Page 17 of What Hurts Us

Seeing shit like that leaves a mark. Sometimes the cut is no deeper than the nick of a razor. But eventually, the right—or wrong—call will connect those hairline cuts and make you bleed.

“Going home after this?”

“Back to the base, then home, yeah.”

There was my opening. She’d have at least a day before her next shift. The clock was ticking if I was going to convince her to help me out in the ruse I had cooked up.

This morning, Brandie Jean had sent four dozen doughnuts to the precinct with a card covered in glitter. She’d signed it with a lipstick kiss and “BJ” in neon pink gel pen. Our civilian administrative assistant, a twenty-something redhead named Kate, had managed to pry the pastry boxes out of BJ’s manicured hands without letting her anywhere near my desk.

I had to get out of that fundraiser.

The principal announced the rotation of each class visiting the trucks, cars, and the helicopter, trying to stave off a mosh pit of excited children. While she gave instructions for keeping hands to one’s self and not touching anything without asking permission, I turned to face Layla. “Would you, uh... Would you wanna grab a drink tonight?”

She mimicked my position, turning to face me as she raised flawlessly arched eyebrows. “A drink?”

“Yeah.” I shrugged as if I did this all the time. The truth was, I didn’t. Not ever. “There’s a little bar over in Hillsborough—The Tipsy Goat. Decent place. A little pretentious. Or if you don’t drink, we could get coffee. I probably should have asked if you drank… Some people don’t.”

“I do,” she said with a nervous laugh. “Drink, I mean. You know—for the record.”

“How’s eight? It’ll give you a chance to get some shuteye. I’ll be off at seven, get a quick shower and meet you there.”

Layla took a step back. “That’s sweet, but no.”

I frowned. “No?”

“No,” she confirmed. “Thanks for the offer, though. I’m just not dating right now.”

“It’s not a date,” I countered. “Just a drink between… Colleagues.”

“You’re not my type, Officer Fletcher.” There was conviction in her voice. Resolve.

Something niggled in the back of my mind—like she’d said that before, but I couldn’t quite place it. My mind swirled like I’d been thrust back onto that stretcher, strapped down, and loaded into the back of the helicopter. In my mind’s eye, Layla hovered above me, competent hands checking my vitals. The warmth of her touch was reassuring.

“You said that to me in the helicopter.”

She pointed to my badge. “I don’t date cops. Nothing personal.”

“Seems pretty personal if you ask me,” I muttered. “But like I said, this wouldn’t be a date.”

Her quiet laugh was caustic and, if I had to guess, a little heartbroken. “That’s what the last guy said.”

Before I could get another word in, a hoard of fifth graders flooded around the helicopter. Layla’s tempered demeanor exploded like a firecracker of excitement. “Hi, everyone! Who wants to go inside the helicopter first?”

A chorus ofme, me, me!erupted.

I waded through the melee, watching her over my shoulder as I worked my way back to my squad car. Layla helped a pint-sized person into one of the jump seats, then fitted her helmet over his little head.

Her smile was infectious. If she hadn’t just wrecked all my carefully laid plans, I would have smiled, too.

7

LAYLA

Idragged my exhausted ass through my apartment door, all but dead on my feet. My stomach growled from the lack of breakfast and lunch, but I couldn’t find the energy to open the fridge.

Answering the same damn questions over and over again from a legion of hyperactive children removed every fuck from myfucks-to-givejar.

My feet ached as I peeled my slides off and dropped them by the door. The gym bag holding my helmet, flight suit, and boots hit the peeling vinyl floor with athump.

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