“And don’t call me sir.”
Sam Yarmark isn’t a brat.But there’s definitelysomethingto the way he looks right at me and says, “No, sir.”
The rest of the night is a waste.Worse than a waste; it’s a disaster.No matter what I say, Lexi won’t come down to the station.She won’t even talk about charges because she’s still insisting nothing happened.Palomo takes a crack at her.Nickels too.And in spite of everything we can do, an hour later, she’s still getting in her sister’s car—a dirty-ass white Honda Civic with a blown subwoofer pounding so loudly that I don’t even think Lexi hears me when I make my final attempt to get her to come in, give her statement, and let us help her.
On the way back to the station, I try telling myself it’s not a total loss.I’ll still write my report.I’ll talk to the county attorney, see if she’ll press charges based on the neighbor’s report and Lexi’s initial statement to Sam.There’s enough documentation for anybody to see a pattern of increasingly violent abuse.It happens like that.More times than you’d think.He didn’t mean it.I made him mad.Shoving.A few slaps.It’s this thing that happens over and over again, and it looks like they’ll keep doing it forever.And then one day he passes some tipping point, and it’s too late.
I write my report, and by the time I leave, shift change is long gone, and my head has gone from aching to pounding.My injured eye is throbbing too.The doctors say it’s fully healed, but when I’m stressed or tired, it starts acting up, and there’s nothing I can do for it except sleep.The station is dark as I make my way to the side exit; Palomo left an hour ago after I told her I’d finish up the reports, and everybody else with any sense went home a long time before that.There was a time in my life when it was easier like this.When I could come here when I knew I’d be alone.When I knew nobody would see me.It’s easier now, too, when I can still feel that tide raising me up off the floor, and everything feels like it’s riding right under my skin.
Outside, the night is cool.The lot is empty except for the personal vehicles of the guys on patrol, and under the security lights, the pollen is so thick that the air is grainy.Ballast buzzes; it’s too cold for crickets, so aside from my footsteps, it’s the only sound.I move across the lot toward my car, and part of me’s already trying to talk myself into stopping by St.Taffy’s on the way home.It’s either that or jump on Prowler or Grindr or Scruff.
The click of a door opening makes me glance over; on one side of the lot, someone is getting out from a truck.Charles.That’s my first, automatic thought, and I reach for my service weapon.But it’s not Charles; Charles is bigger than this person.And while Charles might be willing to do something to me if he thought he could get away with it, like most guys who like to tune up on women and children, he’s a bully at heart, and that means he’s a coward.
Sam has showered, and he’s got his dark hair in that stylish mess that he’s getting a little too good at.He’s wearing joggers and a Wahredua PD T-shirt that’s a little too tight across the shoulders, although the bonus is that it cuffs his arms nicely.It’s not an old shirt; the department gave them out a couple of years ago, so it must have been when Sam had just started.Not long—if I’m being fair—after I started, either.But Sam’s looks worn and washed, and mine, if I still have it, is probably new.That ought to tell me something about Sam, but I’m too tired to think it through.
“Hi,” Sam says as he reaches me.The wind picks up, and he folds his arms, and he looks even better in that tight little tee.
“Hi,” I say.“Everything okay?Why are you still here?”
“I wanted to ask you something.”It’s hard to tell in the weak light, but he might be blushing.“And you were busy.”
Dear God, I think.Is this what John-Henry feels like?
But somehow—since thisismy fake boyfriend we’re talking about—I manage not to say that I’m tired, and I want to go home, and tonight is not the night.“What’s up?”
“I wanted to ask if, you know, there was anything I could have done better.Tonight, I mean.Or differently.At that DV.”
My eye pulses.“What?”
“Uh, like, if I should have recorded the conversation.Or not let her pack her bag.Anything, I guess.I mean, I don’t get a lot of direct feedback anymore, and you were there—”
He stops.
I’m trying not to rub my eye.
The breeze picks up again, icy on the back of my neck, and Sam’s covered in goose bumps.
He’s trying to be a better officer, I tell myself.He’s trying to be good at this because it matters to him.He doesn’t know why you’re all wired up.
It sure as fuck is annoying, though.
“No,” I say.“You did it all right.There’s nothing you could have done better, nothing you should have done differently.If this is because I asked you those follow-ups—”
“No, sir.”The moment seems to wobble, and a grin tilts out.“I don’t mean to keep doing that.”And then the grin is gone.“I just—she took it back, you know?And I feel like I should have done something different.”
He’s holding himself, trying not to chafe his arms, and I realize in that old tee he must be freezing.And he’s being so goddamn sweet.
“If we’re going to talk about this,” I say, “we can’t do it out here or your tits are going to drop off.”
It’s areallytight tee.
“We could sit in my truck,” he says.“If that’s all right.”
It’s almost like having a kid.I wave him toward the truck, and he’s practically bouncing as he heads across the lot.
I’ve never paid attention to what Sam drives, but as we get closer, I realize I’m kind of surprised.It’s a Ford, one of the four-door models with a second row of seating, and although it’s not new, it’s been kept up.It’s even been freshly washed, and I remember now that John-Henry has told me Sam’s a gearhead.As soon as we get in, I smell pizza.
Once the doors close and the dome light snaps off, it’s too dark to see a blush, but I can hear it in Sam’s voice when he says, “I’ve got some pizza if you’re hungry.”
