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“I know what’s going on out here better than you do, Sloane. Remember, I’m the one that goes into these rooms with men, and you’re the one who stands outside waiting for a signal. I’m always closer to death than you are, and I never flinch; I have no fear,” I tell him.
“Whoa! That cuts deep. I didn’t know you thought of me like that. I think you know better than I do that I would go in with them if I had the right utensils,” he says, sounding wounded. “I care about what happens to you. That’s why I guard you even when you don’t want me to.”
“I don’t mean to come off rude, and yes, I appreciate you looking out for me. It just can be a bit much sometimes,” I acknowledge.
“Well, I want you to know I’m here for you, even though you’re always pushing me away. When I vowed to look after my partner, I meant it,” he says.
“Thanks, partner. I have your back, too.”
“You’re welcome, and that’s good to hear. Good night, Yan.”
“Good night,” I say and hang up.
A few minutes later, I drive off, heading home. I see Sloane’s car take off in the opposite direction, but as I suspected, when I arrive home, he’s already waiting at the edge of my driveway.
“Just making sure you get in safely,” he yells out of the window.
I smile, go inside, disarm the alarm, and do a quick search throughout the house. It’s all clear, so I come back to the door to let Sloane know it’s safe for him to leave. It’s a routine we follow most nights, so I’m used to it. Sloane’s biggest fear is one of the perps finding out where I live and then coming here to attack me. He would have to be swamped with work for him not to see me home safely. It’s become a part of our daily ritual.
“Everything is good, big brother,” I say because he treats me as if I’m a little sister he has to guard against the world.
“Sweet dreams,” he says, waving before he pulls off with the turbo pipes on his Camaro raging as he rides away.
My house is quiet as I go through the motions of getting ready for bed. Once I lay down, the stranger from earlier tonight comes back to my mind. Somehow, when he was around, he made me forget about the crazy old lady’s outbursts. He made me forget my overbearing partner would likely be somewhere close by watching. Heck, he almost made me forget I’m an agent.
Chapter Three
Blaze
I’m five minutes early the next night. When I pull up and get out, I notice the air is even more humid than last night, and the sky is gloomy. I spent the entire drive over lecturing myself about how inappropriate it is to be attracted to a prostitute I’m supposed to be arresting. I also reminded myself of how important it would be that I keep it together this time. For some reason, I have a terrible feeling my pep talk won’t stick—maybe because I spent much of the morning daydreaming about her golden glazed lips, with just enough plumpness to make a strong man weak, being sucked into my mouth.
Then, I lay eyes on her again. She’s sitting on a park bench looking like a modern-day princess. I thought I had it together before I got here, but now my little head is bouncing at just the sight of her. I pace the sidewalk by the rose garden, muttering encouraging, self-control mantras to myself. Mantras that will help me get my head in the game before I even think of approaching her.
You’re here to make an arrest, I chant in my mind over and over again. You’re a damn good officer, sworn to protect and serve this community, I tell myself, though I’m not sure I’ll ever gather the constitution to put her in cuffs. Unless it’s for other reasons.
I quiet my thoughts and approach her.
She’s wearing another provocative outfit tonight. This time, a candy apple red dress with glittery sparkles that seem to be melding into her cocoa brown skin. The dress shows off her breasts, and the six-inch red heels on her feet bring her just about to my height when she stands, cellphone in hand. The entire outfit is screaming ‘come fuck me,’ and the thought of another man touching her chips at a piece of my sanity.
“Hello?” I say to take her attention from the phone in her palm.
“Oh shit,” she spits out and freezes like a deer caught in headlights when she looks up into my eyes. “You came,” she says sounding extra raspy.
“Yes, why wouldn’t I?” I ask.
“I don’t know. I know you said you were coming, and I was hoping you would. I’m glad to see you,” she rambles.
I have to remind myself it’s all an act for her. She gets paid and has probably been trained by a pimp or, worse, traffickers, to seduce men into a stupor. This innocent girl act is likely part of the scheme.
“I’m glad to see you, too,” I admit, sounding as if I suddenly have cotton in my mouth. The dryness from me holding it open in awe of her beauty is evident. “I mean, look at you. What man in his right mind wouldn’t come back to meet you?”
The comment is partially me just doing my job, but mostly I can’t help myself. The flirtations with her are genuine. I want her to hear every word, soak it in, and understand her beauty.
She blinks, and the sweep of her eyelashes is spellbinding in the dim light of the lamp overhead.
“I guess you’re right,” she says, smiling. “Now, where were we last night, again? Remind me.”
I step closer and let my voice drop an octave. “We were talking about what I have to do to get you in my bed,” I say, cutting to the chase. That’s easy enough to do because a larger part of me than I would like to admit wants this bed tango to happen pronto.
