Page 2 of Concealed

Wyatt:We’ll see. Chat later, okay?

Gabe:Appreciate you.

He would do the same for me and meet any strange request I had. Friends who are more like blood are hard to find and worth their weight in gold when you do.

I’d never tell him how much he means to me for the risk of being punched, but he’s one of the people I’ll miss the most from my pre-incident life.

Right before I turn my phone off, a text from my dad pops up. Knowing that I shouldn’t read it doesn’t stop me from opening it. There’s something about the old man that makes me a glutton for punishment. Nothing I do will ever earn his approval, yet I never stop trying.

Dad:Don’t fuck up today.

And after that vote of confidence, it’s time to meet my new chief with a game face so he doesn’t catch on that I don’t want to be here – at all. And that, apparently, my own dad doesn’t think I can handle a job that I consider a huge step down.

Awesome.

Hopefully, Chief Grant Malone isn’t a total jerk or this day can just fuck right off.

The man himself is waiting at the reception desk.

I recognize Grant instantly from the photos I’ve seen, but I didn’t expect him to personally greet me. Usually, a task like dealing with a new problem child is delegated to someone far lower on the totem pole.

Grant has a firm handshake, and his brown eyes are both warm and assessing. He’s a solid, fit man who must be in his fifties, but still looks like he could give me a run for my money.

People love to joke about cops and donuts – who doesn’t like donuts, by the way? – but Grant certainly isn’t living off them.

I can only imagine what he’s heard about me. But if he’s done his homework, then he’s also read my file and noted that I’ve received several commendations, including the highest honor we have: the Los Angeles Police Medal of Valor.

I just happened to beat the shit out of a pedophile as my claim to fame.

Okay, fine.

Twice.

“Wyatt.”

“Nice to meet you, sir.”

He gives me a cursory tour of the station – bullpen, locker room, holding cells, interview rooms, secure property area, dispatch station – and then brings me back to his office.

When he closes the door to mute the noise of my new colleagues, I know I’ve already been called to the principal’s office.

Shit is about to get real.

Grant leans against the scarred wooden desk that is covered in paperwork – the bane of every cop’s existence. He nods at the chair in front of the desk, and I reluctantly sit.

Not that there was any doubt he has the position of power, but I hate this physical dynamic. Being at a disadvantage doesn’t suit me.

“No one made me hire you,” he says, and apparently, we aren’t going to waste any time on pretenses. His gaze doesn’t waver, but he must have a lot of practice lying because someone certainly did.

There are pictures on his desk, but he keeps them facing toward him versus whoever happens to be sitting in the hot seat.

I’m sure he didn’t choose the government-issue artwork on the walls, but there are also plenty of pictures of him shaking hands with politicians and dignitaries, including my dad.

Bingo.

The snapshots he keeps to himself must be of his family, and I like that about him – a lot.

My dad displays his trophy wife and their two prized kids like exhibits in a museum. I’m the useless leftover kid from his deceased ex-wife who he wishes didn’t exist. He only keeps in contact with me to make sure that I don’t fuck up his campaigns.

---