by Amarie Avant
“It’s gonna be a long night,” I sigh, taking a seat next to my partner.
Chinese was on the menu since there’d be no venturing home for dinner, without some sort of lead. I had called Reese to let her know not to expect me anytime soon.
I dig into my orange chicken, while Ty, the tech Casey and I watched hours upon hours of surveillance. Casey’s head kept bobbing backwards, and Tyrone blocked his nostril airway with the side of his cell phone. They guy would pop into an erect position, only to fall back asleep seconds later.
My head tilts to the side while watching a Latino, approximately three-hundred-fifty pounds plus or minus fifteen in a blue jump suit with, LC tatted on his neck. He’s somewhere between twenty-five to thirty-five years old. The manager doesn’t have employee information on maintenance, and said she’d get back to me as soon as she could. I had just started dinner when the guy first stepped out of the office for a smoke.
“Casey, wake the fuck up,” I shout.
The redhead jumps up from his seat so hard, that the leather chair rolls back and his ass hits the ground. Tyrone laughs. I hold out a hand, through his glasses, he glares at me.
“Roll that back,” I tell him.
Tyrone shakes his head at me. I could have done it myself. But I smile.
Casey reclaims his seat and swivels to the panels in order to change gears on the proper screen.
We watch as the man, in a blue jumpsuit comes out of the office to smoke a cigarette. Three times at the 1800 hour, then the 1900, and 2000 respectively. His mannerisms have been the same the entire time. I mention the obvious, “This video is looped.”
I have been off my game, all thoughts leading toward getting home to Reese. How fucking easy was it to pull the wool over my eyes.
A search of his person shows no badge or other identification on the screen in order to zoom in on.
In double time, we track the man’s movements until he steps out of the building around four thirty p.m. He heads to the carport; his Camaro is luckily beneath a lamp. Lime-green paint, carbon fiber hood. Camaro, year 2016. This idiot wants to be easily identified.
Casey zeros in on the plates…757RLF2.
Tyrone calls it in.
At fifteen past ten p.m., we have a team ready to enter the home of twenty-seven- year-old Hector Rodriguez.
For less than seven months, Rodriguez has worked at Spectrum Biopharmaceuticals. He’s also worked on the grounds of various other pharmacy companies from San Diego to Oxnard. No rap sheet. No gang affiliation.
Since we want to question Rodriguez first, uniform cops have pulled up to the curb as we do, to assist. We head up the porch of a tiny house in East Los Angeles. Though it’s dark, there are people, young and old, seated on the porches of the houses surrounding us. All eyes are on us.
Dim lights are on in Rodriguez’s place. The Camaro is out front. Clay pottery lines the porch.
As I take a step onto the porch, a loud rustling noise comes from the back of the house.
We’ve got a motherfucking runner!
Ty and I head back to the car, as the beat begins to spread out and run around both sides of the house to the back.
“Too damn late for running,” Tyrone grumbles getting into the passenger seat.
“Who’re you telling,” I slip into the driver’s seat, ready for action. “Which way?”
Gripping the roof railing, Tyrone glances out the window, then says, “North.”
I pull out from the parallel spot.
“We’re lazy as fuck, Rodriguez can’t be clocking but a quarter of a mile per hour,” Tyrone chuckles.
I cruise up Vancouver Avenue, and E Hubbert, peering left to right. “Did Rodriguez happen to turn the opposite direction?”
“Nah, couldn’t have. Maybe I misjudged his fat ass. No, wait there he is!”
The big guy was headed in the direction of Garfield High School. We pass by the cops, Tyrone shaking his head at their inability to catch Hector Rodriguez. My Audi veers off the street and stops catty-cornered over a sidewalk.
Just as I got out, Rodriguez picks up speed. His three hundred twenty-nine-pound frame heads toward me. No fucking way. Rodriguez’s chin lowers and his balloon sized head is targeting me like a spear. Our eyes connect in this game of chicken. His pupils are dilated, he’s so high, he won’t feel shit. And I gage his next move in a fraction of a second. There’s no going back for him. There are more patrol cops pounding the pavement for his ass. He aims to get past me, and then Tyrone on the other side. Fuck that, I’m taking him down.
As anticipated, Rodriguez begins to slide over the hood of my car. I grip his shoulders and force him back my way. Hector Rodriguez’s ass slams down on the concrete with a thud. In a trance, Hector headbutts me, bashing into my ribs, his fat head knocking all of the air out of me. While reading his Miranda Rights, I grab his skull and knee him in the mouth. Yeah, this tactic is dirty, but my ribs are on fire…
35
Reese
One day I had the wise idea to ask Milo the dumbest question ever, “Hey, Dad, why'd you call McGregor your partner and then talk about him with Vido and the guys?”
Dad pulled on his Italian slacks, then squared down to my height. “McGregor and I... uh, he's my partner by LAPD standards. Let's see,” he rubbed his hands together in thought.” You know how, you and I go to the shooting range?”
“Yeah,” I nodded face a goofy grin at the thought of target practice over being in one of those godawful pageants my mother forced me to attend.
“You're my fucking princess, doll. I always say when I'm not around I don't want you to depend on any motherfucker—”
“Milo,” mom butted in using the seedy voice she always utilized when he cussed too much.
Dad held up a hand. “Lemme finish, Lolita.” He then turned back to me. “We go to the range and as far as I'm concerned, Reese, you're gonna have as much balls as any one of these soldiers, running the streets. Now see, McGregor and I, we go get the bad guys. So yeah, it's nice to have someone whose got your back, but that ain't always the case.”
I nod sort of understanding, but in all actuality I didn’t comprehend much at all. So you train me because I might not have a McGregor. But what about Vido, he’s not friends with McGregor, I tried even though I wasn’t sure the two knew each other. I knew that at school, if one of the girls wasn’t friends, then she was nobody’s friend at all.
“Fuck no, they’re not good with each other,” he chuckles. “Now, Reese, you're a smart one. So listen, in my field, there ain't a thing wrong with a little taste. A little kickback or what have you. Having a partner over your shoulder hinders that.”
“She doesn't fucking understand, Milo,” mom said through gritted teeth.
“Babe, shuddup.” Dad turned back to me. “A kickback is like a uhhh… tip that a waitress gets from serving us when we go to dinner. McGregor just doesn't like his tips.”
“That's dumb!” I laughed. Milo had always taken us to extravagant restaurants. Mom took me sometimes to mediocre ones when he wasn't around. But no matter where we went, it was always different with daddy around. The server’s face always beamed after Milos’s tips.
“Yeah, that's dumb of him. But we're cops, there’s supposed to be a higher morale level.”
Mom placed a hand on her hips and addressed me. “That's not dumb, Reese, it's the difference between being a good cop and a bad cop. Your father is the latter.”
My eyebrows arched. What sort of ‘ladder’ can dad be...? Since I cherished time with my dad, I chose not to ask that question. But I didn't get to ask him why he talked shit and laughed at McGregor because two Towne Cars pulled into the U- shaped driveway. Vido and the guys were here.
“Reese, you ready?” Dad asked.
“Milo, I don’t want her…”
“Shut the fuck up, Lolita,” he replied. “We already had a chat about how things are going down. You take that sexy ass into the kitchen. I want fried chicken for dinner. Reese
, are you ready?”
“I stay ready,” I replied the phrase he’d boisterously said so many times, all smiles…
My entire body pulls into an erect position. Long masses of tangled ombre hair cloak my clammy skin. I push a few of the tresses from my face. The image of seeing a dead body at the age of eight is branded into my brain. Me and my big mouth, my father took me on a field trip of sorts. I got to experience what it meant for him to get a kickback. I blink back the darkness of the room. Tiny blue spots dot my vision and even more darkness inundates my pupils.
There is no going to my happy place, the man I need had to stay late at work…
“You had a bad dream.” Evan’s voice is a mixture of groggy, testosterone, sex, dead tired. It's also muffled somewhat by the feather pillow.
I hadn’t even noticed he came home tonight. Usually in my sleep, I burrow myself within the muscles along his side. After almost a year, my all-time favorite spot has always been the crook of his pectoral and bicep. No matter how groggy he’d be, I would always lift his arm and insert myself there.
Tonight he had to have drug himself to bed, because as my vision sluggishly begins to adjust to the darkness, I perceive his blazer on the floor in one spot and a pile of clothes scattered around.
“No. Go back to sleep, babe,” I mumble, though I’m fully awake. It’s rare for me to have a nightmare when Evan is around. And I hate that I need him to cure me of such an affliction, yet sex is always the remedy and prompts my best sleep. I pretend to croak the word, “G’night.”
He grunts, and his large muscular body is now working its way in a sitting position. Evan bathes us in light.
Inwardly, I groan, my lungs flood with more air, almost settling me since nightmares cause me to barely breathe. “C’mon, Evan. You just got to sleep. I'm fine.”
Those Mediterranean golden orbs barely open. “Not until I make you some chamomile tea.”
I whimper. “I am o-k, Evan. And you're so sleepy you don't know that we're at your place, not my old apartment. You don't have chamomile tea.”
“Gimme a few minutes, Reese.”
“I wanna snuggle,” I grumble.
Evan says something back. It's not his usual witty reply and quite frankly it isn't even English or his native-tongue, Italian, at least I’m not too confident it’s a language at all. In briefs that mold against a perfectly muscular ass, and a T-shirt, Evan pulls himself slowly out of bed.
Less than five minutes later, Evan is handing over a mug. Chamomile. My favorite brand. “Did you steal a couple of tea bags from my place?” I inquire, since the brand isn't something you pick up at your local grocery store.
“No, you boxed up the kitchen, remember? Drink up. Talk.”
I roll my eyes. The sentiment of him going out of his way to find the exclusive tea is erased by his ordering me around. “Thanks for the tea.”
“I prefer your appreciation to come in the form of you telling me what happened in your dream,” Evan counters.
“Nope, I don't feel like rehashing it right now. It's late.”
“Again, I will be there for you, Reese. Whether you like it or not.” His eyes lock onto mine as I glare over the rim of my tipped mug.
“I've endured extensive counseling, Evan. I can have a bad dream from time to time. It goes with the territory of being—”
“Nah, I'm not allowing you to do that.”
“To what?”
“To shame yourself and the fact that …”
“My father is the poster boy for IA. Yeah, Internal Affairs and every friggen police academy in the States talks of the infamous Milo Benincassa. Next year, at the department Christmas party how about reintroducing me as such?”
“Okay, I know what you're doing, Reese. You’re redirecting your anger, and I’m not gonna allow that.”
I notice a flicker of something in his eyes. All I can think about is the embarrassment Evan feels when introducing me for the first time. My name has always been Reese Dunham. Lolita never changed her name. I was ten when my father held me in his arms and was iced by the cops.
I wag a finger at Evan. “Well, I honestly haven't had bad dreams about my dad in ages! You wanna know when I started having bad dreams about Milo?”
He nods, not playing into my raised voice.
“The day I started fucking you, Evan. A cop,” I sneer the words.
The air is zipped out of the room instantly. It's so quiet in here that you could hear a feather float to the floor.
Evan bites his thumb nail. Our gaze is trained onto each other but no words come out.
“Should I go home?” I ask.
“It's three a.m. Your stuff is in storage, remember?”
“So you’re saying I have nowhere to go?” My question is like lighting a cigarette in the middle of the dusty old crop field, begging for a brush fire. The only goal of mine is to start a fight, and if Evan speaks, he’s automatically looped into it. He stays silent. I add, “FYI: I can always hole up at Jamie’s or my mom’s! Now, aren't you gonna say I'm good at running away when the going gets tough?”
He shakes his head. “Fuck no, because we are training you away from leaving—”
“Training me?” I jab a thumb toward my chest.
“Damn straight, Reese, you are mine, you ain’t leaving.”
My lips bunch together.
“Get back in bed, Reese. Enjoy your tea.”
Instead of doing as told, I place the mug on the nightstand. Then I take another glance at Evan before getting back into bed.
The light goes out, flooding us in darkness. God, I love this man, but it's true. The day I fell for Evan, is the day guilt began to gnaw at my bones and like talons, squeeze at the part of my heart which would always be reserved for my father, no matter how evil Milo was.
My eyes close to the burn of tears, and my body sinks into the comforting mattress. I turn on my side, away from the man I never should have given a second glance at.
A strong arm weighs down my waist. Then a second later I'm pulled back into the strength of Evan’s lean, muscular body.
I mouth an apology, as if the meaningfulness of it has evaporated into his skin, he holds me closer. My eyes close hard, and I blink back tears of joy. From experience, I’m aware that our relationship isn’t going to work out. I’ll break his heart in my inability to express myself. He’ll… What will Evan do to fuck things up for us? Endeavoring to cling to the here and now, I hold myself against his side, his rib.
36
Evan
My body tenses. Not because of Reese’s mouth, I’d expected to curb that attitude of hers in time. When shit is up, everything is worth it. She gifts me with a smile so bright, that nothing in this world is comparable. When shit is down, everything is all bad. But my fucking ribcage is bruised and bandaged, from the force and weight of Hector Rodriguez’s blow. The pain medication I’m on is beginning to wear off. As she clings to me, I clench my jaw to the dulling pain.
About ten minutes later, there is no soft lull, the sound of her sleeping softly could very well bring me peace enough to sleep. But she’s not at peace, she’s fighting a war that she won’t fucking tell me about.
This is gonna be a long night. “Talk to me, Reese?”
“I really should just go…” Reese murmurs.
I push myself up, slower than I did when she flew into a seated position about a half hour ago due to whatever night terror that motherfucker of a father put her through. I took a Vicodin as directed ninety minutes ago, shit, the hospital tried to get me to stay the night over some bullshit as a bit of swelling. But here I am, I returned home for her. I flick on the light, and glare at the pain pills on the nightstand.
“What do you mean, you should go? It’s the middle of the night, Reese. We’ve been over this. You have two choices, two choices only. Talk to me now. Or talk to me in the morning. I promise you, that hightailing it doesn’t even make the list of shit I won’t allow. Leaving should be so far removed from your mi
nd right now, because you are my woman.”
“Evan, you can’t train me. You can’t fuck me into submission!” She glares at me. “And I sure as hell have never been a kept woman! How about that?”
Though Reese is a ball of fury, her dark-brown eyes are full of angst and questioning me. Her body language is geared toward flight. Only her eyes sparkle with the curiosity of why I love her. Why a woman so fucking broken, so submerged into confliction has become my choice… Reese Dunham is like no other female I have ever encountered. Each second in her presence is new, it’s me working to gain her affection and love.
Jaw clenched to pain, I grab her thigh and pull her closer.
She scampers to her knees. In an instant, I’m on mine too as we face off.
“So you’re gonna fuck me into submission, Evan? I won’t say I love you, I never will. I never did with Grayson, and we were together longer…”
My lips are a line. She brought up that prick.
“He said it all the time. Every day and fuck just saying it, Evan, Grayson meant the words. Love was in everything he did. Aren’t I acting like a bitch?”
I nod. “Now, shut up,” I say, the faint echo of pain has faded away. My hand skims her slender neck and clamps onto it. Her chin is high, jutted out. I kiss her lips. “Shut the fuck up, Reese. I will not hear about another motherfucker while we are in bed. You are mine. Everything from that smile of yours to crazy-ass ideas like battling to the death for dinner after I’ve barely fucking made it home. I. Make. It. Home. For. You, Reese.”
Tears sparkle in her eyes now. She’s silently dejected, cognition on a grain of toxins: the thought of me never coming home. I see it now, my call earlier, telling Reese I wouldn’t be home so soon has poisoned her mind and set her mind frame on the flight or fight zone. She doesn’t want to fight.