Chapter 2: No One to Call But Him
Her phone died at exactly 2:58 AM.
Roxanne watched the screen flicker once, twice, and then go black—a small, final death that felt almost personal. She pressed the power button anyway. Nothing. She pressed it again. Still nothing.
"Fucking fantastic," she muttered to the empty parking lot.
The rain had stopped, but the world was still wet. Everything glistened under the blue lights—the gravel, the puddles, the hood of Destiny's beat-up Honda, still crooked at the edge of the shoulder like a drunk who'd given up on standing straight. The wind had picked up, cold and sharp, cutting through the soaked lace of Roxanne's dress like it wasn't even there.
She wrapped her arms around herself. It didn't help.
The cruiser door opened again. She heard it before she saw him—the creak of hinges, the squelch of boots on wet ground. Vasquez. Adrian. Whatever she was supposed to call him. He walked toward her with that same unhurried stride, like the night wasn't already three hours past its expiration date.
He stopped a few feet away. Looked at her. Looked at the dead phone in her hand.
"Find a ride?"
Roxanne laughed.
It wasn't a pretty sound. It wasn't the bright, sharp laugh she used at parties, the one that made people lean in and wonder what was so funny. It was hollow. Ugly. The kind of laugh that came from somewhere deep and broken and had nowhere else to go.
"No," she said. "No, I did not find a ride."
"Did you try?"
"Oh, I tried. I tried real hard." She held up the dead phone like evidence. "But it turns out my brother's in another state, my parents are both in prison, my best friend is currently in the back of your cruiser, and the only ex I could call is a two-year piece of shit who I'd rather walk to county lockup than dial."
She let the words hang there, raw and unfiltered, and watched his face for a reaction.
There wasn't one. Not really. Just that same steady gaze, those same blue eyes, absorbing everything and giving nothing back.
"Parents in prison," he repeated. Not a question.
"Both of them. Mom's in for fraud. Dad's in for assault. They're not exactly role models."
"And your brother?"
"Army. Stationed in Germany. He sends me postcards sometimes. Pictures of castles and shit."
Vasquez was quiet for a moment. The wind howled through the empty lot, carrying the distant hum of the highway and the smell of wet asphalt. Somewhere far away, a truck horn blared.
"You're a piece of work," he said finally.
"I've been called worse."
"I'm sure you have."
Roxanne dropped her arms. Let them hang at her sides. The dress was ruined—stretched and stained and clinging in all the wrong places—and she was suddenly, acutely aware of how she must look. Mascara smeared down her cheeks like war paint. Hair plastered to her skull. Bare legs covered in goosebumps, the octopus tattoo curling up from her hem like it was trying to escape.
She felt like a disaster.
She looked like a disaster.
And for some reason, standing there in front of this man with his stupid perfect jaw and his stupid steady eyes, she didn't care.
"You know what I don't understand?" she said.
"What's that."
"The rain." She threw her arms out, gesturing at the sky. "The universe. Whatever. I don't understand why it's always me. Why I'm always the one standing in the parking lot at three in the morning with a dead phone and a ruined dress and no way home. Why it's always my life falling apart in slow motion while everyone else just..."
She trailed off.
Vasquez tilted his head. "Just what?"
"Just lives. Just goes home to their apartments and their dogs and their Netflix queues and their normal, boring, functional lives."
"You think my life is normal?"
"I think you have a job. A badge. A purpose." She laughed again, softer this time. "I think you've never had to stand in the rain and wonder how you're going to get home."
He was quiet for a long moment. The blue lights kept flashing, painting his face in alternating shades of shadow and electricity.
"You'd be surprised," he said.
"Try me."
He didn't. Just looked at her with those blue eyes, unreadable and steady, and she felt something shift in her chest. Something uncomfortable. Something that felt dangerously close to hope.
"How much cash do you have on you?" he asked.
The question caught her off guard. "What?"
"Cash. Money. Dollar bills. How much?"
"I don't know." She reached for her clutch—still tucked under her arm, somehow—and fumbled it open. Inside: a crumpled receipt, a half-empty tube of lip gloss, and three dollar bills. "Three dollars."
"Three dollars."
"Three dollars and a lip gloss that's probably expired."
Vasquez closed his eyes. Just for a second. When he opened them again, there was something different in his expression. Something resigned.
"Here's the situation," he said. "I can't let you drive. You're visibly intoxicated, and even if you weren't, your friend's car is getting towed. I can't leave you here—it's the middle of the night, you're alone, and the nearest gas station is four miles away. And I can't take you to the station because booking you would mean paperwork, and paperwork means my sergeant finding out that I let a drunk civilian stand in a parking lot for thirty minutes instead of securing the scene."
"Securing the scene?"
"Shut up."
She shut up.
"So," he continued, "you have two options. Option one: I call a tow for your friend's car, I call a separate unit to pick you up, and you spend the night in a holding cell with a bunch of other people who made bad decisions. You get a fine. You get a court date. You get a story to tell your grandkids."
"And option two?"
Vasquez looked at her. Really looked at her. The kind of look that peeled back layers and saw what was underneath.
"Do you know how to keep your mouth shut in a patrol car?"
Roxanne blinked.
"What?"
"It's a simple question. Can you sit in the back of my cruiser, keep quiet, and not make my life difficult for the next forty-five minutes?"
"Where are you taking me?"
"Home."
"Home?"
"Is that a problem?"
She stared at him. The wind whipped her wet hair across her face, and she pushed it back with fingers that were starting to go numb.
"You're offering me a ride."
"I'm offering you a ride."
"An off-the-books, technically-not-legal, don't-tell-my-sergeant ride."
"That's the one."
"And what do you want in return?"
The question hung in the air between them. Heavy. Loaded. Vasquez's jaw tightened.
"Nothing," he said.
"Bullshit."
"I'm not going to argue with you."
"Good, because I'm not going to believe you."
He stepped closer. Just one step. But it was enough to close the distance between them, to make her tilt her head back to meet his eyes. Rain dripped from his jaw. His uniform was still soaked, still clinging to his chest and shoulders, and she could smell him again—rain and soap and that sharp cedar scent that cut through everything else.
"You've got a smart mouth," he said.
"I've been told."
"And you don't trust anyone."
"Also been told."
"So here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to walk back to my cruiser. I'm going to get in. I'm going to drive you home because it's the right thing to do, and because I've had nights like yours, and because the only other option is leaving you here, and I'm not going to do that."
He paused. Let the words settle.
"If you want to get in, get in. If you don't, I'll call the tow and you can take your chances with holding."
He turned and walked away.
Roxanne stood there for a long moment, watching him go. The rain had started again—just a mist this time, barely there, more like the ghost of rain than the real thing. The blue lights kept flashing. The wind kept howling.
Her phone was dead. Her friend was in custody. Her ex was a piece of shit and her family was three thousand miles away.
She had three dollars and a ruined dress and nowhere else to go.
She followed him.
The back seat of the cruiser smelled like disinfectant and old coffee. Roxanne slid across the vinyl, her bare thighs sticking to the cold surface, and pulled the door shut behind her. It was cramped and sterile and smelled like every traffic stop she'd ever seen on TV, and she hated it immediately.
Vasquez got in the front. Adjusted the mirror. Started the engine.
"You're dripping on my seats," he said.
"I'm aware."
"There's a towel under the driver's seat. Grab it."
She fished around until she found it—a thin, gray towel, rough with age and use. She pressed it to her hair, her face, her arms, and watched the water soak through.
"This is humiliating," she said.
"You're the one who drank nine drinks and got in a car with a driver who blew point-one-two."
"I'm aware of my mistakes."
"Are you?"
She met his eyes in the rearview mirror. His gaze was steady. Unreadable. But there was something there—a flicker of something that might have been amusement, or might have been something else entirely.
"You're enjoying this," she said.
"I'm not enjoying anything."
"You're enjoying my suffering."
"I'm enjoying the fact that you're not giving me a hard time. Yet."
"Give it time."
He pulled out of the parking lot. The cruiser's headlights cut through the mist, illuminating the wet highway ahead. The radio crackled—low, indistinct voices, dispatchers and officers speaking in codes she didn't understand.
Roxanne leaned her head against the window. The glass was cold against her temple. She closed her eyes.
"Your friend," Vasquez said. "Destiny. She'll be okay."
"How do you know?"
"I don't. But she's a nurse. First offense. No priors. She'll get a good lawyer, do some community service, maybe a fine. It's not the end of the world."
"It feels like the end of the world."
"Everything feels like the end of the world when you're drunk and it's three in the morning."
She opened her eyes. Looked at the back of his head—dark hair still damp, the collar of his uniform slightly askew.
"You've been there," she said.
"Been where?"
"Where I am. The parking lot. The dead phone. The no way home."
He didn't answer for a long moment. The highway stretched ahead of them, empty and slick, the white lines blurring past like something out of a dream.
"Everyone's been there," he said finally. "Some people just hide it better."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting."
She let it go. Closed her eyes again. The hum of the engine was steady, almost soothing, and she felt the tension in her shoulders start to loosen. Just slightly. Just enough.
"Why'd you really offer me a ride?" she asked.
Silence.
"I mean it," she pressed. "You could've just called the tow and let me rot. It's not your job to save me."
"No," he agreed. "It's not."
"So why?"
The car slowed. Turned. She opened her eyes and saw that they were pulling into a neighborhood she didn't recognize—dark houses, quiet streets, trees heavy with rain.
"Because I've seen your file," he said.
"My file?"
"Your record. Your arrests. Your history."
She sat up straight. "I don't have a record."
"You have three misdemeanors. Public intoxication, disorderly conduct, and something that got expunged when you were nineteen. I ran your name while you were standing in the parking lot."
"You—" She stopped. Swallowed. "You ran my name?"
"Standard procedure."
"That's not standard procedure. That's—"
"Smart." He glanced at her in the mirror. "You've got a pattern, Roxanne. Bad decisions, bad men, bad luck. It's a story I've seen before. Usually ends one of two ways."
"And which way is mine going to end?"
He didn't answer. Just pulled up to a curb and put the car in park. They were in front of a small apartment building—two stories, beige brick, a single light burning in a second-floor window.
"This is your address," he said.
Roxanne looked at the building. At the darkened windows. At the empty parking spot where her own car—a beat-up Corolla she'd bought for eight hundred dollars two years ago—should have been, but wasn't, because she'd been too drunk to drive and had let Destiny drive instead.
It felt like a lifetime ago.
"You don't know how my story ends," she said.
"Neither do you."
She undid her seatbelt. Reached for the door handle. Then stopped.
"Thank you," she said. The words felt strange in her mouth, foreign and unfamiliar. "For the ride. For not... for not being a dick about it."
"You're welcome."
She opened the door. The mist hit her face, cold and soft, and she stepped out onto the wet sidewalk with legs that still felt unsteady.
"Roxanne."
She turned. Vasquez was looking at her through the window, his face half-lit by the dashboard glow.
"Next time," he said, "call a cab. Or don't drink so much. Or—" He paused. "Or call me."
She blinked.
"I don't have your number."
He reached through the window and handed her a card. White. Official. His name printed in black, along with a phone number.
"That's my desk line. It's monitored. So don't use it unless it's an emergency."
"And if it's not an emergency?"
"Then don't call."
She took the card. Looked at it. Then looked at him.
"What if I want to call?"
The question hung there, heavy with implication. Vasquez's jaw tightened.
"Go inside, Roxanne."
She smiled. Soft and slow and just a little bit dangerous.
"Goodnight, Adrian."
She turned and walked up the path to her apartment. Felt his eyes on her the whole way. Felt the weight of the card in her hand.
Felt something else, too. Something she couldn't quite name.
The door clicked shut behind her. The cruiser idled at the curb for a long moment. Then the engine revved, and the blue lights pulled away, fading into the night like a memory.
Roxanne stood in her dark living room and pressed her back against the door.
The card was still in her hand. She looked at it for a long time.
Then she smiled.
And for the first time all night, she didn't feel like a disaster.
She felt like something else entirely.