Chapter 4 #3
Taylor blinked, sucking in a breath. “Alright, chill out,” he said, backing all the way to the end of the road. “Don’t use your alpha bullshit on me, JP.”
He threw an arm behind Johnny’s chair, pulling one hell of a corner reverse before finding another track that ran parallel with the main road. It was quieter, with allotments running alongside it.
“Is this place even real?” Taylor said, refusing to look at Johnny as he slowed the car and let it coast again. “Why does this town even have its own division? It doesn’t need a fucking police station.”
They drifted past several more bungalows, most of which had immaculately groomed lawns and perfectly pruned hedges. There must be a gardener. Or maybe even a whole army of gardeners.
Johnny sighed, rubbing his chin. “I guess we’re about to find out.”
Well, they found the police station in all its Victorian-style glory.
It had that weird new-old feel with its red brick, lead flashing and a sprinkling of oppression thrown in for good measure.
An oldy-worldy drop lantern with POLICE emblazoned in blue stuck out from the side, with wrought iron railings running alongside a ramp all the way up to the dark wood door.
Taylor whistled as they drove around the side and into the private carpark.
“This is a film set, right? There’s no way this is actually a functioning police station.”
Johnny shrugged, “Looks better than West Newton. There’s a space there.”
Taylor parked up, still feeling self-conscious about his beloved Ford Focus as he nestled it between the police cars.
All three of them. Old, like something from a nineties cop show, and all eerily pristine as though they’d never seen a car chase in their lives.
“Is this it?” Taylor said, shutting the car door as quietly as he could. “Three cars for an entire division? I bet they don’t even have a shifter run. Or showers. Fuck, is there even a custody block? I didn’t see one. Did you?”
Johnny tugged him to the front of the car, his fingers resting on the small of Taylor’s back as they looked up at the police station. “It’s going to be fine, Tay.”
Taylor ran his tongue along his bottom lip, chest rumbling quietly. “Okay,” he said, picking a piece of cereal out of his back tooth. “Let’s do this.”
The heavy wooden door groaned as he pushed it open. “Hello?” he said, coughing as a cloud of dust hit his nose. The waiting room was also film-set-esque, with its metal framed benches, umbrella bin and looping coat rack. There were no coats or umbrellas, or any staff for that matter.
Johnny stepped in behind him and ran a finger over the old-fashioned oak counter, sneezing when it came away in a thick layer of dust. He wiped it across one of the benches.
“I don’t think it’s manned,” he said, dipping behind the reception desk.
“There isn’t even a computer. And is it that a… is that a fucking rotary phone?”
Taylor coughed again, shuffling between the benches and towards an open door at the far end.
“Shit,” he said, pitching forward as he tripped over something wedged across the doorframe.
He frowned and ran his foot over it, revealing a leather-bound book, no, a tome with the words ‘William Blackstone, Commentaries on the Laws of England, ed. 1873’ embossed in discoloured lettering.
Taylor smirked, because it was pretty fitting given that the British justice system was worth about as much as a doorstop.
“Come on,” Johnny said, tugging at his elbow.
He led Taylor through a door that had peeling frosted glass, and Taylor couldn’t help but pinch the corner between his fingers as he walked past. It made a satisfying shuck sound as it ripped off in a long strip.
Johnny smacked his hand, grabbed the strip and scrunched it into his pocket. Then he took Taylor’s hand and hooked it over his belt. “Do not. Touch. Anything,” he said, pulling Taylor along like a naughty child.
Once inside, it wasn’t all that different from West Newton.
Musty air, shitty tiled carpet, walls the colour of soap scum and brown stains along the skirting boards.
It was kind of comforting—not that Taylor’s wolf agreed as it pushed against his skin.
It always did that when they went somewhere new.
Fucking baby.
They rounded the corner, almost running into a cluster of filing cabinets labelled Crime Reports.
“This is great,” Johnny said, letting out an incredulous laugh. “Any fucker could walk in, help themselves to some confidential paperwork and walk back out again.”
Taylor laughed. “Bet they’re empty.”
He knuckled the top of one of them, the sound reverberating like a gong down the empty corridor.
Johnny stopped abruptly, making Taylor collide with his back. When he looked up they were face-to-face with another two doors—one read Report-writing Room, and the other Cloakroom. Both were slightly ajar.
Voices drifted from within the report-writing room, followed by soft laughter. It didn’t sound like it was directed at them, but Taylor stepped back, letting go of Johnny’s belt. His stomach fluttered, then twisted as though a swarm of locusts had been let loose in his intestines.
Johnny looked over his shoulder, eyes softening. “Let’s get our stuff first. Make sure it’s been brought over.”
The tension in Taylor’s stomach eased a little. “Yeah. Yes, let’s do that.”
They needn’t have looked far, because the cloakroom consisted of a few gold hooks, some lockers and a floor-length mirror with the words ‘Do you feel proud of your appearance today?’ written across it.
And if Taylor was being completely honest, yes, he was feeling pretty proud of his new haircut and he looked ripped as shit in Johnny’s too-tight shirt.
They found their stab vests and utility belts slung in a heap in the corner of the room.
“Dickheads,” Taylor said, picking up Johnny’s body armour and handing it to him. “Bet it was those officers from yesterday.”
Johnny slipped on his stab vest then ran a hand through his hair, making a few curly strands poke free from his hairline. There was a deep crease between his brows, and before Taylor could stop himself he pressed his thumb to it.
Johnny’s mouth twitched, but Taylor just stuck out his tongue and rubbed the crease even harder.
Johnny slapped his hand. “Stop that,” he said with a soft snort.
Taylor did not stop, instead picking at a stray piece of lint that had gotten stuck to Johnny’s stab vest. Then he found one of his own bright orange hairs lodged in his collar.
He removed it, but then decided to stuff it back in.
He ran his hands over Johnny’s arms, squeezing his biceps and feeling the solidness of them under his palms.
They were good arms. Thick. Strong.
Oh God, his wolf was scent marking him.
He grabbed Johnny’s elbow, lifted it and sniffed his armpit.
Good. Fresh. Although it smelled like he’d accidentally used Taylor’s shower gel that morning.
Running his nose up and down his neck, Taylor sniffed his hairline too, just to be sure, then checked behind his ears for bits of lint.
He pressed his thumb and fingers into Johnny’s mandibles, cracking open his jaw to check inside his mouth.
Teeth all present and correct.
“Tay…” Johnny slurred.
“Mhm,” Taylor mumbled, turning Johnny around and pressing him against the wall to check the back of his vest. He ran his hands over the POLICE patch and wiggled his fingers into the Kevlar plates around his shoulders and ribs.
“Tay, I wasn’t expecting to be frisked this morning.”
Taylor ignored him, turning him around again and pressing his face into Johnny’s neck. Johnny’s skin pebbled, which meant he must be cold, so Taylor wrapped both arms around him in a bear hug.
“You done?” Johnny mumbled against his shoulder, pressing his palm to Taylor’s hip. His chest was heaving a little, and he looked as though he’d been attacked by a horde of angry pigeons.
Taylor reached up to pat his hair back into place, but Johnny grabbed his wrist and held it. His eyes were dark as he pressed his forehead to Taylor’s.
“I asked if you’re done scent marking me, Taylor?”
Taylor let out a breath. He didn’t do it often, but his wolf was restless and the action of running his hands and face over someone familiar helped.
“Sorry,” he said, pulling back and brushing the tip of his nose with his thumb. “I won’t ruin this chance for you. I know you think I’m gonna go crazy, but I’m not.” His voice was quiet as his gaze drifted to somewhere over Johnny’s shoulder.
Johnny puffed out a breath, the minty scent of it tickling Taylor’s nostrils.
“I don’t think that.” He reached up and cupped the back of Taylor’s neck, the weight of it comforting.
“Look at me. You aren’t going to mess this up.
You’re going to get kitted up. You’re going to smile, and you’re going to walk in there and charm the pants off them.
” His mouth tipped into a small grin. “Although not literally, because that’s what got us into trouble last time. ”
Taylor smirked and was about to say that yes, yes he was going to smile and turn up the charm when there came a quiet cough from the doorway.
His gaze flicked from Johnny, and he nearly jumped out of his skin at the sight of a dark-haired woman leaning against the doorframe.
His eyes trailed from her bemused smile down to her shoulders, where the sergeants’ epaulettes sat.
Taylor pulled away, but Johnny’s hand twitched on the back of his neck, holding him there for the briefest of moments. It wasn’t long enough for it to become awkward, but enough that Taylor still felt the warmth of his fingertips when he finally pulled away.
Letting out a breath, Taylor conjured the biggest, toothiest smile he could manage and said, “Morning, Sergeant.”