Page 66 of Protected By the Grumpy Single Dad
Of course.
I put the cruiser in gear. In the side mirror, two more men melt up from the blind spot and slip into the back. The smell of leather and gun oil and stale cigarettes floods the cabin. The hair on my arms stand up, just like my inner defense mechanisms.
At his demand we take a left, then a right, then another left, the city blocks folding into older brick, more dumpsters, fewer eyes. I scan without moving my head—street names, light poles, the flicker of our reflection in a dirty window. I keep my breathing slow.
“You know assaulting an officer is a felony,” I say, even and bored. Never give them your fear. It’s how they steer.
“Tell that to someone who cares,” the one beside me says, and I clock him properly now. Smooth scalp. Brow like a shelf.
“It’s you,” I say before I can help it. “From the diner.”
Baldy’s mouth skews like he appreciates the recognition. “This isn’t personal, Officer Vaughn,” he says, then adds. “But it kinda is.”
We pass the municipal yard. There’s a panic button under the dash—old-school aftermarket install we all call “the doorbell.” My boot inches toward it as casually as I know how. Baldy’s eyes slant down.
“Hands and feet where I can see them,” he says, muzzle firm against my cheek.
“Sure,” I say, and put my heel flat, exactly where he can see it. He pats the radio knob with the end of his gun. “Turn that off.”
I flick the switch. The sudden quiet is obscene.
“Phones,” someone in the back says. “Put ’em on the floor.”
I set mine down. Baldy scoops it neatly into his pocket without looking, a little magic trick he’s clearly practiced. “Gun,” he says, and taps my holster.
I unclip and set the duty weapon on the console. It feels like taking off a seatbelt in a car you know is about to crash. He reaches across, tucks it under his jacket like he’s borrowing a tie.
He directs me to nose toward a trash-choked alley that smells like hot oil and fried onions and the sour under-breath of summer. I cut the engine. The cruiser ticks.
“Out,” Baldy says. His voice is like a rusted hinge.
I step out slow, hands visible, every nerve trying to write the next three minutes as something survivable. The two from the back spill out, pistols held low and lazy, which tells me they’ve done this before. Not their first rodeo. Not their last, if they can help it.
“Let me guess,” I say. “Harold Swanson sent you to shut me up.”
Baldy’s fist hits my jaw so hard the world goes white at the edges.
“Or maybe you’re just really—really unlucky,” he says, and hits me again. My knees kiss asphalt. Gravel bites my palms. Then his boot comes down hard in my gut, right where the Beckett fight left a phantom ache, and pain blooms bright.
They take turns—ribs, shoulder, thigh, a knee sneaking into the small of my back. I taste copper. Dirt grits into my teeth. Somewhere in the blur Baldy leans close enough for his breath to hit my ear.
“Tell the diner girl to sell,” he says conversationally. “Tell her the weather changes fast in this town.”
It steels something in me even as another kick knocks it out. I plant a hand, try to heave up, take one step toward the wall to create an angle, anything—another boot sweeps my legs. I hit, chin first. Stars explode behind my eyes.
I think about Brick. About how his hair sticks up funny when he’s half-asleep, about the way he said I’m allowed to be happy. I think about Jasmine’s mouth against mine like we’d both been waiting months to breathe. I think about Rebecca and the promise I made at a graveside in Miami: that I would raise our boy into a good man. That I would make good choices even when they hurt.
Another kick and my breath is a door slammed shut. The alley tilts. Sound narrows to a ringing whine.
In one last, stupid, cop-reflex moment, I slide my hand toward my sleeve and tug the little strip of Velcro with my badge number on it until it peels and clings to the underside of the cruiser’s running board. A breadcrumb. A nothing. A habit.
The darkness comes down like a curtain.
Complete darkness.
***
When the world swims back it does it grudgingly, like a TV stuck between channels. Sound arrives first. There’s distant traffic, a dog barking, a voice that might be laughing or coughing. Light next, smeared along the edges of a trash can. Every rib complains. I taste blood and something metallic that might just be fear.
