Bleed Blue 69: Twenty-Five Authors…One Sexy Police Station

by Anthology

  “I’m going to take you again,” I told her. “This time it’s going to be slow, Livvie. I’m going to tie you up like I promised, and I’ll tease you and drive you crazy. Spank you, too. Good and hard.”

  She sucked in her breath and wiggled, and I was ready again, just like that. I reached down, and the sound of her phone and mine destroyed the mood. “Shit,” I cursed my captain’s ringtone.

  “Luc, I—” She sat up, swung off my lap, and tugged at the cuffs, and this time it wasn’t sexy.

  “Hang on.” I unlocked them and rubbed her wrists. There were already pink indentations in her soft skin. I knew these would fade fast, but I lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to her pulse.

  She smiled, but her gaze turned serious. “That’s Leander. He said he’d only call for an emergency.”

  “My boss called, too.” I adjusted myself. “It’s okay.”

  She grabbed at her dress, dropped it, sighed, and picked up the phone. I strode to the bathroom and cleaned myself. I splashed water in my face, used a towel to rub her lipstick from my neck. Then I grabbed the edge of the counter with both hands, taking deep breaths. Holy hell.

  When I composed myself, I grabbed my phone and dialed. “I’m here, Captain. What’s up?” Livvie was dressed and putting on that fuck-me red lipstick in the mirror. She looked unblemished. I imagined that I resembled a wild animal, disturbed out of hibernation.

  Captain Estrella Miranda’s businesslike tone was clipped and professional, like she always was. “Foster? I need you to get over to that Festivus statue again ASAP. More vandalism, and another threatening note.”

  “Leaving right now.” I hung up and blew out my breath.

  Livvie frowned. “Luc, the statue’s been defaced again.”

  I held out her coat, and she slid in her arms. “I know. I’ll drive.”

  Olivia

  I wanted to make love to Luc Foster again.

  Instead, I was standing in front of the Festivus Pole, examining the mannequins hanging from it, red paint dripping down their naked bodies to land in a puddle below. The rope around their necks was red and silky and glowed in the light. Lovely.

  I wanted to suggest shooting them off with a rifle, but deferred to Luc, who explained, “We need to take them for evidence.”

  There was another note: I’m sorry nobody used the facilities I so graciously provided, and this time I’d like to show you a little more about how I feel about not being appreciated.

  I shivered with unease and glanced around at the small cluster of onlookers. Part of me assumed this was Paolo, wanting attention, especially because the “damage” was more modern art than vandalism… but what if—?

  “This is really avant-garde,” someone said, pointing. “So evocative.”

  “I can tell they really meant the red and the white as a juxtaposition of wealth and urban decay,” commented another spectator. “No, step back so you get the whole thing and me in the shot. Yeah.”

  Luc gestured. A pair of cops in bulky jackets and salt-stained boots put up sawhorse barriers and wound blue and white tape that fluttered in the breeze. Police Line. Do not cross.

  “Ohmigod, it’s performance art!” enthused a young woman—I guessed Barnard or NYU—with braids and high-heeled blue boots.

  A television crew set up, and I rolled my eyes at Paolo, gesturing in front of a bright light, pointing back at the pole and talking rapidly. He was smiling.

  “Who called the news?” Luc scowled.

  Leander pulled his coat tighter around his body. “Who do you think?” He sneezed. “Excuse me. This cold.”

  “Aha.” Luc pursed his lips. “Olivia… can I talk to you a sec?” He pulled me aside. “Livvie… anything look familiar to you about that rope?”

  I glanced back, then put my hand to my mouth as he continued, “Because it looks a lot like the Shibari rope at your studio.” He raised his eyebrows.

  I took a step back. “Luc! I sure as hell hope you’re not suggesting I did this?” I crossed my arms and glared, my body thrumming with adrenaline and anger.

  He put up a hand. “No! Has Paolo been to your studio at all, is what I need to know.”

  Relief hit me, a vicious slap, but I was still angry. “Are you asking if I’m fucking him?” Imbécil.

  His voice rose. “Livvie!” He ran his hands through his hair. “Please.”

  I felt the urge to vomit, and breathed deeply, and it passed. Luc led me to a bench. “I just want to know if he’s had access to your studio.”

  I nodded. “He comes by sometimes to talk. Complain.”

  “Has he ever poked around?”

  “I mean, he’s looked at stuff, yes.”

  “Have you ever left him alone in the studio?”

  “Well, not for long. Just to get waters. Do you think?”

  “I don’t know what I think. I’m just asking questions.”

  “Well, that would be one hell of a grievance if he used my rope because he’s angry with me,” I joked, trying to lighten the mood. “Happy fucking Festivus to me.”

  “I’m not saying he took your rope, Livvie. You’d notice that much missing. But maybe he got the idea there? I want you to be careful. And check if anything’s missing from your studio.”

  “Okay.” I took a deep breath.

  “It’s not.” His voice was hard. “But it will be. I promise.”

  I expected Luc to call the next day, but he didn’t. Another day passed. Was he mad because I got mad when he asked about the rope? But people needed room to learn each other, and we were just starting. Maybe he was busy. I looked at my palm for a long minute, examining the lines tracing their way across my skin and my life, wondering if he was meant to be part of my journey. Was it strange to miss him? But I did.

  I added lines to my newest painting, then removed them. I cursed, walked barefoot around the studio floor, and shouted when I stepped on a fragment of dried paint sticking up like a dagger from a crack in the brushed cement.

  Back at my apartment, I didn’t find relief. Dudweiler wound around my legs, silk in motion, a dance we did without tripping. She whined, plaintive, but when I petted her, she bit my hand.

  My apartment was too still. The molecules should have been in motion, dancing, like stars. Instead, they were flat pebbles, lozenges on the bottom of a dead riverbed, long forgotten. I was lonely.

  He came in bringing winter with him, the smell of snow and New York night on his coat, the feel of December on his cheek when he kissed me. Although I was mad, I melted into him, the cold of his skin defrosting my worry.

  “Livvie.” He stood, legs spread, hands in his pockets. “I need to talk to you officially about the sculpture.”

  “Okay?”

  “We got him. It was Paolo.”

  “¡Pendejo!” My whole body reacted, and I felt like stamping my foot in relief. “I knew it.”

  Luc smiled and shook his head. “In the end we didn’t need to do extra surveillance. The park already had cameras up, and we got the video. There were even bystanders around watching while he did it, too. Sit down?” He pointed at the couch, and I stopped winding my hands together long enough to nod. “He said it was all part of his exhibit. He never meant to implicate you. He thought the red rope was artistic, so when he saw it at your place, he got some, too. He was pretty fucking surprised when we arrested him and charged him with a formal crime for vandalizing his own art and creating a false threat.”

  “Dios. I’ll have to call Leander and we’ll need to work the director into this, now. That—estupido. I can’t believe him.”

  “He made bail right away, and he’ll pay a fine. The whole time we had him, he kept protesting that it was his statue, so he could do what he wanted to it. Oh, and you’ll see it in the news.” He made a face and stood up.

  I stood, too. “Just what he wanted, I suppose. Are you mad that he wasted police time?” I was mad that he’d wasted mine, for sure.

  Luc shrugged. “No time is really wasted when I�
�m on the job. But yeah, he took advantage and wasted resources we could have used to look into more serious things. My captain’s pissed. She wants him to get a shit-ton of community service in addition to the fines and probation.”

  He laughed and I did, too, trying to imagine Paolo doing anything service-oriented. Then I remembered that I was mad at Luc for not calling, and the mood changed.

  “So what do you want from me?” The question loomed between us.

  He hesitated, then said, “About this? If Paolo calls, tell him that the police updated you, and make sure you don’t ever meet with him alone. Don’t let him come to your studio for any reason. Got it?” His eyes told me what else he wanted.

  I took one step closer and watched a muscle clench in his neck. “Is that an official police command?”

  “Yes.” He narrowed his eyes and I felt a surge of arousal between my thighs.

  “What if I don’t obey?” My voice came out low, sultry.

  “Well, I have my ways,” he said, his voice dangerously low, his eyes snapping, “of getting people to comply. Livvie.”

  Butterflies swarmed at his words, because the look in his eyes was all about pleasure… of the dirtiest, sexiest kind.

  But I needed something more.

  “You didn’t call me.” My voice caught.

  He nodded. “I’m sorry. Yesterday was insane. I had to get all of this set up. I ended up working past midnight. I figured that was too late to call.” His eyes locked onto mine. “I wanted to make sure this was taken care of, Livvie. For the job, and for you. And I’m here now. And I’ll be here tomorrow, if you want me to be.”

  I considered this. “What if I wanted you the day after that?”

  He stepped closer. “That can be arranged. The rest of the month, even.” His mouth was so close that our lips touched.

  “And what if that’s not enough?” My voice was a bare whisper.

  “Then we have all the time in the world,” he answered, and he took my lips with his and wrapped his hands in my hair, pulling me into his body.

  “What are you saying?” I asked, looking up into his handsome face.

  “I’m saying.” He paused. “That maybe we can see if our lifelines stay connected. You up for that? Just you and me?”

  I nodded and leaned my head against his chest, feeling his heart beat there, even and strong. “Yeah, Luc. I am.”

  “Happy Festivus,” he whispered into my ear.

  “Speaking of that,” I said. “I have a grievance to air, Officer. Last time we were together, you promised to use your tongue in some very creative ways, and you never delivered.”

  “Oh, I didn’t?” His voice turned into a low growl.

  “Uh-uh.” I shook my head and giggled.

  “Well, as an officer of the law, and one of New York’s finest, let me take this opportunity to uphold my honor. Right the fuck now. Strip.”

  “What?”

  He bit my neck. “You heard me. You gonna add disrespecting an officer to your list, Livvie?” He raised an eyebrow. “There are consequences for that, you know.”

  I wanted to know what those were. And he showed me. All night long.

  Frost Bite

  By Chelle C. Craze

  Liam

  “Lethal or Sassy?” Lucky, my partner, said too loudly as he watched their asses while they walked to their desk. He strummed his fingers along his lips and continued his internal debate of whose ass he preferred.

  Sassy glared over her shoulder and made eye contact with me. Her brows were knitted highly on her forehead and it was clear by the thin line where her full lips usually were, she was waiting for an apology. We both knew she wasn’t going to get one from Lucky, so I did what I usually did in scenarios such as this. I simply shrugged my shoulders.

  “Kennedy,” I said under my breath, refusing to address her by the nickname the guys had given Homicide Detective Letha Kennedy, and looked down into the desk drawer as if I were searching for something. I needed a reason to look away from Sassy, who was on the verge of elbowing Letha in the side. I didn’t really care for Letha’s temporary partner, Katherine “Sassy” Xavier. She was a natural-born detective as she was beyond nosy. Everything was her business as far as she was concerned. She was someone you wanted in your squad, but not snooping around in your personal life. In this case, she was both, even if she wasn’t aware of it.

  “I knew it. You fucked her.” He wailed with laughter and took a huge bite of croissant, washing it down with a quick swig of coffee.

  “I didn’t say that. I just didn’t call her Lethal,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant, and blew at the steam rising from my coffee. I didn’t want to seem too interested in her. Once Lucky figured out Kennedy and I were sleeping together and had been for some time now, he’d never leave it alone. I was honestly surprised it had taken him this long to figure it out.

  Letha “Lethal” Kennedy moved into my apartment complex just after our two-year mark, right before we both became homicide detectives. At first, my opinion of her was no different from the other guys’. She was intense and had one hell of a resting bitch face, which was what earned her the nickname “Lethal.” Well, that and a shit ton of booze.

  Lucky looked at me out of the corner of his eye and smirked. “Asher says she has crime scene tape tattooed on her ass. That true?”

  I knew the bastard was fishing and I wasn't going to bite.

  “‘Do. Not. Enter.’” A crude laugh escaped his lips, along with bits of the croissant in his mouth as he recited what the tape said, knowing we’d both seen more than our share of its surface.

  “Do you play good and bad cop?” He smirked, fully aware he was getting under my skin.

  “We’re just friends, Lucky,” I lied, and he knew it.

  He also knew not to mention it to anyone or I’d make his life hell.

  “We’re friends.” He laughed as he waved the last bit of croissant between us, and popped it into his mouth. “When you stick your baton into another officer’s belt that goes beyond friendship, Frosty,” he said and crumbs flew everywhere.

  I had been trying to avoid this topic all day and had been successful, until an hour before quitting time. A puff of air flew outward from my lips and I quickly clamped my mouth shut. I intended to tell him tomorrow, knowing if I didn’t, he’d keep this up for days.

  “Who does the cavity search? I bet Lethal does those, doesn’t she?”

  A small laugh crept out in response and I covered my mouth with my hand. If he wasn’t convinced of the situation between Letha and me before, I just confirmed it for him. It was impossible to stay upset with him. He always found a way to incorporate humor into the equation.

  I brushed the crumbs off my paperwork and into the trashcan, and quit listening to my best friend intertwine police jargon and sex. I was almost positive he was intentionally getting the crumbs everywhere to irritate me, but that was just one of his quirks. He liked to tease. There were times I forgot he was my partner, because I thought of him as a brother. We definitely argued as brothers do, but had each other’s back.

  According to Lucky, Letha smiling when she handed me the sugar this morning was suspicious behavior. A smile. One quick flicker of kindness exchanged between two coworkers and my best friend jumped to conclusions. Except, in this occasion, he was correct. There wasn’t much to argue, which was the reason I was only half-heartedly responding to him. I was a shit liar and if anyone was aware of this, it was Lucky.

  Letha did smile. A lot, in fact. Only most people didn’t notice, which was a damn shame. She was gorgeous. No one would argue that, but her personality intimidated a lot of the precinct. She didn’t find happiness in most things other people did. I would agree with the majority, she was peculiar, but who wasn’t? She found peace with death, I think.

  When death came into the conversation, the majority of people I’ve met became awkward and changed the subject. Not Letha. She spoke nonchalantly, as if we were discussing the weather or which
restaurant to choose for lunch. At twenty-five, she became a widow, right before she transferred to the NYPD. I’m sure it was the reason for the transfer, but I’ve never asked.

  We investigated death. Anyone surrounded daily by death had to be a little strange. Even if you were semi normal when you began, after you saw so many lifeless bodies, it took its toll. For me, the number was seven. Everyone had a number, whether they recognized it or not. Some did, others didn’t. I was very aware of my unforgettable number.

  I had seen six dead bodies and had gone unaffected. Six hearts without a rhythm and eleven and a half lungs without purpose. One victim was beat with a Louisville Slugger, collapsing half of his right lung. The seventh was my breaking point. I felt myself change. Leading up to that crime scene, I was still a rookie. Nothing had bothered me too bad. Some semblance of passion still laid within me for humanity. After seven, that passion narrowed to a tiny sliver.

  Lucky had taken a personal day, and Letha was picking up overtime. Looking back, we were so green. There was no way to prepare mentally for what we found. Dispatch called us out at 2 a.m., so we hopped in the cruiser, flipped on the turret lights, and sped to the site. The blood splatter analyst earned their pay on that scene. Everything was bloodstained. The couch. The carpet. Even the family cat, which was once white. It was a murder, suicide.

  The vic’s body was unrecognizable. Dental records later identified her mutilated remains. Rose Leftwich. I’ll never forget her name. Her husband suspected her of cheating, so in return he took a circular saw to her body. She wasn’t even cheating on the bastard, but the same couldn’t be said for him. The investigation later disclosed he didn’t have just one girl on the side, but three.

  I think that’s when I actually connected with Letha. Once you share something as personal as death with someone, you’re never fully yourself again. A part of each of you will always remain entangled in that dark moment.