Hotline Fling

35: I'll Stay

Damian's POV

As a police officer for almost nine years, I'd seen, heard, and experienced a lot of tough shit. The deaths of my NYPD extended family hit me the hardest. A close second was Bryson informing me that June was the victim stabbed during an attempted mugging.

My heart stopped when he told me my number was saved under 'Sergeant Hotpants' on her phone screen. The closer I approached their location, the tighter my fists squeezed at my sides, the longer and faster my steps became, and my teeth ground against each other. My heart resurrected itself, only to pound hard enough to crack my ribcage. Street activity hummed around me, but I squinted until the sidewalk blurred under my feet. The ache in my chest grew with each step, a mix of frustration and worry. My blood rushed faster, buzzing in my ears, and made my veins want to pop out of my skin.

I should've gone after her. Fucking waste of time, Kevin.
She was so fucking close. I knew she shouldn't have been alone.

Rage tempered in my stomach like acid. I ignored my gut instinct tonight. Detachment was my crutch, but without a single in-depth, in-person conversation, June had broken both my fucking legs.

I pissed off a lot of suspects and perps I arrested but never escalated a situation to warrant a justified complaint against me. Not all cops were clean, but I tried to be one. At the personal risk that some days my job beat me down, the badge held a big responsibility that I took personally and very seriously. During each shift, I worked towards being a respectful, decent public servant to make a positive impact within the 34th's community. But I allowed the job to siphon too much from me, leaving me a detached, cynical shell of my former self.

On the dark, quiet Tribeca sidewalks, I made a silent resolution. Casting aside the ridiculous resistance I built up over the years, I resigned against convincing myself I was better off being disconnected from people. For all my sacrifices, I'd chosen solitude over trust and compassion. If it was my body in the street, I wanted a number someone could call.

I pushed aside the irony of reaching this epiphany with high risk and uncertainty over June's condition and pushed forward. My feet couldn't move fast enough. A gnawing sensation overwhelmed my stomach. The need to find her ate away at my stomach. She had to be okay. She had to be.

The ambulance and medical team were gone. Only the 1st's unit remained. Among buzzed radio communications and under a somber cloak of darkness, they restrained curious bystanders and reporters during the evidence sweep. With no jurisdiction or uniform, I waved my badge like an all-access pass. Before anyone questioned my presence, I ducked under the caution tape stretched taut to block an alley entrance. Violet beams filtered through both ends courtesy of cruiser strobes. I curled my fingers under the urge to smash my fist into the rear window that separated me from a gray hooded figure, cuffed and chin dipped.

Stretched to the limit of my restraint, I looked away with bitter acceptance. Whoever the perp was, he wasn't on the streets. "Sergeant Rivera." I flashed my badge to a gray-haired cop whose shoulders sagged as much as his belly. By his tired eyes, he regretted being here.

"Sergeant Holman." His hand shook mine, a gesture neither of us passed any friendliness between. With a crinkled sound, his free hand lifted a black, laundry-sized evidence bag. "Fucking shame. An innocent young woman attacked here. All for thirty-seven dollars in her purse, an older model phone she refused to give up, and a pair of earrings."

A giant weight sank in my chest as I tucked away my bag and took in the sparse contents. "Where did they take her?"

"Presbyterian," he muttered with averted eyes. "Best thoracic surgeon in lower Manhattan."