"Motorcycle club. They basically run this town." He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "The brass pretends they don't exist, or that they're just another business. But those bikers are intoeverything. Protection rackets, illegal fights, probably drugs. We just can't prove it."
My hands tighten on the steering wheel. "Why not?"
"Because everyone in this godforsaken town loves them." Hayes spits the words like they taste bad. "They stepped in during hard times, cleaned up the streets their own way. Now people see them as heroes. It's pathetic."
I file this information away, unsure what to make of it. Police academy taught me about motorcycle clubs: the one-percenters, the criminal organizations hiding behind brotherhood and tradition. But it also taught me that not all clubs are the same, and assumptions can be dangerous.
"Turn left here," Hayes instructs.
I follow his directions, taking us deeper into the industrial zone. There are fewer people here, fewer cars. Just empty streets and the occasional sound of machinery from inside the warehouses.
"Pull over." Hayes points to a spot between two buildings, shadowed and hidden from the main road.
"Why?" The question escapes before I can stop it.
"Because I said so." His tone has changed, harder now. "Pull over, Collins."
Every instinct screams at me that this is wrong, but I'm still new, still trying to prove myself. I pull the car over, put it in park, and turn to face him.
"Sir, why are we—"
"I told you to call me David." His hand lands on my knee, heavy and possessive. "We're partners now. We should get to know each other better."
I freeze. His hand is on my leg, burning through the fabric of my uniform, and I can't move, can't breathe, can't think past the wrongness of this moment.
"Don't." My voice sounds distant, not my own. "Officer Hayes, remove your hand."
"Come on, Collins." His hand slides higher, squeezing my thigh, his bulge throbbing. "Don't be like that. I'm just being friendly. You want to fit in here, don't you? Want to be part of the team?"
Something breaks inside me. The paralysis, the shock, the trained obedience to authority. I shove his hand away and fumble for the door handle, my heart racing so fast I think I might pass out.
"Collins—"
I don't wait to hear the rest. I throw the door open and stumble out of the car, my boots hitting the pavement hard. I need air. I need space. I need to be anywhere but in that car with his hand on my leg and his expectations hanging in the air.
"Collins!" Hayes's voice is sharp now, angry. "Get back in the car. That's an order."
I'm running before I make the conscious decision to move. My body takes over, training and instinct propelling me forward, away from the patrol car, away from him. I hear his door slam, hear his boots on the pavement behind me.
"You're making a big mistake!" he shouts. "You think you can just run away? I'll have your badge for this!"
I round the corner of a warehouse, my breath coming in gasps. This isn't happening. This can't be happening. I'm a police officer. I'm supposed to be safe with my partner. I'm supposed to be able to trust—
Hayes grabs my arm, spinning me around. His sunglasses are gone now, and I can see the fury in his eyes, the entitlement, the absolute certainty that he can do whatever he wants to me and get away with it.
"Let go of me." I try to jerk my arm free, but his grip is iron.
"You need to learn some respect," he snarls, pulling me closer. "You think you're special? You think that badge means something? You're nothing. Just another chubby little girl playing cop."
Every insecurity, every doubt I've ever had about my body, my career, my worth, he's weaponizing all of it.
"I said let go." I reach for my radio with my free hand, but he grabs that wrist too, holding both my arms now.
"Who's going to believe you?" His face is inches from mine. "A new cop who freaked out on her first patrol? Who ran away from her partner? You'll be lucky if they don't fire you."
He's right. It's his word against mine, and he has twenty years of service. I have two weeks. Nobody's going to believe me. Nobody's going to care.
I'm about to do something desperate—scream, fight, anything—when a voice cuts through the moment like a knife.
