Chapter 22: The Evidence Removal
The precinct’s central air conditioning had finally surrendered to the heatwave with a terminal shudder, leaving the bullpen to stew in a soupy, stagnant gloom. The atmosphere was ninety percent humidity and ten percent desperate longing, at least for Jake. Three hours. Three hours since the car ride back from Edna’s, since Amy’s leg had burned a brand into his. Three hours of trying to write a report on a laptop that felt like a hot plate, of watching her from across the room.
She was a study in furious concentration. Her spine was rigid, her fingers a controlled blur over her keyboard. She’d changed into a spare blouse she kept in her file drawer—a crisp, sterile white that seemed to glow in the murky light. It was buttoned to the throat. It was the most obscene thing he’d ever seen her wear because he knew what was underneath. He knew the exact taste of the skin it covered. He knew the feeling of her ass clenching around him as he filled it in his bed that morning.
And he knew, with a visceral, gut-twisting certainty, that she could still feel him there. A phantom presence. A lingering violation. His own release, and then more from their sleepy, automatic coupling at dawn, slowly warming inside her, a secret they shared in the middle of the bustling, sweaty precinct.
His phone buzzed on the desk, face down. He flipped it over.
Unknown Number: Meet me in the disabled toilet. Now.
He knew. His blood, sluggish with heat, turned to fire. He didn’t look up. He didn’t make a sound. He just stood, his chair scraping loudly, and walked with what he hoped was casual purpose towards the hall. His heart was a jackhammer against his ribs. Every step felt loud, conspicuous. He passed Gina’s desk.
“Ooh, bathroom break? Bring back a soda,” she said without looking up from her phone.
“You got it,” he mumbled, his voice strangled.
The hall to the lesser-used bathrooms was quieter, dimmer. The fluorescent light here flickered with a psychotic rhythm. The disabled toilet was at the end, a single, larger room. He pushed the door open. Empty. The air was even hotter, thicker. The mirror over the small sink was cracked in one corner. The room hummed.
The lock clicked behind him. He hadn’t heard her come in. He turned.
Amy stood with her back against the door. Her professional mask was gone, shattered. Her face was flushed, her eyes dark and blazing with a hunger that was almost frightening. She looked utterly unhinged. She looked perfect.
She didn’t speak. She crossed the two steps between them, her hands going straight to his belt. Her fingers fumbled with the buckle, a rare lack of coordination. The metallic clink was obscenely loud in the small space.
“Ames—” he started.
“Shut up,” she hissed, pulling his belt open, yanking his button fly apart. “Just shut up.”
She pushed his jeans and boxers down over his hips in one rough shove. His cock sprang free, already fully hard, pulsing with the frantic beat of his heart. She didn’t hesitate. She dropped to her knees on the grimy tile floor, the sound of her knees hitting hard making him wince. She didn’t seem to feel it.
She took him in her hand, leaned forward, and swallowed him whole.
The heat of her mouth was a shock, wet and tight and desperate. Her head began to bob, deep and fast, no teasing, no buildup. It was a claiming. Her lips were stretched tight around his girth, her tongue pressing firmly along the underside of his shaft. The sound was filth itself—a wet, rhythmic slurping, choked gags as she took him deep, the humid puff of her breath against his skin. Jake’s head thumped back against the cold tiled wall. He stared at the water-stained ceiling tiles, a strangled groan escaping him. One hand found the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her perfectly straight hair, now mussed, pulling it from its neat band.
She sucked him like she was trying to draw poison from a wound. Like she was trying to consume the very essence of him. Her free hand cupped his balls, rolling them, squeezing gently, then more firmly. It was too much. It was frantic and glorious and just shy of painful.
After a minute, she pulled off with a loud, wet pop. She looked up at him, her lips swollen and glistening. A thin strand of spit connected her lower lip to the head of his cock. Her voice, when it came, was a low, husky rasp, scraped raw from the effort.
“I’ve been sitting at my desk,” she said, each word punctuated by her labored breath, “for three hours. With your cum. Slowly leaking out of my ass.” She squeezed his shaft, making him gasp. “I can feel it. Every time I shift in my chair. Every time I stand up to get a file. A slow, warm slide down the inside of my thigh. It’s… distracting.”
The image she painted—prim, proper Amy Santiago at her meticulous desk, feeling the physical evidence of their animalistic morning seeping into her underwear—unleashed something primal in him. A possessive, filthy pride.
“Is that right?” he managed, his own voice rough.
“It’s unprofessional,” she breathed, her eyes locked on his. “It’s a biohazard. It’s a critical failure of operational security.” She leaned forward again, running her tongue from his balls all the way up the throbbing vein to the tip. “I need you to get it out.”
With that, she stood up in one fluid motion. She turned her back to him, facing the gray metal support bar installed along the wall. She braced her hands on it, shoulder-width apart. She didn’t hike her skirt up. She simply reached back, grabbed the hem of her pencil skirt, and yanked it up to her waist, bunching the fabric there. She wasn’t wearing any panties.
The sight stole the breath from his lungs. The elegant curve of her ass was bare, gleaming slightly in the foul light. Between her cheeks, her hole was pink, slightly swollen, and visibly wet. A thin, milky trickle had traced a path down the back of her thigh, already drying in the heat.
“Fuck me, Jake,” she said, her voice steadier now, a command. “Get it all out.”
He didn’t need telling twice. He stepped close, the coarse hair of his thighs brushing against her smooth skin. He guided himself with one hand, pressing the broad head of his cock against her slicked opening. There was no resistance. She was still loose, still lubricated from the inside by his own spent seed. The feeling as he pushed in was obscene, utterly depraved. A wet, sucking squelch echoed in the tiled room as he slid home in one smooth, deep stroke.
He was buried in the incredible, clinging heat of her ass, but it was a different heat. Slick. Used. His own release from hours before provided a shameful, intimate lubrication. He was fucking her with a part of himself. He groaned, low and deep, his hands settling on her hips, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh.
He began to move. Slow, at first. Dragging himself almost all the way out, then sinking back in. Each thrust produced a soft, liquid sound. Each withdrawal pulled a gush of milky-white fluid out with him, dripping down his shaft, onto his balls, onto the floor between their feet. The smell of sex, of their specific, combined scent, filled the hot, small room. It was the smell of his apartment sheets, of the motel, concentrated here in this public, clinical space.
“Harder,” Amy gritted out, pushing back against him, taking him deeper. “Don’t be gentle. It’s a cleanup operation. Be thorough.”
He snapped his hips forward, a sharp, punishing thrust that made her gasp and her knuckles whiten on the bar. He set a new pace, deep and measured but with force behind it. The wet slap of their bodies meeting, the squelching chorus with every penetration, the ragged duet of their breathing—it was a symphony of filth. He watched, mesmerized, as with every pump, more of the creamy residue was expelled, painting his cock, her skin, the floor. A small, sticky puddle was forming beneath them.
“Yeah,” she moaned, her head dropping between her shoulders. “That’s it. Fuck it out. Make a mess.”
Her words, so crude from her usually precise mouth, shattered his last shred of control. He gripped her hips like vices, his fingers leaving pale imprints on her skin. He drove into her with abandon, each thrust a frantic, piston-like movement. The metal bar she held rattled against the wall with their rhythm. The toilet tank gave a sudden, loud groan, as if in sympathy.
“God, your ass is so fucking good,” he grunted, sweat dripping from his brow onto her back. “So tight, even when it’s full of my cum. You love it, don’t you? You love feeling me come in your ass and then carry it around all day.”
“Yes,” she hissed, the admission torn from her. “It’s disgusting. I love it.”
That was it. Her confession, raw and honest, tipped her over the edge. Her body clenched around him in a series of violent, involuntary spasms. A guttural, choked cry was ripped from her throat, muffled only slightly by her arm. She came, shaking, her internal muscles milking him ruthlessly.
It was too much. The sensation, the visual, the overwhelming depravity of it all. Jake felt his own orgasm explode from his core. With a broken shout, he slammed into her one final time, burying himself as deep as he could go, and emptied himself. It was a torrent, a hot flood that pulsed into her already-violated channel, mixing with the old, adding to the volume.
He stayed there, shuddering, his forehead pressed against her sweat-dampened back, as the last pulses faded. The room was a cacophony of their panting, the drip of water from the tap, the distant hum of the dying precinct.
Slowly, carefully, he pulled out.
The sound was profoundly lewd. A wet, sucking release. And then a rush.
A thick, creamy stream of mixed seed—opaque white from his fresh release, mixed with thinner, clearer fluid—poured from her gaping hole. It cascaded over her swollen lips, down the back of her thighs, and splattered onto the growing puddle on the tile floor. The sight was one of absolute, shocking debasement.
Jake stared, transfixed, his softening cock dripping.
Amy, still braced on the bar, her body trembling with aftershocks, looked over her shoulder. Her eyes were hazy, satiated. She watched the last few drops fall. Then, slowly, she straightened up. She let her skirt fall, the fabric sticking immediately to the wetness on her skin. She turned to face him.
Without a word, she knelt again, but not before him. Before the puddle on the floor. She reached down, swirled two fingers through the warm, viscous pool of their combined release. She brought her fingers to her lips, her eyes locked on his, and slowly, deliberately, licked them clean.
The intimacy of the gesture, its sheer raw carnality, left him hollowed out.
“There,” she said, a strange, satisfied smile playing on her lips. It wasn’t her usual triumphant smile. It was darker, more primitive. “Evidence disposed of.”
She stood, walked unsteadily to the sink, and turned on the tap. She washed her hands methodically, scrubbing with the gritty pink soap from the dispenser. She cupped water in her hands and splashed her face. She patted it dry with a rough paper towel. She smoothed her skirt, tucked in her blouse, ran her fingers through her hair. With each motion, Detective Amy Santiago reassembled herself over the wild, wanton creature that had just been on her knees.
Jake, feeling exposed and stupid with his pants around his ankles, hurriedly pulled himself together. He tucked himself away, zipped up, buckled his belt. The wet spot on his boxers was uncomfortable, a clamish reminder.
They looked at each other in the cracked mirror. Two detectives, flushed and rumpled, standing in a bathroom that smelled like a brothel. The puddle on the floor between them was undeniable.
“We need to…” Jake started, gesturing weakly.
“I’ll get paper towels,” Amy said, her voice back to its normal, cool register, though a faint huskiness lingered. “You stand guard.”
She left the bathroom, returning a moment later with a full roll of brown industrial paper towels. She didn’t speak as she knelt and began to mop up the mess, wiping the floor with efficient, sweeping motions. Jake watched, leaning against the sink, a surreal numbness settling over him. She cleaned the floor, then dampened a wad of towels and wiped down the metal bar she’d gripped. Finally, she stood, her soiled wad of towels held away from her body.
“I’ll dispose of this in the dumpster out back,” she said. “You should go back to your desk first. Stagger the return.”
He nodded. The operational precision of it, the cold calculation following the animalistic heat, was more disorienting than anything else.
She paused at the door, her hand on the knob. She didn’t look at him. “The thirty-day review,” she said softly. “This… doesn’t help.”
“I know,” he said.
“But I don’t care right now,” she added, and then she was gone.
He gave it two minutes, listening to his heart slow. He splashed water on his own face, tried to finger-comb his hair into some semblance of order. He looked like a man who’d just had frantic, world-bending sex in a public toilet. Because he was.
When he slipped back into the bullpen, he expected a trumpet fanfare, a spotlight. It was just the same sleepy, hot afternoon. Terry was arguing with a uniform about a parking ticket database. Charles was trying to feed Gina a bite of his “stress-relief parfait.” Holt’s door was shut.
Jake sank into his chair. His body felt like it had been through a wood chipper. A pleasant, sated wood chipper. He couldn’t focus. The report on his screen was gibberish. All he could see was Amy, on her knees, licking their cum from her fingers. All he could smell was the ghost of it in his nostrils.
Across the room, Amy was back at her desk. Her posture was, if possible, even more perfect. She was typing. She looked like she was drafting a proposal for the city council. He watched as she calmly reached down, opened her bottom drawer, and pulled out a small, travel-sized package of wet wipes. She stood, gave a small, deliberate stretch, and walked calmly back towards the hallway—presumably to a different, cleaner bathroom to finish her personal cleanup.
The normality of it was staggering.
The rest of the day passed in a haze of heat and simmering tension. They didn’t speak. They didn’t look at each other. But the air between their desks felt charged, like the moment before a lightning strike.
At 5 p.m., as people began to pack up, Holt’s door opened again. He stood there, holding a file.
“Santiago. A word.”
Amy stood, smoothed her skirt, and walked into his office. The door closed.
Jake’s blood ran cold. He pretended to tie his shoe, lingering. He couldn’t hear words, just the low rumble of Holt’s voice. It felt like an hour. It was three minutes.
Amy emerged. Her face was a careful blank, but he saw the tension in the set of her jaw. She didn’t go to her desk. She walked straight to his.
“My apartment,” she said, her voice low and devoid of inflection. “Now. Don’t follow me. Come in twenty minutes.”
She walked away, collected her bag, and left the bullpen without a backward glance.
The twenty-minute wait was a special kind of torture. Jake killed time by pretending to reorganize his “filing system,” which consisted of shuffling piles of paper from one side of his desk to the other. Gina watched him with the amused detachment of a scientist observing a doomed experiment.
When he finally couldn’t stand it, he drove to her apartment, a neat, modern building in a better part of Brooklyn. He’d never been inside. He buzzed. The door unlocked with a harsh buzz.
Her apartment was everything his was not. It was quiet, clean, and smelled of lemon cleaner and lavender. The walls were a soft grey. Books stood in orderly ranks on floating shelves. A single, tasteful orchid sat on a side table. It was serene. It felt like a museum exhibit titled “A Grown-Up Lives Here.”
Amy stood in the center of the living room, still in her work clothes, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She looked small, and for the first time since the motel, genuinely scared.
“What did he say?” Jake asked, not moving from the doorway.
“He asked for an update on the Collins case file attachments. Standard procedure.” Her voice was flat. “Then he asked if I was experiencing any ‘external pressures’ that might be affecting my judgement. He said my recent pattern of ‘creative protocol interpretation’ was statistically anomalous.”
“Shit.”
“He said he had confidence in my abilities, but that the appearance of a stable, professional environment was crucial for the morale of the precinct.” She finally looked at him. Her eyes were bright, too bright. “He was talking about us, Jake. He knows. Or he suspects enough that it’s the same thing.”
“We’ve been careful,” Jake said, though the words sounded hollow even to him. The bathroom floor covered in their mixed fluids flashed in his mind.
“There’s no careful about this!” she burst out, the control snapping. She threw her hands up. “We fucked in a public bathroom at work! We fell asleep with your… with you inside me! We’re leaving forensic evidence at crime scenes! This isn’t a protocol. This is a pathological compulsion!”
“Is that what you think this is?” He took a step forward, anger flaring to match her fear. “A compulsion? Because from where I’m standing, it feels a hell of a lot like something else.”
“Don’t,” she warned, pointing a finger at him. “Don’t say it. If you name it, it becomes real. And if it’s real, then Holt is right, and we are compromising the one thing I have spent my entire adult life building.”
“What, your career? Your perfect little life?” He gestured around the pristine apartment. “This? This is what you’re protecting?”
“Yes!” she shouted. “It is! It’s order. It’s control. It’s predictable! You… you are a hurricane in human form. You are a chaos engine. And I let you inside my life, and now everything is…”
“What?