Chapter 1
CHAPTER
ONE
WITH MY OWN HALFIE.
Dash
Present.
I’m so glad that Sterling let me use one side of his garage. If he’d said no, I would’ve had to work out at the on-site gym at the police station. A rusted set of dumbbells, an elliptical missing a handle, two stationary bikes that look like they may have been recovered from the Titanic, and a bench press machine with seven total plates.
That’s what Bluebell Police Department uses.
That won’t do for me.
My time lifting weights in the morning is less for my body than it is for my mind. Sort out my thoughts, work through my goals, and plan my day. Without that hour and a half each morning, I’m grouchy.
I hate being grouchy.
Approaching my last set, I rerack, get to my feet, and slide the extra weight onto the bar. My eyes veer to Sterling’s truck, tucked neatly in the first stall. The peanut butter leather catches my attention. White exterior, wood trim inside, all the upgrades, his pickup oozes class and style. It’s so fitting for him. As I slide the last plate on the bar, I imagine how he looks behind the wheel, eating up all that cab space with his expansive frame and booming chest.
In the last month, I’ve come to realize that I appreciate a handsome man. Well, I never got a hard-on for one until Sterling. At first, it freaked me out. But now I see it for what it is: a reaction to something good. And is he ever. Sterling isn’t just sweet and funny but he’s generous, kind, hardworking and smart. He not only owns the sanitation company but also drives the main refuse truck in Bluebell. If Chief Greenly hadn’t told me Sterling owns it, I wouldn’t know.
The man is humble as hell, which I’ve learned is arousing.
Lying on the bench, I position my hands along the threading on the bar and prepare for my set, waiting for my halfie to go away. After finally pressing the last five reps, I get up, grab my water and head into the house.
It’s still and dark, with only the digital green clock faintly glowing from the stove in the kitchen. Quietly, I gather items from the fridge then wash my hands. Sometime later, amidst crackling bacon and percolating coffee, the main bedroom door at the end of the hall cracks, and a moment later, a sleepy-looking Sterling appears. Bare feet and chest, he trudges down the hall in boxer shorts, his strawberry blond locks mussed from sleep.
“Morning,” he greets, catching a yawn with his hand as he passes by the kitchen, toward the front door.
“Already on the table,” I tell him, knowing he’s going for the paper. I bring it in almost every morning, still, he hasn’t adjusted to the fact that it’s done.
“Thanks,” Sterling smiles, sinking into his chair at the table.
Mindlessly, I push eggs around the skillet as my focus slides back to Sterling, his large hand stroking the rolled newspaper, forcing off the rubber band.
Quickly, I refocus on the eggs before it gets weird. I’ve never gravitated to watching a man do basic things until Sterling, but something about the ease in which he does everything, his sheer size and his comforting, calm persona has me captivated.
“Have a good workout?” he asks as I slide four pieces of rye into the toaster.
From the fridge I pull out my favorite flavor of jam, and Sterling’s favorite too. Strawbarb. I bring it to the table, along with Sterling’s mug of plain black coffee.
I need mine with a little milk and sugar, but something about him drinking it black makes my skin tingle.
Plating the toast, eggs and bacon, the image of me standing in the garage with a halfie next to his truck, staring inside the cab like a complete horndog loser, flashes behind my eyes. “Great pump,” I reply, hoping the flush I feel in my veins doesn’t leak into my cheeks.
Sliding into the chair across from him, Sterl smiles, but it's slightly duller than normal. “Thanks for breakfast, man. You always kill it.”
My eyes hover on him while his focus veers to the plate of food. Now that I think of it, he has seemed a bit lackluster lately. Off his usual jovial temperament. “Hey—” The one word stops his movement mid-reach for a fork. Our eyes lock. “You all right?”
He waves me off with an unconvincing smile. “Hungry, that’s all.”
I nod. “10-4.”
I watch him as he stacks bites of egg and bacon on the tines, peppering everything with his other hand. The pepper shaker—a cowboy boot—looks like it belongs to a Barbie from how dramatically he dwarfs it. From there my eyes drift off course, veering to his bare chest. He lifts weights once a week, sometimes more, but his sculpted shape and solid build always have me in awe. He swipes jam over his toast, and passes it to me.
Juni’s Jams , the label reads. I rub my thumb over the black letters. Juniper Ellington. The only woman—in Bluebell or otherwise—to hold my attention for the last two years.
I remember the first day I met her. The sunshine swept her bare shoulders as she rocked on the balls of her feet, a mile-wide smile stretched across her plump cherry lips. And though I could tell she meant something special to Sterling, he still invited me to hang out with them.
We haven’t stopped. It’s been two years of the three of us just hanging out.
Life has never been better.
“So,” Sterling hedges, alerting me to the fact I’d just been staring at him, something I think I do far more than I’d like him to realize. “Any updates on the Warriorville Missing Misters case?”
My mind takes a moment to reroute from the image of Sterling, completely naked, a terry cloth towel pooled at his feet as he digs in his chest chair, scratching. Every so often, for no reason at all, my mind does things it never did before I came to Bluebell. Picturing him naked and wondering what his cock looks like, and what he may look like touching it are two of them.
“Uh.” I take another sip, searching for facts filed away in my brain. “Not much of an update. There haven’t been any leads. I mean, none. I think at this point in the investigation, detectives are leaning toward the Oakcreek Nabber extending his reach to Bluebell.”
A couple of years back, a man went missing in our county, Warriorville. Actually, a man and his father. Since being on the force, two others have gone missing, too. Because it’s been all men who disappear, the case has been named Warriorville Missing Misters. As a beat cop, I don’t actively work on cases in that capacity, but because Bluebell is so small, most police officers are privy to things they wouldn’t normally be in a big city. Like case details.
Sterling’s shoulder torques as he reaches across the table, swiping a napkin from the holder. “Does the Oakcreek Nabber take men?”
I nod. “He’s taken a few, yeah.”
Sterling nods. “No women missing from Warriorville or specifically from Bluebell, though?”
I shake my head. “Nope. Just the four men.” Thinking of the name, I can’t help but snort. “The Missing Misters makes it kind of sound like an episode of Murder, She Wrote , doesn’t it?”
Sterling’s laughter roars from his chest, vibrating through the kitchen, bringing it to life. “It’s a terrible name. Then again, Chief Greenly is what, sixty-eight?”
“Yeah, the man who never retires,” I reply, sharing the town’s nickname for the chief.
Sterl just shakes his head, chuckling before going in for another large bite. Something about his Adam’s apple sliding down his throat and the sound of his swallow makes the back of my neck break out in sweat.
I take a few bites, thinking about the chief, and who would maybe take his place if he does retire. Not Keanu, and certainly not me. After all, I’ve not upheld what I promised when I was pinned with my badge.
The worst part about that is I don’t feel bad that I broke laws, I feel bad that I’d do it again.
With the incident on my mind, I look up, studying Sterling as he splits a piece of bacon in two. “About the other night—with Ivy,” I start, a specific and very jarring memory tumbling through my brain as I think of Juniper. Her little sister, Ivy, got herself into trouble.
Trouble. Otherwise known as malice mischief , which can carry a 6-month sentence and lots of fines.
As soon as Juni looked at me, eyes dripping with concern, her hands clenched to her chest with hope, I knew.
I knew I was going to risk my job and break the oath I took. I knew I was going to and would continue to risk it all, too.
“Yeah?” Sterling asks, sweeping the end of his toast through his eggs. He takes a bite, jaw flexing as he quietly chews, his eyes meeting mine.
“Am I just the worst fucking cop ever or what?” The question rolls out with a laugh, but it doesn’t feel funny at all. I’ve been asking myself this question for the last few weeks.
Sterling lowers his fork to the plate. With his paper napkin crumpled in his fist, he blinks at me.
“You’re loyal, D. What you did for Ivy because of Juniper, that makes you loyal.”
His appreciative gaze wraps my ribs, leaving my chest tight. I sip my coffee then nod.
“Yeah,” I say, after the hot sip fails to cool me down. “I guess.”
He abandons the napkin on his plate and beneath the table, nudges his bare foot into my calf. “Hey, listen to me, what you did for her was honorable and loyal, so don’t be thinking since you didn’t cuff up Ivy that you’re a bad cop.” He shrugs, his hazel eyes pinning me to my seat with their weighted intensity. “Ivy and Trace are together. They worked it out, anyway.”
Another sip of my milk and sugar-drowned coffee. “Yeah, that’s true.”
“Anything else got you twisted up?” he questions, concern etching his raspy morning voice.
Lifting my gaze, I nearly choke as our eyes come together, the truth bubbling up on my tongue. “I’m a little scared.”
His nostrils flare on an exhale. “Why?”
I shrug and shake my head, because there’s no good way to put this. “I broke laws for Ivy, which was really for Juni and I—I don’t think there is a rule out there I wouldn’t break for her, you know?”
Sterling’s mouth curves into a small smile, but sadness lines his features nonetheless. “I do.”
At that moment, our phones rattle in near unison. I reach back and swipe my phone off the kitchen counter, focusing on the screen.
“Juni?” Sterling gently pokes, not grabbing his phone from the table but instead, he focuses on finishing breakfast.
“Yeah. She wants to go bowling next week, on neon night.” My eyes skim over her request on the screen. The alley uses black lights instead of the usuals. Neon night is 70s night, after all.
He smiles down at his plate of food, likely thinking about her. Why? Because I know I am. Fuck, she’s a sight.
The full curve of her breasts filling out her bowling top, the pinch of her waist with the bloom of her hips, all accentuated by her black bowling leggings.
I smile while watching him. My groin floods with heat. Then, in my version, I see Sterling handing Juniper her new bowling ball. Her effervescent grin shines under the black lights as laughter passes between the two of them. She rocks to her toes, tenderly dragging her fingers along his strawberry curls, on her tippy-toes to reach him.
Glancing my way, Sterling does a double take, catching me. I’m staring. “You’re in then?” I inquire, casting my eyes down to my phone screen, trying desperately to ignore the heat creeping up my neck.
“Sure,” he says, finishing his coffee.
I send off a return text message to Juniper in the group chat, making Sterling’s phone sound off between us.
He takes his final bite, then skims his palms down his chest and stomach, letting free a satiated groan. “As always, that was better than I deserve. Thank you.” Through a stretch, he tips back and his spine pops, and he gets to his feet. He’s such a big man but something tells me he bends and moves just fine when it counts.
Getting to my feet, I push our chairs in before making my way past Sterling, to the other side of the counter. At the sink, he rinses dishes before sliding them into the dishwasher.
Collecting the bread from the box, I snatch up the container of turkey and salami from the fridge, and another full of peppers and pickles. “Italian today,” I tell him as I start to assemble our lunches. Sterling fills his mug with another round of piping hot coffee.
“Shit, that gave me a halfie. I love your Italian subs,” he says, with a sexy, partially asleep grin. With a lift of his mug, he drifts down the hall toward his room, calling to me over his shoulder. “Thanks for lunch. Have a good day, man. Stay safe.”
The shower in his room starts up, and with my own halfie, I make the best fucking Italian hoagie I’ve ever made. I wrap it in wax paper and tie it with candy cane colored twine.
I take my time writing his name on it.