Chapter 1: The Deal
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like a trapped fly, casting everything in that sickly yellow-white pallor that made even the healthiest skin look jaundiced. Kymani's wrists burned where the cheap metal cuffs bit into her flesh, her arms wrenched behind her back at an angle that sent sharp spikes of pain radiating up through her shoulders every time she shifted in the hard plastic chair.
The security office smelled like burnt coffee and desperation. A cracked leather chair sat empty behind a desk cluttered with papers and old fast-food wrappers. Monitors lined the wall, displaying grainy footage of shoppers moving through the mall like ants in a glass farm, their faces smeared into anonymity by the low-resolution cameras.
"You know, you really stepped in it this time, young lady."
Gary McMiller. The name tag on his ill-fitting uniform shirt said it all. His gut strained against the buttons, and a thin sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead despite the arctic blast of the AC unit rattling in the corner. He had that look—the kind of guy who'd been bullied his whole life and now got off on the tiny sliver of power his mall cop badge gave him.
Kymani rolled her eyes so hard her whole head moved with the motion. "Man, fuck you and your little rent-a-cop badge. I ain't did nothing wrong."
"Nothing wrong?" Gary's laugh came out as a wheeze. He held up the velvet pouch he'd confiscated from her purse like it was a trophy. "Three diamond tennis bracelets. A pair of gold hoop earrings. A—"
"I was just looking."
"Looking?" He shook his head, jowls wobbling. "You were looking with your hands, sweetheart. That's called shoplifting. Grand larceny, actually. That's a felony, in case you didn't know."
Kymani's jaw tightened. The cuffs dug deeper. She'd been stupid—she knew that. Two months in Des Moines, two months of living with her grandmother and working double shifts at the diner, and she'd thrown it all away for some sparkly shit she didn't even need. But the itch had been there since Philly, that restless burn under her skin that whispered take it, take it, nobody's watching. And nobody had been watching. Except the damn cameras.
"I already called the real police," Gary said, settling into his chair with a self-satisfied grunt. "They're sending someone over. You're gonna be somebody's girlfriend by this time tomorrow, I bet. Pretty little thing like you."
The threat hung in the air like smoke. Kymani felt her stomach drop, but she kept her face hard, kept her chin up. Showing fear to a man like Gary McMiller was like bleeding in shark-infested water.
"I ain't scared of no jail," she said, even though her voice cracked on the last word.
Gary just smiled.
---
The door swung open twenty minutes later, and Kymani's whole world tilted on its axis.
He filled the doorway. That was the first thing she noticed. Six foot four of solid muscle wrapped in a police uniform that fit like it had been tailored specifically for his shoulders. His hair was short and curly, deep brown, and his jaw looked like it had been chiseled from granite. Badge gleaming, duty belt heavy with equipment, he looked like every wet dream she'd ever had about getting caught.
Damn.
The thought hit her before she could stop it, and she felt heat creep up her neck, spreading across her cheeks. She looked away fast, staring at a crack in the wall like it held the secrets to the universe.
"Officer Stevens," Gary said, scrambling to his feet with the eagerness of a lap dog. "Thanks for coming out. We got ourselves a little thief here. Grand larceny. Caught her red-handed with stolen merchandise from Delgado's Fine Jewelry."
Ritchie Stevens didn't look at Gary. His eyes were locked on Kymani, dark and assessing, moving over her with a slow deliberation that made her feel like she was already naked.
"Leave us," he said.
It wasn't a request.
Gary blinked. "But—"
"I said leave us. I'll take it from here."
The mall cop's mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air. For a second, Kymani thought he might actually argue. But something in Ritchie's expression must have told him better, because he grabbed his coffee cup and shuffled out of the room, muttering under his breath.
The door clicked shut.
They were alone.
Ritchie moved around the desk, each step deliberate, his boots heavy on the linoleum. Up close, he was even more imposing. Kymani could smell him—something clean and masculine, like cedar and soap, with an undertone of something sharper. Adrenaline, maybe. Or something else entirely.
"You're beautiful."
The words caught her off guard. Not what she expected from a cop. Not what she expected from anybody, really, least of all some white boy in a uniform who was supposed to be hauling her ass to jail.
"What?" The word came out before she could stop it, dumb and flat.
Ritchie smiled. It transformed his face, softened the hard lines, made him look almost human. Almost approachable. Almost like someone she might want to—
Stop it, Kymani.
"I said you're beautiful." He reached out and caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting her face up toward the light. His touch was firm, proprietary, like he already owned her. "Mixed, right? What are you? Black and white? Black and Puerto Rican?"
She jerked her head back, away from his grip. "None of your damn business."
"Feisty." His grin widened. "I like that."
He walked around behind her, and she felt his presence like a physical force, heat radiating off his body. When his hands landed on her shoulders, she flinched.
"Relax," he murmured, close to her ear. "I'm just conducting a search. Standard procedure."
His fingers slid down her arms, over the thin cotton of her tank top, tracing the curve of her biceps. Down to her wrists, where the cuffs still bit into her skin. He tugged at them, testing the tension, and she hissed through her teeth.
"Hurt?"
"No shit."
"Good." He said it without malice, matter-of-fact. "Means you're paying attention."
His hands moved again, sliding around her ribcage, palms flat against her sides. She held her breath. His thumbs brushed the undersides of her breasts through her shirt, and she felt her nipples tighten involuntarily, the little silver piercings going hard against the thin fabric.
"Pierced," he observed, like he was cataloging evidence. "Interesting."
"You gonna search me or what?" She tried to sound tough, tried to inject some of that Philly attitude into her voice. But it came out breathless, almost pleading.
"Oh, I'm going to search you." His voice had dropped an octave, a low rumble that she felt in her chest. "Stand up."
She didn't move.
His hands tightened on her ribs, fingers digging in just shy of painful. "I said stand up."
Slowly, she rose to her feet. The chair scraped against the floor. Her legs felt unsteady, like the ground had suddenly become liquid beneath her.
Ritchie moved in front of her again, close enough that the toes of his boots bumped her sneakers. He was so tall that she had to crane her neck to meet his eyes. The position made her feel small. Vulnerable. She hated it and loved it in equal measure.
"Arms out," he said.
She hesitated.
"Arms. Out."
She spread her arms as much as the cuffs would allow, which wasn't much. Ritchie watched the way her breasts shifted under her shirt, the outline of her nipples clearly visible now. He didn't bother to hide his staring.
"Nice," he said, like he was commenting on the weather.
Before she could respond, his hands were on her again, starting at her ankles this time, working their way up her calves, her knees, her thighs. His fingers were warm even through her jeans, pressing and kneading like he was checking for hidden contraband but taking way more time than necessary.
When he reached her waist, he paused. His thumbs hooked into the belt loops of her jeans, tugging her forward just a fraction of an inch. Close enough that she could feel the heat of him, the hard planes of his body just barely not touching hers.
"Any weapons I should know about?"
"In my back pocket," she said. "Nine-millimeter."
He laughed. Actually laughed, a real laugh that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Funny. I like funny."
His hands slid up to her breasts. He cupped them through her shirt, palms warm and heavy, and Kymani's breath caught in her throat. She told herself to knee him in the balls, to scream, to do something. But her body betrayed her, leaning into his touch, her nipples pebbling against his palms.
"No bra," he noted. "Good."
He squeezed, testing their weight, and she bit down on her bottom lip to keep from making any sound. She wouldn't give him that satisfaction. She wouldn't—
His fingers found her piercings through the fabric, rolling them between his thumb and forefinger. A small, strangled noise escaped her throat before she could stop it.
"There it is," he said softly. "That's what I wanted to hear."
He stepped back, and she almost whimpered at the loss of contact. Almost. She caught herself, schooling her features into something resembling defiance.
"What now?" she managed. "You gonna take me in?"
Ritchie studied her for a long moment. Then he shook his head.
"I'm going to offer you a choice."
---
Kymani had heard of cops like this. Guys who thought their badge made them God, who thought they could take whatever they wanted from whoever they wanted. She'd just never expected to meet one in Des Moines, Iowa, of all places. She'd thought this was Mayberry, or whatever—safe, boring, nothing like the streets she'd grown up on in Philly.
Guess white boys were the same everywhere.
"I'm listening," she said, keeping her voice flat.
Ritchie leaned back against the desk, arms crossed over his chest. The pose pulled his uniform shirt tight across his pecs, and Kymani hated herself for noticing.
"The jewelry you stole is worth about three thousand dollars," he said. "That's grand larceny in the second degree. Class C felony. You're looking at anywhere from two to ten years in prison, depending on the judge."
Kymani's stomach dropped. Ten years. She'd be thirty by the time she got out. Her whole life wasted because of some stupid bracelets she didn't even want.
"But," Ritchie continued, "I'm willing to make you a different kind of deal."
"What kind of deal?"
He smiled. Slow. Predatory. "The kind where you don't go to jail. The kind where you walk out of here tonight like nothing happened. The kind where you become my personal slut, and I keep my mouth shut about what I found in your purse."
The words hit her like a slap. She felt her face go hot, then cold. For a second, she couldn't breathe.
"You're disgusting," she spat. "You think I'm gonna fuck you to stay out of jail? You think I'm some kind of—"
"I think you're a pretty, desperate little thief who's about to make a very important decision." Ritchie's voice was calm, unhurried. Like he'd had this conversation a hundred times before. "Two years minimum. That's if the judge is feeling generous. And this guy—Judge Morrison—he's not feeling generous. Last month he gave a guy three years for stealing a car radio. A car radio."
Kymani's heart was pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears. Ten years. Two years. Either way, jail. Either way, her life over before it had even really begun. Her grandmother would be so disappointed. She'd worked so hard to get Kymani out of Philly, had promised that things would be different here. And Kymani had thrown it all away for nothing.
"So what's it gonna be?" Ritchie asked. "Jail, or me? Take your pick. But I need an answer now."
She looked at the door. Looked at the monitors, where shoppers were going about their day, oblivious to the nightmare unfolding in this little room. Looked at Ritchie, at his stupid handsome face and his stupid broad shoulders and his stupid self-satisfied smirk.
"I ain't scared of no little white dick," she said, the words coming out before she could think about them. "You think I'm gonna be impressed by what you got? Please. I've seen bigger in my sleep."
Ritchie's eyebrows rose. For a second, she thought she'd overplayed her hand. But then he laughed—that same genuine laugh from before, like she'd told him a good joke.
"Is that right?"
"That's right."
He straightened up, reaching for his belt. "Well then. Maybe you need a closer look. You know, to make an informed decision."
The buckle came undone with a soft clink. The zipper followed, slow and deliberate, each tooth separating like a countdown to something inevitable.
Kymani told herself to look away. Because this was disgusting, and degrading, and she wasn't going to be another notch on some crooked cop's belt. Because there was no way, no way in hell, that she was actually going to—
He pulled it out and her brain short-circuited.
The first thing she noticed was the size. Because there was no way that thing was real. It wasn't possible. It was long—easily eleven inches, maybe more—and thick in a way that made her mouth go dry. Pale, uncut, a prominent vein running along the underside like a road map to destruction.
The second thing she noticed was the weight of it—it hung heavy between his legs, even half-hard, like it had its own gravitational pull.
The third thing she noticed was that her mouth was watering.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
"See something you like?" Ritchie asked, stroking himself lazily. He grew harder under his own touch, the foreskin sliding back to reveal the fat head beneath.
"I ain't seen nothing yet," Kymani said, her voice coming out hoarser than she intended. "All white boys look the same. Like uncooked sausages."
"Uncooked sausage, huh?" He stepped closer, stroking faster now. "That what you call this?"
She looked at him. Looked at his fist wrapped around that impossible length. Looked at the way he moved like we were already right—like it was a given. A slam dunk.
She thought about jail. About her grandmother. About the way her life had always been about choosing the least horrible option from a plate full of everything she didn't want.
"Fine," she said, hating herself for the way her voice came out breathless. "But don't think this means anything."
Kymani licked her lips.