Dishing It Out. Molly O'Keefe
gash and shimmying into underwear.
She really was lucky it hadn’t been worse. The bottle that had shattered when her father had flung it at her could have actually hit her. Or more pieces of flying glass could have caught exposed skin. It could have done enough damage she’d have to call in sick to work.
But it hadn’t.
Damn it, how was he getting the alcohol? He didn’t drive. Had alienated all of his friends. She’d long since stopped bringing him anything that could be remotely used to trade.
Every time she thought she’d gotten him weaned off, every time she thought he was on the path to recovery and forgetting everything...they ended up back here.
On a sigh, she pulled her hair back and began to braid, pulling as tightly as she could. It was a severe look, one she didn’t go for every single day on the job, but she needed to feel severe today.
She needed answers. Why couldn’t she find the answers?
She glanced at the clock and groaned. She was running late, and she didn’t like to be late on a good day, but with her first day training...San...San...oh, whatever the hell his name was, she didn’t want to set a bad example.
She hurried through putting on her uniform. Some days it was a little constricting. The Kevlar, the straight lines, the shiny name tag. But other days it was armor. Today was definitely one of those days. There were rules and order in the world, and she was the woman to enforce them.
She grabbed her bag and headed for the door, pushing her feet into boots. She’d save lacing them up for when she got to the station.
She caught the glimpse of her trainee at the top of the stairs. “Hey, San Francisco?”
He didn’t reappear right away, but after a few seconds his head popped back around the corner. “Marc,” he said in that same low, measured voice he’d used last night when he’d wanted to help her.
“Sure. Listen. I’ll give you a ride.”
His dark brows furrowed together. “I’m not—”
“Obviously you didn’t get the memo,” she said, approaching the stairs and him with a smile. “I’m your FTO.”
“You’re my...you’re my field training officer?”
“In the flesh.” She could get all bent out of shape at his shock. If she were a dude he wouldn’t be all fumbling and surprised. But if she got irritated by every sexist jerk, she would have left police work a long time ago.
“That’s why me living here is convenient.”
He followed her down the stairs and she kept her eyes straight ahead, voice neutral. “Indeed. The beauty of a small town. Only so many places to live off a police officer’s salary. There’s another guy on the top floor, but he’s a school resource officer. Don’t see much of him.”
He didn’t say anything to that and they walked out into the chill of an early March morning. She’d forgotten her coat, but she’d just deal today. She wasn’t about to seem as though she didn’t have it together for the new guy.
She pointed to her patrol car. “I’m sure they explained it to you, but to refresh, two weeks in, you’ll get your own take-home car, but right now, you’re watching me. I’ll be with you for the whole three months, one with each shift. Last two weeks we’ll do a shadow with me in plainclothes and you handling all the calls.”
“Sounds good.”
She glanced at him then. He was a big guy. Tall and broad. The uniform with vest underneath made him look even broader than he had last night in the hallway. He had a neutral expression on his face, but he had that chiseled jaw, a sort of impassive, serious resting face.
She was always jealous of guys like that, who could look intimidating without even trying. No one laughed at them when they told them to get out of a car and spread ’em.
Of course, she’d been doing this for ten years now. She’d learned how to wield herself in a way that kept most people from messing with her simply on the grounds of her being female.
But it’d be nice to not have to work so hard. Mr. Football Player Shoulders and Ruggedly Handsome—
Whoa, whoa, whoa. None of that. She didn’t cross lines like that. Never had. Never would. Besides, from their encounter last night, he seemed like the compulsive-helper type. I’m-a-cop-and-I’m-here-to-help type.
In other words, so not her type. She wasn’t interested in anyone’s help. Especially someone whose uniform was so freakishly unwrinkled it looked as if nuns had slaved over pressing it all night.
“Man, where’d you take your uniforms?” she asked, opening her driver’s side door.
“Take?”
“Yeah, what dry cleaner? I’m not sure I’ve ever seen one so crisp.” She slipped behind the wheel and he did the same in the passenger seat. Filling up that entire side in such a way she felt cramped.
“Well, it’s new.”
“But you had to press it, right? It comes all creased in the package.” She looked at him, got tricked into looking him in the eye. Kind of a really light brown. Like amber or something. Mesmerizing.
You are not serious right now, brain.
He looked away. Thank God. “I did it myself.”
“You? You?”
“It’s a lot cheaper than getting it dry-cleaned.”
“Well, yeah, but jeez. What’d you do? Intern at a dry cleaner? That’s unholy.”
He didn’t say anything, just watched the grungier side of town get a shade more sparkling as they drove up and away from the river, toward the police station.
She concentrated on the road and he was silent. This was only her third time field training someone, but the other two guys had been different. Talkative, easygoing. Even if she’d wished Granger’d shut up most of the time, silence was weird. She wished for Granger’s grandstanding BS in the face of heavy, awkward silence.
“So, um, what brings you to Bluff City?” She flicked a glance at him to gauge his reaction. Nothing on his face changed, but as she moved her gaze back to the road she noticed his hand had clenched around his knee.
Hmm.
“Family,” he said at length. He didn’t say it in a way that made it sound positive. Well, that she understood.
“You grow up around here?”
“No.”
That was it.
Man, it was going to be a long three months.
* * *
AFTER NINE YEARS of being on the road, three months of field training was frustrating. Marc understood why it was necessary. Different laws, procedures, protocol.
But sitting shotgun in a patrol car that smelled like...hell if he knew. Something feminine and flowery. All shoved into an uncomfortable seat he couldn’t recline because of the cage in the back. Being pelted with questions by Chatty McGee FTO lady.
He would prefer clawing his way out and jumping from the still-moving vehicle.
Was everyone at BCPD going to be so damn chatty? At his old department there’d been a group of guys who were chummy, but they’d let him be. He was respected. Maybe a little feared, but he preferred that kind of distance to Tess’s cheery interrogation.
“Soooo.” She drummed her fingers against the steering wheel, eyes on the road. She’d driven them around their zone, talked about landmarks and the like. Things he’d already known because he’d memorized the Bluff City map. Because he wasn’t some rookie who didn’t know how to handle himself.
“We