by Lulu Pratt
Soon, it was closing time. My reverie was interrupted by Kelly calling out, “It’s six, I’m done, bye.”
I looked at the clock on my phone. Six to the exact second. I almost laughed bitterly aloud when I realized I was delighted that she’d even stayed until then, usually, she left early on some excuse.
No sooner had she slammed the door, then it reopened again. From my secluded position behind a tall partition in the back, I called to the apparent customer.
“Sorry, we just closed!”
“It’s me, doofus.”
I recognized Mina’s voice, and laid down my work, rushing to greet her in the dining area. She was bundled in a balaclava that obscured her face, and woolen hat with a pom-pom on top.
“Hey girl, my bad,” I said. “Let me just clean up my stuff.”
She nodded — or I think she did, it was hard to tell through all the layers — and I scurried back to my station to put away all the cake prep. Thank God the burglar had foregone stealing the fridge, or I would’ve been truly up a creek without a paddle.
I packed up all my sundry baking items and cleaned my station meticulously. As evidenced by my home, I wasn’t particularly tidy, but I’d been trained with the rigor of a French pastry student, which meant I scrubbed my surroundings until they downright gleamed.
Once finished with that, I moved to the sink, finally able to wash the powder off my arms. I bathed them as though I were a surgeon, making sure to run my fingers over each twist and turn of my appendages. The whole process took me nearly twenty minutes, and when I reemerged into the main area, I looked around guiltily to make sure Mina hadn’t left.
But no, sure enough, she was sitting right where I’d left her, albeit minus all the winter gear and with a coffee in her hand. Exhausted and sweaty from my work, I peeled off my sweater, leaving only a thin tank to shield me from the weather. Mina gave me a once-over with those eyes that missed nothing.
“Sorry about that,” I said in between pants. “It was a messy day.”
“You had sex,” she responded casually.
“How the hell did you know that?”
“Bite mark. Upper left-hand corner of your neck.”
I thought I’d been joking about her scrupulous eyes, but evidently, I was pretty close to the mark.
“Uh, yeah,” I said weakly. “Guess I did.”
She lit up with the excitement I’d come to recognize in the gossipy church ladies.
“With who?” she asked anxiously. I knew the answer she wanted, and luckily, I had it.
“Although I am flattered you think I might be able to score with any man in town, I think you know who.”
“You didn’t? Was it Officer Robertson?”
“With Dylan. The hot cop.”
She gave a gratifying shriek, and her hands flew to her mouth.
“Oh my God, no way,” she cried. “No fucking way!”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Where? When? How? What position?”
I laughed and held up my hands. “Whoa, slow down there.”
“Literally give me every single detail.” She crossed her arms, indicating that she wouldn’t move until she got the entire story.
I was happy to oblige for the most part. I recounted the relevant details at O’Reilly’s to her, pausing every now and then to allow her space to gasp and ooh and ah. By the time I wrapped up, she was almost rolling on the floor with sheer glee.
“Pretty neat, huh?” I asked, downplaying how totally fucking awesome we both knew it was.
She scoffed and raised her eyes skyward, as if searching for the strength to not smack me.
“Um, yeah, pretty fucking neat,” she managed to reply.
“Okay, okay,” I said, tired of hearing myself talk for so long. “What about you? How was your day?”
The giddiness left her and a frown took its place.
“Hey,” I continued, gesturing to said frown. “Is something wrong?”
“Um—” she broke off. I waited with bated breath. Mina rarely frowned. Scowled, sure, especially at Kelly, and occasionally feigned dramatic anger, but it was unusual for her to frown and really mean it. My concern mounted with every passing second.
“Well,” she said finally, “I’ve got some… not great news.”
“What is it?” My heart tightened in my chest.
“You know Bruce?”
Of course I knew Bruce. He owned about half of Main Street and controlled my lease.
“What about him?” I asked through the lump in my throat.
“Apparently, and this is just what I heard over at Hal’s Pizzeria, apparently Bruce is gonna be hiking up the rent. You should get a letter any day now about it, if it’s the real deal and not just some idle gossip.”
I froze. Maybe the entire world around me froze. Or I was moving through it, slow-motion, like trying to swim through gelatin. It was wrong, all wrong, every single part of it.
“What did you say?” I croaked, knowing full well what she’d said.
Mina laid a sympathetic hand over mine, which rested on the small round table.
“The rent. It’s getting hiked up,” she repeated. “You’ll hear more about it soon, I think.”
“But I won’t be able to keep the bakery open.”
She grimaced, and opened her mouth, as if to speak, and shut it again. We both knew it was true.
Before the robbery, I’d been making my rent checks on a razor’s edge as I’d had so many upfront expenses with the move. I was looking forward to a little extra cash, but it was going to be going to the rent instead. I’d been frustrated, but there at least seemed to be a light at the end of the tunnel. Now, with all my equipment gone, a lousy employee and a court date in my near future… there was just no way to make it all work.
I’d have to close up shop. Maybe find work elsewhere, though that seemed unlikely. And any other job I would find wouldn’t be baking-related. I’d probably end up in retail, or maybe even working at one of the oil refineries. My stomach flipped. I would’ve wasted my time and my money in Fallow Springs. If the bakery closed, I’d have to move back to New York, return a failure, and bide my time in some shitty tourist pastry shop before I could even begin to think about moving up the ladder.
Involuntarily, I thought of Dylan. Leaving here would mean leaving him too. The threat of parting brought tears to my eyes.
“Oh, hey now,” Mina said. “Don’t cry, it’s gonna be okay, we’ll figure out some way to keep Zoe’s Cakes and Bakes open for business.”
She’d misinterpreted my tears, but I couldn’t find it in my heart to tell her that, against all odds, I wasn’t crying for my business. I was crying for a man.
CHAPTER 22
Dylan
Thomas’ pile of evidence had cut me to the quick. Had I pegged Zoe all wrong? I’d seen the feistiness in her on day one, and I liked it. But had that wild spirit actually been a criminal one? I worried that I could no longer trust my senses.
I wasn’t going to condemn her that soon, though. I’d kissed this woman, I’d slept with her. I had to prove her innocence, at least in part to prove my own.
So, with that in mind, I set out to clear Zoe’s name. There were no obvious leads, especially given the department’s total lack of all modern technology. Everything I did would have to be accomplished on foot. The only thing for it would be to start the beginning.
I decided to follow the tried and true maxim of police work, follow the money. If I could track down some of the stolen equipment, maybe I could sniff out the person who stole it. This seemed promising — after all, how many burglars want to keep fancy baking equipment? Not many, I’d venture to guess. Best bet was that they’d pawned it off, possibly via some black-market bottom dweller.
And I knew just the guy.
I debated my next step for a moment, but only a moment. I knew better than to waffle with a clock ticking.
That’s how I ended up inviting Zoe along for what could prove to be a very dange
rous evening.
I sent her a message around two that afternoon.
Gonna try to track down your stolen equipment tonight. Wanna come with? May need your help identifying it.
I left out the part where I was also bursting to see her.
This time, it took her several minutes to reply, by which time I was convinced she was uninterested in helping, or maybe uninterested in me altogether. When the phone eventually dinged, I grabbed the device hastily, and read her reply.
Sure. When/where should we meet?
The message sounded tense, but I brushed this off as my own anxiety.
Ten tonight, the Black Dog Tattoo Parlor.
What?
The Black Dog was home to the only underground trading circuit in Fallow Springs. The department had known about them for some time, but we allowed them to operate under the radar, providing that they occasionally helped us with a case. It was a solid, if morally iffy, tit for tat and the parlor tended to be a font of information. I’d realized early in my career that if you can’t beat ‘em, use ‘em for all they’re worth.
Ultimately, the guys down at the Black Dog were harmless, insofar as I could tell. I had my suspicions that they might have been a facet in the drug trade, but there was so much heroin pouring into Wisconsin that stopping up one leak would just cause another to spring. From what I had seen in the shop basement, they trafficked mostly in knockoff goods, and while that was technically illegal, I didn’t much mind if some bored housewife wanted to pay for a fake Gucci bag. This, plus evading sales and income tax rules, is what kept the Dog open for business.
Of course, I didn’t tell any of that to Zoe via phone. She was made of strong stuff, but she might have flipped her gourd over any part of that information. Instead, when she asked me I replied:
I’ll explain later. Trust me.
Her response came quickly.
I do.
I added, Wear something black and sexy. I would definitely have to explain that bit later.
Happy to.
I remained at work until nine-thirty. Each cop who left the station that evening gave me a puzzled glance, obviously wondering what would compel me to play desk jockey well into the night. I merely grinned back at each in turn, happy to let them ponder the mystery. Cops loved a good mystery.
Growing restless, I cleaned up my desk and took out my trash can. That took me two whole minutes. I changed the office coffee filter, washed some mugs in the sink, reorganized some files. Anything and everything to keep my mind off the impending activities, including seeing Zoe.
I missed her. Like, viscerally missed her, and this after only a few days of knowing one another. The way she’d felt in my arms, and wrapped around my cock… no. Didn’t do to dwell on that. Not at work.
Anxious to clear my head, I launched myself to the floor, and began doing pushups. One, two, three until I reached a hundred, and fell to the ground, slick with sweat. I ripped off my T-shirt, and used the thin fabric to mop my brow and wipe down the sweat that was forming between my pecs.
Aw shit. I was topless and sweaty, and naturally, this brought Zoe to the forefront of my mind. So much for my brilliant plan.
A dirty thought struck me. I hopped up from the carpet and did a quick run around the station. Just as I’d thought, empty. Was I really going to do this?
After another check to make sure that it was really, truly empty, I jogged to the bathroom, and locked myself in a stall. I pivoted to face the toilet, and carefully undid my jeans, one button and yanking the zipper down. Reaching a hand into my underwear, I palmed my stiff cock, which had been hard for the last twenty minutes. I had to take care of it or I wouldn’t be able to concentrate tonight.
I pulled my cock from my pants and immediately began to concentrate on Zoe, her back, her neck, her tits, her ass. The wetness of her pussy, the curls in her hair. I thought of her crawling, in slow motion, across the pool table, and her waggling her ass in my direction, begging for my dick.
I began to stroke my cock, smooth up and down yanks, as I replayed last night over in my head. Zoe on all fours, hungry for me. Zoe bent over the counter while I pressed my stiffness into her. Zoe, Zoe, Zoe…
I stroked harder and harder, all the while holding visions of her in my head. Before long, I could feel myself reaching climax, and I put a hand against the stall divider to steady myself. I jerked my dick rapidly now, urging myself to come.
And in the back of my mind, I heard Zoe say, “I trust you.” That was all I needed.
I came hard. I tried to shoot my seed into the toilet, but the orgasm was beyond my control and it landed on the floor. I leaned against the stall, exhausted from the exertion, and more excited than ever to see Zoe tonight.
Hoisting myself up, I set to the task of scrubbing my cum from the floor. After that was finished, I checked my watch — perfect timing. Nine-thirty on the dot. Time to go meet up with Zoe and prove her innocence.
Wallet? Check. Jacket? Check. Gun? Check.
I was ready.
CHAPTER 23
Zoe
I arrived at the Black Dog Tattoo Parlor early. If I’m being honest, I was hoping that Dylan would also be there preemptively, and maybe we’d have time to fool around a bit. Not that scoping out possible leads for criminal prosecution was my idea of a sexy time, but I was horny and ready to make do.
In retrospect, I wished I hadn’t been so eager. Because as I pulled up to the Black Dog, it occurred to me that I was alone on entirely the wrong side of the tracks. Mind you, Fallow Springs barely had a wrong side of the tracks, the town was pretty much like something out of Leave It to Beaver.
All this to say, when you came across the wrong side of the tracks, you damn well knew you were there. The public spaces were overgrown with weeds, various fast food containers littered the sidewalk, and no one was out past sundown.
The Black Dog itself was equally imposing. There were blackout blinds covering the front windows, preventing the casual viewer from getting so much as a peek inside. A pair of enormous, painted guns served as decoration on the crumbling storefront. They were matte black and outlined in shiny silver paint. If the message hadn’t been so terrifying, I might have almost been amused by the arts-and-crafts of it all.
So, I locked my doors, and turned on the radio, hoping to find some pop song to fill the silence. Instead, each channel was either static or playing some unnerving Christian hymns sung by children’s choirs. Logically, I think, the talented voices of God-fearing kids were supposed to comfort me, but to jangled ears, they sounded more like Children of the Corn.
I pulled my knees up to my chest and wrapped my arms around them. My black mini-skirt rode up past my pelvic bone and the air around my lacy black underwear chilled me. I shifted around, trying to find a position where my boobs weren’t spilling out of my black corset top, but failed. As instructed, I’d dressed to kill — or at least, dressed to fuck. I wasn’t sure why I needed to wear sexy shit, but if Dylan asked me to strap on a pair of badass heels, well… who was I to argue?
I remained there for the next ten minutes, at which point I saw what I now recognized as Dylan’s truck pull to a stop across the street. His lanky form clambered out of the vehicle, and I noted that in addition to using his personal vehicle, he’d also foregone his usual squad jacket. He wore that jacket everywhere, if it weren’t lined with wool, I imagine he’d consider wearing it during sex. I wondered if I might suggest that later.
The fact that he’d abandoned the jacket for the night made me question what, exactly, we were doing here, and just how aboveboard it was.
I was glad that I didn’t have more time to dwell on that unnerving question, because Dylan was walking up to me, his large, booted feet smacking the pavement with authority. He came near enough that I could see him suck in a deep breath at my outfit.
“So,” I began, “you always take your dates to such upscale joints?”
He laughed and shook his head. “Nah, you’re just special, is all
.”
I flushed. Did he mean it? I surveyed his face for any hint of embarrassment, but no — he seemed to have made the comment in earnest. A part of me felt triumphant.
“Should I be scared?” I asked.
“You don’t ever have to be scared when you’re with me.” He took my hand in his and pulled me closer. “I’ll protect you.”
Swoon. I believed him, too.
“You look… no, ‘nice’ doesn’t even begin to cover it,” he said.
“Thanks.” I noticed that he was also dressed in all black. Was this some kind of coven? I added, “Did you tell me to wear this for a reason? Or just because you felt like it?”
“Bit of both. Wanted you to blend in.”
Blend in? I swept my eyes incredulously over the get-up. Hardly seemed like ‘blending in’ material.
Which begged the question, the one I asked next, “And what, precisely, are we doing here?”
He proceeded to explain the Black Dog’s place in the black-market scene and how they might have come across my stolen equipment. I listened attentively at first, but my mind soon drifted to pressing queries, like who knew Fallow Springs had a black-market scene? Of course, New York girls like myself assume that all small towns are innocent and sweet.
I was naïve. No, condescending. That was it. I’d presumed that the smaller the city, the smaller the secret desires. I made a mental note to stop taking the superficial quaintness on its face.
“So that’s why we’re here,” Dylan finished.
“One question.”
“Shoot.”
“Why are you doing all this? I can see that this is beyond the scope of normal police inquiry. You’re using your own vehicle,” I said, gesturing to it, “and aren’t wearing the jacket.”
“You’re right,” he allowed. “This isn’t exactly the average case.”
“Why do it then?”
“Because you’re most definitely not an average woman.”
He grinned, and I melted into a little puddle of Zoe. This strong, sexy man was going to go into whatever den of horrors lay beneath us just to avenge my honor and get back some stolen cooking supplies? And here I was, thinking they didn’t make guys like this anymore.