Chapter 9 Simmer Down and Pucker Up
SIMMER DOWN AND PUCKER UP
Taylor
Taylor stared up at the long shutter of the holding bay, waiting for it to shudder to life. Running a finger around the inside of his blue latex glove, he pumped his fist over and over until little bubbles popped up between his knuckles.
He couldn’t stop himself from bouncing on the spot, agitated as shit as he waited for Johnny and Wendy to appear with the prisoner. Three days of thirty mile runs in wolf form had barely taken the edge off, and his fangs still ached from the memory of being rammed into Johnny’s flesh.
Being at work didn’t help, because he had to smile and nod and look good to the general public all day, when in reality all he wanted to do was punch something, or binge eat, or rub his face all over Johnny’s stupid face until the other alpha laughed and punched him in the head.
Remembering that he was still meant to be a police officer, and that the sergeant was standing right behind him, he stopped abusing his glove and pulled his face into a strained smile.
“Don’t look so happy,” Isla said, leafing through a large wad of paperwork.
“This is going to take bloody ages because we’ve got no Wi-Fi at this end of the station, no detention officers, and not to mention the nurse is going to have to come over from HQ because of his diabetes.
” She let out a long groan. “Plus Sylvester Pearce stinks.”
Taylor flexed a hand again, making the bubbles pop and shred the glove. “It’ll be fine, Sargie. Between the five of us we’ll sort it.”
Isla shook her head. “Amil’s not going anywhere near that guy. You and Johnny will have to handle the booking-in procedure, and I’ll… I’ll just…” She let out a breath. “Try not to fuck everything up.”
Taylor stopped messing with his gloves and looked at her. “Nervous or something?”
She pressed her lips together and stared down at the paperwork. “Yeah. It’s my first prisoner as a sergeant, and I… I just want it to go right.”
She was shifting from foot to foot, looking all anxious and shit, which made Taylor’s fingers twitch even more.
Not because it pissed him off, but because he had the sudden and distinct urge to pull her into a hug.
She looked like she needed one. He wanted to ruffle that shaved patch on the back of her neck and tell her it was all going to be alright.
“How can this be your first prisoner? You’ve been the sergeant here for, what, four months?”
Isla nodded. “Yeah, but like I said, they prefer that we deal with things holistically. The annual crime rate is less than two percent.”
Taylor blew air into his cheeks and laughed. “Sargie, it’s easy to say you have low crime when you don’t record anything. I might be thick as shit but even I know that.” He slapped a hand across his mouth. “Sorry.”
Isla withered. “I know. I know. I’ve tried telling the superintendent, but he said the order came from the assistant chief con. Our stats make Falkington look better as a whole.”
Taylor shook his head. He may not have been a great police officer—hell, he wasn’t even a good one—but even he could recognise when someone needed locking up.
He had been about to go off on a long tangent about how much he hated inspectors, but instead he pumped his fist some more until the glove finally split completely.
Isla heard the pop and looked down.
“Anyway,” he said, drawing her eyes back up to his. He leant forwards and tapped a knuckle to her chin. “I know we can be a handful, but I’ve got you. We all do.”
She blinked, a faint blush spreading across her cheeks. “Thank you. That means a lot. I know we’re probably not the sort of team you were expecting, but we—me and the others—we’re trying to make it work.”
Taylor shrugged. “It’s all good. Wendy’s cool. Amil’s still a little frosty, but he’s only threatened to murder me twice today, so I think that means he’s warming up?”
Isla laughed, gripping the bundle of papers to her chest. “Good. He’s an incredibly capable officer when he puts his mind to it. Wendy too, even though they’ve both had it rough.”
Taylor wiggled his eyebrows. “Oh yeah? Care to spill the beans?”
Isla gave him a lopsided smile. “Absolutely not, you nosy sod.”
“There she is.” Taylor chuckled, sticking out his tongue. “I knew there was a feisty side to you.”
Suddenly, a car engine revved outside and the shutters began to open.
“Here we go,” Isla said, tapping her boot heels together. “Meet you inside?”
Taylor nodded, tugging on another pair of gloves. “Yep. I’m all the welcome party they’ll need.”
The summer air whooshed in from behind the shutters, ruffling Taylor’s hair and kicking up dust in the garage. It seemed to take an eternity for the shutters to roll up and the anticipation was fucking killing him.
Scrubbing a hand over his neck, he tried not to think about what had happened in the alley. About how he’d quite literally lost control of his fucking wolf and sunk his fangs right into Johnny’s mating spot.
Again.
In anger.
Again.
He shivered, trying not to acknowledge how good it felt to have Johnny’s hot flesh between his teeth, the taste of it on his tongue. How he’d smelled.
God, his scent had been—
He still shouldn’t have done it. But Taylor knew why he had. Every time he had a build-up of stress or anger or was about to go into rut it was like his computer virus short-circuited his brain and his wolf took over to find the quickest, easiest way to self-regulate.
Well, his wolf could go fuck itself because it seemed to like to gnawing on Johnny like a chew toy. It was why he’d taken the wolf out for a nice three-day-long run, because it’s easier to lose your shit when no one is watching.
Not that his wolf hadn’t tried to double back multiple times. Fucker.
Johnny deserved better, and every time Taylor tried to be better, it felt like something else went wrong.
Still, he couldn’t run away forever. Johnny would want to talk about it eventually, because Johnny just loved fucking talking about shit, and Taylor had to eat two foot-long subs, three packets of crisps and a whole family sized bag of peanuts just to mentally prepare himself for that talk.
He did appreciate having a bacon sandwich thrown in his face, though.
The car rolled in, the old blue and yellow Battenburg all shiny and bright and barely used, and not to be a fucking quitter, Taylor cracked his fingers and strode on down the ramp.
He immediately regretted it.
Oh fuck. What a fucking smell.
He caught Johnny’s gaze through the windscreen. He had a mask on, but Taylor could see the pleading look in his eyes. Taylor began backing away, but then Wendy jumped out of the passenger side and stumbled into the corner of the garage.
“Oh shit,” she said, doubling over and vomiting all over her own boots.
Johnny slowly opened the door and stepped out, all stiff and slow as though he was trying to keep his own guts inside his body. Then the smell really hit. Alcohol and shit.
Taylor changed from slowly backing away to rapidly stumbling up the ramp, suddenly feeling the need to have absolutely no part whatsoever in whatever fucking cesspit they’d brought back with them.
“Oh no you don’t,” Johnny said, lunging forwards and grabbing his arm.
“What the fuck have you done?” Taylor said, digging his heels in as Johnny yanked him by his shoulder harness.
“Something very stupid,” he replied, pulling another blue mask out of his stab vest and handing it to Taylor. “Wendy’s out for the count, so it’s just you and me.”
Taylor looked over at Wendy, who was still vomiting in the corner. “Should I get her a glass of water or something?”
“I’m fine, darl’,” she replied, pressing a hand against the wall. “Just get Sylvester inside and open all the windows.”
Taylor swallowed and slowly cracked open the rear door of the car.
His first thought was Oh shit, the car. The poor, spotless, almost showroom quality vintage car was a literal shitshow.
No, a shit bath. It would have to be de-commissioned.
Or sold. Or just fucking burned because what was sitting inside could only be described as an overweight homeless man wrapped in a foil blanket with a bag taped to his arse.
Taylor grabbed Sylvester’s shoulder and started to pull him out. It was a mistake because the medical tape that was keeping the bag attached to his rectum came unstuck, sending the bag of shit tumbling onto the concrete floor and all down Taylor’s leg.
Taylor heaved, then heaved some more.
“White zinnn—fan—del,” Sylvester said, hiccuping. “Used—to—be me mum’s—favourite.”
“Touching,” Taylor said, turning his head into his shoulder. “Right, in you go, fella.”
He gripped Sylvester’s arm and led him up the ramp towards the metal door. He was extremely unsteady on his feet, and Taylor had to lock out his arm to stop Sylvester inadvertently pressing up against him.
“Not bin in wan of dees for a whiiile,” Sylvester slurred. The blanket rustled when he wiggled his hips. “Is it Sarge—Sarge—Sergeant Wilson serving me today?”
Taylor frowned. “No one’s serving you, dude. But yeah. Why?”
Sylvester grinned, shaking his hips some more, and Taylor realised he was shaking the foil blanket out of the way so his shrivelled cock could poke through.
“Give her a little tr—treat, hey?”
It was like the curtains came down on Taylor’s calm demeanour, and before he could stop himself he had Sylvester pinned up against the wall. “I don’t fucking think so, pal.”
Johnny growled and strode up behind him, tugging the blanket back around Sylvester’s waist so tightly it looked painful.
“Yeah, not a fucking chance, cock-breath,” Johnny said, hauling Sylvester around and shoving him through the door into the custody suite.
Taylor felt a little pang of pride, because Johnny was usually the polite one, but he folded his smile away for later as he followed them inside.