Officer Max

by Abby Knox

  Officer Max

  Abby Knox

  Copyright © 2020 by Abby Knox

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Edited by Aquila Editing

  Proofread by Red Pen Princess

  Cover Designer: Mayhem Cover Creations

  This book is dedicated to childhood Saturday mornings, when we didn’t have to choose either being a superhero or a professional wrestler. Why not be both?

  Officer Max

  Big brother. Detective. The okay-est professional wrestler. This is the life of Max Hanson, who only has eyes for the aloof and mysterious Valerie Hudson, friend of his younger sister and consultant to the police. When Valerie's life is threatened, Max is the first in line to take on the role of bodyguard. Will he be able to convince the lovely psychic that he's more than the lumbering cop who likes to dress in spandex on weekends?

  Strange phone calls have been plaguing Valerie at her business for a while now, but she thinks nothing of it until the night she receives a verbal threat against her life. Now her entire existence is being turned upside by a police investigation and a full time bodyguard, who happens to be her friend's older brother. His bull-in-a-china-shop ways might not be the best fit for her lifestyle, but damn, he looks sexy as hell in a pirate shirt at kid parties.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  23. Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Abby Knox

  Chapter One

  Max

  Tonight’s stakeout is about as thrilling as watching golf tournament reruns on ESPN.

  I thought climbing the ladder from patrol to detective would bring more excitement to my life. Not a soul has exited or entered the beige McMansion on our watch, despite the tip from my informant that the illegal fight was going to happen tonight.

  The longer I sit in this unmarked sedan, the more my legs cramp up. I shift in my seat and turn to my partner, Murphy, who’s ooh-ing and ahh-ing over pictures of baby furniture via text with her significant other.

  “We’re sitting in the suburbs staring at a house, and the only crime I see is a hedge cut into the shape of a poodle,” I mutter.

  Murphy glances up at me and then at the poodle, visible in the security lights from the house’s driveway. “That’s called a topiary. Find something useful to do if you’re bored, like look up suburban landscaping design ideas. Then you can give our alleged kingpin, Mr. Thorne, your tasteful design ideas when you’re cuffing him.”

  What would be useful is if I could get out of this car and stretch my aching legs, but I don’t say that out loud. I don’t feel like having a conversation about my size, especially not the size of my legs. It’s a daily thing. Hell, I caught enough shit about my stature when I was a patrol officer because the force literally had to order a custom uniform for me.

  Boy, was I glad to be rid of the uniform headache when I got promoted. Most of the time I go out in plain clothes, which are difficult enough to find in my size.

  Part of my problem is genetic, and part of it is due to my side hustle. On weekends, I’m a professional wrestler on the local circuit, so when I’m not protecting and serving the public, I’m working out at the gym.

  The wrestling gig is a few steps—or maybe whole entire flights—down from what’s on TV. Hell, I’m pretty sure nobody’s filming this shit but Ernie the Superfan for his social media followers. God bless that strange, gentle giant and his tiny action cam; he nearly cried when I shook his hand for the first time at the last meet-and-greet charity fundraising event. He tries out for pro wrestling all the time, but the story I heard is that his background checks come out sketch. Ah well, at least he’s done his time and seems happy making a hobby of documenting our events.

  Although wrestling fans like Ernie could easily give me a huge ego, at the precinct, I’m just another schmo with a sidearm.

  And then, there is my superior, who’s never not in the mood to remind me just how much of a regular guy I am. Our police radio crackles to life and I recognize the voice of our chief. It’s a lot like my voice, but with a dickish edge to it.

  “Max, Murph, status report.”

  I grab the mouthpiece and punch the button to talk. “No action all night. Skank must’ve got his wires crossed.”

  I can almost hear the sneer in my twin brother’s voice. “Could it possibly be that your informant sent you to BFE because he’s just fucking with you?”

  I shake my head. “Could also be somebody tipped them off that the cops were on to them.”

  “Smooth move, Ex-Lax.”

  Murphy rolls her eyes at the chief.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, baby brother by sixteen minutes. Always the consummate professional,” I drawl into the mouthpiece.

  Martin fires back, “Your younger twin wouldn’t be police chief now if he’d wasted his time on wild goose chases and bad info from lousy informants. You’ve got one more hour and then get your ass back to my office.”

  In many other twin relationships, the sibling rivalry stems from the older twin lording it over the younger. In the case of Martin and me, it’s the opposite. He’s sixteen minutes younger and is now my boss. And he’s got a chip on his shoulder the size of Gibraltar. He’s also the first in the family to get married, despite being the ugliest and having the worst personality, in my opinion.

  Martin has never minced words about my career and thinks if I hadn’t taken a job for a couple of years as a bailiff for the county, I would be where he is now. Maybe he’s right, but I don’t care that much. The opening with the county came up, and I wanted to expand my horizons beyond patrolling, so I tried it. Got bored and came back to the precinct. No big deal to me, but my mom, older brother Jay, and Martin all see me as a flake. But I got the last laugh when I was promoted to detective for solving a cold case, a position I’d much prefer. I don’t have my sights set on being chief; I don’t envy being anyone’s boss.

  I cut my eyes over to Murphy, who’s scrolling through cribs, muttering about whether she wants a classic style or a minimal Scandinavian look to welcome the baby home. I feel a slight twinge in the empty place in my chest—the empty place that I have no time to fill.

  I ask Murphy if she minds if I put on my brother-in-law’s podcast that he produces with my little sister, Millie.

  She agrees, and it feels good to fill the silence with something entertaining. Good thing I didn’t actually sever his spinal cord when we first met, back when I thought he was the stalker after my sister. He’s accepted my apology for that and has turned out to be a great husband to Millie and a doting dad to my niece, Emily.

  On the podcast, Millie and Dave move on from their banter to the inte
rviewee for the episode, Valerie Hudson.

  Murphy and I lock eyes in surprise when we hear the name.

  “Val?” Murphy asks.

  A flush of heat spreads across my neck and creeps onto my cheeks. Valerie Hudson is a psychic consultant our department brings in for special cases, murders, and missing persons investigations. She’s the haunting beauty who breezes onto a crime scene when called, studies rooms and basements and lonely fields and ditches with her don’t-talk-to-me-I’m-working vibe. When she’s done, she clutches her whimsical silk shawls tightly around her narrow shoulders, and then leaves without offering me so much as a simple hello. And now she’s talking to me through my sister’s podcast. Not directly to me—she doesn’t even know I exist—but it feels like it.

  Of course, last time I laid eyes on her was at the morgue. Back then I was a patrol officer who had called in an unidentified dead body in the woods along the highway. I can’t blame anyone for wanting to get into and out of a morgue as quickly as possible.

  “Look at you, you’re redder than a middle-aged white dude at Disney World.”

  “Can it, Murph.”

  My partner gawks at me with mock offense and pats her barely showing baby bump. “I can’t believe you’d say that to an expecting mother. My goodness, my hormones might just make me do something irrational like mace you.”

  I laugh and shush her, telling her to listen to the show because she might learn something about parenthood.

  Interesting tidbits I pick up from the show: Valerie is a single mother of a four-year-old boy. I learn that her son’s father is now her ex because he became obsessively controlling of every aspect of her life as soon as he found out she was pregnant with their son. She’s in something called a Mom Squad with Millie; that’s how they met. Apparently this squad grew out of an online chat group of new moms in the area who needed support, and they all decided to start meeting in person.

  While I listen, I also learn that Valerie decided to come on the show to talk about something called “gaslighting” to be of help to other women. And that she hasn’t dated anyone since she broke up with her ex.

  I make a mental note of other things that don’t have anything to do with her difficult past. She loves classic black and white movies. She enjoys bird watching. Magenta is her favorite color. She’s a night owl. Her favorite music is jazz and her favorite movie is Moonstruck. Her favorite drink is a Manhattan and her favorite food is anything wrapped in bacon.

  Based on all that, I think the only things we have in common are we’re both night owls and we both love bacon. The other stuff I’m lukewarm about but could grow to love. “Jazz? No way I’ll ever come around on that.”

  I realize I’ve said that last part out loud and Murphy is staring at me like I’ve just told her the Loch Ness Monster is real and I can prove it.

  “Who cares if you come around on jazz or not? Like what you like,” Murph comments. Then, realization brightens up her face as if she’s just cracked the case of a lifetime. “Oh wait! You like her.”

  “Zip it.”

  “You don’t just have a crush on her, you are totally into her! How did I not know this?”

  “I don’t gotta tell you everything. And no I do not.”

  “Cheezus, we’ve been sitting in this damn car for six hours and you’ve given me zilch to talk about besides your aching legs and now this? This? You’re in love with our Val!”

  “I’m not in lo—”

  She claps her hands excitedly. “Oh my god,” she squeals, “My Maximus is gonna get married to the psychic and it’s gonna be the best thing everrr.” She draws out the last consonant for emphasis.

  “I’m not getting… Will you please stop…?”

  “I can’t wait to tell Alicia; she is going to die!”

  I swipe my hand over my face in frustration. “Please don’t say things about me to your wife. Ugh! Why are you like this?”

  “Because I’m bored and pregnant and I’ve already eaten all the snacks and my hormones—legitimately this time—are rave partying.”

  “Oh my god.”

  Murphy slaps her hand over one of mine and grips it like she’s my Nana giving out marital advice before the wedding night. Her eyes blaze with meaning. “I just want you to know whatever happens, I have your back. I ship you two so fuckin’ hard.”

  I sigh. “I don’t know what that means.”

  Murphy doesn’t hear me though. All she can seem to do now is squeal.

  I rest my weary head against the driver seat headrest and sigh heavily.

  When the show ends, I remember that it’s time to head back to the station and face my brother’s wrath. I need to focus on this case and figure out where I went wrong. And then I need to find Skank and throttle him for wasting my time.

  That leaves even less time to consider my silly fantasy about the slightly scary but beautiful psychic with the big scarves. Less time to hope she drifts into the precinct to study crime scene photos or to read the energy of inanimate objects in the evidence room.

  And now that I have a pushy, pregnant detective invested in my not-so-secret-anymore crush on Valerie, any attempt on my part to pursue her at all will surely be an unmitigated disaster.

  Chapter Two

  Valerie

  That might have been a disaster.

  I tug out my earphones and lie down on my bed, absorbing everything I just heard myself say on my friend Millie’s podcast.

  At least I managed to not say Ross’s name out loud, or the name of our son. He probably doesn’t listen to the show, but it’s possible he knows someone who knows someone who does listen.

  I take a deep breath and roll over, gazing out the window into the night sky, lit up with street lights outside our walk-up flat. Funny, I chose this place because I liked the fact that the lot had so much light at night for my own safety. It didn’t hurt that I got a discount on the rent because it just so happens to be right above the space I rent for my business. And now, of course, those same lights keep me awake.

  Maybe I won’t sleep at all tonight. I’ll just lie here watching the misty sky outside. To compensate, I’ll take a nap at work in between clients. I sometimes close up shop for twenty minutes to curl up under a blanket on the overstuffed sofa in the back office; sometimes those sessions drain me.

  I close my eyes and try to imagine what it would be like to have someone in my bed to help me sleep. Someone kind. Patient and generous. Someone who likes me for me. Who doesn’t demand I abandon all my interests, all my life’s work, or my friends so he can lock me in an ivory tower to raise our child. A guy who wouldn’t want to change the cozy life I’ve created for myself, with my loft apartment full of plants, Legos, drapey fabrics, toy trucks, brightly colored poufs, action figures, beaded curtains, two cats, and a serious four-year-old—a crazy mixture of bohemian, Art Deco and little-boy messes.

  It would be amazing to meet someone the way Millie met Dave. That was total kismet, in my opinion. They are two souls built for each other and were bound to bump into each other one day. Their love literally blossomed over one totally crazy night. It’s the kind of story that still gives me hope in men.

  I don’t hold out much hope for the immediate future, though. In between running a business and raising Shane on my own, I hardly have the time to put in to find the right one for me.

  As I lie here thinking, my mind builds the perfect man for me, like that scene from the movie Weird Science. Just for fun. He would have to be big. Maybe not Andre the Giant big, but I would not say no to that. Beefy? Bearded? Yes and yes. A little thick in the middle is fine, as long as he’s strong enough to carry me to bed after ruining me in the shower…or the kitchen…or the balcony…or in the car. I’ll do it anywhere, it’s been so long.

  I picture full, sensuous lips. A strong jaw. A big dick is good—I’m not going to pretend it’s not—but more importantly, he needs to know how to use it. And his tongue. Eating pussy must come standard with factory settings, and he can’t
be telling me to get a Brazilian. He’ll get what he gets downstairs, all depending on my mood.

  Apart from sex, the perfect guy will let me do his star chart but won’t be creepy with his follow-up questions. Like, only focusing only on the sexy parts.

  The right guy will also be friendly and enjoy chit-chat, and won’t try to get at me through my kid. Shane can spot their bullshit right away.

  My smartphone rests on the stack of books next to my bed. When it vibrates, I look at the phone and it reads, “No caller ID.”

  Fuck that, I’m not picking up. I send it to voicemail and then almost immediately it rings again. I consider blocking the number but instead I’m feeling lucky so I answer it.

  “Hello?”

  For a second, I think the caller is going to hang up, but then I hear breathing.

  It’s definitely a man; the breathing is deep and slightly wheezy, like a smoker. And then a low voice, like one manipulated by a voice-altering device, says, “You’re on my list of people to call.”

  The hair on the back of my neck stands at attention. I sit up straight in bed. “Who’s calling?” I try to sound dumb and casual even though my heart is racing.

  The heavy breathing continues. “You are Valerie Hudson.” It’s a statement, not a question.

  “Who’s calling?” I ask, unable to keep the fear out of my voice this time.

  “You’re on the list. Watch yourself.”

  Click.

  I’ve been in a real fight-or-flight situation only one other time in my life that I can pinpoint. It was the moment my ex went too far by yelling at me for inviting my platonic friend and coworker to touch my baby bump. And what I did then—act calmly despite my panic—is the same thing I do now.