She was only two.
A two-year-old little girl who wore a pink Disney princess dress that was glittered in sparkles was killed only minutes ago. I’ll never forget that for as long as I live. She looked so peaceful yet destroyed at the same time. It made me sick. She’ll never have the chance to grow up. She’ll never have the chance to fall in love. She’ll never have the chance to be a mommy herself. All because her father didn’t secure her car seat correctly.
He survived—the ones not responsible for the act usually end up paying the price. He wasn’t drunk or under the influence of any drugs. He was a normal guy working two jobs trying to support his family. He fell asleep on the way to drop his daughter off at daycare so he could get to his morning job on time and hit a guardrail, flipping the vehicle. Although he was not wearing his seatbelt, the airbags inflating saved his life. Their little girl, however, was thrown from the car and died on impact.
Calls like this stay with you forever. No matter how much time passes, the memory will always remain as if it happened yesterday—the ones you couldn’t save.
I breathe heavily as I run from my cop car, arriving at the traffic scene. An SUV sits upside down in the middle of the lanes, and the family’s personal belongings are scattered across the highway. I see a little girl lying face down in a puddle of blood to my right and a man lying on his back screaming. Two guys try to hold him down while another officer tries to talk to him.
“Sir,” the officer shouts to try to get his attention.
“Oh, my God,” he cries. “Sarah,” he cries as he looks over at the little girl lying in the middle of the road. “Please.” He closes his eyes tightly. “Please, God, no.” His body shakes.
I kneel down beside him as I look over his cut and bloodied face. He looks up at me, and he reaches up to grab my arm. His hand shakes and red tears run from his green eyes. “Please help her,” he sobs. “I didn’t mean to do it.” He shakes his head. “It was an accident.”
I nod my head as I try to give him words of encouragement, but nothing comes out. I know she’s dead, and he knows she’s dead. I can’t save her. There’s nothing I can do to help her.
The ambulance arrived then and took him to the hospital. We covered up the little girl’s body while waiting for the coroner.
Now, I continue to stand here with a heavy heart.
“We need to wrap this up,” Mason, an officer, says looking at what’s left of the family’s SUV. Red pieces of the door lie only inches from my shoes. Glass litters the road and the wadded up SUV lies upside down across two lanes. “Cars are backed up for more than two miles.”
His concern for the traffic pisses me off. “So what?” I scowl. “The fuckers will be late to work.” I shrug carelessly. At least they’ll get there safe and sound. “The tow truck is on its way,” I say as I turn to walk away.
I take a few steps and look down when I feel something soft under my boot. My throat tightens when I see a little pink blanket with a unicorn in the brightest yellow on it. I bend down and pick it up. I give it a shake to remove the glass and broken pieces of the car, but the blood of the child remains on it.
It breaks my heart to think of what her mother and father will face in the coming months. No parent should ever have to go through this—losing a child.
I fold the blanket up and carry it with me back to my patrol car.
I get into my car and dispatch comes through my radio, “10-16 in progress.” Then they proceed to give me the location. Domestic trouble. Great! Just what I wanna fucking deal with right now.
I sigh heavily as I look at my watch. I’ve been off for over an hour. I’m tired and I’m grouchy as fuck. But that’s part of the job.
“2388 en route,” I say before pulling away from a scene that will continue to haunt me.
*****
I slow down as I cruise through a nice neighborhood—definitely upper class. It’s probably some housewife who allows her wealthy-ass husband to beat her. I’m not trying to stereotype, but I see it all the time.
I pull up to the house that already has one cop car parked in the driveway. A man is standing outside—his white shirt shredded as it hangs off his chest and shoulders. His jeans dirty and falling off his body. His face is red with rage while a police officer who I know well by the name of Jimmy is standing in front of him as he speaks. I get out of my car and the guy is screaming.
“That is mine. I’m here to get it. As soon as I get it—I’m out of here,” he says pointing over the shoulder of the officer.
“What’s the problem?” I ask walking over to them.
Jimmy looks at me. “He and his girlfriend got into it. She wouldn’t allow him to leave.”
Girlfriend? If he looks like that, then she must look like shit. He doesn’t seem like he would just sit back and take whatever a woman would dish out. I look the guy up and down with a scowl before I turn around in a circle looking over the very well-manicured, vacant front yard. “Looks like she’s not here to stop you,” I state, and Jimmy rolls his eyes. I have a problem with getting into trouble on the force. I’m not the best guy to send on a domestic dispute. I tend to make matters worse sometimes. My boss calls me a liability, and I call it getting into character. Obviously, we have different opinions on how I need to handle things.
“She won’t let me have my truck,” he says pointing to the blue Chevy once again that sits in the driveway. He reminds me of a child—mad because his mother won’t let him play with his favorite toy.
“That’s because it’s not yours.”
I turn around when I hear a woman’s voice. Normally a woman in hooker heels and Daisy dukes would turn me on. But at the moment, I’m tired as hell and the fact that I just saw a little girl die has me on edge. I’m in no mood to put up with a couple who wants to fight in their front yard only to make up tomorrow.
“What is going on, ma’am?” I ask her, placing my hands on my belt.
She looks over at me and her dark eyes look me up and down with a scowl—as if I am a fucking rent-a-cop. I square my shoulders and bow my chest out. I don’t have time to mess with some bitch on a soapbox. And I sure as hell am in no mood to.
She walks over to the lifted, blue Chevy, places her left arm on it, and leans up against it, acting cool as a cucumber. It’s irritating. They are wasting my time!
“That’s my truck. I’m here to get it,” the guys says angrily.
She shakes her head. “I bought you this truck.”
“It’s in my name,” he argues.
“It’s in both of our names, you jackass,” she replies with an eye roll. “And this house is in my name so it’s sitting on my property. Get your ass off of it,” she snaps.
I hold my hand up. “Wait...” I say turning to him. “You said she won’t let
you leave,” I say as I scratch my head confused. Did I hear him right a while ago? I am going on a twelve-hour shift and living off espresso shots from the drive-thru of Starbucks. I tend to hear things wrong at times—another reason why my boss calls me a liability.
“What?” she screeches. “You told them that I wouldn’t let you leave?” she asks as she throws her hands around in the air. “I told you to get off my fucking property. And what do you do? You call the fucking cops,” she yells.
I turn to face him to tell him that he needs to vacate the property, but I stop when his eyes widen to the size of quarters. “NO!” he yells.
Jimmy and I spin back around in time to see her exiting the garage with a bat in her hand. She drives the thing into the driver’s side of the door. One time. Two times. Three times.
“You fucking bitch!” he yells as he starts to run toward her. Jimmy grabs him and pulls him down to the ground.
“Sir. I need you to calm down,” he demands.
She places the end of the bat on the ground and looks down at him with a smirk. “Still want it now?”
I blink a few times trying to understand what I just saw. This chick is crazy!
�
��Ma’am,” I say lifting my hands to show her that I haven’t pulled my gun out yet. I really don’t want to have to do the paperwork that goes along with shooting someone today. “You don’t need to vandalize the truck.” There’s no way we can make her give it to him. This is something that a civil court will have to address.
She snorts. “I know,” she says as she continues to look down at her husband, boyfriend, whatever he is.
“Well…” I say trying to find the right words. This chick is a total bitch. And I’m running out of patience.
“Just give it to me. I’ll leave,” he says as he struggles underneath Jimmy.
She shakes her head and then walks back into the garage and I turn to face him as Jimmy allows him to get up.
“Do you live here, sir?” I ask him.
“The bitch kicked me out two days ago,” he scoffs as he shakes Jimmy off him.
“Yet you keep coming back. Like a fucking cockroach.”
I turn back around and see her as she walks out of the garage once again. She pulls a knife out of her back pocket and before I can do anything, she stabs it into the front tire of the truck. It makes a hissing sound as she pulls the knife out and I watch it deflate as if in slow motion.
The guy runs past me and yanks her by the back of her top, pulling her backward down onto the grass.
“You fucking bitch,” he screams in her face.
She lands a punch to his nose before I can yank him off her. I toss him over to Jimmy as I reach down to help her up. Her eyes narrow at me, and she shoves my hand away. “Stay out of this,” she growls as she shoots up to her feet.
Jimmy is in the process of putting the guy in handcuffs for assault when she runs toward him.
I tackle her to the ground before she can get to them. We hit hard as I knock her face down, her body under mine has her taking most of the blow.
“Get off me, you son of a bitch,” she yells as she claws at the grass trying to get away from me.
I reach up, grab her arms, and force them behind her back. It’s not hard.
She’s small, and well, I’m a man. I don’t plan to arrest her; technically, she hasn’t done anything wrong. She wants to fuck up her own shit—well, then she’s stupid, but that’s not illegal.
I lean down toward her, trying to place my weight on her to keep her from squirming. “Just calm down…”
BAM! She lifts up and knocks the back of her head into my face making my eyes instantly water and my head hurt.
“Crazy fucking bitch,” I hiss placing my knee onto her back to allow me to secure her wrists in handcuffs. Once done, I leave my knee in place to hold her down as I run my hand down my face and it comes up bloody.
“She is a crazy bitch,” her—whatever he is—says from across the lawn as he rests down on his knees with his hands cuffed behind his back. “She tried to chop my dick off this morning with a butter knife.”
“Not like you need those five inches,” she yells.
I watch as Jimmy’s eyes widen at her words. I bend down, yanking her up by her cuffed arms. “You’re under arrest…” I read her Miranda rights as I walk her back to Jimmy’s car. I throw her into the backseat as she yells at her boyfriend to go fuck himself. I slam the door in her face.
Running a hand down my face once again, I cringe from how sore my nose is. “Am I still bleeding?” I ask as I tilt my head back for Jimmy to get a look at it.
He smirks. “Yeah.”
“Fucking bitch,” I curse, and the guy still kneeling on the grass nods his head in agreement.
“What are you doing here anyway?” Jimmy asks. “Are you on day shift now?”
I shake my head. “No. I just finished working the fatality wreck on I-55,” I tell him as I gently rub my nose with the back of my hand.
“Oh. I heard that one was bad.”
I nod. “It was.” It makes you sick how careless people can be. Take these two idiots, for example. They are fighting over a truck when the mother of that little girl is getting the news that her baby is dead and her husband was the reason for it. Sometimes I hate this job.
“Well, don’t worry about me. They’re both in handcuffs now, and there is another car on its way to help me take them in.”
“Paperwork…”
“I’ll take care of it. No worries.” He nods to my car. “Go home and get some rest. You’re gonna need it,” he says looking down at my bloody nose. “Go ahead and go home.” He gestures to my cop car once again.
“Thank you,” I say letting out a long breath. I’m so tired I could lay down and fall asleep on the grass right now.
I nod my head and thank him one more time before I head back to my car and head home. I’m tired and now I have a fucking headache from hell.
CHAPTER THREE
PARKER
I pull up into my driveway and yank the sunglasses off my face before tossing them onto my dash. The sun is officially up—not helping my headache at all. I take one last look at my face. My nose is red, and my eyes are looking puffy. I think the bitch may have broken my nose. I have a pounding headache, and I can feel my nose throbbing. What a way to end the shift. A shift that I wasn’t even scheduled to work in the first place.
I get out of my car and spin around when I hear a car door slam shut. “Where have you been? I’ve been waiting for you for hours!” Sandy all but yells as she comes walking up the driveway. With how crazy my night went, I completely forgot about telling her to come over.
“I…”
“Oh, my God,” she screeches throwing her hands over her mouth as she looks at my uniform. “Were you shot?” she asks as she examines the blood.
I roll my eyes. I didn’t bleed that damn much. “No. A woman hit me in the face. Made my nose bleed.”
“Are you okay?” She places her hands on either side of my face, but I pull away from her, not wanting the contact.
“Fine,” I say, “But you need to go home.”
“Excuse me?” she demands. “I’ve been waiting for you forever.” Her voice rises.
“Well, I have a fucking job to do,” I shout. “I’m sorry if it’s inconvenient for you.” Fuck, just yelling hurts my nose.
“Parker.” Her voice softens as if she can talk her way into the house.
“It’s not gonna happen. Go home, Sandy,” I say before turning around and giving her my back.
I walk into the house and lock the door behind me. I can only imagine what Sandy is calling me. Dick. Asshole. Fucker. Doesn’t matter. I’ve heard them all before. She’s not the first bitch I’ve pissed off.
I make my way through the house and into the kitchen where I find my roommate’s fiancée, Missy, sitting at the kitchen table. Her blond hair is up in a messy bun and her face is free of make-up. By the way she yawns, I can tell she must have just woke up.
“What are you doing?” she asks quickly, and I give her an irritated look.
“Just getting off work,” I say, lifting my hand to catch the trail of blood that I can feel run down my chin.
“What happened to you?” she asks clearing her throat.
“A crazy bitch happened to me,” I growl, grabbing an ice pack out of the freezer before I plop down across from her. “What’s wrong with you?” Her blue eyes are puffy, and her cheeks are damp. It’s easy to see that she’s been crying yet she’s smiling like an idiot. Women can be so confusing.
“What do you mean?” Her smile gets bigger to the point where it looks scary.
“You look too…giddy.”
“So, no one has died?” she asks smiling.
I shift uncomfortably in my seat, refusing to mention the little girl who is still so fresh in my mind. “Okay.” I place my ice pack on the table. “I don’t know what is going on with you. But I had a fucking horrible night at work. And I’m really not in the mood to decipher what you’re trying to say.”
She takes a deep breath as her smile drops off her face. “I had a bad dream last night.”
My eyebrows rise. Why
would a bad dream put her in a good mood? Makes no sense to me but women rarely do. “About?”
“I had a dream that Tate didn’t survive the gunshot wound.”
My eyes widen, and she sighs. “I’m confused,” I say shaking my head at her. “I dreamed that we were back at the bakery. The day that Jonathan shot him.”
I remember that day very well. I shot and killed Tate’s stepdad.
I see Tate’s stepfather, Jonathan, lift his gun and aim at Missy. I lift and fire. Shot him right in the chest. Dead instantly, but then I look at the floor. Tate lies on top of Missy and my heart stops the moment I see the blood leak out from under their bodies. I had been too late.
I bend down quickly as another officer helps me pull him off her. My ears ring from the sound of the shots fired in such a small space. But I ignore the ringing sound and bark off some orders. We lie Tate on his back on the bakery floor and Missy’s voice cries out as she starts to crawl toward him.
My best friend, Slade, grabs her and holds her back to allow us room to work. I reach down and rip the blood soaked shirt off him. I then wrap it around my hand and press it to the gun wound, trying to stop the bleeding.
“There’s so much blood,” the officer who sits opposite of me says. His voice shakes and I reach over for my radio. I demand an ambulance and give our location. My roommate—my best friend—is bleeding out in front of me, and I can only do so much. “Come on, Tate,” I say as the officer performs CPR. “Don’t do this to us,” I demand.
“Please,” Missy cries out. “Please save him, Parker,” she pleads, and it makes me nauseous. What if I can’t?
“Why?” she continues to cry. “Tate,” she screams, hoping her voice will pull him back. “I love him. Please.” Her voice shakes and my throat tightens.
The officer giving CPR checks for his pulse and then looks up at me. I know the look and I feel numb. His warm blood covers more than half of my uniform and the smell alone makes me want to puke. Smells have never affected me before but when your friends are involved, it does something to you. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Love you, brother, I silently say before I open and look up at the woman who loves him.
Unpredictable Page 2
