Page 1 of Under His Skin

Chapter One

Bristol

February 16th…

“Foley,” my captain, Drew Turner, exhales, hands running through his hair as he thinks through what he wants to address. That’s when I know it’s bad. He’s planning his words. Normally, he’s all bluster, says his piece, then moves on. How do I know this? Well, it could be because I’m called into his office so muchmyname should be on the door.

“Yes, sir?” I ask with feigned innocence.

His resigned expression makes me a bit sorry I’m the cause. Doesn’t mean I regret what I did, only how it reflects on him. He went to bat for me, again, I know it. One of these times, he’s gonna strike out. “You know the rules.” I do. I simply prefer to follow my own. “Why didn’t you wait for backup?”

It’s a rhetorical question, he and I both know it, yet I can’t help answering because I stand by my actions. “I couldn’t, sir.” My partner, Garland, and I had answered a call about a possible domestic violence dispute. When we arrived, I knew there was no possible about it. I could hear the woman begging him to stop, to just let her go. My backup hadn’t even reached the sidewalk by the time I’d hit the porch. Is it my fault I’m in better shape? No. Is it the victim’s? No. Which means it’s my duty to do whatever it takes to help her. So, I did. The door was even unlocked and I took that as an invitation. I strolled inside as if I belonged, gun back in its holster, and eventually talked the guy down.

He left in handcuffs, her in an ambulance, and my partner and I – who finally caught up after it was over – in our squad car. He’d started bitching and moaning, saying that I suck at being part of a team. To quote him, “You know what your problem is, Fooley?” Yeah, a lot of them enjoy intentionally screwing up my name. Mature, right? Not that I was any better after that with my response.

“My nuts are bigger than yours?” Inappropriate, perhaps, but justified. He doesn’t have the balls for this job any longer and he knows it. He’s half-assing it and I don’t,can’t, tolerate that shit. I became a cop to right the wrongs life can throw your way, to help those who can’t do it for themselves. To protect those who are trapped. I’ve been on the receiving end of a situation like that. Got out of it because someone took the time to actually give a shit.

That person? Captain Drew Turner. He’s the reason I wanted to join the force when I was ten. He’s the reason my mom is still alive, that her then boyfriend didn’t make good on his promise to kill her if she tried to leave him.

Turner is pretty much the only father figure I’ve ever had and I know he thinks of me as a daughter, which makes him being my superior difficult on both of us. He can’t treat me any differently nor would I want him to.

He’s argued for me to stay on, going against those who view my attitude and penchant for tattoos as “unbecoming a member of law enforcement.” They conveniently forget some of the men have ink, too, and a few have more than me. It’s just me they don’t care for, but they can’t outright admit that for fear of appearing sexist.

“Did you really call his manhood in to question?” The captain asks, holding his hand up before I can confirm or deny because he already knows. “Of course, you did.” Under his breath, I also hear, “You aren’t wrong.” I grin, though I quickly erase all evidence of it when he glances up at me, almost as if he knows my reaction. Serious once again, he informs me, “Garland requested a transfer.” To a different station or pairing? I’m cool with either, but I am curious which he chose. However, I refrain from voicing that. Barely.

What I do ask is, “Who do I get next?”

A long-suffering sigh leaves him. “This isn’t like a lineup where you simply move on, Foley.” At work, he never calls me by my first name, at least not within earshot of anyone. Not even while I’m inside his office, with the door closed, as he knows many outside it are trying to hear what we’re discussing. Like they don’t know. I’m sure Garland couldn’t wait to tell them, not caring that it paints him in a bad light, only that it does so for me. As if I give a shit what those assholes think. Most believe I can’t do my job, that I’m too delicate, too pretty, too female. Some are simply pissed that I refuse to either go out with them – interpret as let them fuck me like a toy then discard me or look elsewhere when they skirt the law they’re supposed to uphold. I’m sure there are other reasons, but those seem to be the main culprits.

This is why I don’t date. I’m either too intimidating because I carry a gun and a badge or the guy views me as only good for one thing. And it isn’t my mind. Which, yes, I do have one. My brain, I’m proud of. My looks? I had no say in that. Maybe that’s why I’ve added all the decoration in the form of tattoos. Those are my choice.

I nod, acknowledging his statement and intentionally keeping my mouth shut. I don’t do it often, but I can do it. I just choose not to most of the time. When he mentions they want to see me upstairs, my ability to speak magically returns.

“Sir, I…” I can’t even promise not to do it again and he knows it. Which is why he’s sitting there, fighting a smirk, egging me on to say it. I mimic sealing my lips shut, earning a chuckle and lightening the tension in him. Not at me, butbecauseof me. What I can vow is, “I can do better.”

“I know, Bristol.” Shit. He used my first name. Here. This is not good. “You were born to wear that badge. You’re one of the best cops I have, and the city knows it, but…”

“But they,” I say, raising my eyes toward the ceiling where some who have never walked a beat in their life act as if they know what being real police is like, “disagree.” I may have problems with how they run this department, but so does he. The only difference is he’s had them longer, and louder. Their ‘discussions’ can be heard three floors down. They don’t really care for either of us, but they tolerate him because half, if not more, of the cops would walk if they tried to get rid of him. He has our back. Always. Likewise, we have his. He taps his nose, letting me know I’m right. It’s not that he doesn’t want to say it out loud, merely that he hates the spot they’re putting him, and me, in. “Do you know about what?” He quirks a brow. “Other than my accurate assessment of Garland, that is.” A smile.

“They wouldn’t tell me,” he replies, close to pouting at being left out. If you’ve seen Chicago Fire, then picture the episode when Chief Boden is put on the diet by his wife and absolutely hates it. Take away the mustache and you have Captain Turner.

“I’ll report back, sir.” I want to call him Uncle Drew like I normally would, feeling the need to reassure him that I’ll be okay, but I don’t because ears.

And what if I’m wrong and I’m not?

–––

I was so wrong. This is bullshit. “We know the dangers involved with this assignment, Ms. Foley,” Captain Carlson says. You think? I want to sarcastically retort at what they’re asking – demanding – I do. “But we believe you are the optimum choice and will best fit into Roanoke’s world.” His eyes skate over my tattoos, leaving no doubt as to why they feel I can blend in. When I’m in uniform, I usually have them covered while in public. Inside, though, the sleeves get rolled up the second I walk through the doors. Sometimes before. Seems as if now that me having them is to their advantage, they suddenly aren’t so bad.

“And if he discovers I’m a cop?” I’ve never personally met the man they want me to spy on, but I’ve heard the rumors. Among them being that people only cross him once. I can only imagine his reaction if he was to learn the truth.

“Oh,” Deputy Chief Porter chimes in, “we’ve taken care of that possibility.” He’s saying the words, but I get the feeling he’s not happy about it. Is he actually on my side or is it just that he’d lobbied for a different option and my questionable safety isn’t a factor?

“You’re currently on leave for insubordination,” Assistant Chief Franklin helpfully supplies, not even bothering to hide his smugness. He and I do not get along. For once, though, the animosity is not on me. Well, that isn’t true. I pulled him over for doing fifty in a twenty-five. He was not happy to get the ticket I insisted on giving him, even though I knew it was symbolic as no one, save Turner, would actually try to make him pay the fine. I was only doing my job and he was trying – and succeeding – to take advantage of his. He’s tried to make my professional life a living hell since, so I know he is loving this. All that’s missing was him rubbing his hands with glee as he delivered the news. Ten bucks said he was mentally doing it. Make it a hundred. That’s how sure I am.

“I see.” That’s all I say. What else is there? They’re clearly not budging. “When do I start?”

“As soon as you hand over your badge and gun,” Carlson informs me. Okay, that’s gonna hurt and they know it.

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