“I don’t know yet,” I admit, dragging the words out with a soft groan. “We haven’t made any plans.”
Tessa’s grin sharpens, wicked as sin. “Well, make some. I think your vibrator deserves a break.”
The sushi in my mouth goes down the wrong pipe, lodging halfway in my throat. I choke, coughing hard enough to send my eyes watering, smacking at my chest with one hand while trying not to die in the middle of the quad.
They lose it instantly. Both of them dissolve into unholy laughter, practically doubled over on either side of me.
Heads whip in our direction—some concerned, most annoyed. But Tessa and Khloe don’t give a single fuck, as always.
“You’re disgusting,” I rasp between coughs, still trying to get my lungs back in order. My face burns hotter than the sidewalk underfoot.
“Disgustingly right,” Tessa fires back without missing a beat, her smirk practically glowing.
Khloe leans in again, her perfume—sugary and bright—cloying at my nose as she pokes me in the ribs. “C’mon, Rae. Just text him. Ask him to grab coffee, or dinner. Hell, invite him over for Netflix and ‘accidentally’ end up in his lap. Worst-case scenario? He says no. Best case?” She grins, devilish. “You’re not sleeping alone tonight.”
I roll my eyes but can’t stop the small, traitorous smile tugging at my lips. My gaze drops back to my phone, still clenched in my hand like it’s part of me. Emilio’s name glows at the top of my messages, the little heart next to it mocking me.
My thumb hovers just over the keyboard, pulse picking up speed. My mind runs wild with a thousand possibilities—what I’d say, how he might respond, whether he’d even want to see me outside of work. It feels ridiculous, this rush of nerves, like I’m sixteen again waiting for a boy to text back after homeroom.
Maybe they’re right. Maybe I should.
The thought lingers, heavy and tempting. My thumb presses just enough to make the keyboard light up—then the sky cracks with the low rumble of thunder.
The sound vibrates through the air, thick and warning. A cool gust sweeps over us, carrying the scent of damp earth and ozone, and I jerk my head up toward the sky. Dark clouds are rolling in fast, smothering what’s left of the pale blue beneath their weight.
“Shit,” Tessa mutters, already reaching for her bag.
Grateful for the interruption, I jam my phone into my pocket and grab the sushi tray. The three of us scramble to our feet, laughter bubbling as fat raindrops splatter against thepavement. Within seconds, the air is split between thunder and our hurried footsteps as we rush for cover.
FIFTEEN
EMILIO
People are fucking dumb.
All it takes is a little bit of rain, and suddenly, half the city forgets how to operate a motor vehicle. Like clockwork, the first fat drops hit the pavement, and everyone collectively decides traffic laws are more like suggestions, and hey—why not spice things up with a couple rounds of bumper cars?
Since clocking in at 2 p.m., I’ve already been dispatched to three separate accidents. Three in four hours. Every one of them is the same damn story: slick pavement, careless drivers, and fender-benders that choke intersections like clogged arteries. No injuries so far, thank God—just a lot of insurance exchanges and pissed-off commuters. Still, the monotony wears thin.
Now I’m back in my unit, just past the halfway point of my shift, crawling along Speedway boulevard. The windshield wipers drag across the glass with that rhythmic squeak that grates after the hundredth time, pushing drizzle to the edges in uneven streaks. The rain’s tapered off, leaving the asphalt slick and gleaming under the streetlamps. Drivers act like they’re on a NASCAR track, cutting each other off, hydroplaning in their shitty sedans, half of them with bald tires. Every time I pass one,I half-expect to hear the crunch of another fender-bender in my rearview.
My coffee’s gone cold in the cup holder, but I drink it anyway, chasing the bitter dregs to keep myself awake as I pull into an empty parking lot. I throw the unit into park and glance at the MDT glowing on the console, showing a stack of active calls. I scroll through them with one finger, half paying attention. Noise complaints. A “suspicious subject” who probably just looks homeless. Another fender-bender on Grant. The usual for a rainy weekday swing shift.
The radio chatters constantly, dispatch juggling units across the city. I keep the volume low, the steady hum of voices and static serving as background noise while I continue to sip the last of my coffee.
And for a moment, my mind drifts to Raelynn.
Roughly around the time I started my patrol, I received a text from her saying she wanted to see me when I was free next. I still haven’t replied. Not because I don’t want to, but because the day got busy. And now that I have a moment, I’m not wasting it.
Shifting in my seat, I pull my phone from my pocket, thumb unlocking the screen, and pull up our text thread.
RAELYNN CARSON:
Hey, um. So, I’m not very good at initiating things, but I was wondering when you’ll be free next? I’d really like to see you outside of work.
I chuckle under my breath. I can picture her chewing her lip raw while typing that, probably debating whether to hit send a dozen times before actually doing it. I guarantee her friends egged her on.
I smirk, thumbs moving before I can second-guess myself.
