Officer Kate Mangam awoke, alone, to the sound of her alarm.
The day started as any other. She rose, brushed her teeth, showered, let her straight brunette hair air-dry as she sipped a coffee and read the newspaper, frowning at the print. She ate two slices of wheat toast with strawberry jam.
Back upstairs in her room, she pulled on her uniform. Crisp and fresh from the laundry, it hugged her body and as always, she admired the effect -- stern, austere, yet not unflattering. She pulled her hair into her usual tight pony tail and brushed on just a touch of makeup. A bit of rouge, a few strokes of mascara. It made her feel feminine, although she doubted anyone else could see the difference. She pinned on her badge and straightened it in the mirror, then finally, removed her service weapon from beneath lacy panties and bras in her underwear drawer, and clipped it to her belt.
It was a quiet day at the station. She punched in, had another cup of coffee, and caught up on some paperwork. When the clock struck 11 am, she collected her keys and headed out to the cruiser. It was a Wednesday morning, and she had a quiet beat, just circling the streets of a not-so-great, but not-too-bad neighborhood where there was rarely any excitement. If she was lucky, she might catch a few blown stop signs or an illegal left turn. The sort of stuff that paid the bills, but not exactly why she'd decided as a nine-year-old girl to become a cop.
Her mind went quiet as she drove along the all-too-familiar streets, the silence inside her car punctuated intermittently by the crackle of static on her radio. Without realizing it, her thoughts began drifting toward him. She could almost feel his strong hands on her body, the exquisite contrast of his rough, calloused hands on the delicate, soft flesh of her breasts and ass, his coarse fingertips pinching her nipples until she cried out--
"Fuck!" she said aloud, gritting her teeth at this momentary lapse in self-control. He was her last boyfriend, Adam Marzetti. A fireman, a tough guy, and how she'd loved his bulging muscles, olive skin and silky dark hair. He was all sinew and the smell of smoke, and he could make her come like no one else she'd ever known. Again and again, panting and moaning hour after hour. He'd been strong, and quiet, and sexy as hell, just how she liked them. He never bought her flowers or took her out to dinner, he just showed up when she wanted him and fucked her until she was spent, every nerve tingling with pleasure.
He was the perfect man for her, all right. And he was married. The day she'd finally stopped pretending not to know had been so bittersweet. She was happy to be the one to end it, proud to have finally worked up the nerve to tell him that she knew, deep down, that he was nothing more than a two-timing jerk. It had felt good to throw his stuff on the sidewalk and tell him she never wanted to see him again. But the second he was gone, she missed him, and she'd missed him ever since. All of eight months later, she still missed him.
I just need to get laid, she told herself. That's all he'd been to her, after all. No Prince Charming, but one hell of a lay.
A new burst of static and a crackly voice on the radio brought her back to reality. "Officer Mangam, come in. We've got a situation a few blocks away from you."
Finally, a distraction. She picked up her radio and cleared her throat, and was relieved to hear that her voice was all business when she answered.
"Mangam here, what's the deal?"
"Just a couple of low lifes beating each other up outside the Happy Hours Tavern on 5th and Stewart."
"Any weapons I should be aware of?"
"Not that we've been informed of. The bartender said it's just a couple of drunks who got in a tussle. It shouldn't be anything you can't handle, but call for backup right away if it escalates."
"Got it. I'll take care of it. Over."
Gratefully, she felt her razor-sharp cop instincts flood through her brain, washing away all that silly girly bullshit. She put on her flashing lights and turned down Smith. Happy Hours Tavern was a classic shithole, the kind of dive that actually advertised the fact that it opened at 7 am every day. It was a breeding ground for scumbags, mostly harmless, but all too often she'd recognize some shitheads there she'd busted before on domestic violence calls.
As she pulled up to the bar, she saw the fight immediately. Two guys were wrestling with each other, one shirtless, the other wearing a grimy button-down that had seen better days. She reached out and hit the button to turn on her siren. Right away, the man wearing a shirt looked up with a terrified expression, then wrenched himself from his assailant's grip, turned tail and took off running.
"Shit." She grabbed her radio and called dispatch again. "I'm here, I won't be needing backup, but one guy got away," she said quickly. "He just took off running down Stewart and headed north on 4th. He's wearing a gray button-down shirt, appears to be about 50 years old, balding. See if you can get someone to pick him up, and I'll see what's going on with this other guy."
"Copy," came the bored-sounding reply.
She got out of the car, her hand cautiously hovering near her gun. The second man was sitting on the sidewalk, looking subdued. His back was facing her; she couldn't help but notice its fine musculature-- not a common sight with the sort of drunk criminals she usually dealt with at this joint. She approached him slowly, but he startled her by standing suddenly and facing her.
"Hands above your head!" she barked at him, quickly choking down her reaction as his deep blue eyes locked onto her own.
