The unmarked police SUV sat parked near the corner, across the street from a bar catering to college students from the local university. Inside the vehicle, two officers observed the comings and goings of patrons. In addition, their eyes scanned the area on either side of the front door. Over the last few weekends, there'd been several civilian complaints about fights and drug activity in and around this particular establishment. In response, the department decided to discreetly post people nearby around closing time on Friday and Saturday nights.
Pulling the first shift on this post, Bear and Jasmine sat in the front seats, listening to classic rock on the radio. They'd been partners for nearly two months, and had only recently become comfortable enough with each other that Bear - a nickname bestowed due to his size, a hair over 6'3" in his bare feet, and having the first name Teddy - could drum on the steering wheel, as Jasmine quietly hummed along with the songs.
"Is this going to be our regular Friday night gig," she asked, when The Beatles' "Tomorrow Never Knows" ended.
Just 23, she'd been on the force - not only the first female, but the first African-American female - less than six months, and Bear was her second training officer. She'd come close to pressing charges against the first TO, accusing him of trying to run her off the force.
When Bear asked the chief why he - a cop with a scant five years experience - was training anyone, his superior made it clear that he was to be more babysitter than training officer. Bear got the message loud and clear, and was wise enough not to question his boss. The path to advancement is rarely smooth for those who rock the boat.
Despite this, he'd taught her everything he'd learned, ironically, from the man who may or may not have tried to make her quit. Keenly aware of the situation, their first month together had been strictly by the book, and all conversation kept on a professional level. But, Bear knew the TO was nearing retirement, and could be a bit too "old school." As they got to know each other, things loosened up, and he also taught Jasmine many of the things he'd picked up on the streets.
"For the foreseeable future," he said, answering her question.
"Woo hoo," she hooted in feigned delight, "a wild and wacky Friday night watching drunks puke in the street."
"Well, Jazz, you piss off the chief, you get stuck with the shit details," Bear said, without thinking.
Realizing what he'd said, he turned to look at her. He could see her staring at him, eyes wide. The dim light coming from the dashboard reflected off her soft features and dark caramel-colored skin. Her mid-back length ebony hair, pulled back in a ponytail, softly swung side to side as she shook her head - processing his statement.
"I'm sorry," he mumbled. "That was a dumb..."
"Dick," she shouted, cutting off his apology, then punching his shoulder.
"I'm really sorry," he said, as she spun away from him.
He let out a long, low whistle, and she turned back toward him.
"I'm just messing with you, Bear," she laughed, before becoming more sober. "I get it. I'm the black sheep - so to speak - and they don't want me around."
"Not everyone feels that way," he said.
"I know," Jazz acknowledged, nodding. "It's just hard to take sometimes."
"Hey, I'm here for you partner," he said, facetiously. "I'm dealing with the puke, too."
"Oh, lucky me," she retorted.
They fell silent for several minutes as "Hotel California" played.
"Do you think they'll ever accept me?" Jazz asked, finally.
"Eventually," he answered. "They're still getting used to you."
"I've been here a while now," she said. "I just get tired of the constant ball-busting."
"The secret is to give back as much as you get," Bear said. "If they think they're getting under your skin, they'll do it even more. Once they know you can break balls in return, they'll back off; the younger guys, at least."
"They just want to fuck me," she offered, not completely joking.
"Actually, most of them are pretty sure you don't even like guys," he replied, guardedly.
"As if that would stop them," she mumbled.
He nodded. Bear had already lost count of how many times he'd been asked if he'd nailed his partner yet.
"Yeah, that's true," Bear said, shrugging his shoulders.
"I'm sure even the older ones, who really hate me, wanna bang me too," she said.
Another shrug.
"Probably," he allowed.
"What about you?" she asked.
"Huh?" he returned, looking at her.
"I'm sure you boys have talked in the locker room," she said.
"I've been asked about it," he admitted.
"What do you tell them?" she inquired.
"I don't tell them anything," he said. "First, that's not an appropriate question. Second, it's none of their business who either of us is sleeping with. And, third, you're my partner, not my partner."
"What does that mean?" Jazz asked.
"What?" he returned.
"My partner, not my partner," she pressed.
"It means you and I are responsible for each other's lives when we're at work," he said. "But, we're not seeing each other in a social sense, or sleeping together."
"Well, why don't we?" she asked.
"Uh..." he began, then stopped.
"Uh, uh, uh," she mocked. "Cat got your tongue, Bear?"
He only stared at her in the darkness.
"Do you want to fuck me?" she asked, bluntly.
His mouth fell open for a moment.
"Is that 'Layla' coming on," he asked, turning up the radio as he attempted to avoid answering her question.
She punched his shoulder again, then turned to look out the window. Two figures stood near the door of a building next to the bar.
"Hey, we might have something here," she said.
Bear's attention returned to the sidewalk on the far side of the street.
"Saved by the bell," Bear whispered.
"Oh, no, you're not," she clucked.
Trying to ignore her remark, Bear eyed the subjects. He estimated the taller of the two to be about 5'10"; the shorter was about Jazz's height, 5'4". Both were white...and both female.
"They don't exactly fit the profile," he said.
"Little white girls can't sell drugs?" Jazz questioned.
"That one's not very little," he laughed.
The taller one, her brunette hair pulled back in a bun, wore neon pink spandex pants, which ended at her knees, and an oversized t-shirt with the sleeves cut off, exposing the black sports bra underneath. She looked as if she'd been out for a run, and as Bear and Jazz watched, she took a long drink from the liter water bottle she carried.
The shorter woman wore a tight halter top and a short black skirt. Loose-fitting, it fluttered slightly in the light breeze blowing down the street. Her curly, dirty blonde hair fell to her shoulders. And, as the two spoke, she steadily inched closer to the other woman.
"I've got good news and bad news," Jazz said, after observing for two minutes.
"Bad news first," Bear prodded.
"OK. They're not selling drugs," she said, confirming the opinion Bear had already formed. "But, the good news is, Blondie is hitting on Runner Girl."
"I was getting that vibe, too," Bear agreed.
"Look how she keeps moving toward her, and reaching out to touch her," Jazz said, demonstrating by placing her left hand on Bear's right forearm.
