Chapter 1: The Policeman's Patrol
Mark’s boots crunched over broken glass as he turned into the alley. The neon from the bar sign painted the wet bricks in streaks of garish pink and electric blue. It was a familiar smell—stale beer, cheap perfume, and the tang of urine. He loved this part of his patrol, the quiet chaos after last call.A flicker of movement near the dumpster caught his eye. Someone was trying to be quiet, but a high heel scraped against the pavement.
“Evening,” Mark called out, his voice easy but carrying the weight of his badge. “Bar’s closed, you know.”
She froze. A woman, backlit by the flickering streetlamp, clutching a small purse to her chest like a shield. As she turned, the light caught the curve of her cheek, the wide set of her eyes.“Officer. I… I was just leaving.”
“Sarah Jenkins, right?” Mark said, stepping closer. He recognized her from the paperwork at the station.The new paralegal for the DA’s office.Eager.Ambitious. Out of her depth.Her eyebrows shot up.“How did you…”
“Small town. Big gossip.” He gave her a smile that usually put people at ease. “Sneaking out the back isn’t a crime, but it looks suspicious. Everything okay?”
“Fine,” she said, too quickly.She shifted her weight, and his gaze, trained to notice details, tracked the movement. The way her blouse stretched across her chest, the nervous bite of her lip. “Just a long first week. Needed some air.”
“Through the garbage alley?” He took another step, now within arm’s reach. The damp air clung to her scent—whiskey, and underneath, something sweeter. “You know, most people use the door.”
She laughed, a short, nervous sound. “I got turned around.”
He was close enough now to see the rapid pulse in her throat.The alley was deserted, a slick labyrinth sealed off from the world. A thrill, familiar and low, uncoiled in his gut.The risk of it. Here, now, with her.“You should be more careful,” he said, his voice dropping. “It’s not safe.”
“I have a police officer right here,” she breathed, not backing away. Her eyes were dark, challenging.That was all the invitation he needed. In one motion, he closed the distance, his body crowding hers against the cold brick. She gasped, a sharp intake that wasn’t fear.He captured her mouth with his, swallowing the sound. Her lips were soft, yielding, then fiercely responsive.His hands found her hips, anchoring her. She dropped her purse, her fingers grasping at the front of his uniform shirt.The fabric strained under her grip.
“This is a terrible idea,” she muttered against his mouth, even as she arched into him.
“The worst,” he agreed, slipping a hand beneath her blouse.Her skin was hot, smooth. He cupped the full weight of her breast, his thumb brushing over the neglected nipple.It pebbled instantly under his touch. A low moan vibrated in her throat, a sound of pure, surprised pleasure.
“They never touch them,” she whispered, the words ragged, almost confessional. “They just… skip over them.”
“That’s a fucking tragedy,” Mark growled. He devoted himself to the task, his mouth leaving hers to trail down her jaw, his fingers working the clasp of her bra with practiced ease.The damp alley air hit her skin, and she shivered. He took her into his mouth, lavishing attention on one breast while his hand kneaded the other. She cried out, her head thumping back against the brick.Her hands were in his hair, pulling, urging him on. He could feel the tension coiling in her body, a spring wound too tight. He shifted, pressing his thigh between her legs, the rough fabric of his trousers against the thin material of her skirt. She rocked against him, a desperate, grinding rhythm.
“Come on, Sarah,” he urged, his voice thick.“Let go. Right here.”
He redoubled his efforts with his mouth and hands, focusing entirely on her breasts, on giving her what she’d been missing. Her breathing shattered into ragged gasps.Her hips stuttered. A car turned onto the distant end of the street, its headlights sweeping the mouth of the alley for a blinding second.
They were exposed, lit up like actors on a stage. The danger of it—the possibility of being seen, caught—sent a jolt through both of them.That was all it took.
Her body seized, a silent, powerful convulsion that ripped through her. Her mouth opened in a soundless scream, her back bowing off the wall. He held her through it, his own breath held, watching the intense, private waves of release crash over her face.The car passed.The alley plunged back into shadowy neon.
She sagged against him, boneless, her forehead resting on his chest. Her breath came in hot, damp bursts through his shirt.
For a long moment, there was only the hum of a distant compressor, the drip of a leaky pipe.
“I…” she started, then stopped, seemingly unable to find words for what had just happened.
Mark gently eased her bra and blouse back into place, his movements oddly tender now.He retrieved her purse from the ground, brushing off the grit.
“You should get home, Sarah,” he said, his voice back to its normal, calm register, though his blood was still singing.
She looked up at him, her intelligence and ambition now clouded with a dazed, vulnerable confusion.She took the purse, her fingers brushing his.
“Yeah,” she said softly. She turned and walked, somewhat unsteadily, toward the streetlight at the end of the alley, not looking back.
Mark leaned against the brick wall she had warmed, watching her go.The scent of her, and of their encounter, lingered in the cold air. He smiled, a slow, private smile.It had been a good patrol. And he had a feeling their paths would cross again, and not just in the cold light of the district attorney’s office.