Triple Pass: An MFMM Reverse Harem Romance

by Sierra Sparks

  Right after my graduation and subsequent moving out, I wandered a bit, traveling the better part of the States by myself, feeling for what to become and do. Nicole was a part of that journey, and in her I can truly say I found a better friend that I would have hoped for in anyone else. The states were fine, from Yellowstone geysers to the cracking colors of the Milky Way on nights that meant sunrise and love in the Canyon. She had the weirdest of stories then, about the time she walked in on her mom and dad doing it on the coffee table, which they’d hang on the wall, or when she stalked a boy she had liked, but realized he had a poop fetish…

  She appreciated how cool I was, being her wingman at the clubs we would pop into. It was then I realized that she was just budding into her true sexuality. The girls she picked up were fairly beautiful, and she had the wildest of night having sex with them, as I stayed back and caught up on my research and literature.

  No, I’m no noob. I loved being there and helping out when I could, but along the way, I just couldn’t find any woman who could dare compare to moonlight in wonder like Jasmine. It would all just feel…bland, even thinking about it. It had its perks though. With no woman haunting my heart for eight years, I concentrated enough to study and practice at everything I wanted.

  I still talk to her, Nicole, of course, once a week, catching up with how her wife and child are doing. Her practice and family life is more balanced than I could ever have seen for myself, even with Jasmine, in my head. She took it straight up with the law, and right now is elbow deep in the best forensics lab in the next city.

  Bryce…well, I keep tabs on him. His stardom in basketball has taken in leaps and seen him go to places we both never foresaw. Right in the league he is, playing almost every weekend and making his name a household item. I make time to see him, and catch up over a beer. The court-side tickets are awesome too when the nights are free and I’m not too beat.

  Life is good. That phrase was rightly coined. The reflection on my desk’s drawer knob smiles back at me. It’s been a struggle, coming up from all the legwork and piling up the files in the basement to be the man I think I’m becoming. It’s taken it’s time, and of course, enough blessings from mom to get me here. The badge rests warmly on my waistline, making conversation with the suspenders strapped down my back. The office space is not too bad for a junior of my stature, but in one way or the other, I know I’ll prove my salt.

  “Officer Winters,” Alice Fiora by my door calls out, deft in her sexy lipstick all black in death’s glory, and a blue top to match her curvy waistline. Most would agree that her Hispanic nature, filled with the bribe of her tongue whenever she wanted a case in Child Services, made her sexy in ways sex would not satisfy. I, on the one hand, just saw her as a young woman trying to make head way in this man’s world that reeked of oversized ball-heads.

  “Yeah?” I look up, wondering what this could be at 8 in the morning. It’s one of those days I just feel like writing down a report, or several. They never let me rest on such days, and I can feel what she’s about to say. I can almost mouth the words along with her.

  “The Chief wants a word.”

  “Alright,” I sigh, letting the plastic cup of Joe in my hand go empty down my throat before crumpling it in my hand and throwing it in the bin just like Bryce recommended. She laughs. It falls to the dusty carpet.

  “It isn’t even a foot away Winters,” she smirks. Her fingers are green, well, her nails to be precise, and they claw at the wood in a truly alluring way. I just don’t get it.

  “Nah, Alice. Must be the plastic.”

  “Oh really now? The plastic? So I guess the economy crashing must be a problem with the paper that makes money?”

  Cocky. Not a bad taste for a girl trying to seduce.

  “Ha-ha. Fair point,” I turn, and grab my coat. Any time Chief Simmons calls me out, it’s most definitely a cold case. I have a knack for them, or so he says.

  “When you get back, can I steal you for lunch?”

  I stop by the door and breathe her in. Roses and peppermint; fresh and saucy. I like. But not that much.

  “Why not? I’m sure whatever Chief’s got me working on will spare the time…and…maybe you could help me with it?” With the passion she hates legwork; I hope this will be a deterrent. I know I can be a dick sometimes, but it’s probably for the best that no one gets emotionally invested in me. I’ve been good for eight years. Old faithful’s been always there to take the stress and sexual tension out when need be. And I use him it this time to swing the door shut.

  “I’ll catch you in my net yet Winters,” she flies, waltzing away, making sure I see the sway of her cheeks. I’m not the only one to notice. There’s plenty a catcall she gets by the time she sits in her cubicle.

  Chief Simmons’ office is the last on the end of the flower plants. It’s where they say old dreams and new aspirations go to die. No one tends to the flowers, but they always stay green. Given his pearly white mop, scarred face from all sides, moustache almost close enough to a wig, and an attitude that could stare down the sun, I can see why every junior cop, and some of the oldies, hold that title of respectful fear towards him.

  I walk by, soliciting some stares from the nosy cops having their morning coffee to get their asses up. It’s never good when walking past the plants. In me though, the childlike curiosity I had with my dad when he worked his cases at home was and always is the same when I walk into Caldor Simmons’ office. His presence reminds me of him, and partly too because they worked together till he died.

  “Come in Winters,” the gruff undertone of a throat that’s known whiskey as its friend and cigarettes as its mistress calls me in. He is old, and not yet old enough to miss out on the action.

  I walk in. The treads on my boot silently mow along the rough carpet. I glaze the surrounding. It never gets old. Ancient drawings of Indian tribes plaster the beige wall. A couple of knives are framed and on display, with some writing on the wood below it. I can’t read from this far, but I know it’s got something to do with his old roots as a native of the Navajo clan. Green hornet fishing hooks are in a case by his far left, a display to the time he must have caught that huge bass he mummified years back. I never got the need for having those big eyes stare at him, but he constantly hammered it into me that it keeps him vegan.

  The window is behind his clean desk, clean for it has only one sheet of paper and an old-fashioned ink pen. It’s what everyone fears about him; it’s what I love about him. Simplicity awash in mystery, for no one knew what he wrote on there. They just sat idly, but every day, a new sheet of paper would be on the desk, and some ink stains on the wood and his fingers.

  “Sit.”

  The leather is comforting. His silence, as he stares out the window, is not.

  “You’ve been doing some good work Spencer.”

  He falls silent and lets his awe do the mincing. I learnt a long time ago not to interrupt him at all when he talked. It was a lesson that still remains fresh now…

  I was having a chat with Alice on my first day on the force. Parched and flirting, I needed some coffee. Walking towards the rec room, I stumbled into a dude I really liked. Blake Young he was. There was an energy to him that just spanked the newbie out of me, and the longer we talked, the more I realized we had in common. Then, an older guy, Bruce Chesnee, called him and Young left. There was a meeting in the bullpen. I followed. Simmons was giving a speech. He commended all who had worked with Bruce, who was standing alongside him at the time, and stood to fight the good fight. There was applause, and then the silly stupid Sally in me woke up and made a joke.

  They all stared back at me. In silence. Their eyes held disbelief, and a mocking laugh that stung me. All Simmons said to me was to follow him. I spent a month in the basement, filing records to cold cases from over five years ago. With no pay.

  Lesson learned, I keep my tongue glued to the roof of my mouth.

  “Since Bruce retired, there are others who have been…tired…from all
this running around that we do. And Blake’s never wanted a partner that wasn’t Bruce. You understand he was a father figure to him, yes?”

  “Yes Chief, I get that.”

  “Well,” he scratches his beard with a toothpick, old Western style, “it’s time you leveled up, Spencer. Your new assignment, today, is with your partner Blake. He accepted your request.”

  If I can hug him, I could, but why would anyone want to get any foot closer to a raging bull?

  “Thank you sir, you won’t regret it.”

  “I hope I don’t. You’ll find Young with the assignment on his desk. He’s waiting on you.”

  I leave in a huff, trying and failing to keep my composure. Finally! I get to go on the streets, and with a partner in tow. Life is surely good. But by the door, the magnetic charm of an old soul calls me back,

  “Son, remember what your father stood for. He was a good cop, and a better man. You wear his badge.”

  I turn back and gaze upon him. His eyes are teary, and his hands cracking in age. Still, the secrets and lives he has lived; I wonder how many more he has of my dad that he keeps under wraps. He sighs.

  “Wear it proudly, Spencer.”

  “I will Chief. I will.”

  I’m gonna pop some tags…

  The radio is full blast with one of my all-time hits from Mackelmore. Blake is by the driver’s seat, grumpy and realistic as always. In the morning, there is the stare he gives pigeons, on his way to the balcony by the supply closet on the upper floor, which questions his sanity. The reason? He tunes in with their gift to give zero fucks.

  It’s my first case, and with it comes a different kind of sicko.

  “A man was murdered last night in his home. There’s no weapon, no witnesses, just the wife and her son. The nanny has no priors, and neither do the two. Kid is 7 years old, and the wife is 26,” he starts. It’s always about the case with him. Even the roses could walk past him and chew cookies and he still wouldn’t notice.

  I grab the case file and read it through. It does seem like a run-through-the-mill case. It’s most definitely the wife that did it. But as we drive through to the yellow tape and the dozens of forensic cameras and markers, I can’t help but feel a surge of more of a story than meets the eye.

  It’s a fucking huge house. The area is beautiful, with rose bushes and white fences. It all looks perfect, only that the owner is somewhere in an ambulance waiting for his autopsy. There is a medic tending to a blonde-haired woman and a child who I assume to be the wife. I flip through the scene, walking past the crowding neighbors in their silk jammies cordoned off by Guy and Proctor. They’re the muscle in the force, and are always called when crowd control is needed. It might be demeaning to anyone who doesn’t know them, but they love the fresh air. Or so they told me last month.

  “Hey Guy, Proctor.”

  “Spencer,” they nod, with their arms telling off an old man holding on to his Chihuahua for dear life. He’s in a pink robe. Jesus…

  “I’ll see you guys around.”

  “Sure thing Winters. I think Blake’s calling you over,” he points, and I look to the shade under the house porch his arm waving me to him. I walk swiftly, gearing up to question the Vic’s wife. Just then, when the view becomes clear, and the sun washes her face with light, I see her.

  No…it…can’t be.

  “Hey, Spencer. I need you to interrogate the wife. The son is cleared; he was asleep the entire time. Hey man, you good?”

  My tongue is stuck, but I nod in response. I take out my pad and pencil, and squat at her feet to really see her. Her face is messed up. The cheekbones I remember were not this mashed in, and neither was her blonde hair. The lips on this woman stick out as dry and chapped, and her whole demeanor is unhealthy.

  But the one thing I dare not forget to always love and cherish; the one thing that I could never forget even in the plane of dreams, are her eyes. Those sweet gorgeous baby blue eyes from all those years ago. They still laugh and joke in the silence that is my life.

  Jasmine Turner sits on the floorboard, huddled in a blanket to keep her from going into shock with a young boy sleeping on her lap, and is the wife to my murdered victim.

  Chapter 12 – Jasmine

  This is a dream. Or perhaps I am mistaken; a nightmare.

  My feet had been calm and warm, soothing the wooden staircase up into the house with tuned kisses that stopped as soon as they came. The bleariness of the night had been new. I couldn’t see. Not much, but I could tell where what was and wasn’t. I skirted my fingers upon the walls, the picture frames, the stools, the chairs, until finally, the door knob. It was warm, and damp. Most probably Carl had left the stove running again, boiling water for his gin. He is the most careful drunk I have ever known.

  But this whole thing was new. I had left the confines of my basement, and waltzed upstairs in search of something to do, to say. I was in a dream state, trying to figure out what I had just spewed out to my husband a few hours ago. I know I yelled at him, screaming for a divorce. Then I led to Henrietta as she talked me into accepting the status to be. Wine was in the picture.

  Ah, must be why my head feels like drums in a gothic concert.

  I didn’t know how far I had slumped upwards, but that exact moment my foot lapped up against something warm and squishy, I had to open my eyes. It was something squishy alright; Carl’s neck. The rest of him too, was lying on the carpet looking towards the window alongside our matrimonial bed. I was on the fucking third floor, and that kicked the sleep out of my eyes for a second, but not my brain.

  I flew to the side, wondering what hell I would get into then. I shivered by the wallpapered wall by my feet, coiling in disgust at the smell that purveyed the entire floor. My nose must have just filtered it out as nasty rat poop on the way here. Or a dead rat.

  Then I saw his chest. It was…unfamiliar, awkward. Chests are supposed to move, right? A certain up and down flow of his crappy lungs which must have been ridden with tons of soot from all the smoking he enjoyed as his dick got sucked on the balcony. But now, as much as that kind of thought angers even the least caring of wives, I am stricken by it. His chest is at a standstill; non-moving.

  It slowly dawned on me to shoot to his eyes. In them, I saw a blankness of ideas, on how he really wanted to fuck me up with a mallet after that bitter exchange of words, or how much he must have drunk and left the bottle of bitter gin by the foot of our bed, or even how much he must have loved ice cream a very long time ago, and not the state of loathing he has when Spence licks his caramel toppings every Sunday. I saw a life that was, a life that could never be more than he had hoped to be. In them, I saw the unblinking wisdom of Karma, and when five seconds had passed without him blinking while staring right at me, I knew. He was dead.

  Carl Glenn-Turner, comfortable at the base of the carpet, his face losing color, was gone and dead.

  I hated him. I still do, even with his soul damned long before I had woken up. But with the kindness that I never knew I could give to him, I ran, no, tip-toed, to him, just to see if my mind was lying again, or this was reality.

  His chest was cold then. It felt hard on some areas as I tried to listen for a heartbeat. Nothing there. His hands were bloody, and then it came to me that I had been seeing him with the fading moonlight outside. Given the creepy noir that the entire seen was, I was scared more by the fact that I could still see him look at me. I stumbled back and fumbled for the lights.

  Red is no longer my favorite color on anything.

  I was gone downstairs faster than I could think. He was murdered, right here in the house, with two more people sleeping in the basement. The one thing that caught on; the murderer is still here.

  The police, they could help! They are fast, and efficient, but…oh no…what if I’m next? What if…?

  Spence. He was the thought that kicked in that emotional overdrive. Ever heard of mothers who kill bears with their own hands if their children are caught between those furs? Or those who l
ift cars wide apart if their baby is stuck inside? I was, am, the mother who would rip apart anyone who laid eyes on Spence without my say-so. I was gearing up for a fight, with or without help.

  “911 what’s your emergency?” the female voice responded promptly, devoid of emotion. I crouched low by the stair of the basement, peeking for any visible sign of a man, or woman in design mask and creepiness, with the phone in one hand, and a heel in the other. No one’s perfect. It was the only thing I could get instantly. It’s a 6-inch though.

  “There is an intruder in my house,” I spewed out. Spence was asleep. Snoring even. I breathed, letting the show down but keeping my guard higher than my tussled hair. “What’s your address, miss?” I gave it to her. This estate wasn’t too hard to find either. If you aren’t rich, then you know it from the pompous and haughty neighborhood that buys lemonade from preschoolers for $100 a glass. If you are, then this is the place to live, or so your real estate broker would advise.

  “A unit will be arriving shortly miss. Can you find a cabinet to hide in? Are there any available exits in the room you’re in?”

  “No, I’m in the basement with my son. The only window is small enough for rats,” I curtly respond, eyeing the hallway that acts as an exit and an entrance to our haven.

  “I advise you to stay calm, and quiet. Our unit will be on its way shortly. Miss, are you hurt?”

  Fuck. I should have said it at the start.

  “Umm, no, but…but my husband Carl…he’s upstairs.”

  “Is he hurt? Did he hurt you miss?”

  “No. He’s dead.”

  The squad car was here faster than the acclaimed seven minutes. I guess I must have come off as really guilty to have called the police and mention a murder at the end of a conversation. I was paraded outside, and it was really flashy with all the red and blur spinning in my eyes. I never let Spence go, however freakishly cold it is at four in the morning.