Chapter 2: Sober, Tired, and Still Trouble
The coffee pot gurgled and spat like it was dying, and Jess was pretty sure she was dying right along with it.
Her head throbbed in time with the fluorescent lights overhead, a dull percussion that had been playing since she'd woken up at two in the afternoon with her mouth tasting like copper and regret. She'd scrubbed her face three times and still felt the ghost of last night's eyeliner clinging to her lashes. Her hair was twisted into a knot so messy it had graduated to structural hazard. The sweatshirt she wore was two sizes too big, a faded gray thing with a hole in the left sleeve that she'd owned since high school, and her leggings had a stain on the thigh from where she'd dropped a nacho at the bar.
She looked like shit.
She felt like shit.
And she was standing behind the counter at the gas station at eleven at night because her boss had called in a panic—someone's kid had the flu, could she please, please cover, and Jess had said yes because rent was due in four days and her bank account was a crime scene.
The coffee station was a disaster. Someone had spilled creamer all over the counter and not wiped it up, leaving a sticky white pool that had dried into something resembling a science experiment. The trash can overflowed with crumpled cups and half-eaten hot dogs. The air smelled like burnt beans and the particular sourness of a mop that needed to be replaced six months ago.
Jess grabbed a rag and started wiping down the counter with more force than necessary, her jaw clenched, her eyes half-closed. The store was empty except for old Mr. Patterson browsing the magazine rack and a teenager in the back corner who had been staring at the same bag of chips for ten minutes. The hum of the cooler and the buzz of the lights and the distant rumble of traffic on the highway—it all blended into a white noise that made her want to curl up under the counter and sleep for a year.
She was reaching for the coffee pot when she heard the bell chime.
Didn't look up. Didn't care.
"Evening," a voice said. Male. Familiar in a way that made her spine stiffen.
She glanced up.
Officer Hottie—no, that wasn't his name, his name was something else, something she'd seen on a name tag—stood on the other side of the counter with his hands on his hips. The shorter one. The partner. The one who'd watched her make a complete ass of herself twice now with that same shit-eating grin.
He was grinning now.
Jess blinked at him, her brain working through the fog of exhaustion and shame. "You're not the one I was flirting with."
"No, ma'am. I'm the one who got to watch."
"Lucky you."
He laughed, a short, easy sound that didn't match the tension coiling in her chest. "Cole's in the back. Grabbing some snacks."
"Cole."
"Barrett. The one you called 'Officer Hottie.'"
Jess felt heat crawl up her neck. "I was drunk."
"I figured."
"I'm not drunk now."
"I can see that."
She looked down at herself—the baggy sweatshirt, the stained leggings, the knot of hair that was probably more rat's nest than bun. "Yeah. Well. This is what I look like when I'm not making a fool of myself."
"Could've fooled me."
She flipped him off before she could think better of it. He just laughed again, leaning against the counter like he had all the time in the world.
"You work here?" he asked.
"Unfortunately."
"Cole mentioned that."
Jess's hand paused on the rag. "Did he."
"Not in so many words." The officer shrugged. "He pays attention. That's what he does."
She didn't know what to say to that, so she didn't say anything. Just went back to wiping the counter, scrubbing at a stubborn spot of dried creamer that refused to budge. The officer watched her for a moment longer, then wandered toward the coffee station, reaching past her for a cup.
"Help yourself," she muttered.
"I intend to."
She heard the squeak of the cooler door opening from the back of the store. Footsteps on linoleum. The particular weight of someone who walked like they were always aware of exactly how much space they took up.
Jess glanced up.
Cole Barrett rounded the end of the aisle, a bag of pretzels in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. He was in uniform, same as always—navy shirt, polished boots, the whole nine yards. But something was different tonight. Maybe it was the way he stopped when he saw her, his stride breaking for just a fraction of a second. Maybe it was the way his eyes moved over her face, her hair, the sweatshirt that hung off her shoulders, cataloging everything like he was comparing it to a mental image he'd been carrying around.
Maybe it was just the fact that she could see him clearly now. Sober. Without the haze of alcohol softening every edge.
He looked tired. The kind of tired that settled into the bones, that lived behind the eyes and never quite went away. His jaw was clean-shaven, his hair freshly cut, but there were shadows under his eyes that hadn't been there before. Or maybe they had. Maybe she just hadn't noticed.
"Officer Barrett," she said, her voice flat.
"Miss."
"Jess."
"I know."
The words landed between them like a stone in still water. He knew her name. Of course he did. He'd probably run her plates, run her record, looked her up in whatever system cops used to find out everything about a person in under thirty seconds. The thought should have bothered her. It didn't.
She grabbed the coffee pot and poured a cup without asking. Black, no sugar. She didn't know how he took it, but something told her he wasn't the type for fancy additions.
"Here," she said, sliding it across the counter. "On the house."
He looked at the cup, then at her. "I didn't order that."
"Consider it a peace offering."
"For what?"
"For being a pain in the ass. Twice."
His partner snorted from somewhere behind her. Jess had forgotten he was there. He was leaning against the coffee station now, cup in hand, watching the two of them like they were his favorite TV show.
"Twice is underselling it," the partner said. "First time, she called you a recruitment poster. Second time, she—"
"Walters." Cole's voice was quiet, but it cut through the air like a blade.
The partner—Walters, apparently—held up his free hand in surrender. "Shutting up."
Cole picked up the cup. Took a sip. His eyes never left Jess's face.
"You should be home," he said. "It's late."
"I'm working."
"You look like you should be in bed."
The words hung there. Jess felt her lips twitch.
"Is that an invitation, Officer?"
Walters choked on his coffee. Cole's jaw tightened, that same tick she'd seen before, the one that said he was trying very hard not to react.
"You know that's not what I meant," he said.
"Do I?"
She leaned forward on the counter, elbows planted, chin resting on her hands. The angle was different now—she was looking up at him instead of down, and the sweatshirt gaped at the collar, revealing the hollow of her throat and the edge of the tattoo that curved over her collarbone.
Cole's eyes flicked down. Flicked away.
"What's that?" he asked.
"What's what?"
"The ink. On your shoulder."
Jess glanced down like she'd forgotten it was there. The tattoo was an old one—a sparrow in flight, wings spread, delicate lines in black and gray. She'd gotten it when she was eighteen, on a whim, with a fake ID and a friend who'd held her hand the whole time.
"Just a bird," she said.
"And the one on your hip?"
She went still.
She'd forgotten about that one. Or maybe she hadn't. Maybe she'd known exactly what she was doing when she'd leaned forward, when the sweatshirt had ridden up just enough to expose the edge of the design that curved over her hip bone. A rose, tangled in thorns. She'd gotten it two years ago, after a breakup that had left her hollow for months.
"You noticed that," she said.
"I notice a lot of things."
Walters cleared his throat. "I'm gonna... wait in the car."
Neither of them looked at him. The bell chimed as he left.
The store was empty now except for the teenager in the back corner, who had finally grabbed a bag of chips and was making his way toward the register with the nervous energy of someone who wanted to be anywhere else.
Jess straightened up, the moment breaking. She rang up the kid's chips, took his crumpled bills, handed him his change. He practically ran out the door.
When she turned back, Cole was still there. Still watching.
"Your coffee's getting cold," she said.
He took another sip. "It's fine."
Silence stretched between them, thick and strange. Jess didn't know what to do with her hands, so she grabbed the rag again and started wiping down the counter for the hundredth time.
"The first time," she said, not looking at him. "At the gas station. I wasn't just drunk."
"I know."
"I was showing off. For my friend. For you. For anyone who was watching."
"I know that too."
She looked up. His face was unreadable, but his eyes—his eyes were dark and steady and fixed on her with an intensity that made her feel like she was standing in a spotlight.
"You don't know anything about me," she said.
"I know you work here. I know you drink too much. I know you have a friend named Dana who looks out for you. I know you have tattoos you got for reasons you don't talk about. I know you're looking for something."
Her throat tightened. "What makes you think that?"
"Because I've been doing this job for ten years. I've seen a lot of people who are looking for something."
"And what am I looking for?"
He didn't answer. Just took another sip of his coffee, slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving hers.
The bell chimed again. A couple walked in, laughing, arms around each other, heading straight for the beer cooler. Jess blinked, the spell breaking, the world rushing back in.
Cole set his cup down on the counter. Pulled a five from his pocket. Placed it next to the coffee pot.
"Keep the change," he said.
"You didn't ask for it."
"Neither did you."
He turned and walked toward the door. She watched him go—the broad shoulders, the steady stride, the way he didn't look back. The bell chimed as he pushed through, and then he was gone, swallowed by the dark parking lot and the flickering security light.
Jess stood there for a long moment, the rag forgotten in her hand.
The five-dollar bill sat on the counter like a dare.
She picked it up. Folded it. Tucked it into her pocket. And then she smiled—small and private and full of something she couldn't name.
The coffee pot gurgled again. She poured herself a cup and drank it black.
Two days passed like a bad dream you couldn't quite shake.
Jess worked her shifts on autopilot. Ringing up customers. Wiping down counters. Refilling the coffee pot that never stayed full for more than ten minutes. The gas station hummed around her like a machine she'd become part of, her movements mechanical, her thoughts somewhere else entirely. She kept catching herself glancing toward the door every time the bell chimed, her pulse jumping for no reason she wanted to examine.
Dana texted her three times asking if she wanted to go out. Jess said no twice and ignored the third.
She wasn't hiding. She was just tired.
The five-dollar bill was still folded in the pocket of her work pants. She'd washed them twice and transferred it both times, a small square of paper that meant nothing and everything. She told herself she'd spend it eventually. She never did.
The second night, she wore her uniform.
It was nothing special—a navy polo shirt with the gas station logo stitched over her left breast, black slacks that were slightly too tight, sensible sneakers instead of heels. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail that actually looked like a ponytail instead of a cry for help, and she'd put on just enough mascara to look alive. The store was quiet. The parking lot was empty. The clock on the wall ticked toward midnight.
She was working on the coffee station when the bell chimed.
Walters walked in first, same easy grin, same relaxed posture. He made a beeline for the snack aisle, grabbing a bag of pretzels without even looking at the options. Jess watched him out of the corner of her eye, her hands moving on autopilot, measuring coffee grounds and dumping them into the filter.
"You're back," she said.
"We're always back." Walters leaned against the end of the aisle, pretzels in hand. "It's the last night of our rotation. Figured we'd celebrate."
"Celebrate what?"
"Not having to look at your face for three days."
"Fuck off."
He laughed. She almost smiled.
The bell chimed again. Jess didn't look up. She could feel him, though—the weight of his presence, the particular way the air shifted when he walked into a room. She kept her eyes on the coffee maker, on the steady drip of dark liquid into the pot, on anything except the man approaching the counter.
"Evening," Cole said.
His voice was the same as always. Low. Even. Controlled.
"Officer," she said, still not looking up.
Walters had drifted closer, leaning against the counter now, watching the two of them with undisguised amusement. He'd finished half the pretzels already, crumbs scattered across his uniform shirt.
"So," Walters said, "you gonna call him or what?"
Jess's hand paused on the coffee pot. "What?"
"Don't play dumb. He's been checking his phone every five minutes for two days. It's pathetic."
"Walters." Cole's voice carried a warning.
"What? It's true."
Jess finally looked up. Cole stood at the end of the counter, arms crossed, jaw set. He looked tired again—more tired than before, if that was possible. The shadows under his eyes had deepened, and there was a tension in his shoulders that hadn't been there the last time she'd seen him.
He wasn't having a good night.
Something about that loosened something in her chest.
"Jeez, Officer Hottie doesn't look like he's having a good night," she said, directing the words at Walters with a sideways grin.
Walters barked out a laugh, nearly choking on a pretzel.
Cole's jaw tightened. "I'm fine."
"You look like shit."
"Thanks."
She reached under the counter for a napkin, grabbed the pen from beside the register. The cap came off with a click. She wrote her number in quick, slanted strokes—seven digits and a heart at the end, small and simple, nothing fancy.
Walters was watching her with open curiosity. Cole was watching her with something else entirely.
She rang up a cup of coffee Cole hadn't asked for. Total came to two dollars and seventeen cents. He pulled out his wallet, but she didn't take the bills he held out. Instead, she folded the napkin once, twice, and slid it across the counter toward him.
"You should text me, Officer Hottie."
The words hung there, brazen and stupid and exactly what she meant.
Cole looked down at the napkin. Then back at her. His expression didn't change—same measured stillness, same unreadable eyes—but something flickered behind them, something that made her pulse quicken.
Walters let out a low whistle. "Well, damn."
"Shut up," Cole said, but he didn't sound angry. He picked up the napkin, folded it again, and tucked it into his shirt pocket. His fingers lingered there for just a moment, pressing the fabric flat.
Jess felt heat climb up her neck. She busied herself with the coffee pot, pouring a fresh cup, wiping down the counter she'd already wiped down twice.
"So," she said, not looking at him, "you gonna text me or what?"
Cole didn't answer. He picked up the coffee she'd poured, took a sip, and set it back down. His eyes never left her face.
"Maybe," he said.
"Maybe?"
"Depends."
"On what?"
He leaned forward, forearms resting on the counter, close enough that she could smell the soap on his skin and the coffee on his breath. Close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, the faint scar above his eyebrow, the way his lips curved just slightly at the corner.
"On whether you're serious," he said quietly. "Or whether this is just another game."
She met his gaze. Didn't flinch. Didn't look away.
"I don't play games, Officer."
"Everybody plays games."
"Not me."
He studied her for a long moment, searching her face for something she wasn't sure she could give him. Then he nodded—slow, deliberate—and straightened up.
"Okay," he said.
"Okay?"
"Okay."
Walters cleared his throat. "I'm gonna... finish my pretzels in the car."
Neither of them acknowledged him. The bell chimed as he left.
The store was empty now. Just the hum of the coolers and the buzz of the lights and the two of them standing on opposite sides of a counter that had never felt so wide.
Cole picked up his coffee. Took a long sip. "You get off at midnight?"
"Two."
"Long shift."
"Rent's due."
He nodded. Didn't push. Didn't ask questions. Just stood there, drinking his coffee, watching her with those dark, steady eyes.
"You should go home," he said finally. "Get some sleep."
"You should stop telling me what to do."
"I'm a cop. It's a habit."
"Break it."
His lips twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.
He set down his cup, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a few bills. Placed them on the counter next to the napkin he'd already pocketed.
"Keep the change," he said.
"You keep saying that."
"Maybe one day you'll learn."
He walked toward the door. The bell chimed as he pushed through. Through the window, she watched him climb into the cruiser, watched Walters say something that made him shake his head, watched the headlights flick on and the car pull away into the dark.
The coffee he'd left behind was still warm.
She drank it black, standing alone in the fluorescent glow, the napkin gone and the night stretching out ahead of her like a question she wasn't sure she wanted answered.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
She pulled it out. Unknown number. Two words.
It's Cole.
She typed back with trembling fingers.
Took you long enough.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
What are you wearing?
She laughed out loud, alone in the empty store, the sound echoing off the linoleum and the coolers and the coffee pot that had finally stopped dripping.
Wouldn't you like to know.
The dots again. Longer this time.
I would. That's why I asked.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. She looked around the empty store, at the clock ticking toward one, at the darkness pressing against the windows.
Come find out.
She hit send before she could think better of it.
The dots appeared immediately. Disappeared. Appeared.
Where.
She typed the address. Not the gas station. Her apartment. The one with the broken radiator and the neighbor who played music too loud and the bed that was too big for one person.
Give me twenty minutes.
She closed the phone. Pressed it against her chest. Breathed out slow.
Twenty minutes.
She had twenty minutes to figure out what the hell she was doing.
---
Her apartment was small and messy and smelled like the candles she bought from the dollar store to cover up the smell of the radiator. Clothes on the floor. Dishes in the sink. The bed unmade, sheets twisted, pillows scattered. She kicked a pair of shoes under the couch, shoved a pile of mail into a drawer, sprayed perfume on her wrists and neck like that would somehow make the whole place less of a disaster.
She changed out of her uniform. Pulled on a tank top and the first pair of shorts she could find. Looked at herself in the mirror. Looked like a mess. Looked like a liar.
Looked like someone about to do something very stupid.
The knock came at 1:47.
She opened the door.
Cole stood in the hallway, still in his uniform, still carrying that same quiet weight. His eyes moved over her face, her hair, the tank top that showed the edge of the sparrow on her shoulder. He didn't smile. Didn't speak. Just stood there, letting the moment stretch.
"You came," she said.
"I said I would."
"People say a lot of things."
He stepped inside. Closed the door behind him. The apartment felt smaller with him in it, the walls pressing in, the air thick and charged.
"You gonna offer me something to drink?" he asked.
"You gonna stay long enough to need one?"
He looked at her. Really looked. His eyes were dark and steady and full of something she couldn't name.
"That's up to you," he said.
She kissed him.
Not slow. Not gentle. Her hands fisted in the front of his uniform shirt, pulling him down, her mouth crashing against his like she'd been waiting for this for weeks instead of days. He tasted like coffee and something minty, his lips firm and warm and exactly what she'd imagined.
He didn't respond at first. Just stood there, letting her kiss him, his hands at his sides, his body still. She pulled back, breathing hard, suddenly terrified she'd misread everything.
"Tell me to stop," she said.
He didn't.
Instead, his hands came up—slow, deliberate—and cupped her face. His thumbs brushed her cheekbones. His eyes searched hers, looking for something, finding it, or maybe just deciding he didn't need to.
"Tell me you want this," he said.
"I want this."
"Tell me you're not gonna regret it."
"I won't."
"You don't know that."
"I do."
He kissed her.
This time, it was different. Slow at first, deep and searching, his tongue sliding against hers like he was trying to learn the shape of her mouth. His hands moved from her face to her shoulders, her arms, her waist, pulling her closer until her body pressed against his. She could feel the holster on his belt, the radio clipped to his shoulder, the hard lines of his chest through the uniform shirt.
She grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled it up. He broke the kiss just long enough to let her yank it over his head, then his mouth was on her neck, hot and open, teeth grazing her pulse point.
"Fuck," she breathed.
He pulled back. Looked at her with those dark eyes.
"You sure?" he asked again.
"Stop asking me that."
"I need to hear it."
"I'm sure. I'm fucking sure. Now take your clothes off before I change my mind."
He didn't smile. But something shifted in his expression—something hungry and focused and entirely unlike the calm, measured officer she'd been taunting for weeks. He reached down, unbuckled his belt, let it drop. His pants followed, then his boots, until he was standing in just his boxers, his body all hard muscle and scars and skin.
She'd known he was built. She hadn't known he was this built.
"You gonna stare all night?" he asked.
"Maybe."
He stepped toward her. Grabbed the hem of her tank top and pulled it over her head in one smooth motion. Her breasts spilled out, full and heavy, nipples already hard. His eyes dropped. His jaw tightened.
"Fuck," he said quietly.
"Yeah."
He cupped one breast in his hand, thumb brushing the nipple, and she gasped. His mouth followed—hot and wet, tongue circling, teeth scraping just enough to make her arch into him. She tangled her fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, needing more.
"This what you wanted?" he murmured against her skin.
"Yes."
"You sure?"
"I swear to God if you ask me that one more time—"
He laughed. Low and rough and entirely unexpected. Then his hands were on her shorts, yanking them down, and his fingers were between her legs, sliding through wet heat.
"You're soaked," he said.
"No shit."
He pushed one finger inside her, slow, watching her face. She moaned, head falling back, hips rocking against his hand. He added another, curling, finding the spot that made her knees buckle.
"Bedroom," she managed.
"Where."
"Down the hall. Left."
He picked her up like she weighed nothing. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck, and he carried her down the short hallway to the bedroom, his fingers still moving inside her, his mouth on her throat.
He laid her on the bed. Pulled his fingers out. She whined at the loss, but then he was pulling his boxers down, and her brain short-circuited.
He was big. Thick and long and hard, standing at attention, and she felt a pulse of something between anticipation and nerves.
"You good?" he asked.
"If you ask me one more fucking time—"
He climbed over her. Positioned himself at her entrance. His eyes met hers—dark and steady and full of something that might have been tenderness, might have been hunger.
"Tell me you want it," he said.
"I want it."
"Tell me you want me."
"I want you. Cole. I want you. Now fuck me before I lose my mind."
He pushed inside.
She gasped. Her nails dug into his shoulders. He was thick, stretching her in a way that bordered on pain and pleasure, filling her completely. He paused, letting her adjust, his forehead pressed to hers, his breath hot on her face.
"Fuck," he breathed. "You feel..."
"Yeah?"
"Fucking perfect."
He started moving.
Slow at first. Measured. Each thrust deliberate, deep, pulling almost all the way out before driving back in. She wrapped her legs around him, meeting him stroke for stroke, her hands gripping his ass, pulling him deeper.
"Harder," she said.
He obliged.
The bed slammed against the wall. She cried out—loud, unashamed—and he covered her mouth with his hand, his eyes blazing.
"Neighbors," he said.
"Fuck the neighbors."
He laughed again, that rough, unexpected sound, and then he was pounding into her, hard and fast and relentless, and she couldn't think, couldn't speak, could only feel. Her orgasm built like a wave, coiling in her belly, tightening every muscle until she was sure she'd break apart.
"Cole," she gasped. "I'm gonna—"
"Come for me."
"Fuck—"
"Come for me, Jess. Now."
She shattered.
The orgasm ripped through her, violent and consuming, her body clenching around him, her vision going white. He fucked her through it, his own rhythm faltering, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
"Where," he managed.
"Inside. I'm on the pill. Inside."
He drove deep and came with a groan, his body shuddering, his hips pressing flush against hers. She felt him pulsing inside her, felt the heat of it, and something about the intimacy of it made her eyes sting.
He collapsed on top of her. Heavy. Sweaty. Perfect.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Then he rolled off, pulled her against his chest, and let out a breath that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his bones.
"You okay?" he asked.
She laughed. Tired and raw and genuinely amused.
"You're gonna keep asking me that, aren't you."
"Probably."
She turned her head. Looked at him. His face was softer now, the hard edges smoothed out by satisfaction and something else—something almost vulnerable.
"I'm okay," she said. "I'm more than okay."
He kissed her forehead. Soft. Gentle. Entirely unlike the man who'd just fucked her into the mattress.
"Good," he said.
She closed her eyes. Listened to his heartbeat. Felt his hand stroke her hair.
The radiator clanked. The neighbor's music thumped through the wall. Her phone buzzed somewhere on the floor, probably Dana, probably wanting to know where she was.
She ignored it.
For the first time in a long time, she wasn't looking for anything.
She'd found it.