Chapter 5: Duty vs Desire
The rain started just after midnight, a soft patter that hardened into a steady drum against the motel room’s thin roof. It blurred the neon sign outside into a bleeding smear of pink and blue across the wet window. Jasmine lay on her back, the stale sheets tangled around her legs, Val’s heavy arm thrown possessively across her waist. The room smelled of sex, sweat, and the cheap pine deodorizer Val had sprayed half-heartedly an hour ago.
It had been two weeks. Two weeks of encrypted messages, of stolen hours in different motel rooms, of her body learning the map of Val’s. Jasmine’s skin felt permanently marked, her muscles languid and sore in a way that had become a secret comfort. The detective was a ghost in her own life, moving through her cases with a hollow professionalism, her thoughts perpetually circling back to the next text, the next meeting, the next time she could feel that crushing fullness.
Val stirred beside her, the movement languid. Her fingers traced idle patterns on Jasmine’s hip. “You’re thinking too loud, piggy.”
“I’m not,” Jasmine murmured, but it was a lie. Her mind was a riot of conflicting images: her badge on her nightstand, Val’s smirk in the dim light, the case file for the Eclipse Gang sitting untouched on her desk.
“Yeah, you are.” Val propped herself up on an elbow, her red hair falling over one shoulder. Even in the murky light, her gaze was sharp. “It’s that cop brain. Can’t shut it off, even when you’re full of me.”
Jasmine didn’t answer. She stared at the water stain on the ceiling that looked vaguely like a dragon.
“I have a job for you,” Val said, her voice dropping into that casual, dangerous register that made Jasmine’s stomach clench. “Tomorrow.”
A cold trickle, separate from the heat of Val’s body, went down Jasmine’s spine. “A job.”
“One of my girls got picked up. Petty shit. Shoplifting at a high-end pharmacy.” Val snorted. “Sloane has sticky fingers. Always has. They’ve got her downtown for processing. You’re going to be the one to question her.”
Jasmine turned her head to look at Val. “I’m not in that division. I’m Major Crimes. I don’t do intake.”
“You will tomorrow.” Val’s tone brooked no argument. “A little favor called in. Your name came up as available. You’ll go in, you’ll take her into an interview room. Alone.”
The cold trickle turned into a flood. “Val…”
“You’ll slip her this.” Val reached over the side of the bed, groping for her discarded jeans. She pulled out a small, sealed manila envelope, about the size of a playing card. It was thick. She dropped it onto Jasmine’s bare stomach. “Then you’ll leave. A lawyer will show up ten minutes later. By the time the lawyer’s done, Sloane walks. No charges.”
Jasmine sat up slowly, the envelope a foreign, poisonous weight on her skin. “What is in it?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“It does if I’m aiding in…”
Val moved faster than Jasmine could follow. One moment she was lying down, the next she had pivoted, swinging a leg over Jasmine’s hips, pinning her to the mattress. Her hand went not to Jasmine’s throat, but to her jaw, holding her head still. The intensity in her blue eyes was absolute.
“Piggies don’t ask questions,” Val said, her voice a low, vibrating growl. “Piggies follow orders. They get their rewards.” Her other hand drifted down between their bodies, finding Jasmine already wet. “You want your reward, don’t you?”
Jasmine’s protest died in her throat, suffocated by a surge of shameful, instant arousal. She hated herself for it. She nodded, a tiny, desperate movement.
Val’s smirk returned. She shifted her weight, positioning herself. “Good. Now open up.”
It wasn’t gentle. It was ownership. Val fed herself into Jasmine’s mouth, a slow, invasive push that made Jasmine gag instinctively before her body relaxed, accepting. She looked up, her vision blurring at the edges, and saw Val looking down at her with a mixture of contempt and dark affection. The envelope was still pressed between their stomachs.
Jasmine lost herself in the rhythm, the salty taste, the feel of Val’s hands fisted in her hair. Her mind, so frantic a moment ago, went blissfully, obediently blank. The world shrank to this room, this bed, this woman using her mouth. When Val finally pulled away, Jasmine was gasping, her lips slick and bruised.
“Tomorrow,” Val whispered, leaning down to kiss her forehead, a strangely tender gesture after the roughness. “Interview Room Three. Noon. Be a good girl.”
The envelope burned a hole in Jasmine’s blazer pocket all morning. It felt like it was glowing, announcing her betrayal to everyone in the precinct. She moved through the bland, fluorescent-lit corridors like a sleepwalker, nodding at colleagues she barely saw.
“Juggs! Heard you got pulled into inventory duty on a shoplifter. Sucks,” said Marcus, falling into step beside her at the coffee machine. He was holding a file on a different case, his brow furrowed with honest concern.
“Yeah,” Jasmine said, her voice sounding distant to her own ears. “Captain’s idea. Says I need the ‘broad experience.’”
Marcus chuckled. “Probably just means the usual guys are out with food poisoning. Don’t worry, it’s open-and-shut. Some junkie lifting designer face cream.” He sipped his coffee. “You okay? You look… tired.”
“Fine,” she said too quickly. “Just didn’t sleep well.”
At five minutes to noon, she stood outside Interview Room Three, her palm slick against the manila folder containing a blank incident report. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She took a deep breath, pushed the door open.
Sloane was exactly as Val had described—all sharp angles and dyed black hair, with restless eyes that darted around the sterile room. She looked up as Jasmine entered, a flash of recognition quickly masked by boredom.
Jasmine went through the motions. She read the rights. She asked rote questions about the incident at the pharmacy. Sloane gave one-word answers, her gaze occasionally flicking to the camera in the corner, its red light off—a condition Jasmine had insisted on, claiming she wanted the suspect to feel at ease.
The performance was agony. Every word felt like a lie. Her skin crawled.
Finally, she stood, adjusting her blazer. “I’m going to get a copy of the security footage. Sit tight.”
As she moved past Sloane’s chair, she let the incident report folder slip from her hand. Papers fluttered to the floor. “Shit,” Jasmine muttered, kneeling.
Sloane watched, unmoving.
With hands that trembled only slightly, Jasmine gathered the papers. In the shuffle, the small, thick envelope from her pocket was pressed into Sloane’s waiting palm beneath the table. Their eyes met for a fractured second. Sloane’s fingers closed around it, swift and practiced. She gave an almost imperceptible nod.
“Sorry about that,” Jasmine said, her voice steady now, a strange calm descending. The deed was done. She stood, papers in hand, and walked out of the room without looking back.
In the hall, she leaned against the cool cinderblock wall, closing her eyes. Nausea rose in her throat. She had just compromised an investigation. She had just broken the law. She had just…
Her personal phone vibrated in her pocket. A single text from the encrypted app.
Good girl. Room 8. Tonight. Your reward.
Jasmine exhaled, a shaky, ragged breath. The nausea receded, replaced by a warm, syrupy rush of anticipation. She pushed off the wall and walked towards the precinct exit, not seeing the concerned look Marcus gave her from across the bullpen. The envelope was gone. The plan was in motion. And all she could think about was the promise of tonight.