Page 17 of He Sees You

What the fuck? Nadine swore that I’d never have to worry about getting busted. Most of our customers are harmless; solong as they get their Eclipse, we’re in no danger. And if they try anything funny, the rumors of what the Libellula Family due to anyone who crosses them are legendary in Springfield.

So are the stories about the crooked cops in the city.

As far as I know, they’re almost all on the take. So long as they’re aware I’m not dealing without the Dragonflies’ knowledge, they’ll look the other way if they see an Eclipse buy going on. It’s happened to me at least two or three times before. Most cops don’t even want to get involved, whether they’re dirty or not. If they see a buy, they act as if they don’t.

Not Officer Coleman.

For a split second, I thought I might’ve found one of the few good cops that exist in Springfield. Instead of slipping back out of the alleyway once he realized what he interrupted, he actually threatened to arrest me. I really believed I’d be spending my Christmas Eve in booking, too, until he decided to make a ‘deal’ with me.

Men.

I expected to be pushed up against the brick wall and fucked by a cop. If he wasn’t interested in that, then he probably would be down to have me on my knees in front of him, sucking him off.

Oh, no. He wanted a kiss, and after I was safe inside of my apartment building again, I realized that I was the one who desperately needed to be fucked.

Can you blame me? The call from one of the mayor’s new aides who needed enough Eclipse to get him through to the new year was a call I couldn’t ignore. That particular aide is responsible for a third of the down payment hidden under my mattress. Not only would I piss off Sammy and his guys if I let Martin go to voicemail just so I could orgasm real quick, but if he decided to go with a new plug, there went my hope of getting my studio anytime soon.

Martin is one of the customers who needs to meet in a discreet corner of Springfield. He won’t go to Waverly’s where he might be recognized, and I get that. So I met him at the alleyway that rarely gets any foot traffic, prepared to give him his baggie and get back to my Christmas present.

I was so damn close before. That dildo was hitting just the right spots, and I was so turned on that I neglected my clit in favor of grabbing my sheets, rocking back and forth on the mounted toy.

I needed a little stimulation, but I never got it before the phone rang and, frustrated yet knowing I couldn’t refuse the call, I made arrangements to meet with Martin.

I planned on returning to my apartment and finishing what I started. After my strange and admittedly charged run-in with Officer Coleman, I was so relieved that he let me go, I was able to overlook how horny I still was in favor of reliving the encounter over and over again.

I can’t believe it took me so long to recognize him. I still flinch when someone raises their voice at the studio in Waverly’s after what happened last summer. It took weeks for my black eye to disappear, and while I felt bad having to press charges against that one chick, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t develop a tiny crush on one of the cops who was there to arrest her.

There were two of them. One with piercing blue eyes and something about him that made me nervous, and a taller one with sandy brown hair and soft green eyes who was incredibly kind to me. The second guy wasgorgeous. When he smiled at me, my belly went nervous, and all I could think about was the dimple in his cheek.

Of course, I never expected to see him again. Buff, attractive cops like him don’t fall for girls like me—kind of boring, stuck in a dead-end job, whose only saving grace is how nice her tits andass are. So I crushed over him for a few weeks, but by the time my black eye was gone, I’d completely forgotten all about him?—

—until he showed up in the alleyway earlier tonight andkissedme.

I was so stunned by what happened, I couldn’t even think about returning to the dildo after I shuffled into my bedroom. I just barely remembered to take it off the wall, give it a good, solid wash, tuck it in my dresser drawer underneath the Eclipse that started this whole mess, and swallow my sleeping pill dry, all while hoping like hell that Christmas Day will be a whole lot better than the night before it…

Either I’ve becomeimmune to the effects of my sleeping pill or the fact that my nerves were so sky-high before I swallowed it did something to make it less effective, I’m not sure, but I don’t sleep through the night like I’m used to.

Some might think it’s the childish excitement that Christmas is coming. Like when you can’t fall asleep because you’re listening for the sound of reindeer hoofs on your roof, or for sleigh bells echoing through the nights’ sky during Santa’s midnight ride. As you get older, it’s the promise of the presents waiting for you under the tree, whether they’re from some jolly home invader or the parents who want to keep you young and believing for longer than you will.

Then, one day, you grow up and Christmas is just another day. Oh, it’s nice because you don’t have to work, and it’s time with the family, but it’s really the culmination of a million things you had to accomplish to get to that point: the shopping, the wrapping, the Christmas cookies, the cards you mailed out… on Christmas Eve, you pass out from the exhaustion, then wake upthe next morning, knowing you’ll do it all over again in a year’s time.

I planned on sleeping in. I deserved it after the season I had, dealing with Jerry and entitled parents, plus the naughtiest children in Springfield. There were so many nice ones, too, but after the hustle and bustle of the last six weeks, I remember the ones throwing the tantrums far more than the ones who hugged Jerry sweetly and said ‘thank you’ to all of us elves.

I planned on sleeping in—but the moment the sleeping pill wears off and I blink myself awake, I roll over, ready to fall right back into unconsciousness when I see a pair of familiar deep green eyes staring back at me.

I have Christmas lights in my bedroom. They frame my window, and on most nights, I remember to turn them off before I go to sleep. I didn’t tonight, obviously, and in their glow, I can tell just what color his eyes are.

Or maybe that’s just my dreams—my fantasies—about my secret Santa making me see his eyes that color as I look at…

At…

Holy shit. I yip, scrabbling backward, grabbing my covers as I hurriedly sit up, my back against the headboard.

There’s a man in my bed. Not just any man, either. I was fooling myself before. Though the lights shed enough illumination on his face for me to recognize that hard jaw, that slight smirk, that fuckingdimple, it’s too dark in my room to tell if his eyes are brown or green or hazel.

Does it matter? This isn’t my secret Santa.

It’s Officer Coleman!

---