Chapter 3: Ten Minutes Before Shift
The coffee was cold.
Jess stood at her kitchen counter in nothing but an oversized t-shirt, staring at the mug she'd poured two hours ago and never touched. The fluorescent light above the sink flickered—once, twice—casting the linoleum in a sickly yellow glow that made the shadows under her eyes look worse than they actually were. The radiator clanked somewhere behind her, a death rattle that had been going on for weeks.
She should sleep. She knew she should sleep.
Instead, she kept replaying it. The weight of him. The way his breath had hitched when she'd dug her nails into his shoulders. The way he'd said her name—not like a question, not like a warning, just Jess—like it meant something.
Her phone buzzed on the counter. Dana again.
You alive?
Jess picked it up. Typed back with one thumb.
Barely.
You coming out tonight? Tyler's got a thing.
No.
You never come out anymore.
Jess stared at the screen. The cursor blinked at her, patient and accusing.
Too tired.
It wasn't a lie. It just wasn't the truth.
She set the phone down. Picked up the cold coffee and poured it down the drain, watching the brown liquid swirl and disappear. The mug went in the sink with the other dirty dishes she'd been ignoring for three days.
The apartment felt different now. Smaller, somehow. The sheets on her bed needed washing. The pillow still smelled like him—like soap and coffee and something underneath that was just man—and she'd been sleeping on the couch to avoid it.
Which was stupid. It was just a pillow.
She was just a girl who'd made a bad decision and then made it again.
And again.
And again.
The knock came at 7:42.
Jess's heart did something complicated in her chest. She crossed the apartment in four steps, yanked the door open, and there he was—uniform pressed, hair damp, jaw clean-shaven. Cole Barrett looked like he'd stepped out of a recruitment ad. She looked like she'd been hit by a truck.
"You look like shit," he said.
"You look like a cop."
He almost smiled. Almost.
"Can I come in?"
She stepped aside. He walked past her, into the kitchen, his eyes moving over the chaos—the dirty dishes, the empty beer bottles from three nights ago, the coffee maker still half-full and starting to smell. He didn't say anything. Just stood there, hands in his pockets, looking at her like he was trying to figure something out.
"You didn't text," she said.
"Shift ran long."
"That was yesterday."
"I know."
She crossed her arms over her chest. The t-shirt was thin, and she wasn't wearing anything underneath, and she could feel her nipples harden in the cool air. Cole's eyes flicked down. Flicked back up.
"Are you gonna say something?" she asked.
"Depends."
"On what?"
"On whether you're gonna throw me out."
She should. She knew she should. This was a bad idea—all of it, every single piece. He was a cop. She was a mess. They didn't make sense. They were never going to make sense.
She didn't throw him out.
"I was thinking about what you said," he told her, stepping closer. "About wanting something real."
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to."
He stopped in front of her. Close enough that she could smell his soap. His shampoo. The coffee on his breath.
"Cole."
"Yeah."
"I'm not good at this."
"At what?"
"Whatever this is. The—talking. The feelings. I'm good at the other stuff. I'm good at fucking. I'm good at leaving. I'm not good at—"
He kissed her.
It wasn't like the first time—not desperate, not hungry. It was slow. Deliberate. His mouth moved against hers like he had nowhere else to be, like she was the only thing in the world worth paying attention to. His hands cupped her face, thumbs brushing her cheekbones, and she felt something crack open in her chest.
When he pulled back, her eyes were stinging.
"Stop," she said.
"Stop what?"
"Looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like I'm worth something."
He looked at her for a long moment. Then his hands moved—down her shoulders, her arms, her hips—and he pulled her against him. The uniform was rough against her skin. The radio clipped to his shoulder dug into her collarbone. She didn't care.
"You are worth something," he said.
"You don't know me."
"I know enough."
She laughed—sharp and bitter—and pulled away. "You don't. You know the drunk version. The slutty version. The version that flirts with cops at gas stations because she's bored and lonely and wants attention."
"I know you work doubles to make rent. I know you're tired. I know you keep people at arm's length because you're scared of what happens when they get close."
She went still.
"I know you've been sleeping on the couch because my pillow smells like me and it freaks you out." He paused. "I know you're wearing that t-shirt because it's mine, and you didn't even realize you grabbed it."
She looked down. The shirt was black, with the state trooper logo faded on the chest. She'd grabbed it off the floor three days ago and hadn't thought about it since.
"Fuck you," she said quietly.
"I'm not trying to—"
"Fuck you for noticing."
He didn't respond. Just stood there, letting her be angry, letting her feel whatever she needed to feel.
She hated him for it. She hated him for being calm and steady and patient, for not pushing, for not leaving. She hated him for making her want something she'd spent years convincing herself she didn't need.
She reached for the hem of the t-shirt and pulled it over her head.
Cole's breath caught. His eyes moved over her—breasts, stomach, thighs—like he was memorizing her. Like he was trying to commit every inch to memory.
"Jess," he said, and it came out like a warning.
She stepped forward. Grabbed the front of his uniform shirt and pulled him down to her mouth. This kiss was different. Harder. Meaner. All teeth and tongue and the anger she couldn't put into words.
He matched her. His hands fisted in her hair, pulling her head back, his mouth on her throat, teeth scraping her pulse point. She moaned—loud, shameless—and he backed her into the counter, lifted her up, set her down on the edge.
"Your shift," she said.
"Already late."
She reached for his belt. He caught her wrist.
"Wait."
"Why?"
"I want to look at you first."
"Cole—"
"Let me look at you."
She stilled. Let him. His eyes moved over her slowly—the sparrow on her shoulder, the rose on her hip, the scars and stretch marks and freckles that made up the map of her body. He traced the sparrow with his fingertip. Traced the rose.
"These mean something," he said. It wasn't a question.
"Everything means something."
"What do they mean?"
She looked away. "The bird was for freedom. The rose was for—" She stopped. Swallowed. "For getting hurt. And surviving it."
He leaned down. Pressed his lips to the sparrow. Then to the rose. Soft. Reverent.
"Beautiful," he said.
"Stop."
"It's true."
She pulled him back up. Kissed him hard. Her hands found his belt, unbuckled it, yanked his pants down around his boots. He was already hard—thick and heavy in her hands—and she wrapped her fingers around him, stroking slow, watching his jaw tighten.
"Fuck," he breathed.
She slid off the counter. Onto her knees. The linoleum was cold and cracked under her knees, but she didn't care. She looked up at him—tall and broad and completely undone—and grinned.
"You said I should be on my knees for you," she said. "Remember?"
"Jess—"
"Shut up."
She took him in her mouth.
Deep.
No preamble. No teasing. Just her lips stretched around him, her tongue flat against the underside, her throat working as she took him inch by inch. He groaned—low and rough—and his hand found her hair, gripping tight.
"Fuck," he said again. "Fuck, Jess—"
She hummed around him. Pulled back. Licked the head, slow and deliberate, then took him deep again, working him with her mouth and both hands, twisting on the upstroke, swallowing on the downstroke.
His hips jerked. His head fell back. His knuckles went white on the counter edge.
"God—"
She pulled off. Looked up at him with his slick on her lips.
"I'm sorry," she said.
He blinked down at her. "What?"
"For how I acted. The first two times." She stroked him slowly, watching his face. "At the gas station. I was showing off. It was stupid. I'm sorry."
"Jess—"
"I don't expect you to forgive me. But I wanted to say it."
She took him back in her mouth before he could respond. This time, she didn't hold back. She sucked him like it was the only thing in the world that mattered—wet and sloppy and filthy—her hand working the base while her tongue traced the vein on the underside.
He cursed. Loud. Loud enough that the neighbor—Mrs. Kowalski, who was eighty-three and deaf in one ear—probably heard him.
"Fuck—fuck, you're good at that—"
She pulled off just long enough to say, "I know," then went back to work.
The sex had been amazing. That's what she'd wanted to tell him. The first night, the second night, all of it—ahh, amazing—but words were hard and her mouth was full and she figured actions spoke louder anyway.
His grip on her hair tightened. His breathing went ragged. She could feel him twitching in her mouth and she doubled down, taking him as deep as she could, swallowing around him.
"I'm gonna—" he started.
She didn't stop. Just met his eyes. Held the stare.
He came with a broken curse, one hand slamming the counter, the other still fisted in her hair. She swallowed—all of it—and pulled back, licking her lips, watching him try to remember how to breathe.
"Holy shit," he said.
She stood up. Wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
"Hope that covers it," she said.
He stared at her. His eyes were dark, his chest heaving, his pants still around his ankles. He looked wrecked in a way she'd never seen before—completely undone, the calm exterior stripped away.
"It doesn't," he said.
"No?"
"No." He reached for her. Grabbed her arm. Spun her around and pressed her back against the fridge. The magnet holding her electric bill dug into her shoulder blade. She didn't care.
He kissed her—hard. Teeth and tongue and the taste of himself on her lips. His hand moved between her legs, fingers sliding through slick heat.
"Fuck," he muttered. "You're soaked."
"You get me wet. It's a problem."
He pushed two fingers inside her. She gasped—loud—and he covered her mouth with his hand.
"Neighbors," he said.
"Fuck the neighbors."
He laughed—low and rough—and curled his fingers, finding the spot that made her knees buckle. She grabbed his shoulders for balance, nails digging into the uniform fabric still covering him.
"Cole—"
"I'm getting there."
"Hurry."
He pulled his fingers out. Turned her around, pressed her chest against the fridge, and kicked her legs apart with his foot. She heard him tear a condom package—where the hell had he been hiding that—and then he was positioning himself at her entrance, thick and hot.
"Tell me you want it," he said.
"I want it."
"Tell me—"
"I want you inside me. Now. Please."
He pushed in.
She bit her lip to keep from screaming. The angle was different this way—deeper, somehow, hitting something that made her toes curl. He didn't move for a moment. Just stood there, pressed against her back, breath hot on her neck.
"Fuck," he breathed.
"Move."
He moved.
Slow at first. Then faster. Each thrust drove her into the fridge, the handle digging into her hip, the edge of the freezer rattling with every stroke. She gripped the magnet-covered door and held on.
"Harder," she said.
He gave her harder.
The sound was obscene—skin slapping skin, wet and loud, the murmur of his breath in her ear. She reached back, grabbed his ass, pulled him deeper. He groaned and bit her shoulder, teeth grazing the sparrow tattoo.
"I wanted you," he said between thrusts. "From the first night. When you called me Officer Hottie and your friend told you to knock it off. I wanted you."
"Why didn't you—"
"Because you were drunk. Because I'm a cop. Because it was a bad idea."
"It's still a bad idea."
"I know."
He picked up the pace. Harder. Faster. She felt the orgasm building—deep and coiling—and she didn't fight it. Just let it come.
"I'm gonna—"
"Come," he said. "Let me feel it."
She did.
The orgasm ripped through her—violent and consuming—and she cried out with his hand still covering her mouth, muffling the sound against his palm. He fucked her through it, drawing it out, and then he was coming too, groaning low and long, his hips pressing flush against her ass.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. Just stood there, breathing hard, the fridge humming beneath her hands.
Then Cole pulled out. Tied off the condom, tossed it in the trash. Pulled up his pants. Checked his watch.
"Shit," he said.
"Shift?"
"Twenty minutes." He looked at her—naked, flushed, leaning against the fridge like she couldn't stand on her own. "I was supposed to be there ten minutes ago."
"So be late."
"I can't."
"You can."
He reached for his keys. She grabbed his belt before he could turn away.
"Jess—"
"Officer Barrett."
His jaw tightened. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't call me that."
"Why?"
"Because it's what you called me when you were drunk and you wanted to get under my skin."
"So?"
"So don't use it when we're here."
She looked at him—really looked—and saw something she hadn't expected. Something soft and scared and vulnerable beneath the uniform and the discipline and the calm.
"Okay," she said. "Cole."
He kissed her. Quick. Hard. Then he pulled his keys from the counter and headed for the door.
"You'll text me?" she asked.
He paused. Hand on the knob.
"Yeah," he said. "I'll text you."
He left.
The door clicked shut behind him, and Jess stood alone in the kitchen, naked and sticky and completely full of something she couldn't name. The radiator clanked. The fridge hummed. The coffee maker beeped—the last of the old brew finally finished—and she walked over to turn it off.
The mug was still in the sink. The dirty dishes were still there. The apartment was still a mess.
But something felt different.
She picked up her phone. Texted Dana.
I'll come out tonight.
The reply came immediately.
Finally. You've been weird lately.
Jess smiled. Small and private and just for herself.
Yeah. I know.
The door clicked shut behind him, and Jess stood alone in the kitchen, naked and sticky and completely full of something she couldn't name. The radiator clanked. The fridge hummed. The coffee maker beeped—the last of the old brew finally finished—and she walked over to turn it off.
The mug was still in the sink. The dirty dishes were still there. The apartment was still a mess.
But something felt different.
She picked up her phone. Texted Dana.
I'll come out tonight.
The reply came immediately.
Finally. You've been weird lately.
Jess smiled. Small and private and just for herself.
Yeah. I know.
---
She showered. Washed her hair. Stood under the spray longer than necessary, letting the hot water beat against her shoulders, her back, the tender spot on her neck where Cole had bitten down. She touched it with her fingers—gently—and felt the raised skin of a mark that would bruise by morning.
Good.
She wanted it to bruise.
The bathroom mirror was fogged when she stepped out. She wiped a circle clear with her palm and looked at herself—wet hair, flushed cheeks, pupils still blown wide. She looked like someone who'd been thoroughly fucked against a refrigerator. She looked like someone who'd enjoyed it.
She looked like someone who wanted to do it again.
Her phone buzzed on the counter. She wrapped a towel around herself and checked it.
Unknown number. Hey. It's Cole.
She stared at the screen. Typed back.
How'd you get my number?
You gave it to me. Three weeks ago. At the gas station.
She remembered. Vaguely. Drunk and bold and writing her number on a napkin, sliding it across the counter with a wink. She'd assumed he'd thrown it away.
Guess you kept it.
Guess I did.
She bit her lip. Typed.
I meant what I said. About being sorry.
I know.
And the other thing. About the sex being amazing.
He didn't respond for a full minute. Then:
You're gonna get me in trouble.
She grinned. Typed.
That's the idea, Officer Hottie.
Don't call me that.
You loved it.
I hated it.
Liar.
Another pause. Then:
I gotta go. Shift.
Okay.
Jess.
Yeah?
Don't do anything stupid tonight.
She laughed out loud—alone in her bathroom, towel slipping, hair dripping. Typed back:
No promises.
---
Dana picked her up at nine.
The car smelled like vanilla air freshener and stale cigarette smoke. Dana had quit three months ago and still hadn't cleaned out the ashtray. She looked Jess up and down as she slid into the passenger seat.
"You look good," Dana said.
"I look tired."
"Same thing."
Jess laughed. Buckled her seatbelt. Dana pulled out of the lot.
"Where's Tyler?"
"Meeting us there. He's bringing his roommate." Dana glanced over. "The hot one."
"The one with the beard?"
"The one with the beard and the hands."
"Nice hands?"
"Very nice hands."
Jess shook her head. "You're horny."
"I'm always horny. You're the one who's been MIA." Dana turned onto the main road. Streetlights flashed past. "What's been going on with you? You've been weird for weeks."
"Nothing."
"Bullshit."
"I've just been tired."
"Tired doesn't make you ignore your friends for a month."
Jess stared out the window. The gas station blurred past—that gas station, the one where it all started. She wondered if he was working tonight. Wondered if he was thinking about her.
"I met someone," she said.
Dana's head whipped around. "What?"
"Eyes on the road."
"Fuck the road. Who?"
"Nobody."
"Nobody doesn't make you disappear for a month."
Jess sighed. "He's a cop."
Silence. Then: "The cop? The one from the gas station? Officer Hottie?"
"His name is Cole."
"Cole." Dana said it like she was tasting something strange. "You're sleeping with Officer Cole."
"I'm not—" Jess stopped. "Okay, yeah. I'm sleeping with him."
"For how long?"
"A few weeks."
"Weeks?" Dana's voice went up an octave. "You've been banging a state trooper for weeks and you didn't tell me?"
"I didn't know how to explain it."
"Explain what? That you're getting dicked down by a guy in uniform? That's not complicated, Jess. That's a fantasy."
"It's not—" Jess rubbed her forehead. "It's not just sex."
Dana went quiet. The car hummed along the dark road. Somewhere ahead, the bar's neon sign flickered into view.
"You like him," Dana said.
"I don't know."
"You like him."
"I said I don't know."
"Jess."
"What?"
Dana pulled into the parking lot. Killed the engine. Turned to face her.
"You don't do this," Dana said. "You don't get attached. You don't let people in. You fuck them and you leave them and you come out with me and get drunk and pretend everything's fine."
"I know."
"So what's different?"
Jess looked at her hands. The nails were still bitten down. The cuticles were ragged. She'd been meaning to quit for years.
"He sees me," she said.
Dana didn't respond.
"He looks at me like I'm not a mess. Like I'm not just some drunk girl who flirts with cops at gas stations." Jess swallowed. "And I don't know what to do with that."
Dana reached over. Squeezed her hand.
"Maybe you don't have to do anything," she said.
"That's terrifying."
"Yeah." Dana smiled. "It is."
---
The bar was loud and hot and packed with bodies.
Jess ordered a vodka soda. Drank it fast. Ordered another. Dana found Tyler and his roommate—the one with the beard and the hands—and they claimed a booth in the back. Jess slid in next to Dana, nursed her drink, watched the crowd.
She felt her phone buzz in her pocket.
Hey. You out?
She smiled. Typed under the table.
Yeah. You still working?
Patrol ends in an hour.
Want to come by after?
She hit send before she could think about it. Then waited.
Sure.
She bit her lip. Typed.
Bring coffee.
You're a pain in my ass.
You love it.
He didn't respond. She didn't need him to.
Tyler's roommate—Matt, or Mike, or something—was talking about his job. Something in finance. Something boring. Jess nodded along, drank her drink, thought about Cole's hands on her hips, his breath on her neck.
"You're not listening," Dana said.
"I'm listening."
"You're not."
Jess grinned. "Okay, I'm not."
"What are you thinking about?"
"Nothing."
"Liar."
Jess finished her drink. Stood up.
"Where are you going?"
"Bathroom."
She walked through the crowd. The bathroom was single-occupancy, mercifully empty. She locked the door, leaned against the sink, and pulled out her phone.
She opened her camera. Flipped it to face her.
The lighting was shit—fluorescent and harsh. But she looked okay. Hair still wavy from the shower. Makeup minimal. The black lacy dress she'd worn hugged her curves. Her tits looked good in it. She knew they did.
She pulled the dress up. Just a little. Just enough to show the lacy boy shorts underneath—black, high-cut, barely there. She put her hand in her hair, tilted her head, and snapped a picture.
Not bad.
She opened her texts. Found Cole's number.
Officer Hottie don't open around other people
Then she sent the photo.
She watched the little "delivered" notification appear. Then "read." Then nothing.
She grinned at her reflection. Grabbed the door handle.
Her phone buzzed in her hand.
What the fuck.
She laughed. Typed back:
You're welcome.
I'm in the car. With my partner.
Oops.
You're gonna kill me.
Probably.
Another buzz. She opened it.
You look good.
She felt warm all over. Typed:
I know.
See you in an hour.
See you then.
She slipped the phone back in her pocket. Fixed her dress. Checked her reflection one more time.
Then she walked out of the bathroom, through the crowd, back to the booth. Dana raised an eyebrow.
"What?"
"Nothing," Jess said. "Just texting."
"Just texting who?"
"None of your business."
Dana's eyes narrowed. Then widened. "You're texting him. Officer Hottie."
"His name is Cole."
"You're texting him from the bathroom. You're sexting."
"I'm not sexting."
"Then what are you doing?"
Jess grabbed her drink. Drank. Smiled.
"Being late," she said.