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I should stop looking at her ass. Ineedto stop looking at her ass. The second I saw her from the side, strutting down the sidewalk in that tight black dress that’s hugging some of the most magnificent curves I’ve ever seen with a pair of fuck me heels, I knew she was going to be gorgeous. Her skin is a tanned, almost caramel color and she has this long brown hair that cascades down her shoulders and reminds me of the color of chocolate. I fucking love chocolate.
When I called out to her and got her to turn around, I was stunned by her face. A woman with a body that belongs in a Renaissance painting can’t have a face like that. It’s not fair to the other women in the world. For just a second her dark browneyes looked heated as she took my measure but then turned cold when they landed on my face.
It didn’t matter how attractive she was, she was still breaking the law. I mean, it’s a minor infraction but it’s also just plain rude. She said her car was hanging over into my driveway by two inches, it is clearly closer to two feet. Yes, I can get out of the driveway as long as I’m careful not to scratch either of our cars, but that’s not the point. The point is that it’s still an infraction and frankly it’s a safety hazard. What if I had to leave quickly? There are reasons we have rules and laws. They keep everything in order. They keep us safe.
I can feel my cock half hard in my pants and it pisses me off. Being a cop means that I’m basically in the business of heated exchanges and I’ve never had a reaction like this to arguing with anyone before. Especially someone so obviously flippant about following the rules.
There’s movement in the window of the house she just disappeared inside, and I see a young woman, about the same age as my little spitfire, with long black hair peeking out the window. She’s quickly joined by Sparky who has the audacity to give me a little wave. From the look on her face, it might as well be the middle finger.
I’ve stood here like an idiot long enough and I really don’t have time for this. I turn and head back to my newly purchased home. No, I’m not going to call parking enforcement on her, that’s a dick move, even for me. I’m just not used to people not doing what I say. The badge usually makes them hop-to, though I’m not one to abuse the privilege the badge can give me. I’m rather disgusted by those cops that flash it around for anything from free food to getting out of a speeding ticket on the highway or even using it to pick up women. No, I just like things to be in order. Under control. That’s what I use my badge for.
When I get inside my new home I look around and am happy with the progress I’ve made. It took me hours but most of the boxes are now unpacked and everything is in its new designated place. How I’ve accumulated so much stuff I’ll never know. But then again, it’s not only my stuff anymore, is it?
I check the clock and figure I have some time to finish unpacking the kitchen boxes before chaos rains down on me once again. Besides, the work will help keep the curvy beauty next door off my mind where she’s been since the moment I saw her walking down the street.
By the time a few hours have passed, I’m barely even thinking about the girl next door and there are no more boxes out in plain sight. I wipe the sweat out of my eyes and pull open the refrigerator hoping to find something to cool me down. It’s fall in Seattle but that doesn’t mean I’m not working up a sweat. Going from a tiny two-bedroom apartment in Los Angeles to a three-bedroom house in the Seattle suburbs is going to take some getting used to. I was positive I didn’t have enough things to fill the place up but I guess I was wrong considering how much stuff I just unpacked.
It looks like the only two things I have in the fridge are a six pack of beer along with a case of juice boxes. I’ll have to add going to the grocery store to the very long list of things that need to get taken care of quickly. This kind of thing was so much simpler when it was just me. I mean, who cares if I grab takeout every night? Now I need to be concerned about things like balanced meals and packing lunches. I’m not upset about the change the direction my life has taken, but if you had asked me a year ago if apple juice was one of my household staples I would have laughed you right out of the room.
I grab one of the beers and twist the top off, taking a long pull from the bottle. As I look around at the unfamiliar house, I have a rare moment of anxiety. Maybe we should have stayed in LosAngeles where everything was comfortable and familiar. I could have made it work.
I shake my head at myself. No, it was time to get away from there. Just the fact that Gloria has been able to put us up for the past few weeks while the house went through escrow is a testament to the kind of help I’ll be able to get here that just wasn’t available to me in LA.
“Carson? Are you in here?” Speak of the devil. Well, speak of the aging and mildly eccentric busybody known as my great aunt.
“I’m in the kitchen, Gloria,” I call out. I’m quickly downing the rest of my beer, trying to quench my thirst, when Gloria struts into the room. She’s dressed in head-to-toe leopard print including a beret that she has sitting at a crooked angle on her head. She’s topped off her eye melting outfit with starfish earrings as big as my fist. They look heavy as hell and I have no idea how they’re not ripping right out of her earlobes. That thought makes me cringe a little.
With his hand held in hers in what appears to be a death grip is my nephew, Oliver. Oliver and I have known each other—lived together—for six months now, and while he’s gotten more comfortable around me, he still has bouts of shyness. And strangers? Forget it.
I squat down so that I’m about at his height and try to ignore the fact that I just heard a pop in my knee. At thirty-one years old, I refuse to believe that my body is falling apart already.
“Hey buddy. Were you good for your Aunt Gloria today?” I guess technically she’s his great-great aunt but there’s no reason to confuse the kid.
Instead of answering he just nods his head at me before disentangling his hand from hers and walks into the new den, looking for the television remote. I suppress the sigh I want to let out. He’s had a rough go in life and I figure it’s going to takesome time for him to really open up and become the carefree and happy kid I’m hoping he’ll develop into. But the fact that he’s been with me six months and only says the occasional sentence or two is starting to be cause for concern.
Six months ago, I didn’t even know Oliver existed.
My father used to be a cop working for the Los Angeles Police Department. He was a doting and attentive father that loved his wife and children fiercely. We were the only thing that could compete was his love for his community and the people that lived there.
When I was eighteen, he was killed during a routine traffic stop on the side of the road. He pulled some guy over for having a busted taillight. He had just planned to give him a warning and let him go on his way. Well, it turned out that man had several warrants out and rather than go back to jail he shot Dad four times in the chest before taking off down the road, leaving him there to die.
I had always wanted to be a cop and my father’s death just solidified that for me. I wanted to make him proud so I worked hard, joined the academy, and rose through the ranks until I was assigned to the Gang and Narcotics Division of the LAPD. It wasn’t an easy job by any stretch of the imagination, but it made me feel closer to my dad and I felt like I was making a difference.
While Dad’s death had given me focus and direction it seemed to do the opposite with my mother and sister. Mom started drinking her days away, but it was my sister, Molly, that seemed to take it the hardest. She was only twelve when Dad died. At six years younger than me, we didn’t have a whole lot in common. I tried to be there for her but I was a young man wrapped up in my own life and my own grief.
By the time she was in high school she was involved pretty deeply into the LA drug scene. Going to class was never a top priority for her and she eventually just dropped out completely.I told her if she graduated from high school I would pay for her to go to college. I pleaded for her to go to a rehab facility I would find for her. It didn’t matter what I tried or how much I pleaded, she wanted nothing to do with getting clean or with me for that matter.
Mom was of no help. She should have been in rehab herself. She was hanging onto her job by a thread and one day when she was driving home from work, she ran straight into a light pole. The coroner said she would have died instantly upon impact. Her blood alcohol level was three times the legal limit and it was assumed the entire thing was an unfortunate accident. I’m not entirely convinced she didn’t run straight into that pole on purpose, just ready to get back to my father any way she could.
After that, I lost Molly, she was eighteen by then and there was no controlling her. She literally disappeared. By then I was working with the GND and I held my breath every time I entered a trap house, scouring every face, both hoping and dreading I would find her there, but I never did.
At one point I even hired a private investigator to find her, but he had about as much luck as I did. The only thing he could tell me was that there was a rumor she left town with her dealer and pimp, heading north.
In an effort to block out the pain, I pushed my sister to the back of my mind and doubled down on work. I picked up every shift I could, every piece of overtime I was offered I grabbed. Sure, it gave me a nice little nest egg to be able to buy a house here but most importantly, it kept my mind off everything that was missing in my life.
Then about six months ago I got the call.
“Are you sure you want to stay here tonight?” I see Gloria’s head swiveling to check out the state of the house. “You know you boys are more than welcome at my place until you have everything unpacked.”
