Page 29 of Cuffed By Your Love
“Ladies,… I don’t even know what I want.”
Jonell leaned in with all the energy of twin besties. “You want peace, but you don’t recognize it because it has never raised its voice or laid in your bed.”
Leila co-signed with, “Ooooh, okay, bitch, wit’ yo’ poetic ass!” as they hi-fived each other.
Shit.
That one knocked the wind out of me. I leaned my head back against the couch, the clay mask starting to crack around my chin.
“I just don’t know how to be soft around someone who doesn’t make me brace for disappointment.”
Jonell gazed at me for a long time, sadness evident in her eyes. Then she whispered, “Well, sis, you might want to learn. Because from what I saw in those messages, that man isn’t just checking on you. He’s waiting for you to let him in.”
It was just another regular shift at the precinct. I adjusted the fit of my tight khakis, feeling the weight of the utility belt anchored firmly on my hips, its pouches loaded with essential gear. The edges of my shirt were pressed to perfection, crisp and sharp, a testament to the attention I paid to my appearance, despite how messed up I felt on the inside. My locs were gathered into a low ponytail, slicked back smoothly and secured tightly, much like how I tried to keep my emotions in check throughout the day. Each strand was meticulously arranged, reflecting the disciplined approach I took with both my work and my demeanor.
The jail pulsed with frenetic energy, its atmosphere charged and electric. Phones rang incessantly, their shrill tones slicing through the air like an alarm bell. Radios crackled to life, filling the space with a cacophony of static and garbled voices that seemed to echo off the cold concrete walls. Inmates lounged against the frigid metal bars, exchanging sharp retorts and sly, knowing smiles through the narrow slots. It was a familiar chaos, yet today, it felt heightened, as if an unspoken tension hung in the air, whispering ominously, “Don’t try me today.”
I was good. Composed. Focused.
Until he walked in.
Detective Elias Edmonds strolled through the sally port, an inmate handcuffed at the wrists, exuding a slow, steady confidence, as if he had a playlist of spiritual trap music playing in his head. And he had the nerve, the audacity, to look that good in all black.
His badge was clipped to his side, duty weapon low on his hip. His beard was freshly edged up, and those forearms flexedunder his long sleeves like they were trying to snatch a soul. He spotted me in an instant, his gaze piercing through the crowd. I pretended to be completely immersed in my typing, attempting to maintain an air of nonchalance; yet deep down, my spine buzzed with an electric flutter, speaking in tongues of anxiety and excitement. He gave a knowing nod, a silent acknowledgment that sent my heart racing.
With a quick nod, I tried to stay focused, but my body was tingling with energy. Each click of the mouse felt electric, and I could sense my breath quickening, a flutter of excitement forming in my chest. I imagined my eyes widening, revealing my true emotions like a lovesick soul caught in a beautiful moment. It was intense, but there was also a spark of hope in the air.
He slowly walked up to the desk, handed over the paperwork, and spoke in a low voice.
“Got one from a bar fight downtown. Disorderly and disrespectful.”
I kept my tone dry. “Are you describing the offender or yourself?”
He smiled smugly. “I’d ask which one you’d prefer, but I’m not trying to get written up.”
Whew. Sir.
Have you ever heard a man flirt so respectfully that it makes you want to call HR just to thank them?
I cleared my throat and scanned the document.
“Looks like he spat on the bartender and attempted to climb the DJ booth.”
“Man thought he was Future, mid-set,” he said.
I almost laughed. Almost. I was trying to stop my cheeks from rising but failed miserably.
He leaned one arm on the counter, allowing me to catch the scent of his cologne: warm, spicy, and anointed.
“You good?” he asked, his voice low and filled with sincerity.
I blinked. His inquiry wasn’t flirty or performative. It was intentional, as if he genuinely wanted to know the answer.
“I’m good,” I said, then added, “Still working on it.”
That made his smile shift slightly, deeper, not wider.
He glanced at my badge.
