Lately, Ashley hasn't had time for even a decent night's sleep. It's as if every petty thug in the district has conspired to systematically dismantle his last remaining healthy nerve cells. With the precinct chronically understaffed, Ashley has been grinding through overtime for months. The only thing keeping him on his feet is the battery-acid coffee he pumps into his system by the gallon. If someone were to run a blood test on him right now, they'd find nothing but pure, uncut caffeine.
"White, get over here," a man barks, beckoning him with a sharp gesture.
Ashley pushes himself out of his worn-out chair reluctantly and makes his way over to Detective Miller with a leaden, unhurried gait.
"That piece of trash you just hauled in—Graham Young," Miller begins. "He's insisting that he'll only be questioned by you."
"Why me?"
"Hell if I know. Brief yourself on the file and get in there."
Ashley lets out a heavy sigh. The last thing he wants to do after a brutal shift is dive into this case. It's bad enough having to chase down useless lowlifes; having to sit through their endless prattle is worse. And he has a sinking feeling that this kid is going to be a real piece of work.
Still, an order is an order. He grabs the case file and skims the pages, his eyes darting over the lines.
"Detective Miller, wait," Ashley says, catching up in a few quick strides and falling in shoulder-to-shoulder with him. "What exactly are you looking to get out of him?"
"Isn't it obvious? I want him to flip on the main dealer."
"I'm not so sure Young even has access to that kind of intel."
"Then let him do whatever it takes to get access. Do I really need to hold your hand through this?"
Ashley's grip tightens, the paperwork crumpling slightly under the pressure. Even though Miller's methods set his teeth on edge, he isn't in a position to push back—not yet. Their department's top priority right now is scrounging up any lead they can find. A new synthetic drug has started flooding the streets, driving users into a state of pure psychosis. They're willing to kill, steal, or worse, just for another hit—as if they're possessed by something demonic. The brass is still in the dark about the supplier, and more importantly, the pipeline for the major shipments.
Unfortunately for Graham Young, he was flagged at the headquarters of a gang suspected of being up to their necks in this trade—a crew Ashley's team has been tailing for six months. Miller is convinced the kid is a cog in the distribution machine. And by some convenient twist of fate, Graham just happened to get popped for a B&E.
Ashley walks down the long corridor, balancing two plastic cups of coffee. Since interrogations aren't exactly his beat, the nerves are starting to gnaw at him. But he's a cop, and that means he's an expert at burying his emotions—especially fear.
Reaching the door, Ashley shuts his eyes and takes a steadying breath before pulling the handle.
"Officer White. I've been positively aching for your touch," a smooth, pleasant voice rings out.
"I can't say the sentiment is mutual."
"Is that for me?"
Graham's eyes drop to the cup in his hand. Ashley takes a seat across from him and slides the cheap vending-machine brew across the table.
"Thanks."
The corners of Graham's mouth curl into a smirk. In this moment, he looks far too relaxed and self-assured for a man in such a tight spot.
"Let's get straight to it. You've been spotted near the Sky gang's office more than a few times. Detective Miller believes they're behind the distribution of the new drug in our district. I need you to flip on every dealer they have. And if you don't know who's running the show, you're going to find out."
"And is that all I owe you?"
"Leave the attitude at the door. You can stay tight-lipped and rot behind bars for a couple of years—if you're lucky. But I wouldn't count on luck. Miller has a hell of a file on you. I'm sure if I decide to dig a little deeper, I'll find plenty of interesting things about your past. And the detective will find any excuse to make the charges stick, just to pad your sentence."
"You fuzz make it sound so easy. What if I get iced? Who do you think I am, anyway? Some high-stakes gangster?" He drops his head and lets out a low, dry laugh, mussing up his chestnut hair.
"Don't worry about your safety. I'll be personally responsible for it."
"And this Miller guy... can he be trusted?"
"Not a chance. He's a total bastard. But you can trust me."
"So, what's the play? I worm my way in and sniff out their dirty little secrets?"
"See? You catch on quick. If you need time to mull it over, the lawyer will be here soon. You can consult with him."
"No need. I'm in. On one condition: I go home today."
"Fine. I'll clear it with the detective."
And so began Graham's collaboration with the Fourth Precinct. Ashley, for his part, held up his end of the bargain, and an hour later, Graham walked out a free man, his head held high.
Nighttime silence shrouds the city, and a gust of chill air makes Graham shiver. He takes a deep breath, swallowing the lump in his throat as his body finally begins to unclench after the grueling hours spent in confinement.
He hurries toward the bus stop, hoping to catch the last line. If he misses it, he's walking—he certainly doesn't have the cash for a cab.
"Get in. I'll give you a lift." Graham turns to find Ashley by his car. For a split second, he's ready to toss everything aside and scramble into the passenger seat. To sit so close he can feel the heat radiating from that magnificent body.
"Officer, you should really just head home. You look like hell," Graham notes, not missing the cop's sheer exhaustion. Ashley is yawning incessantly, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand.
"Don't be stubborn." Using that same rough-handed force, Ashley steers Graham into the car. Once inside, Graham can't help but admire the sharp profile of the man beside him.
"What are you staring at?"
"Nothing. Just trying to figure you out."
"Don't bother. I'm hoping we wrap this case up quickly so we can go our separate ways."
"Then why did you volunteer to help?"
"One, I don't trust Miller. Two, I'm looking for a promotion."
"And here I thought you just couldn't bear to let me go. Life is so cruel."
"It'll get a lot crueler if you don't shut your mouth. I'm beat, so let's just drive in silence."
They reach the neighborhood Graham has called home for the last six months. Around them, dilapidated buildings and weather-beaten houses crowd together as if huddled for warmth, lining grimy streets where the only sense of color comes from a few scraggly trees.
The place is dangerous, especially for a cop. Even in broad daylight, there's a tension thick enough to taste—the constant feeling of someone standing right behind you, breathing down your neck, waiting for you to make the one fatal slip-up that could cost you your life.
"Listen, White, you should beat it while you can. Cops aren't exactly welcome on this block."
Ashley doesn't even flinch at the warning, acting as if Graham isn't even talking to him. In that moment, it hits Graham: working with an officer this pigheaded is going to be anything but easy. And when you factor in just how handsome the man is, Graham realizes he's walking into a double-edged trap—one he has absolutely no intention of escaping.
They say their goodbyes, and Graham trudges toward his building, secretly cursing the empty roads for making their little trip end all too soon.
"Hey, Young. Come back here for a second. Almost forgot," Ashley calls out, closing the distance between them with a brisk stride. He stops so close that Graham catches a faint, sweet whiff of his cologne.
Suddenly, Ashley drops to a crouch and grips Graham's ankle—tenderly, yet with a firmness that brooks no argument. The touch sends an immediate jolt of electricity through Graham's body, his skin breaking out in goosebumps. His mind immediately betrays him, conjuring intrusive images of the powerful officer on his knees before him, soft lips tracing the length of his hardening heat.
Graham is thankful for the cover of night; it masks the flush of arousal burning across his face. He feels those cool palms sliding against his skin, and the spot where Ashley touches him begins to go numb. Graham digs his fingernails into his own palm, struggling to steady his ragged breathing.
What the hell is this guy doing?
A loud metallic click shatters the intimacy of the moment.
"An ankle monitor?" Graham asks, stunned.
"Precautionary measure. Or did you think I'd just let you walk away scot-free?"
"Actually, I was really hoping you wouldn't let me go. Why don't you come upstairs?"
"What for?"
"To... iron out the details of our plan."
"Stay reachable. Always," Ashley says curtly. He spins on his heel, gets back into the car, and drives off without so much as a parting word.
"Buzzkill."
Graham stands by the apartment building for a while longer, watching the taillights fade into the distance. He makes a futile attempt to gather his thoughts, feeling like a total pervert. He's certain a man like that has a loving girlfriend or a wife waiting for him at home. But even if the officer is single, Graham knows his chances are dead on arrival.
Who am I, and who is he? Graham Young muses.
Sinking deeper into self-deprecation, Graham heads for a cold shower, hoping to snap himself out of it after the day's stress. The freezing droplets strike his skin with a tinny ring, like fine needles piercing through his flesh. The bite of the cold keeps him from spiraling and forces his mind to stay sharp.
Once finished with his ice-cold ritual, he retreats to his half-empty room. In the center lies a large, ragged mattress—wide, cold, and utterly void of human warmth. Graham watches the moon through a small window; it stares back at him like a ghostly spectator.
Almost every night, lying in his makeshift bed, he feels hollowed out by loneliness. As the room grows colder, Graham pulls the blanket over his head, burying himself. In the absolute dark and silence, Officer White's image suddenly flickersbehind his eyelids. He sees that unforgettable, piercing gaze, a ghost of a smile, and an outstretched hand. For some inexplicable reason, a strange sense of serenity washes over him.
His last thought before plummeting into a dead sleep is: I really hope you're the only one I see tonight.