The Patrol

If anyone had told her on her very first day of meeting Detective Gavin Reed that this shamelessly arrogant man would end up pinning her into the back seat of his SUV, Kira would have laughed out loud and flipped them the bird. Detective Reed was a man who had managed to alienate almost the entire department, including her, in record time. But never say never. Everyone knew perfectly well that Gavin Reed was willing to do whatever it took to climb the career ladder, even if it meant stepping on everyone else's toes—which, in fact, he had already done on multiple occasions. That was exactly why everybody hated him. This spawn of hell spared no one; he didn't give a damn about anyone else's feelings, ethics, or morality. The pangs of conscience had likely never plagued this man even once. He detested the spineless crybabies and hesitant weaklings in the Major Crimes division, firmly believing that the only thing those pathetic losers were good for was filling out paperwork at a desk, not chasing down maniacs and killers. And that was precisely why he hated her. He hated her because, despite his years of grueling hard work, he had nearly been demoted to a common beat cop over a blunder he hadn't even committed. Fowler had saddled him with this provincial girl without even asking, and now the detective was paying the price. He hated her because he had to micromanage and double-check her every step, her every action, her every single decision. Now, the fallout of those decisions crashed down on both of them, but it was his skin they would flay, of course. Failed to keep an eye out. Failed to monitor. Failed to guide. "Here, meet Kira Wainwright from Fenton," the dark-skinned captain had said with a wave of his hand toward the petite brunette, who looked more like a schoolgirl than a cop. "She's under your wing now." Those last three words out of Fowler's mouth hit Gavin like a sledgehammer to the skull. He was certain he could actually hear a ringing in his ears as the ground gave way beneath his feet. He didn't even bother asking what specific sins had brought this punishment down on him in the form of a trainee. For the next six months at least, he was going to have to babysit a provincial cop who probably only knew how to write parking tickets and rescue cats from trees. His teeth ground together at the stark realization that, on average, police probationary periods in the US lasted anywhere from twelve to eighteen months. On the fateful day that little devil crossed the threshold of his department, the detective finally became a believer in karma—and it had definitely caught up with him for all his past shady dealings.

***

His rare kisses on her lips were sweet, matching the flavored filter of the cigarettes he had been smoking all evening, though they couldn't entirely mask the bitter aftertaste of lingering tobacco smoke. There had only been two of them during the entire time they spent horizontal. One felt more like a bite, born out of a deep, prolonged hunger rather than genuine passion. Just half an hour ago, she wouldn't have even dreamed of finding out what this insufferable detective's lips tasted like. The rest of her body, however, received far more attention. His three-day stubble scratched harshly against her sensitive skin, leaving faint red patches along her cheekbones, neck, and chest. He didn't give a damn that his biting left marks on her delicate skin. He did exactly what he wanted, exactly how he wanted, and her timid gasps only egged him on. The cold buckle of the belt on his half-lowered pants pressed painfully into the inner side of her thigh, but the girl tried to ignore it, not daring to move. It would almost certainly leave a small bruise. The detective badge clipped to his belt dangled, occasionally brushing her skin with a jolt of cold metal. Her bare back clung to the seat, peeling uncomfortably away from the leather upholstery with every rough thrust. On her fragile frame, only her white bra remained, pushed up to expose her chest. The detective himself had only discarded his jacket, which now hung over the headrest. His dark blue sweater, saturated with male cologne and tobacco, stayed firmly on, minimizing any actual skin-to-skin contact between them. This was by no means supposed to feel like making love—absolutely not. They weren't lovers, and they had no intention of becoming them. Everything had to play out exactly as intended: fast, harsh, and decisive, with minimal foreplay and not a single drop of tenderness. They didn't look each other in the eye, painstakingly avoiding any accidental visual contact. It would have been awkward, even entirely inappropriate—if anything could be deemed inappropriate given the current circumstances. Kira turned her head to the side, trying to latch her gaze onto anything at all, and her attention caught on the zipper tab of his brown leather jacket, which was swaying in rhythm with the rocking of the SUV. The small metal piece was a different color than the rest of the zipper; it had probably broken more than once from his rough, careless handling. The detective's face buried itself deeply into her black hair, breathing in her scent—likely for the exact same reason, to avoid crossing glances. The more intense the movements of the detective became—starved as he was for a woman's body—the heavier his breathing grew. At first, her hands tentatively brushed against his back, her index finger tracing faint patterns over the soft fabric, but soon enough, they slipped under his sweater. She cautiously wandered beneath the cloth, her fingertips mapping out the scars she stumbled upon from time to time. Pure curiosity sparked a sudden desire to actually examine them, to guess the stories behind how they got there. Her timid actions met no resistance, so Kira hooked her fingers into the hem of the sweater, pulling it upward. But the detective instantly intercepted her inquisitive hands, pinning her wrists down into the leather seat somewhere above her head. "Don't," he muttered. He pinned her flat beneath him, pressing down with his full weight as he drove into her with even rougher, more relentless force. The sudden, mounting ache from his harsh movements brought a prickle of tears to the corners of her eyes. Under the sheer mass of his eighty kilograms of muscle and volatile temperament, she could barely draw a breath; the brief, shallow gasps she managed to catch were instantly knocked out of her lungs. For a fleeting second, she wanted to wrench herself free from the iron trap of his grip, to shove her hands against his shoulders just to get him to ease up, but she could tell he was already too close to the edge to slow down now. Closing her eyes tight, she forced herself to go completely limp, trying to dissolve into the moment and numb her mind entirely—to stop thinking about exactly who was on top of her and what the hell they were going to do when this was over. After what felt like an agonizing eternity, the detective delivered a few final, heavy thrusts. Kira felt him pulse deeply inside her as he buried his face against her neck, his breath ragged and hot. His heart was hammering violently against his ribs, forcing him to draw deep, shuddering lungfuls of air. Beads of sweat on his forehead had plastered a few stray chestnut strands to his skin, and their colognes had melted together, creating a distinct, heavy scent that would undoubtedly haunt them both long after tonight, serving as a constant reminder of what they had just done. Once he finally managed to catch his breath, the detective pushed himself up slightly, bracing his weight on his elbows. He hovered there, his tobacco-laced breath fanning evenly over her face. Without a word, he brushed a damp dark lock away from her cheek and neck, silently taking in the visual evidence of his work on her body. "You alright?" he asked bluntly, clearly aware that he had crossed the line into being overly rough with the biting and the bruising. To anyone else looking at her right now, it would look less like a casual hookup and more like his junior partner had been jumped and choked out in a dark alley. Without waiting for her reply, the detective finally hauled himself up, freeing the girl from the crushing weight of his body, and a long, shuddering sigh of relief finally escaped her lips. The absence of his massive frame instantly allowed her to draw a full, unhindered breath again. Remaining flat on her back across the leather seat, she listened to the familiar clink of the detective buckling his belt, followed by the soft whir of the power window sliding down, letting a rush of crisp, rain-cooled air flood into the cabin. Then came that exact moment of quiet, twisting bewilderment: she had absolutely no idea what to say or how to act. If someone were to ask,“What the hell was that?”she wouldn't have an answer, and neither would Gavin. Kira desperately hoped they wouldn't have to break down what had just happened and figure out their next steps. Because realistically, what other choice did they have? Pretend it never happened? Or...? No, there was no "or." They would almost certainly act like nothing had transpired. Reed would go right back to grumbling and tearing into her every move, and she would go right back to detesting him for it. The heavy thud of the front door slamming shut cut her off just as she finally managed to part her lips to answer his earlier question. "Move it, trainee. We got a call," Gavin said, slapping her thigh before settling behind the steering wheel. The detective, looking entirely unfazed, clamped a fresh cigarette between his teeth as he answered a ringing phone. It seemed as though absolutely nothing could shake the man, as if this sort of thing were just another standard Tuesday for him. “Honestly, what else did I expect from Gavin?” the "trainee" thought with a silent, weary sigh, finally peeling herself off the leather upholstery of the dark grey Nissan's back seat.