by A. J. Lape
Glancing to Huxley, he’d already placed his gun back underneath his seat and was primping in the mirror. “I’m not scared of him. He’s already put his gun away. I think he just has a terminal case of DSD. It happens.”
“DSD?”
“Dipshit disease.”
“Babe, as much as I’d like to laugh at your joke, I can’t. I don’t like the guy.”
Biting a large chunk out of the bar, I mumbled, “I’m going to go talk to him. You know, pay it forward and tell him it’s not a good idea to play around with your gun.”
Jaws dropped a string of expletives scripted straight out of Full Metal Jacket. “You’ve given me a damn ulcer. And when you say, ‘play with your gun,’ he might think you’re referring to the one he was born with. You’re opening yourself up to sexual harassment.”
I laughed, swallowing another bite and licking the wrapper. “Aw, that might be the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me. One day you’re going to get tired of me blowing up your day,” I said between mouthfuls.
Jaws backpedaled his panic a bit. “The moment you tell me you don’t use the Oxford comma, consider our little Cosa Nostra over. I can deal with many things. Never that.”
“Har-har.” Huxley was out of his car, making his way to my driver’s side window. “Okay, he’s on his way to my car. I guess I’d better see what Itchy Finger wants.”
“Jester.”
“I’m cool. If anything, I’ll kill him myself as a public service. Have an excellent day, and check off all those to-do things on your list. I’ll text later and let you know my times on the test.”
“Darcy…”
I killed the call but was hit with a text to never hang up on him again lest I see the side of him only his enemies saw. Whatever. I sent him back an eye roll emoticon and opened the door. By that time, automobiles filtered into the lot with recruits stumbling out of their cars and shaking their heads awake, while others were doing deep knee bends, trying to get a jump on everyone else.
“Hey,” Huxley said to me.
“Hey,” I said back.
“Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
“Why don’t you tell me a secret, Walker.” Interesting segue.
“I like meatloaf?” I said.
Huxley laughed a sound so brittle my ears started ringing.
I grabbed my purse and slung it over my shoulder. From the corner of my eye, I spotted Grumpy’s Camry pull into the lot. I waved at him, and he uncharacteristically frowned. Grumpy and autonomic responses were reminiscent of oil and water. They shied away from one another. As soon as he exited his car, Holland Hemming and Kip Faulkner flanked him, but he kept giving me an assessing look. Grumpy didn’t like Huxley. He’d unloaded his thoughts on him in a text the night before.
“Friend of yours?” Huxley inquired, running a hand through his blond hair.
“We go way back,” I explained. I made a move to meet Grumpy. Huxley, however, went for a high-pressure sell, crowding me with his body and making it virtually impossible for me to move around him unless I requested permission or kneed him in the privates.
“Listen, Huxley, I don’t speak Orc. So if you want to ask me something, I suggest you use words before I make you impotent.”
“I like you,” he said.
“Interesting approach because you’re falling into the never-gonna-date-you category by blocking my way. And FYI, that point is moot if you’re looking for some after-hours action.”
“Who said anything about dating?” he said, glancing around the parking lot. “Granted, the female landscape is better than what I’d anticipated, but I’m just interested in—”
Huxley literally voiced the wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am phrase. My brain shorted out for a second. I’d heard a lot of pickup lines, but no one had ever been straight up blunt and queried a casual romp. Even if I had been interested, Huxley would never care for me anyway. After the grand reveal of how my mother’s death affected me the day before, he more than likely thought I was damaged goods and therefore easy—looking for love or lust wherever and whenever it was offered.
Grumpy busted up the quiet. “Everything good here, Walker?” he said, thrusting his large, thick hand between Huxley and me and clasping mine, pulling me toward him. Huxley whirled toward Grumpy, spying the group of recruits he’d brought along with him. Funny how the people I’d been impressed with the day before had already glommed onto Grumpy and me. After Huxley’s unwelcome advance, I had a feeling we would need to watch one another’s backs.
“Everything’s fine,” Huxley said. “Darcy was just giving me the it’s-not-you, it’s-me speech.”
“No, pretty sure it was you, Romeo,” I mumbled.
“That’s what I thought,” Grumpy said. “This little thing here…” he said to Huxley, “…getting extra chummy with Walker? Let me assure you she has a boyfriend who is so damn territorial that just me telling him is only going to be the first domino that falls. You’re going to set off a chain reaction that’ll make you wish you were dead.”
Huxley’s eyes flared in anger, and he recoiled. Okay, perhaps that had been wishful thinking, and I tried to will it to happen. He stomped past us and pitched a frosty stare over his shoulder followed by an equally icy sneer.
Grumpy had outed me as having and/or needing a large man in my corner. Granted, Dylan wasn’t someone you ever wanted to tee off on. His bounce back made sure of it. Any other time, I wouldn’t have given it a second’s thought, but this was different. I didn’t want it to appear as though I couldn’t take care of myself. Jeez, I hated the nerves.
Chapter 13
THE GUY WAS IN THE WHO’S WHO OF DICKWEEDS.
When placed in a group, people align with those who have common ground. As a result, cliques and rivalries occur. Anytime a group of Type-As gather in one place, everyone has the preconceived notion they have the answers—or are the answer. We were standing at the track, warming up, when I scanned the recruits. I’d divided the group into four subsets: the intellectuals or Platos, the Snipers, the Superjocks, and the Dark Horses. The Superjocks had already taken a warmup mile and were sitting in the middle of the track, popping Gatorade chews. The Platos were glancing at their Fitbits or sports watches, calculating if they’d had enough calorie intake to help them finish at the top of the pack. The Snipers were doing a little bit of both, bragging they’d hit up a private gun range the night before. And then there were the Dark Horses, like me.
Dark Horses were a microcosm of all four groups but somehow had identified as the outsiders from each of them. Some of us were degreed. Some were jocks. Some could already handle guns efficiently while others hadn’t had their hands on one at all. We were the ones no one would consider prepared for the course unless you were in the mood for a good bet.
Releasing my hair band, I flipped my head over and redid a quick ponytail. “Walker?” I heard someone say.
Peeking through my hair, I clocked on an instructor who crooked his finger in a slow come-here gesture. Leaving Grumpy and Holland Hemming, I made my way to a large man who introduced himself as Detective Riley Shafer. The detective claimed he was on vacation but volunteered to assist Roper and his crew because the physical evaluations were his favorite facet of academy life. About half a foot taller than me and pushing two hundred and fifty pounds, thick, sandy-blond hair crowned his head.
“Talked to Paddy,” he said.
“Oh, yeah?”
His ice-blue eyes speared into mine. “He said you can run faster than a bat trying to bust out of Hell.”
I shrugged away the compliment. “Satan is definitely a motivation for running fast.”
His lips quirked into a grin. “Paddy also told me you and Satan are intimately familiar.” I burst out laughing. “He said you’re the smartest and most talented person he’s ever met. He’s expecting you to go number one…in everything.”
Cue the blush. “Sorry. Paddy likes to brag.” My eyes bounced around, nervous—wanting to earn a reputation on my o
wn and not because people like Lincoln and Paddy had padded my resumé. I pulled a knee to my chest, continuing to stretch. “Please don’t say that out loud.”
A flicker of irritation surfaced. “I can say whatever I want to say out loud. Anyway, make sure you don’t make a liar out of him.”
Pressure much??
Detective Shafer hoofed away, and not long afterward, Officer Roper swiveled around, blew his whistle, and called my name first amongst everyone. It felt as though I was walking into a snake pit. Stepping up as the first guinea pig, I was tested on maximum push-ups in one minute right out of the gate. After that number was logged, I moved onto max sit-ups and was clocked at a three-hundred-meter sprint.
I knew my numbers, but in all honesty, it was hard to keep track of who was scoring what because the tests were performed with such expediency there was barely a chance to breathe—let alone compare myself to the other recruits.
After the three-hundred-meter sprint, I made it to the water table at a geriatric pace, met by Kip Faulkner. If every class had a dream girl, Faulkner was the dream guy. Faulkner was a few inches taller than me and as thick as an Olympic bodybuilder. A high school football standout, when the D-1 school of his dreams didn’t come knocking, he hung up his pads and worked in a warehouse as a security guard until he could enter the academy. He didn’t appear to suffer any residual bitterness. He merely presented himself as someone who had moved on. Point for his corner, Faulkner could sub as a superhero. With light brown hair and big dimples, he even had a superhero face, but like everyone else, he only had eyes for Holland Hemming.
“Hell’s bells, she’s cute,” he mumbled to me while we watched Holland do pull-ups mimicking Sylvester Stallone in Rocky.
I grinned. “She’s definitely a looker.”
Faulkner’s hazel eyes stared at Holland until she dropped down in a coordinated crouch. “Hey, Bradshaw and I were talking,” he said when Holland sashayed away, giving me his full attention.
I pulled my T-shirt up to wipe my brow. “Was he calling dibs on Holland?” I giggled.
Faulkner chuckled. “Nah. We were just talking football, and he said you date Dylan Taylor? As in the Dylan Taylor who plays for Florida?”
“Yeah, he’s the significant other.”
Faulkner’s eyes lit up. “I’m such a huge fan. I thought I hit hard, but Taylor stepped onto the field in the championship game this year and totally victimized people.” Faulkner scratched his temple, suddenly awkward. “I stalked your social media pages earlier.” I raised a teasing brow. “Not in a perverted way, okay?” he quickly added in a nervous laugh. “I’m just a huge fan. Taylor’s everywhere with you. Do you think…”
He stopped talking, suddenly embarrassed.
I swallowed down another gulp of H2O, convinced I just might die before the end of the day. “Would you like to meet him next time he comes to town?” I somehow squeezed out.
Faulkner exhaled. “Oh, yeah. Yeah…that’d be awesome. Walker, you’re like a total badass. You’re leading the women recruits by a mile and a huge portion of the men. Taylor’s going to be insane with pride.”
Detective Shafer strode by with a clipboard in his hands, talking on his headset to some unnamed person. He shoved a tangerine in my hand. I gazed at it, doubting I had the strength to peel the thing. I didn’t, so I offered it to Faulkner who had it skinned and eaten in no time flat.
Shafer circled back around not a minute later. “Did you eat that fruit?” he chided.
“It was a little labor intensive,” I muttered.
He knit his eyebrows together in a frown, producing two protein bars he’d gotten from someplace else. Giving one to Faulkner, I unwrapped mine and bit down on it, trying my best to wrap my head around Faulkner’s words. I was in the lead? Really??
Faulkner then informed me he had been ranked first of the men, with Grumpy fourth. While I quietly celebrated Grumpy’s and my placement, I felt Ezra Huxley before he even opened his mouth. Turning, I found him standing behind me, his hair sweaty from completing his sprint. “You’re definitely a badass, Walker. What’s shocking is that some people are total lumps of lard out here. They need to go home. It’s embarrassing.”
I curled my lip in disgust. Judgy eyes much? It was day-one, for godsakes. Initial scores were going to be all over the place. Besides, his opinion was grossly shortsighted. The person who finished first didn’t always finish first. The best we could hope for was to always place high, hopefully in the top three. Like any battle of the bodies and will, you had to watch your back at all times.
Faulkner wheeled around, snapping at Huxley. “And who made you God’s right hand of judgment?”
Huxley was dead to anything remotely politically correct, but the guy was obviously in the Who’s Who of Dickweeds. A part of me might’ve given him a chance in the past, but I’d come to believe the perfunctory responses were who you really were.
Huxley stalked off, mumbling to himself.
Faulkner stared into my face, squinting. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
“You have an eye twitch.”
“I always have an eye twitch.” Reaching up to my left eye, I tried to coax the thing into heeling. Faulkner stepped around a group of recruits, walking back to the water station and grabbing a sports drink.
“Drink this,” he murmured, handing me a bottle of orange fluid once he returned. “It could be a lack of electrolytes. Listen, you shrunk up quite a few sets of balls laying down that time. You good with the mile and a half?”
Just as good as anyone else. Shakily untwisting the top, I guzzled down the liquid. There was a quiet strength to Faulkner, where he sifted through the outside package and burrowed straight into your soul. “Get on your horse and stay there,” he coached me. “You don’t want to get boxed in.”
“Would that be on purpose?” I questioned him. His face gentled when his eyes found mine.
Perfect. Already a target on my back.
It was an SPF kind of day. Stripping down to my shorts and a T-shirt, I sprayed on some sunscreen and waited for my name. Roper said we would be divided in random order into three different groups. Grumpy and I were running in different heats, with me being in the first group to be timed along with Faulkner and Holland Hemming. Catching the look of encouragement from Grumpy, I made my way to the starting line. One of the women Superjocks, built as thick as a UFC champion, sidled up next to me, and by the way she gave my body a subpar, snorting assessment, I wanted to throat punch her before the gun even went off. Behind her, Holland Hemming made the sign of the cross.
Great, she has the Holy Trinity on her side.
When Roper raised his hand and pulled the trigger on the little black gun, I fought my way to the top of the pack next to Faulkner. My strategy was simple. Take the lead. Keep the lead. And imagine myself staying there. The breath leaving my mouth in a white puff drifted over and mixed with Faulkner’s. The race felt forever, but it was over in a little over eight minutes of straight up pulmonary hell. My lungs were not only seizing, but my hamstrings trembled to the point of me worrying if they could keep me vertical. Sweat dotted my brow, running down the back of my neck and soaking my sports bra. My heart stuttered behind my ribs, hammering one minute and bottoming out the next.
Burning everywhere…in my blood…in my muscles. Attempting to walk, I didn’t know if my legs moving was actually happening or a figment of my imagination. Stumbling to the water station, after one cup, I still couldn’t breathe right. The air tasted weird, and my mouth was dry like I tried to swallow cotton balls. Halfway through a third cup, I couldn’t decide if I needed food or a barf bag. Finally, I settled enough to watch the rest of the class finish the race. Holland Hemming was the second woman recruit. Granted, I beat her by a good fifty seconds—according to the electronic timer at the finish line—but she was definitely the one for me to watch.
Bringing up the rear in the third race was Sunny Swank. Swank was no doubt the LVP of the group, but I liked her and what she
stood for. Thing was, her erratic inhalations signaled she needed an oxygen sensor clipped to her finger. When I spotted her crying on the second lap, I grasped Grumpy’s hand and he, Faulkner, and I jumped back into the race to encourage her.
“Please, don’t cry,” Grumpy said.
Swank’s black hair had escaped from her ponytail, flapping uncontrollably. She wrinkled up her red face, trying her best to fight an onslaught of the I’m so embarrasseds. “In case you were wondering…praying to die doesn’t work,” she said sniffling, “I’ve been praying for a massive heart attack since I hit…the two-hundred-meter mark.”
That burning in my chest returned. I got that. Ending it felt easier than persevering, and although I might’ve aced the physical requirements, God only knew what the remaining six months would bring. If I didn’t finish the program, it would be followed by a downward spiral of fifteen extra pounds and premature wrinkles.
I had no backup other than delivering pizzas…
…or being a hooker.
After Grumpy reassured Sunny we would run alongside her until she crossed the finish line, Faulkner broke into one of Diana Ross’ signature songs, the four of us butchering, “Ain’t no mountainnnn high enoughhhhhhhhhhh. Ain’t no valllleeeeey low enoughhhhhh…”
Chapter 14
DNA: SOMETIMES YOU GET SCREWED.
Days in the academy began with a roll call wherein the entire class lined up in formation resembling a military unit. At that time, we were evaluated on how we dressed. How we stood. Showcasing if we had the discipline to do something as simple as present ourselves in the manner in which we were requested to do.
The daily schedule determined how we dressed each day, and the day’s instruction led us to the firing range at Edward M. Davis Training Facility off Blucher Avenue in Granada Hills. Many police departments liked to hire people with little to no prior experience, so they could train them in the way their specific department did things. I’d already trained in firing less-than-lethal weapons like bean bags and pepper ball paint guns at dummies, and the real firearms were next.