Page 12 of What's Left of Us

Wiping off theslick sweat from my skin after I finish my last rep at the station’s gym, I flinch when my shoulder pops and sends shooting pain down my arm. I drop the dumbbell onto the floor and suck in a breath, putting my head between my legs to fight the nausea rising up my throat.

“Goddammit,” I growl, squeezing my arm to my body and trying to breathe past the pain.

My doctor told me I needed to stop getting ahead of myself, and the physical therapist I was assigned to was inclined to agree. But months off my regular training regime made me grumpier than usual. It was hard enough not to work my regular shifts, but having nothing to channel my frustration into made me a hell of a lot harder to deal with when I was stuck behind a desk or at my house trying to find distractions.

I’d rather be here, pushing my limits with the mindless chatter and sirens surrounding me, than in a house too big for me where my demons poke and prod my conscience whenever they get a chance.

Rubbing my shoulder after putting my weights away, I head to the locker room for a quick shower to feel half-human. By the time I’m out and changed, the pain is tenfold. No amount of hot water and ibuprofen seems to touch it, and I know damn well the bottle of oxycodone at home is going to remain untouched where it’s collecting dust in the medicine cabinet, no matter how bad the pain gets.

As I make my way through the building, one of the new dispatchers calls out, “Finally leaving, Lincoln?”

I lean against the wall beside the bulletproof glass separating me from Haddy’s desk in the dispatch room. She’s been here almost as long as I have and is constantly training new personnel on the phone systems. “’bout time, isn’t it?”

Most of the dispatchers are older, with kids around my age, so it’s easy to get along with them. Some of them act motherly if I do something stupid, like the time Haddy scolded me for not calling out my location before I got into a foot pursuit in the woods at one in the morning back when I was a patrol officer. It helps to have a good rapport with the people on the other side of the scanner, especially when you need a favor.

She’d sent me a get-well card after I was released from the hospital that had everybody’s signature on it, along with a plate of her famous homemade cinnamon buns. It was her I had to thank for the slight weight gain during recovery that hid my once-defined torso.

“I’m surprised you don’t have a cot set up in your office with all the time you spend here,” she remarks, a sad smile on her face.

She knows about my divorce and why I don’t like going home. Most people here do because they’re in everybody’s business. But, for the most part, they don’t pry too much in my personal life. They know I won’t reveal anything, even if they ask.

“Sometimes I think about it,” I admit, smiling past the pain still throbbing in my arm.

My eyes flick to the new dispatcher sitting beside Haddy, who definitely doesn’t fit the mold I’m used to. She’s younger than everybody else, probably around my age or a little younger. Pretty in an innocent kind of way. I’m not sure why she took this job because she looks like she belongs in a classroom teachingkids. The kind of calls the station gets tend to be too much for the people filling these seats, which is why we have so much turnover in staffing in the comms room.

Her eyes, some kind of mixture between green and blue, roam the front of me, taking in the suit pants and button-down I’m in. She’s used to seeing the officers in the state’s scratchy wool uniforms that are known as the gray bags—they’re shapeless, hot in the summer, and cold in the winter. When I got my promotion, I got to switch to business casual attire that is a hell of a lot more comfortable and definitely more flattering. I can tell the new girl appreciates it as much as I do.

I’ve seen that look flashing in her eyes before. I used to relish in the attention women gave me in the past. One smile, a singular wink, and they were mine to do what I wanted with.

It was that easy.

“You do spend a lot of time here,” she notes, her gaze finally landing on my face. She props her chin onto her palm. “Most guys have to be home to spend time with their families.”

She’s been here long enough to know the dynamics of most of the officers; those who are married, the ones with kids, the few who are unattached, and the ones having affairs behind their significant others’ back. Usually with other people from the station. This place is a cesspool of infidelity and scandal, and I definitely wouldn’t want to run a blue light over half the surfaces in it hearing half of the shit that goes on.

“I guess I’m not most guys,” I comment, choosing not to feed into her prying. I’m not an idiot. She’s interested and fishing for information that I have no intention of spoon-feeding her.

Her lips curl up at the same time her eyes lighten with mischief. “I get off in a few hours.”

One of the other dispatchers in the room coughs into their palm right before taking a call, but I see the amusement on their face all the same when I shoot them a look.

I look at the new girl, whose name I don’t even remember. Anna? Brittany? She looks sweet-faced, but I can see trouble under the mask. I bet she’d be easy to control, a distraction to feel good when I need it most. Someone like her, ready and willing, would let me do whatever I wanted with her body. And she’d take it with a smile.

But the heavy piece of gold I always keep in my pocket reminds me that there’s somebody else who would be just as willing.

And, frankly, hate sex is hotter than the desperate kind, no matter how attractive the person is offering it. “I hope you get home safely then,” I tell her, pushing off the wall I’ve been leaning on.

Her eyes flicker to my left hand, locking on the fourth finger that my thumb lazily drags across. “Lucky girl,” she murmurs.

Hardly,I want to say, but I choose not to. I don’t want to feed the fire or give her hope. There is none, and there never will be.

Not when there are ghosts of the past constantly haunting me. Dragging her, or anybody, into the mess I’ve made for myself, would be cruel and unusual punishment.

“Have a good night,” I tell everyone in the room, waving a hand in their direction.

“Try getting some sleep for once, Hawk,” Haddy calls out to me in that maternal tone.

As I walk away, I feel a twinge of regret for not giving the new girl a shot. It’s not like I have to promise her forever, just an orgasm or two and maybe some breakfast in the morning. I know damn well I won’t sleep like Haddy wants me to, so I might as well spend the time doing something I enjoy.

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