Cop's Obsession

by Regina Wade

  Cop’s Obsession

  A Protective Possessive Instalove Romance

  Regina Wade

  Copyright © 2020 by Regina Wade

  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.

  Contents

  1. Slate

  2. Shilo

  3. Slate

  4. Shilo

  5. Slate

  6. Shilo

  7. Slate

  8. Shilo

  9. Slate

  10. Shilo

  Epilogue One - Three Years Later

  Epilogue Two - Five Years Later

  Protect and Serve it Up Platlist

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  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Slate

  Breakin’ rocks in the hot sun. I fought the law and the law won. I fought the law and the law won.— The Clash, ‘I Fought the Law’

  Even in the first light of dawn, everything on this side of town looks drab and grey. There’s a gritty haze that clings to the buildings, a film that hovers over the atmosphere long after the sun finishes climbing into the sky.

  I’ve finished my patrol on the same block of Chicago’s Southside every morning for nearly two decades now.

  Like every part of this city, the entire neighborhood is undergoing a renaissance of sorts. It’s a slow march forward, especially considering how much crime runs through these streets. But the signs of progress are visible nonetheless.

  Every morning, layers of fresh paint emerge over the graffiti that covers nearly every available outdoor surface. A few weeks ago, a small organic produce market popped up between the liquor store and dry cleaners. Every night, I see more vegan and fusion options among the food trucks that crawl the city all night. Small changes, but they’re for the better. For the good of the city.

  I scowl up at the pink and white awning above me as I pull my black and white patrol car into my usual spot behind the small bakery on the corner.

  Well, most of them anyway.

  I’m a firm believer in change and forward progression. It makes this even harder, a bitter pill to swallow. I put on my sunglasses before getting out of the cruiser so I don’t have to make eye contact with the hypocrite in the rearview mirror.

  It’s not that I’m not happy for Ed and Harriet.

  I’ve been buying my breakfast from the same corner bakery— and the sweet little couple that owns it— ever since I graduated from the academy. I walked in for my first cup of coffee as a fresh-faced twenty-one-year-old in uniform after what felt like the longest night of my life and was met with two smiling faces.

  Last week, I celebrated the shift after my fortieth birthday the exact same way.

  It’s become part of my morning tradition, the moment at the end of my shift I look forward to most. I was thrilled when I found out the mom and pop shop had sold to fund the owners’ retirement in Ft. Lauderdale. Until it fully dawned on me that it meant the end of Ed’s Donuts.

  The spinning sign at the top of the building is new, painted the same bubblegum pink and white as the awning above the door.

  “Rockin’ Rolls,” I say out loud as I stroll up to the glass front, internally rolling my eyes at the clever name. I’m not ready to like anything about this place. Not yet, anyway.

  The scent of roasted coffee beans hits me as soon as I walk in. It’s enticing; strong enough to perk me up even after twelve long hours of driving around and dealing with the ups and downs of the city.

  Even this early in the morning, there’s already a line. The bakery opened at five, and judging by the hustle of the lanky teenage boy behind the register, they’ve been hard at work ever since. The two construction workers ahead of me in line seem intent on depleting the world’s arabica bean population. I take advantage of the lull in my morning to walk over to the new gleaming chrome and glass display cases that line the front of the bakery.

  I’m a simple guy. Bagel, maybe an egg sandwich is my usual go-to. Most days, breakfast is more of an obstacle between me and getting to bed than a treat. And stopping by the bakery is more about decompressing for a minute and easing back into the real world than eating something particularly decadent.

  The confections that line the shelves in front of me may have me completely rethinking my entire stance on breakfast pastries.

  Fat, glossy donuts, eclairs perfectly iced with an intricate design, a croissant covered with what I can only describe as chocolate lace. There are sugar cookies painted to resemble vintage cartoon characters, a giant macaron shaped like a pomeranian.

  “Yeah, lemme get one of them Darth Vader donuts, too.” The construction worker’s eyes light up, his own grizzled face splitting into a grin as he spies the art show within the bakery display. No wonder the small bakery space is so full this morning.

  The crowd finally thins out enough for me to start making my way up to the familiar counter.

  “Welcome to Rockin Rolls. How can I help you?” The voice catches me off guard.

  Low and melodic. Sweet as spun sugar. When I look over, I realize the line of construction workers was keeping the girl from my view the entire time. Big brown eyes, wide-set and framed by a sweep of long lashes. She’s handing someone a white takeout bag, the long sweep of her blonde hair pulled up into a ponytail through the coffee shop cap.

  There’s a moment of deafening silence in my head as time stops, falters, and kick-starts again.

  And just like that, the silence is broken by the sound of shattering glass.

  Chapter 2

  Shilo

  Daddy was a cop on the East Side of Chicago. Back in the USA. Back in the bad old days. — Paper Lace, ‘The Night Chicago Died’

  It’s not even seven am and I already want to crawl back into bed.

  Then again, I woke up exhausted, so that seems about par for the course.

  “Hey! I was here first!” The guy is hyped up, clearly on something. “The customer comes first, and I demand some help!”

  I didn’t see him walk in, but it’s impossible to miss the customer now. His grey hoodie is pulled up around his head, leaving most of his face obscured. But I can still see the red rim of his eyes, the insane way his pupils are darting everywhere but at me. A bushy red beard that looks like it hasn’t been washed in a week or two pokes out around the edges of the hoodie.

  “Sure what can I get y—”

  Before I can finish, he picks up one of the metal chairs from the bistro seating sets under the far window and hurls it at the display case.

  Son of a bitch! Do you know how long I worked on that display?!

  It’s the first day of my new second job, and there’s already drama. How does this happen? I swear, living in this town is a curse. I must have been born under a blood moon or something. I thought once I got my youngest sister off into college with a medical scholarship, I was finally free.

  Ready to do my own thing. Maybe even do something with the rest of my life?

  Instead, I’m throwing myself on the floor of the bakery within two hours of opening. A fine spray of glass lands over me as the rest of the people flee the bakery. It’s the smart choice, as I suddenly realize just how little protection this slender counter gives me from the likes of, say, a rampaging, tweaked-out customer.

  “Put the chair down. Now.”

  My head swivels around
at the sound of the voice.

  Apparently, not every customer took off at the sign of craziness. Either that or I’ve already died and gone to heaven, because there is no other explanation for the sudden appearance of the hottest man I’ve ever seen, already fully outfitted in uniform.

  Tall and broad, the pale blue button-down clings to his muscular chest in a way that makes me feel better by proximity. His voice is a deep growl that emanates from somewhere inside that chest. It’s enough to make me realize my own heart is slamming inside my own chest. I’m not entirely sure if it has anything to do with an asshole going postal over having to wait too long for his breakfast or the sight of the hottest cop I’ve ever seen in my life.

  From somewhere in the back kitchen, I can smell the distinct scent of burning dough, and I realize the guys must have abandoned the fryers.

  Thanks for having my back, boys.

  “Fuck you, man! I just wanted some breakfast and I was waiting for over—” The nonsensical rager raises the chair again, ready to finish killing the defenseless donuts in the display case. I flinch, ready for another broken glass shower.

  It doesn’t come.

  Instead, the officer is on the guy in the blink of an eye. He maneuvers the chair out of the man’s hand and pins him to the ground.

  “Oh shit.” I don’t realize I’ve said it out loud until after I’m on my feet.

  “What’s your name, man?” Even as he has the guy’s hands behind his back, cuffs snapped in place around his wrist, the cop never so much as loses his breath. Which is saying something, when you’ve seen what bursts of drug-induced strength can do when someone is hell-bent on causing harm. “Let’s get you out of here, get you some help, yeah?”

  He doesn’t even hurt the still-writhing mass of muscle and sweatshirt as he brings the man to his feet. They rise from the floor unscathed, covered in a fine dusting of crushed glass and cookie crumbs.

  I know I should still be scared.

  I want to blame shock, or even my jaded upbringing. The truth is worse, somehow. I’m not afraid. Not anymore. But I am turned on. I’ve never been a big fantasizer— honestly, I’ve had too much going on in my life to spare a lot of time on romantic daydreaming. But the policeman is hot with a capital H. If I were more like my sister, he’d be exactly the kind of man I’d make up happily ever after fairy tales about in my head.

  I’ve never seen such a display of restrained power and authority.

  The next half an hour goes by in a blur.

  Another patrol car shows up and takes the hooded man away. It’s followed closely by an ambulance, racing off down through the crowded intersection.

  The blare of sirens is like a constant soundtrack in this town, but they sound particularly loud as they take off from in front of the bakery.

  “Miss?” The voice is deep and rich. I recognize it immediately as the police officer. “Are you hurt?”

  I look up from the chair I dragged under a window at some point. His eyes are the softest green I’ve ever seen, rimmed with gold. They’re like a spring morning, everything good about being outside of the city. It’s the only thing about him that’s soft— every angle of his face is masculine and square, a jaw like stone and cheekbones to die for.

  “Shilo,” I nod at him. “And yeah, I’m fine. Mostly mourning the loss of my Fred Flinstone danish. You know how long that took to do?”

  “Nice to meet you, Shilo.” To my surprise, he lowers himself into the chair across from me. “I’m Slate.”

  It’s the first time a cop hasn’t introduced themself to me as anything other than ‘officer’.

  Not that I’ve had a lot of run-ins with the law.

  But hey. I raised two teenage sisters in this town. The fact that nobody ended up behind bars is frankly a miracle.

  “The Van Goghnut was my personal favorite,” he smiles at me.

  Something warm flutters in my chest, and I’m not sure if it’s because he noticed my simple pastry art or just because this masterpiece of a man is taking the time to talk to me. Either way, I’m happier right now, sharing this insane five minutes among the rubble of my morning than I can remember being in weeks.

  “I like to paint,” I shrug one shoulder at the dismissive understatement. “I don’t really have much time for it, so it ends up creeping its way into all my jobs.”

  Slate looks like he wants to ask me something.

  Go ahead, officer. I’ll willingly answer all your questions.

  “Shilo! Oh god what happened?” The shrieking voice of my boss comes sweeping in from the front door, cutting off the momentary peace.

  Bob is a squat man, rounder than he is tall. Even at five foot three, I can see the gleaming shine of his scalp peeking through his sparse combover. The pale tan sweater and long flannel scarf he’s wearing would look great on nearly anyone else. His beady eyes sweep over the overturned chair and smashed display case in the corner before settling on Slate and I sitting by the window.

  “What did you do?!”

  And here I thought today couldn’t get any better.

  Chapter 3

  Slate

  The dream police, they live inside my head. The dream police, they come to me in my bed. — Cheap Trick, ‘Dream Police’

  “I should have—”

  “You know,” I stand up, unfolding myself to a full six-foot-six in front of the red-faced little man that just came storming through the front doors. “You’re quite lucky to have this woman working here. You’re the owner of this establishment, I assume?”

  He sputters to a stop, taking in both the uniform and the way I’ve positioned myself between him and Shilo. I can still see her out of the corner of my eye. I hate the way her heart-shaped face fell when her boss walked in the doors. It was like watching the sun retreat behind a cloud. I may have just learned her name, but I already know I need to see her smile again as much as I need to take my next breath.

  If intercepting her boss after the morning she’s having can do that for her, it’s the least I can do.

  “I am, yes. Bob Winehouse. This is my place. Shilo started this morning, and the next thing I know, I’m getting called by the police department about a scuffle inside.” He waggles a finger at the blonde from around my shoulder. “You’re lucky I don’t take the damages out of your paycheck, young lady.”

  “Mr. Winehouse,” I grit my teeth, mentally flipping through the list of adjectives I’d be using if I weren’t in uniform. “Shilo was the victim of a crime while working in your bakery.”

  He looks surprised, as if it had never occurred to him that she hadn’t somehow been responsible for the damage with her very presence.

  “Oh. Well, my—”

  “Apologies accepted,” I cut in sharply. “I’m sure you’re more than willing to cover her salary for the day, considering everything? I was just going to escort her home.”

  “What about my display case—” he starts, but I am already moving right past the stout little man.

  “File a claim with the city,” I say without looking back. I put my hand on Shilo’s arm and lead her out the front doors. “All of the information is in my report.”

  I’m behind the wheel of the cruiser a moment later, already prepared to apologize for the abrupt exit. The last thing I want is to scare her after the morning she’s had. To my surprise, though, she bursts into a fit of uproarious laughter the second the door closes after her.

  “That was magnificent!” she rests her head on the dash in between hiccuping breaths.

  It’s hard not to laugh along with her.

  “He seems pretty convinced that you’re the second coming of Jack the Ripper. Anything I should know before I drive you home, Goldilocks?”

  She sure looks like she’d fit just right, too. Not too big. Definitely not too small. Everything about Shilo is in perfect proportion.

  I like to paint, she’d said. Well, she looks like she could pose for the masters. A Botticelli goddess, a Bernini statue. Even the simple
bakery uniform of black pants and white shirt can’t hide the swell of her curves as she settles into the seat beside me.

  There’s something else nagging at me, though. No matter how much my body is responding to her, no matter how enticed I am by the soft pink curve of her lips, she’s most likely way too young for me.

  “My little sister was a little bit of a trouble maker. I mostly raised her once our parents died. After a while a lot of people in the neighborhood sort of assumed we were all bad seeds.” She shrugs her shoulders in a noncommittal way.

  It’s meant to be dismissive, but I imagine there’s a lot more behind the quick story than she’s letting on.

  I ease us into traffic before taking a long look at her in the passenger seat.

  “You seem young to have raised someone else.” I keep my voice equally light.

  Internally, I’m holding my breath.

  I’ve never been much of a believer in things like fate or destiny. But I’d be lying if I said looking at Shilo didn’t awaken something inside of me that I’d long since given up on finding.

  “I’m twenty-five.” She gives me a shy half-smile from beneath side-swept bangs. There’s a spot of color high on each of her cheeks, and I can’t help but think she’s feeling some of the same chemistry bouncing in the air between us too. “Lacy just turned eighteen— early acceptance to NYU.”

  Her smile blossoms at that. She’s proud of her sister, and she should be. My heart swells at that; the realization that despite everything they've faced, the girls’ story has a happy ending.