Page 20 of Misadventures in Blue
Working. The. Damn. Case.
So we work the case. Jace has officially switched to day shift now, so I actually do get him up to speed on everything. I assign him to some follow-ups and calls to witnesses to verify reports, and we manage to get through it without any unprofessional interaction. Or, you know, more police station intercourse.
I can’t stop aching for him, though. Those intense gray eyes that get darker and stormier when they look at me. That frowning mouth that I now know can be kissed into softness. Those big, rough hands that handle my body the way I’ve always needed to be handled, even if I hadn’t known it. More than once when we’re working in the meeting room, I excuse myself to use the restroom and then rub myself to a quick, urgent orgasm in the stall just to take the edge off. It’s the only time I’ve ever been grateful for the gender disparity in the police force—more privacy in the bathroom to indulge this unseemly need for a much-younger-than-me man.
It’s a long week, with both of us unhappy and strained and physically uncomfortable. And the week gets even longer when I realize I have my low-light range recertification waiting for me at the end of it. It’s the annual test I have to take to prove to my department I can operate a firearm in the dark. But I know I can operate a firearm in the dark and operate it well.
It was how I killed Frazer’s murderer all those years ago.
And therein lies the problem. It’s the one thing I do each year that brings it all back. The dark, shitty house in the worst part of town. The frantic babbles of the meth addict who’d just stabbed Frazer and left him to bleed out on the dirty floor. The kick of the gun in my hand as I fired and the killer fell. Trying to save the man I was supposed to marry…
My hands shake as I pull my vest over my shirt. I opted out of my usual uniform of silk and tailored skirts today, knowing I’d be striding and darting around the darkened range rooms. I’m wearing the blue, like a real cop. Something I rarely do since I transferred to investigations after Frazer’s death, leaving the world of uniforms and midnight stabbings behind.
So here I am—polyester uniform shirt, utility pants, load-bearing vest. I’m even wearing boots instead of my customary heels. I have to force myself to breathe as I tighten the laces, I’m so agitated by what’s about to come.
It’s stupid to feel like this, I chastise myself. It’s been twelve years, and anyway, it’s never permissible to be afraid of the dark.
But the minute the lights go down, my mouth goes dry. I can make myself move through the cinderblock rooms, shining my flashlight onto faceless paper targets. I can make myself shoot perfectly, hearing only the dull pop pops through my earmuffs, but it doesn’t matter. I still see that house, the terrified and blank face of the perp, spattered with Frazer’s blood. I still smell old food and vomit and the coppery scent of my fiancé’s life soaking into the old, stained carpet. I still remember Frazer’s vacant stare.
I relive it every single time I’m forced to do this.
When I finish, I’m as empty as the magazine in my gun.
“Two hundred forty-six out of two fifty.” The firearms sergeant grins at me as I’m taking off my vest. “That’s a new personal best.”
“Sure.”
He laughs. “Don’t act too excited now.”
I try to give him a smile in return, but it feels all wrong on my face. Everything feels wrong.
Nothing will ever feel right again.
Making excuses, I stride quickly out of the training center and get to my unmarked car. I go back to my station and finish up for the day, staying a couple of hours late because I forget to look at the clock and can’t seem to feel the time passing. Jace has gone home—the keys to his patrol car are hung back up, and I recognize every personal car left in the lot, meaning none of them are his.
Not seeing Jace makes everything worse—makes everything so bad that I just want to curl up and cry and cry and cry.
But I don’t cry. I never do.
Somehow I make it out to my own car, with my portfolio and purse in the passenger seat and my phone in my hand. I’ve dialed Russo.
What the hell am I even doing? I don’t know.
“Russo,” Nicki answers in her familiar brusque way.
“Nicki, where do your evening people go to unwind?”
A pause. “Whyyyyyyy are you asking?”
“I’m looking for someone.”
“Is it Jace Sutton?” my old friend asks in a too-casual voice.
Oh no. Like any cop, Nicki smells gossip, and I’m searching for a plausible reason—any plausible reason—why I’d need Jace after hours.
“I have a couple questions about his contacts today. He was out of the station his whole shift, and I didn’t have a chance to catch him before he left.” Even with as shaken up as I am, as empty and wrong-feeling, my voice is still perfectly steady, perfectly cool. I know I sound convincing.
“Okay,” Russo says, and I can tell she’s torn between her instincts and how well I sold that lie. “Well. The eves crew usually heads over to the Dirty Nickel after a shift or on their days off. He might be there, I guess.”
