know, Lad Ginger doesn’t work for tips from strangers.
This morning I put on her harness, but I guess I didn’t latch the leash to the clip. When we got across the road, after she did her business, I had the plastic in my hand ready to throw it in the trash. That’s when Lady Ginger tests the clasp on the leash. To my dismay and shock, Lady Ginger’s off the leash and on her way home in a straight line.
“Lady Ginger, no!” I scream.
It’s not classy. It’s panicked and I think this is the end of my entire life. I’m about to lose the landlord’s terrier because she’s going to play chicken with the delivery truck. I’m waving my arms and forget I’m clinging to the plastic sack of dog poop. I’m running toward the road. Lady Ginger is a lot faster than me.
When I feel the wind from the bicycle, I have no idea what’s happening.
The moment the driver looks up in time to stomp on the brakes, I think I’m about to see the tragic demise of my favorite dog. I’m running and focused enough to see something I never thought possible. It’s the kind of thing you see in the movies. It’s the kind of thing women think about sometimes when they like to fantasize about the perfect man.
From out of nowhere, the hero swoops in and scoops up Lady Ginger and dodges around the delivery truck. It happens in a heartbeat, a breath caught in my throat. By the time I reach the bicycle cop holding the smugly satisfied Lady Ginger in his arms, I realize that I’ve lived long enough to know what a real man looks like.
Chapter 3
JEREMY
I don’t have a big ego. I’m not looking for praise. I do my job because I like it. Sometimes I get lucky breaks. Sometimes I just get lucky. Catching the beautiful girl’s dog was a little of both, and I’m not complaining. I wave the delivery truck without a thought. He’s doing a job, and dogs need leashes in the city. I’m glad I was in the right place.
“It’s a cute dog,” I say.
The Jack Russell terrier settles across my left arm as I rub its head.
“Thank you so much,” the girl says.
“Would you like Lady Ginger back?” I ask. I steal a scratch under the dog’s muzzle. The terrier is indifferent to its glimpse into the abyss brought on by the proximity of the delivery truck. It’s interested in everything else except its perilous demise.
She reaches for the dog. Our hands and arms gently touch as the dog passes between us.
The girl, out of breath and looking as white as the dog’s soft and furry coat, gives me the broadest blue-green eyes on the west coast. She’s dynamic, and does she know she’s sexy in her hip-hugging leggings and stringer tank top. She has a lot of curves and a lot of top. Her tank top is tight and vivid green. I know girl’s fashion trends like fast and showy. I’m not complaining. I keep my eyes on her perfect face with cupid bow lips and slightly turned up tiny nose. She has champagne-blond hair and matching pencil-thin eyebrows. I’m keeping my eyes on her lips and eyes. But I’m thinking about her erect nipples cutting through the material of her top. And for the life of me, I can’t stop thinking about how her eyebrows match the color of her hair, and logistically, her pussy hair probably has the same soft texture and color. It’s enough of an instant idea that makes me shift a little straddling the bike frame. I suspect my uniform shorts look a little out of sorts.
“She’s leashed all the time,” the girl says.
“I see that.”
The leash in the girl’s grip is the same hand under the dog’s hindquarters holding the small plastic dog waste bag. I see she’s nervous, fidgety. I let her off easy, and don’t want to make a big deal out of what might have happened because it didn’t happen. It’s still a beautiful day.
MONICA
I saw a random act of bravery and kindness, and he doesn’t think it’s a big deal and passes over Lady Ginger with little to no fuss. Without her leash, she’d be off like a shot. A second chance isn’t something I’m ready to experience. I hold her in my left arm and reach into the smartphone sport case armband around my left bicep. It’s the perfect place for phone and ID. I remove a business card from it and hand it over to the cop.
“This gets you a free coffee at the café I work at,” I say. “My name’s Monica.”
“I’m Jeremy,” he says.
He’s a little older than me. I see that now as I take in his features. I see his cut muscles under the short-sleeve shirt. I can’t help but think of his thighs. He’s athletic and a level of physical perfection that makes me wonder about the folds of his uniform shorts. The SF police wear navy tops and pants. It’s dark, and I suspect riding under the hot sun all day makes for a lot of glistening sweat over his forearms and legs.
Jeremy pockets the business card without looking at it. He seems distracted. I catch his eyes, taking in more of me than my face. I know he sees my hair and looks at my lips. He sees my throat and bare shoulders.
I manage to clasp the hook around Lady Ginger’s collar again. I make sure it’s fully locked. I squat to put the terrier on the sidewalk—the dog tugs on the end of the leash, heading for home again before I stand up.
As I look up at Jeremy again, I see him turn away modestly. I know from his vantage point, straddling the bike, he had a lofty view of my bubbling cleavage. I’m not ashamed. I get a lot of looks. It’s something to have a showy bit of me and use it without putting in the effort. I know my nipples are erect, and even with the mild padding of the shelf bra sewn into the top, my nipples manage to make a shadowy cameo through the fabric. It’s a physical manifestation of how I feel about Jeremy’s heroic escapade.
“Listen, I have to get Lady Ginger back to her owner,” I say. “I’m on my way to work.”
“Well, it was good to meet you, Monica.” Jeremy looks from my eyes to my breasts, to the dog sniffing at the cracks in the sidewalk. “Good to meet you, Lady—” He stops and waves. “She doesn’t care.”
“
No, but I do. I don’t know how to thank you.”
There’s a moment, a heartbeat of hesitation from Jeremy. I see this beautiful man dressed in a cop uniform, including the gun and the bulletproof vest. He’s on active duty, and he’s saved a life. His bravery is indistinguishable from how he appears now. It’s not humility. Jeremy’s not coy. He’s a genuine man who does something I think he’d do anywhere without the badge and the gun. That’s the kind of man I want. I feel my face flush as he speaks.
“I won’t write you a citation for leash laws, this time,” he says. His face chiseled in serious marble. Then he laughs. “Take care, Monica. Maybe I’ll see you again.”
I watch Jeremy’s balance on the mountain bike with its cop gear and lights. He hops off the sidewalk and tires growl as the bike rolls across the street back toward the park.
I feel the dog tugging at the leash. Lady Ginger doesn’t care about her brush with death. And I’m left holding the bag of dog poop.
Chapter 4
JEREMY
How do I consider my encounter with Monica? That’s on my mind the rest of the day. I think about our interaction. I don’t log the incident in my notes because I don’t think saving a dog from being a dog is worthy of a footnote in my daily logs. Little did I know, it turned into something outside my control. It goes way beyond my understanding of lightning-speed social media posts. I can’t stop thinking about Monica. I didn’t see a ring on her finger. If she looked for a ring on mine, the bike gloves covered my palms and lower knuckles.
I leave her to walk the cute dog back into one of the expensive historic row houses facing the park. If she lives there, how is it I never saw her before today?
