Chapter 6
6
BEN
“Car three-Adam-twenty-five, theft in progress at 576 South Street, at the gas station. Offenders are three youths. No other description at this time. Manager called it in.” Katie’s voice comes across my radio.
I’m about five minutes from the location, so I flick my blinker and turn left.
“Ten-four, car three-Adam-twenty-five en route,” I respond.
It’s not an emergency, so I don’t bother with lights or sirens. Stopped at a set of traffic lights, I glance out my window and watch a guy about my age walking his German shepherd while pushing a stroller. My thoughts immediately go to Rex. I hope he’s been staying off his feet. I’m sure everyone at the station will make sure he’s resting, but he tends to get excited when he’s around our colleagues.
Pulling into a parking spot near the entrance of the gas station, I climb out of my vehicle. Inside, I see an older gentleman holding a youth by the collar of his shirt, causing my hackles to rise. He shouldn’t have his hands on a kid; he wouldn’t do that to an adult.
The doors slide open as I approach, and I get my first decent look at the boy. He looks to be about ten or eleven, and I don’t sense the usual teenage attitude coming from him. He appears more ashamed than anything else. I glance around, noting he’s the only youth present.
Where are the others? Katie said there were three.
The rotund man, who I assume is the manager, drags the boy forward as he storms toward me, all bluster. “About time you got here. Two of the scoundrels escaped.” He flings his arm out toward the door, highlighting their escape route. “I want to press charges.”
I hold up my hand and glance down at the boy. “I’m Sergeant Taylor. Please release the boy.”
“He’ll run if I let him go,” he snaps.
I step closer and speak to the boy. “You’ll stay where you are if he releases you, right?”
He drops his gaze to the floor, and his freckled cheeks turn pink. “Yes, sir.”
I lift my eyes to the manager and raise my eyebrows. “Release him, please.” He’s just a kid, for fuck’s sake, and I’ve seen enough troublemakers to know he’s a good kid who’s made an error in judgment.
The manager finally releases him, and the kid steps closer to me. “I want him arrested.”
Calm down, old man. “What’s your name, sir?”
“Mr. MacDonnell. Are you going to arrest him now?” he asks with raised brows.
I pride myself on being a patient man, but this guy and his demands are already pissing me off. “Can you please tell me what happened?” I make a production of dragging out my notepad and pen while my blood simmers.
“That one”—the manager points at the boy with a stubby, shaky finger—“and two other troublemakers were walking around my store and stuffing their pockets with candy. They stole sodas and drank them right in front of me, like they were taunting me!” He narrows his eyes at the kid as I write a few notes.
I look down at the boy. “What’s your name?”
“Evan Sullivan, sir.”
“Evan, can you please empty your pockets?” I tighten my fingers around the smooth plastic of the pen and my notebook, and drop my hands to my hips.
“I already emptied his pockets. The other boys got away with their pockets full,” the manager says angrily, slapping his hands against his thighs.
Raising my chin, I ask. “So, he doesn’t have any stolen goods on his person?”
“No … but he did!” he snaps.
I hold my hands out in a placating move. “Without evidence, I’m afraid I can’t charge him with theft.” Did he forcefully remove the items from Evan’s pockets? “Did you remove the items from his pockets, or did Evan remove them?”
The manager’s face turns scarlet. “I have CCTV footage. I have all the evidence I need.” Jesus. Evan looks up at me with big brown eyes, resigned to his fate.
I shift on my feet, getting more comfortable. “Sir, I understand you’re angry and upset, but did you or the boy remove the items from his pockets?”
His body trembles with anger. “I removed them.”
I turn to Evan. “Did you give Mr. MacDonnell permission to remove the items from your pockets?”
Evan shakes his head. “No, sir.”
“The items in his pockets belonged to me. I don’t need permission to get my stock back!” he shouts, spit flying from his mouth.
Evan looks up at me and shrugs. “I didn’t mind. I did the wrong thing. The stuff belonged to him.”
The old man points at Evan again, his hand shaking in anger, and I’m worried the guy’s going to collapse at any moment. “I’m sick of these young kids coming in here and causing trouble. Something needs to be done.”
“I agree, sir. This behavior is unacceptable, and you’ve done the right thing by calling it in to the station. However, in this instance, I don’t think a charge is necessary. I’ll have a chat with Evan, take him home to his parents, and discuss the events of the afternoon with them. Often a ride in the police cruiser and a stern chat are enough of a deterrent. I’ll also ensure he undertakes community service at the local shelter. Would that be satisfactory for you?”
The manager grunts and drops his hands to his hips as he studies Evan for a few moments. “Of the three boys, he was causing the least trouble, and I guess he didn’t drink a soda.” His posture softens as his shoulders drop. “To be honest, he looked reluctant and seemed like he was following the other two.”
Evan raises his head and looks at the manager. “I’m sorry, sir. I was just doing what my friends wanted me to do. I was trying to fit in. I promise it won’t happen again.” His bottom lip trembles as he delivers a genuine apology without being prompted. That says a lot about his character, supporting my initial assessment of him.
“You need to get yourself some new friends, young man,” the manager suggests.
Evan nods and shrugs. “Not sure if they’re really my friends,” he mumbles.
“Evan.” He looks up at me. “Do you want to press charges against Mr. MacDonnell for putting his hands on you?”
Evan’s eyes widen comically and he shakes his head with vigor, looking between me and the old man. “N-n-no. I-I-I did the wrong thing, and he was just getting his stuff back.”
MacDonnell’s shoulders stiffen and he aims a murderous glare my way, but before he can open his mouth, I nod. “All right. I’m going to take Evan home, and I’ll have a chat with his parents. Enjoy the rest of your afternoon, Mr. MacDonnell.”
“You, too, Officer. And I don’t want to see you back in my gas station, Evan. Do you understand me?”
He nods. “Uh, yes, sir.”
The glass doors open, and I lead Evan out to my cruiser, opening the passenger door for him. “Get in and put your seatbelt on.” I climb in and start the car. “What’s your address?” He tells me, and I punch it into my GPS, then call the station to let them know I’m taking one of the kids home and that the other two offenders were not at the scene. I could use this time to question the boy about his friends and find out more information, but sometimes it’s best to let the kids stew a little.
I’m about five minutes out when I notice him adjusting his position. Glancing his way, I find him peering out the window as he bites his bottom lip. “Will your mom and dad be home?”
“Mom will. My dad died in Syria,” he mumbles.
My heart cleaves open for this kid. “Sorry about your dad, Evan. That’s gotta be tough.” I watch him shrug and drop his eyes to his lap.
I think he’s a good kid who’s lost his way a little. Dad’s gone, so there’s possibly no father figure at home, and Mom’s probably busy working and holding down the fort. He’s the perfect candidate for my project at The Paw Palace . Hopefully, his mom will agree with my suggestion for him to take part in the program.
I pull up in front of a neat, dove-gray, two-story weatherboard home with white trim around the windows and doors. They don’t live all that far from my place. Climbing out of the car, I open Evan’s door, and he leads the way along the concrete path to the porch. I take the three steps as he flings the screen door open and storms inside.
“Mom!”
The hair on the back of my neck rises. The door was simply left unlocked. Some people underestimate their own safety. Evan’s silhouette, followed by that of a petite woman not much taller than he is, comes into view as he leads her to the front door. She pushes open the screen door, and her eyes widen when they land on me. The air in my lungs leaves on a gush, and I straighten my spine.
Jesus. She’s beautiful.
All soft, delicate features, wild curly hair, and clear eyes. My heart gallops in my chest, and I have to consciously take a breath.
Her head snaps to her son, who bears the same freckles across his nose and cheeks as she does. “What on earth is going on?” she asks Evan, but he drops his gaze to his feet and shuffles in place without answering her. His shoulders hunch, and the scent of shame fills the air as he fidgets with the hem of his T-shirt.
Her eyes rise to meet mine, the stunning aquamarine overflowing with questions, so I step forward and hold out my hand. “Sergeant Taylor.”
She slides her small palm along mine, and the warmth from her touch scalds me, sending flames licking up my arm as I wrap my fingers around hers. “Hope Sullivan. What’s this about, Sergeant?” When I release her hand—much too soon for my liking—she raises it to stroke Evan’s hair. “S-sorry, where are my manners? Would you like to come inside?”
“Sure. That’d be great.” She steps inside and holds the screen door open for me. I wipe my boots on the mat, then step closer to her and Evan. I’m immediately enveloped by her soft vanilla scent that’s reminiscent of my favorite cookie. Everything about this woman is femininity personified—from her delicate bone structure and petite frame to her curly, honey-colored hair and the fragrance she wears. My protective instincts kick into overdrive.
“Do you realize you left your front door unlocked?” I ask as we wander down the hallway, passing photo after photo of a young, loved-up couple, gradually aging into a family of three. The man wears a military uniform in several of the images, and one shows Hope wearing a pink tutu and pointe shoes. It’s like a timeline, showing their life over the years. Hope looks different in the images. Happier. Lighter somehow.
“Was it? I guess I forgot to latch it,” she says, unbothered, as voices filter from the living room where I assume the television is on.
“May I suggest you ensure it’s always locked, ma’am?” I tell her as I follow her into an open kitchen/dining room that leads back into the living room I passed on the way in. It’s light and airy, with mixing bowls and cooking trays spread across the countertops.
She reaches up into a cupboard, exposing an inch of pale smooth skin above her fitted jeans. “Yeah, sure. I usually have it locked. Do you want a cup of coffee?”
Since I’m on patrol, I shouldn’t stop for long. I should explain what happened and invite Evan to join my program, but I’ll be damned if I can tear my eyes from this beauty. “Sure, coffee would be great, thanks.”
“How do you take it?”
“Black, thank you.” I drag a stool out, adjust my pants that are growing tighter by the second, and sit at the counter next to Evan.
“So is anyone gonna tell me what’s going on?” Hope asks as she makes our drinks.
I nudge Evan. “Are you gonna tell your mom, or should I?” I lean in close to his ear and lower my voice. “It usually works out better if you come clean yourself.”
He looks up at me with a miserable expression and drops his shoulders in defeat, then tells her what happened.
She passes my coffee to me across the counter, and then slams her fists into her slim hips. “Evan Wyatt Sullivan,” she snaps. “We did not bring you up to be so disrespectful. How dare you steal property and disrupt someone’s business? I thought you were at Elliott’s house!” Her eyes narrow. “So now you’re lying to me?” Hurt reverberates in her voice, and I sense their relationship is a little fractured.
He drops his head, shifting on the stool. “I’m sorry, Mom.”
“Why would you lie to me?” she asks softly, her worried gaze locked on her son as she leans on the counter across from us.
One small shoulder rises and falls as Evan traces an imaginary pattern on the counter. “I’m just trying to fit in and make new friends.”
Hope’s eyes rise to mine, her face full of disbelief and pain. “What happens now? Will he be charged? We can go back so Evan can apologize, and I’ll pay for anything he stole.”
I shake my head. “Evan didn’t actually steal anything. According to the gas station manager, his friends were responsible for most of the trouble. Evan has already apologized for his part, and even though the manager was upset and angry, he conceded that a warning would be enough this time.” I look down at Evan. “Because it’s not gonna happen again, right?” I raise a brow and wait for him to respond.
“No, sir. It won’t happen again.”
“It better not, Ev. I’m gonna have to take your computer games away from you, and you’re grounded for a month.” I wince. I’m glad she’s taking this seriously, but that’s probably a little harsh.
Evan’s shoulders curl inward. “Yes, Mom.” He looks up at his mom, his eyes beseeching. “Can I still play soccer?”
Hope blows out a long breath and runs her fingers through her curls. “I guess. It wouldn’t be fair to let your team down, but that’s it, Evan. And we’ll be going back to that gas station so you can apologize again.”
He nods, still focusing on the countertop. “Can I go to my room?”
With an exasperated sigh, Hope nods.
Evan hops down from his stool and looks up at me. “Thanks for talking to the manager about not pressing charges and for bringing me home. I’m sorry.” He leaves the room with slumped shoulders before I can say anything further, and Hope sags against the counter as she watches him leave.
“I’m so sorry and embarrassed. You must think I’m a terrible parent, because I didn’t know where my son was or what he was up to.” Pink tints her porcelain cheeks, making her freckles stand out. Her bottom lip trembles, but she presses her mouth into a tight line, and I watch as her posture stiffens.
“Not at all. Kids can be pretty creative when they want to be, and I get the impression he’s learned his lesson. I don’t think he’ll repeat the behavior. I believe he’s trying to fit in with his friends.” I shrug. “Sometimes kids make a bad judgment call.”
“He started middle school, and it’s changed him. He’s been more moody and angry, but I never expected this from him.” She slides her fingers into her hair, holding them there for a moment, keeping the curls away from her face and exposing that smooth swathe of perfect skin at her waist again. “I don’t know what’s going on with him. I guess it’s hormones—or whatever.” She seems lost. They both do.
I adjust my position, preparing to ask a tough question. “Can I ask about his father? Evan said he died in Syria.” Maybe it only happened recently.
Her eyes instantly darken with sadness as she drops her gaze, and I watch her slender throat move when she swallows. “Yeah. Almost six years ago. He was … uh … he … uh … he … died in an explosion.” Her fingers flutter up to her delicate collarbones. “Evan was only five when we lost his father.” She swallows again, glancing at me, then quickly averts her gaze, but not before I see the tears forming.
I watch her curl in on herself, wrapping her arms tight around her body as if she’s trying to hold herself together. Every instinct in my body is fighting to peel her arms away and replace them with mine, but I lock those thoughts down. That would be highly inappropriate.
“I’m sorry for your loss. I can only imagine your devastation.” I don’t want to tell her I appreciate her husband’s sacrifice for our country; it doesn’t seem right to say the words, because I bet she doesn’t want to hear them. His sacrifice has cost her and Evan dearly. This is the other side of the cost of war, and it’s devastatingly painful.
Hope nods once. “It’s been … uh … difficult.”
I bet. Shifting on the stool, I grasp the back of my neck. “I promised the manager that Evan would participate in community service.”
Hope nods, her eyebrows drawn tight. “Fair enough. What do we need to do?”
“I run a program for kids around Evan’s age down at The Paw Palace every other Saturday morning. The kids spend a couple of hours with the dogs and cats, grooming them, exercising, and playing with them. They hang out with the animals and give them some much-needed attention. I started the program to help kids who were making poor decisions and finding themselves in trouble. It helps the team at the shelter give the animals some one-on-one time, too. It’s a win-win for everyone involved. I’d like Evan to join us, if you’re okay with it. I think it’ll be good for him.”
Her fingers slide into her hair again, clearly a nervous habit. “I feel like that would be more a reward than a punishment for Evan. He’s always wanted a dog.”
I smile softly. “I don’t have a problem with it being a reward, and you shouldn’t either.” Her eyebrows slant down, and she opens her mouth, but I hold up my hand. “Sometimes redirecting behavior works better than punishment does. Several kids in the program have lost a parent, and it’ll give Evan the opportunity to see he’s not alone. These animals are homeless. Some of them have experienced abuse. Working with the animals gives the kids a sense of purpose outside of themselves, and I find it helps the kids get out of their own heads. The kids in the group are supportive of each other, and they’ll welcome Evan into the fold. It’ll provide him with community—people his own age with similar experiences.” She nods thoughtfully, and I stand. I’ve lingered too long, and if I stay any longer, I may never leave. “Think about it. We’ll be there at ten a.m. next Saturday.” I rap my knuckles on the counter. “I hope I’ll see Evan there. You’re welcome to stay the first time so you can see what we do, but after that, I prefer the kids to be on their own. He’s more likely to engage with the other kids if you’re not there.”
She nods again. “Thank you. I’ll bring him down. It may be exactly what he needs.”
My stomach flips at the thought of seeing her again. Hope follows me to the front door, past the shrine of a family that once was, but no longer is.
I don’t think Evan is the only one in this house struggling with the loss of his father. It’s clear Hope is lost, too. I step over the threshold of the front door, reluctant to leave, but I’m on patrol and can’t linger here for the rest of my shift. I have paperwork to do.
“Thanks for bringing him home and for speaking with the manager on his behalf. I appreciate your compassion and understanding.”
One side of my mouth rises. “You’re welcome. If possible, I prefer not to take a hard line with kids. They make mistakes. We all do. It’s how we learn who we are and what we’re made of. It’s how we make sense of our place in the world.” I trace my eyes over her pretty face, cataloging her delicate features and storing them in my memory. “Enjoy your evening, Hope.”
“You, too. Bye, Sergeant.”
“You can call me Ben.”
She bites her bottom lip and nods. “Okay. Thanks, Ben.”
I head down the porch steps, and once I’m on the pavement, I turn around. “Make sure you lock your doors.” My tone is firm, brooking no argument.
She uses two fingers to salute me. “Yes, sir.”
My cock twitches in my pants, and I smirk at her sassy comeback. Oblivious to my reaction, she spins on her heel and walks back inside. I hear the click of the lock and, knowing they’re safely secured inside, I walk the short distance to my cruiser.
Once inside, I drop my head back against the headrest and blow out a long breath. I can’t remember the last time I felt that level of attraction. I glance up at the house one last time, then start the car, pulling onto the road. I can’t wait for next Saturday.