All these years later, and I’m still just as pathetic for her as I was when we were teenagers. I’m not sure what that says about me.
Rather than question my sanity this early in the morning, I groan and swing my legs out of bed, rubbing the sleep—or lack thereof—out of my face. Before standing, I work out the stiffness in my shoulder. The pain is always worsein the mornings, tender, like the wound is still fresh even though it’s been months.
For a moment, as I sit on the edge of the bed, visions of the incident rotate through my mind. For some fucked up reason, it helps if I get it all out now—get it over with—rather than a memory hitting me when I need to be on my game. Sometimes a memory will hit me regardless, but this helps. Facing it head-on helps.
Breathing deeply, I take in my space, grounding myself. Slowly, the images fade into the distant reaches of my mind. Far enough away to move forward with enough clarity to get through the day.
The faint morning light spills through the makeshift curtains, painting the room in muted shades of gray. My bedroom is the only livable part of the house. Buying a fixer-upper seemed exciting at first—full of possibilities—but that excitement faded fast after my first night here. Growing up, my dad made renovations look easy, and I’m quickly realizing I didn’t inherit his knack for it. Progress has been slower than I expected, the to-do list just keeps getting longer. But, I chose this place for a reason. It has history, and that makes all the hassle worth it.
My uniform hangs neatly on the chair by the window, a silent reminder that the world doesn’t stop for sleepless nights or complicated ex-girlfriends. Nothing about this job gives a shit about what’s going on inside your head. There isn’t suddenly a lack of crime just because I’m distracted.
And yet, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Even after leaving the chaos of Los Angeles for the sleepy calm of Red Mountain, the unpredictable nature of this job still sends a rush of adrenaline through me.
After a groggy, quick shower, I slip into my uniform, tugging my boots on with a groan. Ryker—the sheriff and an old buddy from high school—is going to take one look atme and know I didn’t sleep a lick. Unfortunately for him, he can’t afford to send me home because of it.
I grab my keys off the counter and head out, the crisp morning air nips at my skin, the scent of sour grapes infiltrating my nose. The smell brings on a wave of comforting nostalgia. Some things never change, even when it feels like everything has.
As I slide into my patrol SUV, I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror—dark circles under my eyes, my jaw set tight. I look like shit, feel like shit, and now I have to work a twelve hour shift masking all of it.
This job may not be as high-risk as my last one, but it only takes one misstep for things to take a turn. Still, in all my attempts to remain focus, as I start the engine and pull onto the road, Ellie’s voice echoes in my head, so full of anger and hurt, I nearly broke protocol.I’m never going to forgive you for this.
I have no idea how I’m going to fix the mess I made yesterday. Is there even a way to apologize to someone after arresting them? Nothing I come up with seems good enough—but doing nothing feels just as wrong. I’m not sure I’ve made one right decision since moving back. Starting with the move itself—a choice I made in the aftermath of two life-altering events. Every day since, it’s felt more and more like a lapse in judgment.
I’m not slipping into the job as easily as I thought I would have. Connecting with old friends has been more like a chore than anything else. And then there’s Ellie. She can’t stand me, can barely look at me.
Pulling her over was supposed to be funny—an icebreaker to get past her cold exterior. And in my defense, she really did have a taillight out. Having to fucking arrest her was not part of the plan.
I should’ve just let her go and ignored the bench warrant,but I’m too much of a rule follower to let it slide, even for her. If she didn’t already hate me, she sure as hell does now. Maybe coming back was a mistake, a romanticized idea I let get out of hand.
The scent of burnt coffee greets me as I step into the station, mingling with the hum of conversation and the faint clatter of keyboards. The station is lively, churning like it always is on a weekday morning. Ryker leans against the corner of the front desk, mug in hand, shooting the breeze with the public records clerk, Nicky. He grins when he spots me.
“Morning, Dom. You look like hell.”
“Good morning to you, too,” I reply, dropping my keys onto the communal hook. “Your coffee still taste like black tar?”
He raises his mug with a smirk. “Wouldn’t have it any other way. Man’s coffee, puts hair on your chest.”
I glance toward the break room, debating whether to risk a cup or stick with water. Last time I had a cup of his lethal coffee it ripped my stomach to shreds. I have no idea how he drinks that poison.
“Alvarez!” a voice calls out. “You’re late.”
Turning, I see Deputy Morales standing by a cluster of filing cabinets, she’s sorting through a stack of paperwork, her dark ponytail swaying as she moves. She casts me an overly bright smile, her cheeks looking slightly flushed.I’m surprised she’s still here since her shift ended over an hour ago.
She was my FTO when I first started, AKA my babysitter, and I couldn’t stand her. She lacks the concept of personal space, and her eager personality grated at me, especially in themornings. Somehow, though, she’s started worming her way under my skin and kind of growing on me. Kind of.
“On time isn’t late,” I say, snagging a donut from the box on the front desk. Some stereotypes exist for a reason, donuts included. But I’ll be damned if I let them move my belt notch. I already increased my workouts when I realized how much more sedentary this job is compared to my last one. It might seem action-packed, but the reality is a lot of sitting around—way more than when I worked in L.A..
In a small town like Red Mountain, crime tends to be quieter, and the job moves at a slower pace. Most of what we deal with involves domestics, bar fights, or the occasional property crime. Anything within city limits is technically handled by the Red Mountain Police Department, but since we’re the sheriff’s office for the entire county, there’s plenty of overlap.
“Any later and you’d miss out on the hot new case we just got,” Morales shoots back. Her eyes widen to saucers as if she’s trying to have a silent conversation with me, but I don’t understand.
It’s Clore County, how exciting can the case be?
Ryker steps closer, likely drawn by the tail end of Morales’s words. The station isn’t exactly spacious, and quiet conversations are nearly impossible. His shoulders straighten as his grin fades slightly. “She’s not kidding. We’ve got something weird on our hands this morning. Might be your kind of thing.”
I arch a brow, donut halfway to my mouth. “Define ‘weird.’”
He gestures toward the hallway. “Better if you see for yourself. Team huddle in the training room at six thirty.”
