Camila squeezed her eyes shut to readjust her vision but the sight before her never shifted. The quilt she couldn't sleep without still splayed in a rumpled mess on her bed. The flowery curtains she'd detested still hung on a rod with that crease her mom always tried to straighten but couldn't. The desk overflowing with books jutting just by the side of the door and one of its legs that she'd always managed to stub her toe on.
Everything was in place.
Her childhood bedroom cloaked in darkness, the foreboding sense of danger lurking in the shadows. The clatter in her chest forced her to inhale a greedy breath but the air scorched her lungs.
And just at the right moment, a panicked scream — sharp, raw and terrifying.
She woke up with a jolt. Her chest expanded and collapsed as she tried to catch her breath. The grips of the nightmare she'd escaped when she opened her eyes refused to leave her consciousness. It stuck to her skin like she sheen of sweat glistening on her forehead. It continued to flash behind her eyelids every single time she blinked.
She hadn't had that nightmare in a while.
Her eyes scanned the dark room, her nose longed for the familiar smell of home, her hands brushed the soft surface of her down comforter and her ears listened for something, even a cricket's song. Dare she say it, even her roommate's obnoxious music. She hoped she wouldn't hear a mouse squeak. She hated those.
She glanced at the digital clock on her nightstand and squinted to see the time flashing in bold red.
17:58.
A whole two minutes before her alarm went off, four hours before her shift.
A flash of white caught her attention and her stomach clenched at the sight of it. She'd been too tired to deal with it much less have the energy to tuck it away when she got it that morning.
Three loud, successive raps on her door had her jumping in place, the staccato she'd memorized since. She fought the urge to reach for her gun as the pull of instinct told her to like the first time but by then, she'd gotten used to the daily racket.
That didn't necessarily mean she couldn't be scared into leaping in the air like a frightened mouse, though.
She's known — with utter shame — how jumpy she is, and her roommate did, too.
"Wakey wakey, clumsy Lucky!" Exclaimed the devil on the other side of the door, laughing like the asshole she is as she retreated. The roommate she couldn't get rid of because she just so happened to be one of her best friends.
It didn't mean she didn't feel ounces of hostility every now and then, though.
"Damn it, Dinah!" She grimaced, yelling had been a terrible idea. Her head didn't appreciate it.
More laughter. Louder this time.
Groaning, Camila cupped her face, shaking her head at Dinah and at herself because she'd been stupid enough to ask her that one time to wake her in case she didn't hear her alarm. Since then, Dinah had taken it upon herself to create a cruel tradition without fail.
But said obnoxious roommate always made sure there's hot breakfast food on the table when she was ready to eat even if they were the same two types she made. Two eggs, scrambled and two pieces of toast. She'd once complained that she'd smell like chicken shit if all Dinah fed her were eggs. And Dinah being Dinah took the plate away from her and proceeded to eat everything without remorse, making a show out of each bite.
Still, Camila commended how Dinah knew the kind of toast she ate. Hot and crunchy on the outside but not colored. Over time, Dinah also discovered how Camila took her coffee. Hotter than warm, colder than boiling.
Just two of the things she found peculiar in Camila amongst an endless list, like how she manages to hurt herself more than any other person she knew.
"What happened to you?" Dinah stared at Camila's leg, the one that she'd refused to put weight on as she entered the kitchen an hour and a half later. She just knew there's another flaming red patch of skin on her leg beneath those navy blue pants to go with the purpling ones.
"Tripped on the treadmill," she admitted tersely, making her refusal to talk about it clear.
But it wasn't like Dinah ever heeded any sort of warning or plea. So, yes, Camila expected that derisive snort. She'd try to ignore that giant smile but it looked like it ate half her face, so there's that. She might have forgiven Dinah the next second when she set a steaming cup of coffee and a plate of eggs and toast in front of her.
The usual.
And Camila smiled to herself - more like a twitch at the corner of her lips, grateful for the normalcy in her world. She thrived on routine even if her job as a cop was anything but. That part of her could turn into shambles but she protected her home life with every bit of herself.
"Should I bother asking if you're okay?"
"Thanks but you're smiling. Your sincerity is null and void."
"You do the same thing every single day. I even memorized your routine — wake up, brush teeth, wash face, run for half an hour, shower and eat, and you still manage to hurt yourself," Dinah reprimanded, hip cocked, arms crossed, valiantly trying to contain her grin by biting on her lower lip.
She could have tried harder really.
"It's a skill." Camila feigned a smile and shoved a piece of toast in her mouth to further express her absolute aversion to elaborate. Talking with a full mouth is rude after all.
"Sure it is."
Camila refused to acknowledge the sarcasm bleeding from those three meager words and the clear message that Dinah didn't believe her bullshit. She willed herself to ignore the pair of eyes that never left her head, drilling holes in her skull and smiled knowing full well Dinah had more to say, and she hated, absolutely hated being ignored.
She took her sweet time, making sure to cut bite-sized pieces like the dignified woman she is, and chewed every single one well and proper before swallowing until all that was left was a half eaten toast.
"How may I help you, Dinah?" She asked in that cheery customer service rep voice after taking a sip of coffee, hiding the grimace at the temperature.
Dinah took a breath as if asking the heavens to give her strength to get past what she'd just heard, and said, "So, how's Jess?"
There it was. Jess. Jessica. Yet another girl she'd been set up with. Camila couldn't believe her friends hadn't stopped trying after two long years of failure. They'd been hellbent on finding her a new girlfriend to keep her from running back to her ex that they'd sent her on dates with just about anyone. She grimaced just thinking about that woman who chewed with her mouth open.
Gross.
"You're gonna have to call her to get an accurate answer." She chewed on the last of the toast, dusting her hands off on the empty plate.
"You stood her up?" Dinah pulled the high stool that matched their table rather harshly and took a seat right in front of Camila doing her best to intimidate the annoying little shit, who'd sat back, not a knot of tension on her shoulders and nodded in confirmation. "What the hell is wrong with you? She was the better one out of all the people we set you up with. She's pretty, smart and—" she paused, snapping her fingers in search for a perfect adjective, "—and normal!"
"Sure. You didn't care to check if she was married or not?" She raised her brows in challenge and nearly laughed when Dinah's jaw dropped.
"What?"
"She's married and pregnant, you nut job."
"You're making that up."
"Ally from that free clinic downtown knows her." She lifted one shoulder in a knowing shrug. "I was with her when you sent her picture."
"She said she was single!" Dinah exclaimed, trying to prove her innocence. She expected another reaction other than that infuriating eye roll. She was tempted to viciously claw those eyes out but she's sane, so she didn't. And then she remembered someone that made those very eyes roll again. "Carly! Why don't you just go out with Carly. Your mom seems determined to get you two together."
"I would have if I were interested. I'm not," Camila reminded her, shaking her head. Her shoulders dropped like she'd lost all energy to even speak another word about the subject. "Could we please stop talking about dating and relationships? And can you please stop setting me up with these people I'm not interested in?"
"Well, you should be! She's attractive and sweet with a stable job. And your mom likes her!"
Camila's eyes bulged out as if she couldn't believe Dinah couldn't hear everything wrong about her argument and restrained her hands from grabbing her shoulder and shaking her to see if it'd knock some sense into her.
"I. Don't. Like. Her."
"Why the hell not?!" Dinah slammed a fist against the table, startling both of them and the silverware on Camila's plate.
Camila took a breath and pointed to Dinah with the hand that had just been pressed against her clamoring chest, muttering, "that was too dramatic. Don't do that again. You scared me."
"Sorry. Why don't you like her?" She reiterated her question, calmer this time.
"I just don't." Camila shook her head like there was no other way to explain it. "It doesn't matter if my mom likes her. My mom won't be the one dating her. I would. Why don't you ask her out, then? You're too invested in Carly. Go for it. You have my blessing. You might want to tell my mom not to pursue her, too. You have a challenger there."
"The graveyard shift is making you all loopy that you can't see an attractive girl when you bump into one. Your eye bags look like those new graves!" Dinah lunged at Camila pointing an accusatory finger right where those pesky eye bags were, and Camila's reflexes proved to be reliable dodging it. "Drink your stupid coffee! It's at the right stupid temperature now."
They stared at each other, seemingly making sense of the situation and then, with the slightest twitch to their lips, they burst into fits of laughter.
"Wanna play Resident Evil?" Dinah asked, flushed, misty eyed and gasping for air.
—-
"Asshole."
Camila couldn't count how many times she'd said that word in the last two hours since she parked her ass next to a lamppost along State Street.
John, otherwise known as a prostitute's client, had tried to get handsy with her. First, it was the old hair behind the ear and then it was the unwelcome hand on the waist. Still, those hadn't been the worst. If she could, she'd have cut his tongue off with a rusty pair of scissors and had him swallow it with the shit he'd been saying. He'd been the most persistent one out of five she'd dealt with so far.
It wasn't the time to test her. She's cold and itchy, her feet sore from the ridiculous four-inch heels, and the smell of asphalt was irritating her nose. Her knee might just be worse off than she'd initially thought after that treadmill accident. She'd been forced to wear the animal print coat over the revealing tank and the scrap of material some people called a skirt. To top off the tacky suit was a tacky purse. They weren't clothes she'd pick but it's not like she had a choice. Being in the VICE unit, undercover sting operations weren't new to her.
And tonight, she had to look like a prostitute.
Sort of.
They'd gotten a tip about a pimp called Abraham Kerr who'd been selling underaged girls along State Street, and they'd finally zeroed in on his territory. Still, the room erupted in cat calls and howling when she walked in for their operations briefing decked in said clothes and face heavily painted with make up. She swore she was working with children.
It was just after midnight, and the frigid wind held onto the fleeting hands of winter and the dark clouds promised a long, rainy night. It had been hot that day and if she knew anything about spring, it was its frequent mood swings and the allergies that had her Dinah sneezing up a storm without medication.
Great. She was already imagining how heavy that coat would be soaked. Though she deemed being out barely clothed still better than wallowing over the invitation she'd received that afternoon. She wanted to forget it ever existed. She wanted to forget the stupid perfect cursive font, the stupid elegant ivory of the textured paper and the stupid couple about to be tied in wedded bliss. She wanted it all tossed to the back of her head or the garbage bin of her mind.
Weddings are stupid anyway.
"John number five just turned west on Hillside Avenue towards Main Street. Bomber jacket, beanie, white sneakers," she said into the hidden microphone.
"I'm on it," she heard Devin say in the receiver lodged in her ear, a tinge of humor in his gravelly voice. "You didn't show him your boobies? Poor schmuck," he teased, alluding to John the fifth's opening line.
"You can still show him your moobies, Johnson. He says his pocket's fat. You might get a quarter for tip," Camila mumbled, the sarcasm palpable in her flat voice.
The guy's on the heavier side. He made it easy.
A quiet chuckle powered through the crackle of static, the unmistakeable sound she'd recognize anywhere. Camila already knew she's funny — even if her friends would passionately disagree — but she'd insist Xavier Tanner thinks she's a comedian.
She made a mental note to invite him to her first comedy gig should her cop job fall through.
Well, there's this thing that he does - chuckling to substitute talking.
But that was funny, Camila decided. She's hilarious. She deserved that quiet chuckle.
It wasn't a handout.
"Shut up, Tanner," Devin chided, his tone carrying no malice. "Any signs of Kerr?"
"Nope." Camila pulled up her phone, absently scrolling through it to keep up with the facade. "You guys even sure he will show up? We've been here over two hours."
"He will. This is his street. He chased another pimp off with a gun last week," Xavier assured the pair and the other five men and women of the unit that he was leading for the night from the car he'd been cooped up in on the other side of the road. It was his intel that brought them there.
"He better be. This coat's itchy." She adjusted the fur brushing her nape. She's not ticklish, she'd claim, she's just 'sensitive' in that area. A few feet ahead, she spotted a car coming her way, noticing how it slowed down. "Got another potential John coming up. Silver Lexus. Can't see what kind of model it is yet."
"I got eyes on it," Tanner confirmed.
Just as expected, it slowed down to a halt right in front of her. The tinted window rolled down and revealed a man in his late thirties, early forties, Camila estimated. The dark interior of the car wrapped his face in shadows though she could clearly see light hair slicked back and chin tipped up. She didn't have to see his eyes to know he'd been appraising her. Too bad he didn't know she was doing the same, and the band around his finger had her restraining herself from telling the bastard off for cheating on his wife.
He'd hear a tirade if it were any other situation.
"How much?" came the big question, and that self-assured tone that told Camila he thought he could afford her without making a dent to his bank account.
"Not for sale," she dismissed him, the last of her patience drained by John the fifth. He'd already showed his intentions, warranted his own arrest.
"Everybody's got a price," he insisted. He slung his arm on the passenger seat, trying to close the gap between them. If he moved any closer, he'd be polluting her personal space and Camila didn't have much in her to accommodate his ego.
"In that case, I'm priceless." She sent him a wink, crossed her arms and looked elsewhere, ending the conversation.
Irritation set in as soon as John the sixth recovered from his shock. She could tell he hadn't expected a 'hooker' to decline his offer.
He scoffed and just as he was closing the window, he spat, "Bitch."
Of course.
She kept a neutral expression as he revved his engine and zipped past her, no doubt pissing his prissy ass even further. John and his fragile ego. The thought made Camila smile.
"It's a GS. He's northbound," she called in, hearing a faint 'roger that' in the line.
"Let me guess," Devin cut in as the one word flashed in Camila's mind. He sounded breathless, barely able to utter another word.
"What?"
"Asshole?" He supplied and she could just hear the smile in his voice. "Let 'em down easy, Cabello."
"I don't do gentle, Johnson."
"You just can't let me have it, can you?" He chuckled and so did Xavier. She could just see him shaking his head. "Got the fifth."
"Come on. Make his night. Time to whip out the moobs," she teased. She couldn't resist.
"Oh, give it a rest."
Camila stayed another hour by the lamppost, adjusting and readjusting the coat and seeing no relief in sight. She might have tugged the skirt lower and pulled it back up when she realized her top wasn't long enough to cover that much stomach. The thought of taking her heels off was tempting but decided against it.
Another hour with no shortage of Johns, and still no sign of Abraham Kerr. Rain, however, had decided to finally show up. It came in gentle drizzles, caressing the earth with its soft touch, the kind Camila would have appreciated had she been indoors, buried in blankets and sipping Dinah's cocoa concoction overflowing with marshmallows. She began to wonder about the coat and its weight but was distracted by a woman stumbling her way over to Xavier's car. She couldn't see much from where she stood except the color of her limp hair and her alarming frail body. She could vaguely hear her ask if he had crack through the receiver but everything went silent after that. Almost as if someone had cut the lines off.
"Tanner," she said into the phone she remembered to put against her ear in case someone approached her.
Worry clouded her when every call of his name went unanswered. She debated against going to him, narrowing her eyes to see better through the darkness and the flurry of rain. She hated the doubts that started creeping in and refused to acknowledge any suspicions that she had to physically shake her head. The raging cynic in her left her little to no choice where seeing the other side of a good coin was concerned.
"Tanner! Goddamn it, why won't you answer?!" She grumbled through gritted teeth. She'd give him a piece of her mind or two the next time she sees him. Who was she kidding? He'd think he attended a week-long conference when she's done with him.
Operations leader or not.
She'd been extra worried over him. The man had a pregnant wife waiting at home, said wife happened to be one of her best friends. She'd haul his ass home unscathed if it were up to her. Well, his ear might be bleeding from the choice words she was ready to shove in his ear canal.
She felt a presence behind her, felt it prickling at her nape even before she even heard dull footsteps looming closer. This time, the stupid coat had nothing to do with it and it sent chills to run up her spine.
It was still itchy, she'd point out.
"Hello, sugar," he'd said into her ear, the throaty texture crawling its way under her skin and embedding itself there. His lips parted into a grin that lured the unsuspecting. "What's a pretty girl like you doing out by yourself?"
She stiffened when she felt his hand land on her ribs, giving it a firm squeeze, his thumb brushing the underside of her breast, almost as if he was staking a claim on her body. A silent declaration of his strength.
And just at the exact moment, Tanner drove past her with the hooker in tow. There went her back up. If only the bastard knew what kind of danger he'd put himself in — both of them.
Protocol, she reassured herself. Tanner had made several trips to drop off hookers to the rest of the unit scattered along the street. But he'd never turned off communications before then.
There wasn't much that could save Kerr, though. Protocol, that logical part of her yelled. She couldn't hurt him. Not excessively, at least.
Unless...
"My boyfriend was supposed to be here half an hour ago," she said in lieu of the threat ready to bounce out of her smart mouth, and made an effort to add some honey in her wounded damsel act.
God, did she sound disgusting.
Her eyes subtly swept over his appearance, from the tight buzz cut of his hair, the open navy mechanic's shirt over a discolored white tank and the jeans that was a size too small that squeezed his bulging belly.
They hadn't anticipated a change in his scruffy, bear persona. The pictures she'd seen were of a man with long, dark hair, a face smothered in overgrown beard and mustache though he wore the same type of clothes. It seemed he'd lost some weight, too.
But his eyes - she'd never forget those brilliant blues, of sapphire and cool rivers.
"That's too bad." He frowned in a display of pity but remorse eluded everything else including his voice. He couldn't hide the predatory gleam in his eyes if he tried. "I can keep you company. I live close by. We can dry off there. Wouldn't want you to get sick. Come on."
"I don't think he would—"
"You can call him there." He pried her phone from her hand and shoved it in his pocket.
He added more pressure on his grip as he tugged her away from where she stood, leaving no room for argument. He let him taste power, allowed him to show her his strength. She could sense victory in his posture, and smell it in the overpowering scent of his cologne drilling holes through her nostrils straight to her pulsing brain. She's pretty sure he's one of those people who substituted it for a good scrubbing in the shower.
Disgusting.
She could have arrested him there, they'd previously agreed it was safer. The VICE unit had been confident they could pry the whereabouts of those girls out of him or find clues from that would lead to them. But the temptation to let him personally take her to his lair sooner was far too enticing. They should have known she'd want more than to take Kerr off the streets. She wanted to save the girls, too.
Camila couldn't suppress the twinge of fear that prompted her heart to clatter in her bones like an obnoxious prisoner banging against its cell. If only she could yell at the thing and tell it to pipe down. Then again, if it did, she'd have been dead.
She hadn't expected him to be that handsy, and she should have. All night she'd been fighting off paws but Kerr was a persistent motherfucker. A foolhardy motherfucker. The farther they went along the street, the lower his hand dropped. He went along asking her questions as if he wasn't groping her.
Plan A might have been better. There was a Plan B and a Plan C but she decided to head straight to Plan Camila. Admittedly reckless and dangerous.
"So, are you from h—"
"You're just at the right spot," she encouraged in that disgustingly sweet voice she wouldn't utter in any other circumstance as his hand moved to the center of her spine.
"What are you talking about, sugar?" Confused, he asked though his steps never faltered.
"Go a little lower and you might feel some handcuffs." She bit her lower lip, nudging her brows as he looked on to her for clarification, his eyes gradually widening. In the calmest of voices, she said, "Police. You're under arrest."
He shoved her as if he'd just been scalded, causing her to stumble, narrowly avoiding a twisted ankle. Steadying herself, Camila wasted no time chasing him, cursing the heels she had no trouble running with.
They hurt, okay?!
"Kerr is on foot headed south on State Street. I'm in pursuit," she spoke into the microphone. He had her real phone. She had no intentions of buying a new one just because a pimp decided to take her fully functional one.
Just then, the drizzle turned into bullets and their scattered aim hurt her face the most.
Oh, yeah, the stupid coat was heavy.
She worked to take the excess baggage off, debated on chucking it at Kerr but the weight of it proved difficult. Without remorse, she dropped it and the purse on the ground, a grin on her lips and closed the distance between the two of them. She threw herself at him, sending both of them careening to the ground. He caught his weight on his hands but the velocity forced his body to the ground, and Camila tucked her limbs in, her shoulder catching most of the impact.
They both scrambled to their feet, she didn't miss his eyes dropping to her breasts, the skintight top clinging to her body, the wires appearing like veins beneath skin, leaving very little to imagination. The short skirt had ridden up high on her thighs, revealing the edges of her women's boxers and the switchblade strapped on her right.
Dirty pig.
"You gonna try to use that?" He gestured towards the knife with his eyes. "I'm not afraid to hit women," he warned in ragged breaths, his hands curling and uncurling into fists.
She scoffed. She didn't need it.
"Not unless you make me." She rotated her shoulder, pleased to find nothing was dislocated from the fall. "I wouldn't be threatening a cop, though."
Moisture crept into her eyes, providing Kerr the right opportunity to attack. He threw a punch, hitting her square on the cheek, the impact sent her head sideways, and the pain pulsing on her cheekbone radiated to her skull. Encouraged by his luck, he tried again, a clumsy uppercut this time. Camila managed to dodge, the ends of his knuckle barely grazing her jaw.
It winded him, exerting all that energy and not landing the punch. His dogged determination was no match for his lard ass, flailing his arms to keep her from coming any closer as he tried to stumble away from her. Camila raised an arm, blocking his and launched a punch with the other, going straight for his gut. He groaned, doubling over as he clutched his belly. He started violently coughing, his legs barely able to support his weight. He made the mistake of taking a second to breathe, giving Camila just the right opportunity to kick him. She raised her foot and abruptly dropped it on his back in an axe kick, sending him face down on the ground with a hard thud.
"Stay down!" She pressed her weight against his back as she secured his hands in handcuffs, reciting the obligatory warning. She huffed, her irritation and exhaustion floating out in that heavy breath, and leaned down and said, "you're under arrest, sugar."
She pushed herself upright, rain flowing from the tips of her hair, goosebumps riddling her skin. She worked her jaw, satisfied to find it was still hinged properly. It was only then that she noticed the sting on her cheek above the throb that had started since he punched her, careful when she dabbed the pad of her finger against it, seeing the stain of crimson on it slowly being washed away by the rain.
In her ear, she finally took notice of the voices in various stages of distress.
"I got him." She took a break to catch her breath and look around to see where exactly they were, ignoring the groaning coming from the man by her feet. "We're at the corner of State and two-hundred North. Right in front of Motel Two Hundred."
She reached for his pocket, fishing out her phone. It was drenched, and probably smelled like him, but there were no cracks. A missed call flashed at the display, a blocked number. Her attention quickly shifted as her eyes caught something gleaming by the opening of his pocket.
It was a key. She fished it out, along with it, a key chain with a motel's logo in neon blue and red. The intoxicating rush of adrenaline swallowed her whole.
Just then, headlights started appearing straight ahead. She spared a glance at Kerr and straightened. She squinted her eyes in a bid to see through the glare, holding her breath as the car inched closer and closer until she could see the driver.
Xavier Tanner.
But he wasn't alone.
—