Page 57 of Best Friends
He looks emotional as he responds, “Back at cha, C.”
****
“I swear to God, why does Hernandez have to eat an egg sandwich every morning? Can’t the guy eat a granola bar once in a while? Just thinking about that egg sandwich makes me want to lose it all over the dashboard,” I groan, rolling down the passenger window of our patrol car.
“Don’t you dare barf in the car. That smell is impossible to get out. We’ll have to set the car on fire and tell the captain it spontaneously combusted.”
I laugh weakly, inhaling the outside air. It helps a little, but not much. I’m only two months along, but ever since my pregnancy, everything smells too strong, too intense. Even Cheyenne’s subtle floral perfume makes my stomach roll.
“Maybe you could ask Hernandez to eat at home,” Cheyenne observes, taking a sip of her coffee.
“I can’t ask him to change his entire routine because I’m pregnant.” I sigh. “Besides, he’s friends with Harlan and if he tells him I’m complaining about feeling nauseous in the morning, I’ll just be giving Harlan ammunition to make fun of me more than he already does.”
Cheyenne scowls. “Harlan is such a douche. Being pregnant is a completely normal biological process for an omega.”
“You and I know that, but jerks like Harlan already think being an omega is a handicap. Not to mention a bisexual omega.” I touch my stomach gingerly. “This pregnancy is like a gift to him.”
“Man, I wish he’d transfer to another precinct.”
“From your lips to God’s ears.” I sigh. “And I’m not even showing yet. Can you imagine the bullshit I’ll have to put up with once I am?”
“They’re all idiots,” she says firmly, turning onto Fifth Street for our patrol route. “You’ve been a real trooper dealing with morning sickness. You haven’t missed a single day, and yesterday you chased down that purse snatcher for three blocks without breaking a sweat. I’d like to see Harlan do that.”
“Yeah, I’m a real superstar. Unless of course you count that I had to stop eight times during our shift to pee. Oh, and just FYI, I’m as constipated as if I drank cement this morning, instead of coffee.”
She laughs.
“Sorry,” I smirk. “Was that TMI?”
Cheyenne snorts. “Please. I have three sisters. Nothing about pregnancy is TMI to me.” She glances over at me with a grin. “Though I have to admit, watching you turn green every time someone eats anything with onions is pretty entertaining.”
“Glad my suffering amuses you,” I grumble, but I’m smiling too. It’s a relief to have someone I can complain to without feeling guilty. Malcolm tries to be understanding, but every time I mention feeling tired or nauseous, I can see the guilt flashacross his face. He starts hovering, asking if I need to sit down or if he should call the doctor, and I end up reassuring him instead of getting any actual sympathy.
“Malcolm seems over the moon excited about the baby.” Cheyenne smiles.
“Oh, yes. He’s super excited.” I pause, trying to find the right words. “He’s also kind of annoying.”
“Is he?” She laughs.
“Well, I shouldn’t say that. He’s just overly worried. Usually Malcolm is super chill, but he’s different now. He’s paranoid about me and the baby. Yesterday he spent two hours researching the safest car seats and then called me three times during lunch to make sure I wasn’t lifting anything heavy. And for the record, he considers a jug of milk heavy.”
“At least you know he cares,” Cheyenne points out. “I mean, is it really that bad that he’ll probably insist on carrying in all the groceries from now on?”
I groan. “He won’t even let me push the cart. Says it puts too much strain on my ‘delicate joints.’ Like I’m a Victorian table leg.”
She grins. “Sounds about right for an overprotective alpha.”
Before I can respond, the radio crackles to life. “Unit 47, we have a 10-64 in progress at Riverside Electronics, corner of Main and Third. Suspect is a white male, approximately five-eight, wearing a red hoodie and jeans. Last seen heading east on Third Street.”
I grab the radio. “Unit 47 responding.”
Cheyenne hits the sirens and accelerates, and I feel my stomach lurch—though whether from excitement or my ongoing nausea, I can’t tell.
“Yet another electronic store robbery,” I say. “Seems to be an epidemic lately.”
“Probably looking for phones and tablets he can fence quickly,” she says, weaving through traffic.
We arrive at Riverside Electronics to find the owner, a middle-aged man named Pete Chen, standing outside looking furious.
