A Code 34 was serious and that time it was the end of the world. The bank robbers had come from Los Angeles and they had been well armed, far better equipped than the local police. A teller had tripped the silent alarm. When the robbers left the cops were waiting for them.
Three lay dead before it was over, including Tristy’s father.
From that day forward no officer in Greenville travelled without an automatic rifle in the trunk of the unit but that was too late for him and the others.
What Tristy remembered from the blur of events that followed was the funeral—so many blue suits and not just from their department. They came from L.A. and San Francisco. There was even a representative from the governor’s office and a motorcycle detachment all the way from Washington State.
Under the gleaming sun they lined up with their white gloves and so many shook her little hand that it began to hurt, became sore, like her eyes. Funny, she didn’t actually remember crying but she must have because everyone had told her not to, that her dad had died a hero, a lifesaver. Someone, a hostage from the bank, had given her a huge hug.
That had just freaked Tristy out. Guns had been fired at the service and that had been scary too. A priest had said everything was all right. Just the way it was supposed to be.
But that was bullshit and everyone knew it.
Especially when a few weeks later a woman showed up at the house drunk very late on a Friday night. Turned out the hero had feet of clay. The woman had wanted to see Tristy. She claimed Jack used to talk about her all the time and had always said if anything happened to him she should go and see his little girl.
It had been fucked-up to be sure.
Tristy’s mom called had the cops who were all Dad’s friends and the woman disappeared, a one-way bus ticket across the state line into someone else’s jurisdiction she later learned, but the damage had been done.
Tristy’s mother was never the same again. She died several years later of a brain embolism. Tristy suspected it was her mother’s one consolation in life, that some scrap of dignity, some little bit of her husband’s honor had been protected by his fellow officers…for Tristy’s sake.
There was so much she would have told her dad.
Now watching Grant drive away, she wished she could say those things to him, all those things she would have said to her dad about honor and courage and love if there had been time, if she had been old enough.
But now history was repeating itself and again it was too late. I’ve ruined everything, she thought. I’ve destroyed my friendship with Grant, the best guy on the planet.
Now who would she talk to when it got tough? She had girlfriends but that wasn’t the same. Tristy had never cared much for the company of other females. They seemed catty to her, spending way too much time talking about guys and stabbing each other in the back.
Not that she had much more luck with guys.
Except Grant.
Tristy hugged herself tightly. She was wearing her old track suit, the one she wore when she was feeling down and wanted to hide from the world. Grant had been the only person in the world to see it. He had told her he felt honored.
What a goof ball. She smiled through her tears.
Grant would know what to do to make her feel better. He would hold her way tighter than she could hold herself and he would kiss the troubles away. And he’d play games with her, wicked BDSM games.
Tristy felt instant tension at the thought of Grant’s games. What would he do with her right now if he had her all to himself? Would he strip her nude, would he tie her? Or maybe even spank her?
Her heart leaped in her chest.
She couldn’t resist the urge to touch herself, to rub her palm over her belly. Instantly her abdominal muscles tightened as though it were Grant’s hand. Gasping softly she let her fingers travel northward along the zipper of the jacket. She grasped the catch and tugged it slightly. Her nipples peaked in response. Tristy arched her back. Down came the zipper until it reached the bottom.
The jacket was open and she had no bra underneath, no T-shirt either. Moaning, she felt the material rub against her nipples. Her eyes slid shut as she pulled the jacket over her shoulders. Just like that she was nude from the waist up.
Greedily, her fingers found the waistband of her sweatpants. She was dying to touch her pussy but something told her to wait. In her mind, she heard Grant’s dominating voice.
You’ll touch when I say so.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes…” As if unbidden the tips of her fingers found her left nipple. She squeezed hard. Just enough to make herself whimper—the threshold of her pain.
Then she did something most unexpected. It made her bite her lower lip. She slapped her hand against her behind.
And then a second time, harder. Ouch. That smarted!
Grant laughed in her ear, ever the invisible presence. What did you expect, girl?
“I know,” she said aloud. “Spanking hurts.”
But there were rewards too as she soon discovered. Like getting to rub her hot bottom as her other hand slid surreptitiously down inside the front panel of her panties until her fingers reached her clitoris.
The button of pleasure was already swollen and eager to be touched. Juices dripped from her pussy down her inner thighs. She could feel the raw heat of her sex lips, the aching canal that needed more than anything to be filled. And there was only one thing to fit the bill.
Grant.
She couldn’t even think of another man if she tried. But, since he isn’t here I’ll have to make do with the dildo. Assuming Grant gave his “permission”.
“Please,” she begged aloud.
On your knees, slave girl.
Tristy dropped to the floor. Oh, how she wished he was above her, in front of her, over her.
“Please…” she repeated, listening in the light, sweet silence for his reply.
Why should I let you pleasure yourself? the phantom Grant wanted to know.
“I need to,” she rasped. “I can’t stand it any longer.”
Should have thought of that when you ran out on me.
“I didn’t run out,” she protested.
But she had. It had been too overwhelming. If only she could have explained it all.
What you deserve is to suck my cock.
“Yes, Grant, yes, I would love to do that.”
You know what to do. Crawl into bed and show me.
Tristy did not bother to rise from her knees. She crawled, playing the part of the slave girl, commanded as if against her will.
Correction—commanded as if she had no will but his.
It was a sweet and delicious difference and she loved it. Tristy crawled into bed and reached for the dildo she kept in her nightstand. She called it Old Faithful because it was always there, it never disappointed and it was not married to anyone else to her knowledge. In some ways OF was perfect if not for its singular lack of conversation.
But she had Grant for that or at least she used to, up until last night. Now there was only the memory and the fantasy.
Lying flat on her back, she yanked down the sweat pants and panties. Naked, she spread her legs wide.
At last.
It would be better tied up though. She would have to imagine.
You will not come without permission.
Tristy gritted her teeth. She was so close already. This was going to be maddening. Groaning, she pushed the dildo against the ridge of her sex lips. Her whole body throbbed in anticipation. Little zaps of electricity ran up and down her spine.
Tristy lifted onto her heels. She thrust the dildo deep.
Oh yes, oh, fucking yes. She was so hot and filled and desperate for more.
“Grant…” She said his name, calling out into the empty room. Dimly she wondered where he might be at that moment. He belonged with her. Naked and on top of her conducting things, not just his voice conjured in her ear.
The shudders began to overtake her.
“Ca
n’t stop.” Her teeth chattered. It was like a hurricane and she was just a tiny boat trying to stop it, trying to stay afloat in the midst of it.
How did one stop that kind of force?
The orgasm was so strong it poured over her defenses and before she could catch her breath a second one came, even bigger than the first. She lost track of time, of reality itself as the third one followed. Tristy felt the warm, familiar glow.
Grant was here. He’d been part of this, he’d made it happen.
And now he would punish her.
You were told not to come, slave girl.
“I know, Sir, please, I beg your forgiveness.”
He laughed. Oh, you’ll have plenty of chances to beg, trust me on that.
Shuddering, she smiled. If nothing else, she would not be bored the rest of the day.
* * * * *
Grant sized up the two-seater as it roared past, fifteen miles over the speed limit according to the radar. From the look of the occupants—two girls with long flowing hair and over-privileged smiles—they were from the college in town. Nineteen, maybe twenty years old. Kids like these were used to getting away with murder, especially the pretty ones.
He’d give anything for a car like that, a classic British roadster in mint condition. He’d have to settle for pulling it over.
The girls looked nervous but not panicked. Drugs and alcohol were always a possibility.
“Officer, is there a problem?” the driver wanted to know. She punctuated her question with a flip of her over-treated, platinum-blonde hair.
The passenger slumped in her seat, not so boisterous. She reminded him of a younger version of Tristy.
Grant would have given anything to have known Tristy when she was in her teens. All that spunk and energy but he knew there had been pain too. She’d alluded to it here and there. He knew her dad had been killed on the job when she was just a kid. It had been a bloodbath, one that had changed police procedure all over the state if not the nation.
Gone were the days of complacence. Now any situation had to be viewed as potentially violent. The cops were outnumbered and out gunned as well. And that didn’t begin to cover the terrorists.
There was more to Tristy’s father’s death, though, something bigger than the job. Something had been revealed in the aftermath which had shaken her faith in him and in men in general. Had he been a cheater?
Was that what had led her unwittingly to find one cheater after another? Was she somehow punishing herself for her father’s behavior, forcing herself to be as unhappy as she’d implied her mother had been?
Cheating was a complex thing.
Grant had been cheated on before. He’d had his heart broken more than once as a matter of fact. But that was in the past.
Grant was armored these days, just as his chest was armored, the vest neatly tucked up under his uniform shirt. He was bulletproof. Yeah, right, he thought as he robotically asked the blonde for her license and registration.
Tristy had shot him deep and true this morning.
“I’m not your goddamn mistake,” she’d said. “You hear me?”
Is that how he’d treated her, even if only subconsciously? The act might have been an error but not her. She had to know that.
Damn it! He’d handled it all wrong.
Tristy needed to know there wasn’t a thing wrong or immoral about her. She was lovely and beautiful and absolutely honest and innocent. She was the best thing to come into his life in…well, ever.
The realization made his stomach clench. He handed back the license.
“Watch your speed next time,” he said.
The blonde regarded him, open-mouthed. She seemed more surprised than he was.
“You mean I’m free to go?”
“That’s what it means. Now go before I change my mind.”
The girl in the passenger seat frowned. Was it his imagination or was there a tinge of disapproval in her eyes? As though she knew her girlfriend deserved a ticket.
He walked woodenly back to his patrol car. Grant was going to have to talk to Tristy right after his shift was over.
It would be evening by then—Saturday night. He could only hope she would stay in tonight. In her current state of mind she would pose a real danger to herself if she went out.
Too bad he couldn’t arrest her. He did have his handcuffs though. And he knew how to use them.
Chapter Five
Tristy awoke disoriented, her body aching and still tingling from the games she had been playing with herself. She had not been able to give herself a proper spanking but she had managed to tie her wrists together with a scarf for a nice sensation of bondage. From there it had been easy enough to taunt her nipples and tease her pussy from orgasm to orgasm.
Finally she had fallen asleep utterly exhausted.
She might have lain there forever if not for the doorbell. Tristy blinked, looking at the clock radio. The LED display read 9:30.
Was that p.m. or a.m.? It was dark so it must be p.m. Yes, that was it. She had left Grant’s that morning. She had been playing all day.
Tristy sat up. Good grief, was that ringing going to go on forever? Take a hint. I’m not home. Or I want to be left alone.
Her heart seized.
Grant.
If anybody would keep on like that it would be him. What would she say to him? Nothing. He could just wear out his finger if he liked.
She sighed.
That wasn’t very mature. She would at least go out there and tell him to his face.
Sort of.
By the time she reached the living room she could hear him calling her name.
“Tristy, I know you’re in there.”
How, Tristy wanted to know? Clutching the robe tightly about her nude form, as if he could see through solid wood, she went to the door.
“Grant, stop making a spectacle of yourself. You are going to freak everyone out.”
“I’m a cop. They’ll understand.”
“But this isn’t police business.”
“Maybe it should be.”
“Why? Did I break the law?”
“Just open the door and let me apologize.”
She swallowed hard. She unlocked and opened the door as far as the chain would allow. She saw his gleaming badge, his broad chest, his solid chin.
“Tristy, you’re leaving the chain on? Seriously?”
How could she explain that it wasn’t him she distrusted but her own libido? “I’m tired,” she said. “It’s late.”
“It’s not even ten. And you look like you’ve been sleeping all day.”
“Stop acting like a know it all,” she snapped. “It’s annoying.”
“I don’t know it all. I just know you.”
“Whatever.”
“Look, what happened this morning—”
“Hush, you want the neighbors to hear?”
“So let me in.”
“I told you, I’m tired.”
“What you are is stubborn. I can get a search warrant you know.”
She suppressed a smile. “No, you can’t.” He was clearly teasing and it was not helping her maintain her defensive walls. “Come back in half an hour,” she said.
“Why the hell would I do that?” he asked suspiciously.
“So I have a chance to, you know, get presentable.” Actually she planned to be long gone.
“You are plenty presentable to me. Besides it’s not like I haven’t seen it all before.”
“I mean it, Grant, give me thirty minutes and don’t you go cheating by spying on me.”
He sighed loudly. She could just make out that deliberative frown of his. Of course he didn’t like the idea but he was a gentleman. “Thirty minutes, not a minute more.”
“Fine.”
Tristy’s heart pounded. A half hour was nothing. How the hell would she get ready to go clubbing and sneak out of the building by then? There was one way though. And that would be to call someone up. Invite them over. A guy
maybe.
That would show Grant.
Then again given the guys she knew… Yuk. Smart, Tristy. Real smart. Maybe she could invite a female friend. If she had any. No, there was only one option.
Laundry room here I come.
* * * * *
Grant knew Tristy was up to something, he just didn’t know what.
She might be planning to invite a girlfriend by or maybe she would try to sneak off to some club. The one thing she would not do would be to sit quietly by and wait for him to come back and explain himself.
For whatever reason, she did not want an apology. That was fine, he was a patient man. They had all the time in the world. The only thing that really worried him was the prospect of her running off tonight and doing something she might regret.
The city was a dangerous place and Tristy had a way of finding trouble. Maybe it was the cop in him. He was overprotective and more than a little suspicious of everyone and everything.
Not that he let it show.
He had been secretly thankful to find she was still at home in the first place and he intended to keep it that way. But it would be done on the down low.
Changing as quickly as he could into jeans and sneakers and his favorite gray T-shirt, Grant grabbed the bag he’d been meaning to take downstairs. It was full by now and what a great excuse to do laundry.
He had promised not to spy but he’d said nothing about staying in his apartment. And the great thing about the laundry room was its location. No one came in or out of the building without passing it. Which made it the perfect place for a stakeout.
Grant had gotten as far as putting the quarters in the washing machine when he heard the elevator beep.
So soon? He hid behind the door.
Sure enough there she was, wearing her track suit. The one she would never wear outside to save her life.
“You forgot something,” he said.
Tristy nearly leaped out of her skin.
He folded his arms.
She regarded him open mouthed. “You!”
“Last I looked, yes I am me.”
“But what are you doing here?”
“Same as you, I would assume.” He inclined his head to her empty hands. “Except in my case I actually brought my dirty clothes.”
DomNextDoor Page 4
