Page 4 of Best Friends

“So how was the fly fishing convention?” Cheyenne asks.

She’s driving, and I’m riding shotgun. A lot of the misogynistic types at the precinct don’t like the women officers driving, but Cheyenne is more than competent at everything she does.

She’s only five-seven and slim as a willow, but she’s tough as nails too.

Many a perp has been fooled by her short blonde hair and delicate features, not realizing their mistake until she has them on the ground in a chokehold.

I glance at the dash console and turn up the volume on dispatch before answering. “It was good.”

It was good too. Sure, the night got a little weird, and the next day was awkward when Malcolm and I went to breakfast, but neither one of us brought up the sex stuff. I think we both just wanted it to blow over. What was done, was done. It was a one-off that meant nothing.

So why am I still thinking about it?

“Did Malcolm pick anyone up?” She grins, glancing over at me. It’s no secret Malcolm has a way with the ladies, so her question is expected. “He did, right?”

My face warms. What would she say if she knew what Malcolm and I did together? Would she be horrified or embarrassed that I’m her partner? Or would she high-five me and be glad I finally had sex with another person and ended the dry spell I’ve been in?

“Let’s just say he made some women very happy,” I lie. Malcolm and I decided we’d tell everyone we picked up a couple of girls at the convention. Everyone expects it anyway.

“He’s a sexy beast.”

“Yes, he is.”

You have no idea.

“So you really picked up a girl too?” She glances over, looking hopeful.

“Uh, yeah. I hit it off with a girl,” I lie. “We had a lot of fun.” I hope she doesn’t notice how pink my cheeks probably are.

“Are you going to see her again?” she asks, but then is distracted when a call comes over the radio. “Oh, that’s near us. We should take that call.”

Thank god.

I acknowledge dispatch, and we roll out to our first call of the day—a domestic disturbance. Not my favorite kind of call. In fact, they’re some of the most dangerous. But we’re not paid to avoid danger, so we quickly make our way to the address we’re given.

When we arrive, a big white guy with tattoos all over his body is pacing in front of a dilapidated house with a dead lawn. He’s obviously agitated as he stomps around, bellowing at the house. His mood only worsens when he sees our unit pull up.

“What the fuck are you doing here? I didn’t call no cops,” he yells. “This ain’t none of your business.”

“Sir,” Cheyenne says, approaching him slowly. “Would you mind keeping your hands where we can see them?” She sounds and looks amazingly calm considering he outweighs her by about a hundred pounds.

The guy’s glazed eyes focus on her and he frowns. “I ain’t done nothing wrong .”

“Even if that’s true, we have to come when we’re called,” I say, closing the distance between us. “Can you tell us what’s going on?”

About that time a skinny, redheaded woman comes slamming out of the house, her face flushed and her eyes flashing with anger. “You need to take his worthless piece of shit the hell out of here. If you don’t, I have a gun and I’m not afraid to use it.”

I stiffen at the mention of a weapon. “Now ma’am—”

“Oh really, bitch?” The guy interrupts me, lunging toward the woman. Cheyenne moves quickly and kicks his feet out from under him. Before he realizes what’s happening, he goes down like a rhinoceros with a loud grunt.

The wind is knocked out of him and Cheyenne straddles him. She yanks his arms behind his back, slapping cuffs on smoothly. “You need to calm down, sir, so we can have a nice friendly chat.”

Impressed, I squash my grin and move toward the woman on the porch. She’s watching the guy warily, her bony face tight with stress. “Are you okay?” I ask.

“I’m fine.” She sounds impatient. “The fool isn’t smart enough to know when to call it.”

“Is he your husband?”

“Ex.” She snorts, making her way down the rickety steps of the home. “Biggest mistake I ever made getting married to that asshole.”

“You’re no walk in the park yourself, babe,” the guy on the ground growls, spitting dirt out of his mouth. He’s still lying prone with Cheyenne straddling his legs.

“Don’t babe me,” the woman hisses, hands on her hips.

I clear my throat. “Uh… you said you have a gun, Ms…?”

“Alma Lynne. Yes. But don’t worry, it’s registered and locked away.” She meets my gaze, looking a little sheepish. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned the gun but he just gets me so riled up.”

“I understand.” I feel better now that I know the gun is locked away.

“I have a restraining order against him. But he gets high or drunk and thinks we need to talk. It usually goes downhill from there.” She scowls at the man lying in the dirt. “There’s nothing left to say, you lunatic. You need to just stay away.”

“This house is half mine,” he screeches.

She widens her eyes. “You’ve never contributed one cent to the mortgage.”

Cheyenne helps the guy sit up, and the front of his shirt and face are covered with dry grass and dirt.

“Don’t matter,” the guy shouts, “Community property, baby. It’s a beautiful thing”

“Are you divorced?” I ask the woman.

She nods. “Since we don’t have kids, thank God, we’re supposed to sell the place and split the money equally.”

I glance at the shack of a house behind her. The house sags like it’s given up. Peeling paint clings to warped siding, and the front porch leans to one side, half-swallowed by weeds. A broken window is patched with cardboard, and the roof looks like one good storm might take it away.

She cackles at my expression. “You’re wondering who in their right mind would want to buy this shit hole, right?”

I grimace. “I didn’t say that.”

“Your face did.” She grins, showing crooked teeth.

I have no idea what to say, so I keep my mouth shut.

She sighs. “None of the realtors want to bother listing this place, and even if they did, what would we even get for it? It would take more to fix it up than it will ever be worth.”

“It’s still half mine,” the man grumbles.

“All that means is you get half of nothing.” Alma shakes her head in disgust.

“Frankly none of this even matters because you violated your restraining order again, sir.” Cheyenne pulls him toward the patrol car. “I would worry about that first if I were you.”

Alma gives a weary sigh and meets my gaze. “I don’t care about the house. I just want him to stop coming by and scaring me like this.” Her lip trembles and that’s the first sign I’ve seen that she’s at all emotional about the situation.

“Well, we’re going to arrest him, so hopefully you’ll have at least a few days of peace.”

I feel bad that I can’t promise her more.

I don’t know the guy’s record, and it all depends on which judge he ends up in front of.

If he’s violated his wife’s protection order repeatedly, that elevates the charge to a felony.

How severely he’s punished will depend entirely on the judge.

Some will issue a fine. Others will throw him in jail.

“Thanks for coming all the same.” She sighs.

“If he is released, and he comes back again, don’t hesitate to call us,” I say.

“Yeah. For all the good it’ll do.” She turns and goes back inside, slamming the door behind her.

I slide into the car and give the perp in the back an irritable look.

He’s now slumped against the window, looking morose.

“You come back here again and you could end up in prison. Best thing you could do is to stay away and let your wife alone. Once the house sells, you’ll get what’s coming to you.

But that won’t do you much good if you’re locked up. ”

The guy scowls and gives a grunt.

I turn back to face the front. “If he’s done this more than once, he should be charged with a third degree felony.”

“I agree.” Cheyenne puts the car into drive and heads toward the station. “But it’s not up to us.”

“I know,” I grumble.

The rest of the calls during the day are more low key.

We get some petty thefts, a couple of over doses, and a few prostitution calls.

Sometimes the seediness of the job gets to me.

I want to make a difference in my town, but days like this I feel like it’s a losing battle.

For every scumbag we pull in, two more seem to pop up.

It’s like a masochistic game of Whack-a-Mole.

After work Cheyenne and I head to our favorite watering hole called Frankie’s.

All the cops meet up there after work when they want a drink.

The place is old school with dark paneling and vinyl booths.

Frankie’s has been around so long there are pictures of Rock Hudson and Errol Flynn on the wall by the door, signed and everything.

Granted, the photos are a little worse for wear, but the owner won’t take them down for anything.

Malcolm’s already sitting at the bar when we come in.

My stomach clenches with excitement at the sight of him.

I haven’t seen him since he dropped me off at my house yesterday morning.

I’m always happy to see my friend, but the buzzing awareness that jolts through me is new.

As I approach, his gaze seems to run down my body, but then he looks away and I assume I imagined it.

Despite how awkward I feel, I stop next to him like I would any other day. I don’t want to start acting weird and ruin our friendship. “Already boozing it up?” I say flippantly, forcing a smile.

“Hey, C.” He sounds breathless as he meets my gaze.

I squeeze his shoulder the way I always do, but the warmth in my gut intensifies at the feel of his hard muscles under the thin material of his T-shirt.

I’ve touched him platonically many times without noticing how big his muscles are.

Something has definitely changed between us.

But I try to ignore the new feelings because they only make things harder.