The drive across town is quiet. The sun’s just starting its climb, casting long orange shadows across the pavement. My car’s speakers are loud, blasting my playlist, but my thoughts are louder—echoing with everything I should be ready for and everything I hopedoesn’thappen again.
When I pull into the Westside Division employee parking lot, my nerves start to kick in. The building stands before me—familiar now, but still a little intimidating. I park, kill the engine, and take a deep breath before sliding out of the car. I walk toward the back entrance, the rising sun warm on my back.
Time to face the day.
I make my way through the station at a steady pace, the echo of my boots muffled by the low hum of morning chatter. A few officers pass by, offering polite nods or distracted greetings, most of them too caught up in their own routines to do more than glance my way.
As I approach Roll Call, I spot Sergeant Rodriguez already stationed at the podium, her eyes fixed on her phone. She looks up when I enter, and her expression softens into a smile.
“Morning, Miss Carson,” she says, her tone casual as she slips the phone into her pocket. “How was your Labor Day weekend?”
“It was great,” I answer, settling into the front table. “Had a bit of a weird start on Friday, but nothing I couldn’t handle.”
She raises an eyebrow but doesn’t press. “Glad to hear you had a good weekend. Mine wasn’t too terrible either.” After a moment, she steps around the podium, her tone shifting slightly as she approaches me. There’s something more deliberate in the way she lowers her voice.
“Anyways, I wanted to touch base about something before we start,” she says, half-sitting on the edge of the table in front of me. “I’m aware of the incident between you and Officer Perez last week.”
I blink, caught off guard. Not because she knows—of course, she knows, conflict between officers never stays hidden—but because the second she says his name, the wrong kind of heat creeps up my neck.
My stomach twists, shame tangling with anger. I press my thumbnail into the pad of my finger and look away, trying to keep my expression neutral. How the hell did I go from cursing him out in my head to touching myself to the thought of him pinning me down?
Rodriguez keeps talking, unaware of the firestorm inside my chest.
“I wish you would’ve said something,” she adds gently. “But I understand why you didn’t. No one wants to be that person.”
I lean back in my seat and meet her eyes as I pick at my nails, a nervous habit of mine. “It wasn’t worth escalating,” I admit. “He wasn’t exactly warm, but I didn’t want to get anyone in trouble. I figured I could deal.”
Rodriguez gives me a small nod, her expression thoughtful. “And that’s fair. But this isn’t about causing trouble, Raelynn. It’s about accountability. That ride-along should’ve been a learning experience—not a test of patience.”
My heart thuds a little faster, dread curling in my gut like smoke before a fire. I know exactly what’s coming.
“This isn’t a punishment for you not coming to me. It’s a consequence for him,” she continues. “He needs to learn to accept that there are going to be times when the job isn’t how he wants it to be, which is why you’ll be riding with him again today.”
And there it is.
I swallow hard. It’s like my body hears that before my brain can even process it, because heat flashes beneath my skin again—an involuntary, traitorous response I don’t want to admit. My throat’s dry, my hands are clammy, and my brain short-circuits at the thought of being stuck in a cruiser with him again, not after Friday’s events.
“I see,” I say after a beat, trying to keep my voice steady.
Rodriguez offers a look of sympathy but stays firm. “He’s a damn good cop, but not the easiest personality. Think of it this way—either he learns to work with people, or he keeps having to answer to me. And if it gets worse, I want to hear about it. He’s been spoken to already, so he knows what’s expected of him.”
I nod slowly, exhaling a breath through my nose. “Understood, ma’am.”
“Good,” she says, straightening up as a few officers trickle into the room. “Keep your chin up, Carson. You’re doing just fine.”
“Thanks,” I murmur, though the knot in my chest says otherwise.
Because now I have to get through another five hours sitting next to the man who made me feel like shit… and made me come so hard I bit my own damn hand trying to stay quiet.
Yeah. Just fine.
Rodriguez returns to the front of the room, her presence shifting the energy just enough to signal it’s almost time to get serious. Around me, the low murmur of conversation picks up as officers begin filtering in from the hallway. The shuffle of boots across tile, the soft clatter of chairs being pulled out, and someone cracking a lazy joke that earns a few quiet laughs.
The usual stuff. Routine. Comforting, if I could actually feel comfort right now.
Some of the officers chat casually about Sunday’s game, tossing around stats and trash talk like it’s part of themorning warm-up. Others talk shop—weekend calls, scheduling headaches, and one particularly weird traffic stop someone had on the south side. The smell of strong coffee wafts in from a travel mug on the table nearest to me, mixing with the ever-present scent of worn leather and old paperwork.
Kline strolls in mid-conversation with another officer but breaks away when he catches sight of me. He offers a warm, easy smile, giving me a subtle nod as he heads for a seat a few rows back. I return the smile with a small one of my own—grateful, a little. At least someone here doesn’t make my nervous system light up like a damn power grid.
