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“We can talk about that once we resolve our situation here.”

  I rock my weight to one hip, talking as I think. “If I can talk her out of this...get her back into the school before anyone else gets here...would that make a difference?”

  “It’s not just up to me.” He turns to look at the group behind him.

  As if he’s beckoned her, one of the women walks over to us—not the flirty attendance secretary, but the one who called Ryan’s parents. “Hi, I’m Sharie Holden, the principal here. Thank you for coming. We’d love to be able to work this out with as little excitement as possible.” She whispers the last part of her sentence, as though that will automatically minimize the drama of the situation.

  At least she seems like an easier pushover than Officer No Nonsense. “Will there be any consequences if I make that happen?” I ask.

  “I can’t let her actions go completely unpunished. Half of the school saw what she did here today. I can’t let that slide.”

  “You’re right,” I say with a tone that says I clearly disagree. “In fact, how about I call Channel Nine and have them cover the protest so far? Make sure no one misses it when they drag her away in handcuffs later too? Ryan can even make a statement. Sound good, Ryan?”

  “Yes! Statement!” She bounces on the balls of her feet. “I already have one prepared!”

  The color drains from Sharie Holden’s face. “On second thought, I think we could probably get away with just a warning. If you can get her back in class without any press finding out, that is.”

  “Okay, okay.” I feel good about this. Ryan and I have a bond. She might not listen to reason, but she’ll listen to me. “What is she protesting?”

  Ryan pipes up in answer. “This stupid school has banned cheer uniforms on game days. Cheer uniforms! Because some boy complained it made him think impure thoughts. As if women are to blame for what men think. It’s ridiculously unfair. I cry rape culture! I cry injustice!”

  “Why does she even care?” the blond teen says.

  “Right?” her friend replies. “She’s not even a cheerleader.”

  “I’m a cheerleader, Officer Kelly,” the first one calls to him.

  “Of course you are,” he mutters under his breath, and I almost feel sorry for him.

  Almost.

  “It’s only during the school day, Ryan,” Principal Holden says. “They can still wear their uniforms at the games.”

  “That’s not even the point!” Ryan groans.

  I have to stop myself from groaning with her. “You really banned the cheerleaders from wearing their uniforms because a boy complained of impure thoughts?” I ask incredulously. “I hate to tell you this, but teenage boys are going to have impure thoughts no matter what girls are wearing.”

  “She’s not wrong there,” Officer Kelly admits.

  “Certainly.” Her smile is tight. Fake. The kind of smile that accompanies a lecture. “But we believe in respectful behavior at our school, Ms. Ward. We surely aren’t going to encourage objectification of women.”

  Irritation starts to bubble in my chest.

  Don’t do it, Liv. Don’t do it.

  But I do it anyway. I argue. “Objectification is a whole other topic. Right now you are putting the blame of what men think—and by extension, what men do—on what women wear. This is old rhetoric, Ms. Holden. Aren’t we past this?”

  The fake smile is gone. She’s barely even pretending to be nice now. “I appreciate your opinion, but since you don’t have children enrolled in our school, it doesn’t really count for anything.”

  That does it. I’m past irritation. Now I’m outraged.

  “Actually, since I’m a taxpayer and this is a public school, my opinion does count. And because this is America where there’s still freedom of speech—” And since actions speak louder than words, I end my rant abruptly and march over to Ryan.

  Taking her sign, I hold it up proudly.

  Ryan breaks into a grin and resumes her protest. “Do I give you impure thoughts?” she shouts to someone walking his dog along the school grounds.

  “Oh, come on,” Principal Holden complains loudly.

  Officer Kelly sighs and saunters toward us.

  “Do I give you impure thoughts?” Ryan yells in his direction.

  He ignores her, unfazed.

  When he’s near me, really near me, so close I can feel the heat radiating off his body, he stops and says in a low voice that I’m sure only I can hear, “Now if you were wearing that outfit, the answer would be a definite yes.”

  My head twists toward him. “What did you say?”

  “You aren’t helping things,” he says louder.

  “That’s not what you said,” I say, quieter. Because I want to hear the other thing he said again. Want to feel the shiver down my spine at the thought of him thinking those things—impure things—about me.

  He doesn’t repeat it. Doesn’t acknowledge it. He holds his palm out toward me instead. “Hand me the sign.”

  My grip tightens on the handle. “I’m helping her.”

  “Are you? It’s my impression that you want this whole thing resolved with the least amount of damage to her record. Am I right?”

  Oh, God. His smirk is incredible. I can’t look directly at it.

  “Keep talking,” I say, but he’s already said enough. I know what I need to do. I just like the way his voice sounds, the way it rumbles in his chest when he lowers it so that Ryan won’t hear what we’re saying.

  “Get her to class, and I’ll make sure there aren’t any consequences for obstructing traffic.”

  This isn’t like him. I know it’s not. He’s not the type to let charges go. He’s about order. He’s about the law. So why’s he doing it? I’m wary.

  But I can’t take my eyes off him. I’m transfixed, under his spell.

  I hand him the sign.

  He gives another hint of a real smile, this time it’s all for me, and my knees practically buckle beneath me.

  If I look at him a moment longer I might actually, literally faint.

  I spin and grab Ryan’s arm for support, pretending I meant to simply get her attention.

  “Ryan—” I say.

  “You’re going to tell me to stop this, aren’t you?” She pulls away, and I just manage to catch my balance. “Well, I won’t. I won’t stop fighting for women. I won’t stop fighting against injustice.”

  I cross around to face her. “Of course I’m not going to tell you to stop fighting. I’d never tell you that. Haven’t I always encouraged you to speak your mind whether it be through words or action?”

  She narrows her eyes, unsure whether or not to trust me. “Maybe.”

  “I’m encouraging the same thing now. Just, there are sometimes better ways to be heard. Look.” I gesture to the few people standing around her. “This is a very small crowd. You’d have much better reach if you took the matter to the next school board meeting where you could actually effect change. Don’t you think?”

  She twists her lips as she considers.

  “Those aren’t even our uniforms,” the cheerleader shouts randomly from the side of the driveway.

  I lean in toward Ryan and whisper, “Also, it doesn’t seem like the women you’re fighting for are very appreciative of your efforts.”

  She puts an arm around my shoulder. “They just haven’t been woken yet, Liv.”

  “I don’t think this is what’s going to wake them.”

  She throws her head back in frustration and groans. Then, suddenly, as if she hadn’t been completely ready to march to Washington on behalf of the cause, she shrugs and says, “Okay. I should get to second hour anyway. American history. We’re watching a documentary about suffragettes.”

  She removes the remains of the chains that I notice now are still on each of her arms and hands them to me. Then she strolls toward the school building.

  “Where’s she going?” Principal Holden asks me anxiously.

  “To class!” I announce smugly.r />
  “Not dressed like that! There’re no cheerleading uniforms in school!” She marches after Ryan, urging the rest of the administration to follow as well.

  “She has a change of clothes,” I tell no one in particular. “I hope.” Man, being someone’s mentor is a tough job. It might require more caffeine than one K-cup pod.

  “Officer Kelly, I’m only sixteen,” the cheerleader’s friend calls over to him, “but that’s the age of consent in Kansas.”

  “I’m frightened that you know that,” I say.

  “Go to class before I fine you both for truancy,” Officer Kelly says, but not before I hear him let out a soft chuckle at my comment.

  “What’s truancy?” the two girls ask in unison.

  “Oh my God,” I roar, “you need to go to school.”

  They scurry off, and though I’d like to take credit, it’s probably more likely because the bell has just rung.

  And now everyone’s gone but me. And the cop.

  The very hot cop.

  It suddenly feels harder to get air in my lungs than it did just a second before.

  “Nice job with her,” the cop says, nodding his head in praise. “Maybe you can help keep her out of trouble in the future.”

  I bristle. “Just because she’s passionate doesn’t mean she’s going to get in trouble in the future.” It’s really his compliment that’s bothering me. I’m bothered by how it made me feel. How it made me feel good.

  “Right,” he says, and I swear he’s thinking things about me that would make me die a thousand deaths if I were to find them out.

  I frown, feeling awkward. “Well. Anyway.”

  I should thank him, but he speaks first. “Have dinner with me.”

  “What? Dinner? Why?” That wasn’t at all the kind of thoughts I hoped he was thinking about me. Not at all the kind of thoughts I want him to be thinking about me, yet my stomach flutters anyway, like it’s a good thing. Stupid stomach.

  “Because in the evening I get hungry, and I find that eating a meal tends to make that hunger go away.” He’s completely straight-faced, and it’s so sexy I’m not sure I can stand it.

  I look down, away from his fuck-hot jaw and his fuck-hot lips. “You don’t need me for that.”

  “Eating alone is lonely.”

  But I can’t escape that fuck-hot voice. My skin is on fire even in the cool spring wind. “I’m sure what’s-her-name from attendance would be glad to join you for dinner.”

  “I’m not asking her. I’m asking you.”

  I look up at him, and my heart trips. Even behind those glasses, I can tell he can’t take his gaze off me. Goose bumps skim down my arms.

  Dinner. I eat dinner. I could eat dinner with him. What would be wrong with that?

  If I could see his eyes, I’m sure I’d have said yes by now.

  I might say yes anyway.

  “Heya, Officer Kelly.” Apparently the attendance secretary didn’t go inside after all. He turns toward the vampire—I swear, she hasn’t seen the sun in a decade. “I left a sticky with my number on your motorcycle. Call me sometime.”

  Officer Kelly makes a non-committal noise. But then adds, “Thank you again for the bolt cutters.”

  Vampire secretary simpers at him. “It was no trouble, really.”

  I don’t listen closely to the rest of their exchange because without his attention on me, I can think again, and I suddenly remember what would be wrong with dinner and why I absolutely do not want to go out with Officer-I’ve-already-stolen-your-panties-Kelly.

  Because he’s a man.

  And men leave.

  Especially this type of man—the type with the confident smile and the tight-fitting uniform. (Seriously, the way his ass fills out those pants…)

  There’s always a woman waiting in the wings for a hot cop like him. A flock of them, even. In a place like Kansas, he’s the closest thing we have to a rock star. He could have anyone he wants. He doesn’t need to try to bang the hippy librarian driving the Prius with a Black Lives Matter bumper sticker and NPR playing on her radio. We’re oil and water. He’s the type who has a reputation. I’m the type who’d show up with a sign and protest it.

  Without giving him a response or even a goodbye, I take off. I bet I’m already at my car before he even notices I slipped away.

  Two

  Chase

  “Every year, I think I won’t have to come up here and tell you this, but then every year, here I am.”

  The sound of the HR director’s tired voice echoes through the large meeting room at our city hall. There’s a cough, the sound of someone behind me discreetly trying to eat something crunchy out of a plastic bag, the whir of a ceiling fan overhead.

  The HR director sighs heavily, his shoulders slumping, and gestures to the PowerPoint slide behind him. The slide reads:

  Don’t have sex on duty.

  “That’s it,” the director says, a touch mournfully. “That’s all there is to it. Don’t have sex in your police car. Don’t have sex in uniform. Don’t pretend to do a business check at Arby’s and then have sex in the Arby’s bathroom. Just don’t do it. Because then I have to fire you, and it’s so much paperwork for me, and then I have to climb back up here next year and beg you not to do it again. Please don’t make me.”

  There are a few awkward laughs, a few sly shoulder nudges. Everyone remembers last Christmas, when Captain Knust caught Zach Simmons doling out a little extra Christmas cheer in the backseat of his patrol car. To the Captain’s college-aged daughter.

  Or the year before that, when Mike Fox and his wife wanted to act out some role play and Fox’s mic button got stuck, which meant everyone on duty heard him say, “Now that’s the long arm of the law!” right as he came.

  Who would be dumb enough to do that shit? I think to myself. Aside from the fact that the backseats of most patrol cars are cramped vinyl shells that have been puked on, pissed on and worse—it’s against the rules, and I don’t break rules.

  Rules are good. Rules are there for a reason. It’s my job to protect those rules and make sure everyone else follows them. That satisfies something deep down inside me—not like a hunger for power or anything—but it’s the same feeling I get when all the weights are in order at the gym or when my house is clean and my lawn is mowed. Clean and neat, everything in its place.

  I do law so that there can be order.

  I think of that kid today, though, definitely out of order and creating massive snarls of traffic trying to get out of the parking lot during the morning drop off. There were three fender-benders, one verbal altercation between a dad and a vice principal, and Officer LaTasha Palmer had to issue a property damage citation because one impatient mom had driven up over the curb and crashed into the school fence.

  It was pure chaos—unnecessary chaos—and then the most exquisite woman I’ve ever seen marched right up to me in skintight leggings and flip-flops and started creating more chaos. Normally I wouldn’t have welcomed yet another upset adult demanding answers and action while I tried to sort out the mess, but the thing was, I kind of felt for the kid. She reminded me of my sister—in fact, I couldn’t be sure Megan hadn’t chained herself to school property at one point—and it was almost a relief when Livia appeared and started defending her. Because I didn’t want the teen to get into trouble...I just had to make sure the parking lot exit was cleared so cars would stop crashing into each other.

  So I was glad the teen had someone there for her. And it didn’t hurt that Livia wore those tight, tight leggings, which showed off every curve of her sweet thighs and scrumptious ass. Even the T-shirt she wore had been accidentally sexy, the thin fabric revealing a cute pink bra when she stood directly under the spring sun…

  My dick stirs in my pants thinking about it, just as it did this morning when I looked at her. God, I’d wanted to pull her hair out of that adorably sloppy knot and twine my fingers in it, wanted to bend her over the hood of my car and run my greedy hands all over her body. I w
anted her in the kind of hungry, urgent way I haven’t wanted a woman in a long time.

  I have to find her again.

  She never gave me a real answer about dinner, after all.

  The dispirited voice of the HR director brings me back to the present, and I listen as he describes more ways we can’t have sex on duty. Although now I’m wondering less who would do that and more if I would do it, given the right woman. Like, say, a brown-eyed spitfire with leggings and the kind of face they model Disney princesses after.

  The HR director wraps up his speech and leaves the room with the defeated air of a man who knows he’ll be back to give the same speech again next year. The chief takes the low stage at the front of the room, giving us all a quick smile as he adjusts the microphone.

  “Thank you for that policy refresher, Eric,” he says to the director’s retreating back. “And even though I know it’s not normally how we do things, I thought I’d take the opportunity to open the floor to any questions you might have for me. No chain of command, no formality—just ask and I’ll answer.”

  A ripple of interest goes through the room of bored officers. Our new chief has been pretty invisible for the most part, hiding out in meetings or in his office, and so having the chance to talk to him directly is unexpected.

  But not unwelcome…

  I shoot a glance over at my sergeant, Theresa Gutierrez, who is already raising her eyebrow in a well, are you going to do it or am I? look.

  I stick my hand in the hair.

  The chief smiles and points at me, the two quick blinks before saying, “Officer?” telling me that he doesn’t know my name.

  “Hi, yeah,” I say, suddenly aware that all the eyes in the room are on me. I think of Livia this morning, all bravery and determination in her flip-flops and messy bun. I think she’d approve of me right now, and for some reason that sends a little glow through my chest. “I was the head of the body camera committee last year, and we submitted a recommendation for the department to purchase the cameras for every officer working the field as soon as possible. I was wondering where we were on that?”

  There’s a sudden tension in the air. Not only had I coupled the committee’s recommendation with a detailed budget analysis and cost breakdown by manufacturer, but I’d also done a department-wide poll and found that over seventy percent of the field officers wanted body cameras. But even though I’d done all the research legwork, even though most the cops here want the upgrade, the administration keeps stonewalling us.