by Lola StVil
“Bree, who the hell was that guy?” Jana says as we make our way down the alley.
“Who knows? I didn’t ask his name.” She replies.
“Did you ask him anything at all before you made out with him?” I accuse.
“Yes, I did.” She says proudly. “ I asked for a number and he gave it to me. He said
“Ten” ”
“Ten what?” Jana asks.
“Inches.”
Jana nods with approval, “Nice…”
“Were you really going to sleep with him, Bree?” I ask.
“I was, but I decided not to—even before you came out to get me. I could see it in his eyes. That guy wanted me. And that meant that I wasn’t ugly, or unattractive to men. I am not the reason my husband cheated. He ripped a hole in our marriage, not me. And while I know I’ll be sad for a long time, I’m not going to add to that shit by doing dumb, crazy shit just to feel wanted. I’m a hot piece of ass, I’m hardworking, and I happen to have given birth to best little girl in the world. That’s not a bad place to be in.”
“No, it’s not bad at all,” Jana agrees.
“And there’s the matter of my sister, the chic who let me hijack her plans and go crazy without judgment. Thanks, Winnie.”
“Anytime, honey,” I reply as I lean in and place my head on her shoulders. Then I smile to myself. “So, ten inches, huh…?”
The two of them laugh like crazy. I know it’s wrong, but hell, I joined in too. I take my cell out of my purse to call for a Lyft.
“Shit,” I hiss as the laughter dies in my throat.
“What is it?” Jana asks.
“I missed seven calls,” I reply.
“From Wyatt?” Bree asks.
“No, Decker,” I say as I press the voicemail symbol on the screen. Decker’s voice fills my ear and sends dread down my spine.
“Winter, what is it? You’re shaking, honey,” Jana says as she takes my hand.
“Decker said something went wrong with the operation Wyatt was helping out on…it’s a hostage situation now. There’s shots fired; Wyatt’s inside.”
The operation to capture Morse Coldwater took weeks to put together and only seconds to come apart. Morse handles a large portion of the guns that come in and out of this city. The case being built against him was mountain high but just to make sure the case was a slam dunk, the DA’s office insisted on getting Morse red-handed with the merchandise. So a task force was set up and they were a few bodies short, so I volunteered.
It was going well enough. Morse inspected the guns, was happy with the product, and was about to hand over the briefcase. Unfortunately he got a call at that exact moment. I have no idea who was on the other end but whoever it was blew our cover. Morse had never spent one night in prison and the thought of changing that scared the shit out of him. He vowed he’d rather die than go inside for the rest of his life.
He took six of us hostage and right away, he knew he was in over his head. I could tell by the fear growing in his eyes. This guy had no idea what to do. We tried to talk him down but he held on to his weapon for dear life and used me as a shield. By now I’m certain there are snipers on the roof but there’s no clear shot because Morse backed himself into the wall. The only way to get to him is to get to me.
The cop across from me is Detective Henson. I’ve known him from previous cases and he’s a damn good shot. I give him the go-ahead to take the shot when he finds an opening. I’m hoping he can do that without killing my ass; meanwhile, the other detectives try to distract Morse. It works. He’s so pissed off that one of them won’t put his hands up, he turns to face him and gives Henson a clear shot. Henson takes it...
***
“I swear to god it’s more pleasant to be shot than write a report about how you got shot,” I bark to myself as I look over all the forms on my bedside table. The bullet just grazed me. It hurt like a bitch, but it’s not serious. So when Decker walks into my hospital room, I’m not sure why he looks so upset.
“I know that look isn’t because you’re concerned about me.” I laugh, happy to make fun of him.
“Nah, I don’t even like you. I just hang out with you for your family money,” he replies.
“Good to know,” I reply. “What’s up?” I ask as I study the uncertainty on his face.
“For a while there, we didn’t know what was going on, we had no eyes in that room,” he explains.
“Yeah, I asked the tech guys, they said there was some kind of interference around the building; it was wreaking havoc on the monitors.”
“Well, I know you’re okay and you’re only wearing that stupid bandage on your arm to get attention, very desperate of you by the way,” he scolds.
“You’re right. It’s a shameful ploy, on my part,” I reply, shaking my head. “To hell with these fucking papers. I’m ready to get out of here and go home to Winter.”
“Yeah, so that’s what I came to tell you. She’s here.”
“What? Why? Don’t tell me you called her,” I snap.
“I had to.”
“Decker! C’mon, man. We have a pact.”
“Yeah, I know. We don’t worry family unless it’s very real and very bloody.”
“Exactly. So why did you call Winter?”
“It was on the news, I don’t know how the media found out but I thought it might be a bad idea to let her find out that way.”
“Damn…yeah, you’re right,” I reason. “How’s she taking it?”
“Not good,” he replies.
“You told her I’m okay, right?”
“Yeah.”
“But not good enough.” I reply mostly to myself.
“If you heard she was hurt, would you just take someone else’s word for it that she was okay?”
“Yeah, good point. How freaked out is she?” I ask.
“She’s sitting next to the family of the cop that got hit when Morse’s gun went off as it fell to the floor.”
“Yeah, his name is…Cross, right?”
“Yes, and he didn’t make it.”
“GODDAMNIT!”
“They just told his family,” Decker replies sadly.
“Great, just fucking great,” I hiss.
“Some of the guys are gonna have a drink in his honor, at bar near the station, later tonight.”
“Okay, I’m there.”
“Actually, I think you’re gonna be busy,” he says.
“What do you mean?”
“I saw her, man…it’s happening.”
“No…” I grumble.
“Yup. There’s no way around it,” he says sadly.
“Maybe she’ll just see that I’m okay and let it go,” I suggest.
He laughs at me. “I have never met a woman who knew how to let anything go. I didn’t remember to take out the trash on Mother’s Day when I was fifteen and my mom had to take it out herself. I swear to you, every year my mother calls me to remind me about it. She calls it “The Dark Day.”
“I can’t have that conversation with her. You know that,” I gripe.
“I do.”
“It’s the kind of conversation that fucking ends relationships.”
“Yeah but it’s also the kind that you can’t avoid.”
“Damn. She’s gonna ask me, isn’t she?” I reply with dread.
“Yup, she’s gonna ask you to stop being a cop.”
***
She enters the room and she’s near tears. Fuck me for not putting my shirt on. She’s only focusing on the bandage around my arm. I point out every few minutes that it’s really just a flesh wound and that I’m fine. I swear I say it a million times hoping it will help ease her mind. I hate being someone she stresses over. When we get to the car, I tell her that I can drive and she looks at me as if to say “touch the wheel and I kill you.” So, I wisely back away and let her drive.
Once we get home, she tells me that Bree and Jana wanted to pass along how relieved they were that I was okay. Great! I can use that to move on from this awful
night.
“How was the club? Did Bree get lucky?” I ask, trying to sound casual and light.
“Um, yeah. It was fine. Bree is spending the night at Jana’s. She’ll call me in the morning. Do you need anything?” she pleads as she circles the kitchen for the tenth time.
“No, babe. Honestly, I’m fine.”
“I should have called your mom but I didn’t have—”
“I will give you her info, but no, you should not have called,” I reply.
“Why?”
“It’s only a flesh wound, babe. I swear.”
God, she looks so sad. Yeah, we are definitely headed for that damn talk.
“Come, let’s just sit here, okay?” I offer as I pull out a stool for her to sit on.
“Okay.”
She stills for about three seconds. Then she gets up to do shit that doesn’t need doing. God help me. She’s freaking out. I can tell although she’s trying like hell to hide it. She doesn’t know what to do with her hands, her breathing has quickened, and she’s avoiding eye contact at all cost.
She knew I was a cop and we met while I was on duty but tonight is different somehow. She had to watch as the whole thing played out on TV and it scared the shit out of her. I’m scared as fuck too but not about what just went down. I’m afraid of the conversation that usually takes place following this type of shit. Maybe I’m wrong, maybe tonight didn’t freak her out and she’s stressing about the center and not about my job.
Yeah, that could be it. She’s probably not even thinking about what I do.
“Have you always wanted to be a cop?” she asks.
Fuck me.
“Yeah,” I reply, feeling my chest tighten.
“Always? You never thought about anything else? I mean I’m sure you’re good at a lot of things.”
ARGH!
“No, babe, I’ve never thought about being anything else.”
“You were really great when you talked to the kids at the center. They loved having you,” she says with a hopeful smile.
Christ.
“I loved talking to them. You have some really good kids. So, how is the search for more funding going?” I ask, desperate to change the subject.
“Very slowly. So, does talking to kids about staying off drugs and stuff pay the same as being a regular cop?”
Here we go…
“I don’t know what they make but being a cop isn’t about money, so…”
“Oh no, of course not. I didn’t mean…I just thought you were so great with the kids…”
“And…” I push.
“And what?”
I sigh deeply and try to keep my frustration at bay. “And you think talking to kids is safer than me running around town getting shot at,” I conclude.
“Well, isn’t it?” she replies.
“You never know, I could piss off some first grader and have pudding hurled at me. That’s no laughing matter. That’s like a twenty-five-dollar dry cleaning bill.”
“That’s not funny.”
“Well dessert-related crimes never are,” I reply with a fake bitter tone.
“Wyatt!”
“What?”
She glares at me. God, she’s even hot when she’s upset. There goes the tightness in my chest again. I need her to drop this subject that she’s trying to tiptoe around. But I can tell by the furrowed brows, she has no intention of dropping the issue.
“Hey, I’m really serious here. You would make a wonderful outreach officer. You could go around to different schools all over the city; you could really help some kids. And you’d change their lives,” she pleads.
“I had a good time doing it and I’d love to do it again, once in a while, if they need a last-minute replacement and I happened to be around.”
“No, I mean maybe you should do it full time,” she says.
My shoulders start to tense up and I swear to God someone placed a large boulder on top of my neck. I place my hand behind my head and try to rub the stress away but it does no good. I walk into the kitchen, praying to God she doesn’t follow me.
She follows me.
Damn…
I reach for the door of the fridge and she blocks me by placing her body in front of me. God, that body. Even when I’m stressed and annoyed, I can’t help but want it.
“Babe, I need to get some water. Can you please move?”
“Can you please answer my question: Don’t you think you’d make a great outreach officer?”
Fuck it; I don’t even need the water to be cold. I turn around and grab a room temperature bottle of water from one of the cabinets and walk out of the kitchen.
She follows me.
“Why are you running away from me? I’m talking to you,” she challenges.
“Babe, you’re not talking to me. You’re dancing.”
“Dancing?”
“Yes! You’re dancing around the subject. Just come out and say what you need to say,” I declare.
“I’m saying what I need to say. You’re not listening.”
“No, I am listening. But you are hiding behind the wrong questions and it’s…argh!”
I open the water bottle and drink it down, giving myself time to refocus and regroup. I never knew it was possible to be so frustrated and so in love at the same time.
“This feels like an argument but I don’t know why,” she admits.
“Can we sit?” I ask as I walk over to the sofa. She follows me and sits alongside me. I make myself wait until I’m certain my voice won’t come off harsh or annoyed. That takes a few moments, to be honest.
“Winter, you’re not asking me if I want to be an outreach officer and talk to kids about staying off drugs.”
“Yes, I am.”
“No, babe, what you are really asking is if I would consider ending my career as a detective in exchange for a safer job.”
“Yeah, I guess I was asking that,” she admits. I don’t reply, I just nod my head as the tightness in my shoulders increases. She takes my hand in hers and pleads with me.
“Is that something you would even consider?” she says.
I smile despite myself and look into her stunning eyes. “You know most guys live in fear of the ‘where is this relationship going’ conversation, and while that’s very high on the list, the conversation most single cops hate is the ‘Do you have to be a cop’ conversation. Do you know why?” I ask.
“No.”
“Because it’s usually the last one they have before they break up.”
“Wyatt, are you saying that we’re—”
“No, babe. That’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying once we go down this road and we have the conversation you are trying to have…we can’t come back from it. If I say I won’t quit being a cop, it will push you away. If I quit being a cop…”
“It would make you miserable,” she reasons.
“Yeah, it would.”
“I can see that,” she says as she stares off in the distance. My heart is on the fucking floor right now. It’s never good when Winter goes quiet.
“Babe, please don’t do that right now,” I urge as I rest my elbows on my lap and dig the heels of my palms into my eyes.
“What am I doing?” she asks.
“You’re going dark. You’re thinking all these thoughts and you’re keeping them to yourself. You’re blocking out the entire world and creating this mass frenzy in your head and out here, I’m left wondering what the fuck is going on. So please, just don’t go dark and break off all communication.”
“I didn’t give you a real kiss before when I last saw you,” she blurts out.
“What?”
“This evening, I was rushing out and you were running late…I didn’t get to give you a real kiss. And then a few hours later I’m watching on the news and there were gunshots and I thought…I didn’t get to kiss you the way I wanted to if it was the last time. And I didn’t get to tell you…”
“Tell me what, babe?”
“I�
��I …” She bursts into tears and I place her head against my chest. Knowing that I’m the reason she’s been reduced to tears makes me feel like shit. Fuck, I would do anything to make it better, but this is the kind of stuff that can’t really be made right.
“Baby, I get it. I do,” I assure her.
She pulls out of my embrace and reaches for the box of tissues. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think I’d do this. I mean I met you while you were on duty. And you told me how much your job means to you. It’s just that when I saw the footage…I thought I’d never see you again. And that scared me so much. I don’t want anything to happen to you,” she says as she tries to pull herself together.
“You don’t have to be sorry. I love that you care so much about me. And I get wanting me to safe, my mom has five boys and all of us are in law enforcement in one way or another.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. And believe it or not, my job is actually one of the safest.”
“How is that possible?” she asks.
“We all blame our parents. My mom traveled with a world organization that went to different countries and helped bring water to villages and build homes. She dragged us with her sometimes and we got addicted to being of service. And my dad was in the army and he brought a lot of that ‘structure’ and ‘discipline’ stuff back with him. They knew we’d help out but thought it would be as doctors or public defenders. They had no idea we’d all carry guns.”
“All five of you?”
“Yes, and sometimes it sucks. Sometimes it’s all my mom can do not to lose it because she hasn’t heard from one of us in a month,” I admit.
“How is she okay with that?” Winter begs.
“I don’t think she’s okay with it. But I think she gets that when all is said and done, it’s who we are. It’s what makes us happy. And she is strong enough to put her worries aside and let us be who she raised us to be.”
She snuffles as she cries what I hope are her last stream of tears. “Wow…I am in awe of your mother,” She says.
“Well don’t think she doesn’t give us crap for it. She tries to guilt us all the time. She sends us ‘are you done playing with guns’ messages that are cleverly disguised as ‘I’m just checking up on my boys.’ They are usually twenty minutes long and she goes on and on about how she’s growing old and fragile. And how we should consider retiring to spend time with her. Then she adds a weak cough at the end of it. She gives an Oscar winning performance each time.”
