Chapter 9 Simmer Down and Pucker Up #2
Isla was waiting for them, bundles of paperwork all lined up in smaller piles across the high-topped desk. Taylor gave her a discreet and encouraging nod as they entered.
“Mr Pearce,” she said, nose wrinkling.
“Gooood to s-hee you again, Sarge. Haven’t seeeeen you out and ab-hout much lately,” he slurred.
Isla gave a curt smile and clicked the top of her pen. “Yes, well I’m afraid administration prevents me from getting out.”
“Shaaaaame—hick. Miss seein’ yer pretty face, around the—hick—high street.”
Isla grimaced. “Yes, I’m sure. Well, Mr Pearce, seeing as you’re now in police custody it’s my responsibility to look after you during your stay.”
Sylvester let out a loud laugh, and Taylor had to grip his elbow to stop him from toppling over. “Hah! You can lo-ok afffffter me any-t-hime you like, shweetie.” He went on to mutter something about great tits and tight cunts, so Taylor grabbed the back of his neck and forced his chin to his chest.
He and Johnny glanced at one another, silently debating whether to just throw the old sex-pest into a cell and save Isla the hassle, but, to her credit, she held her own and got through the booking-in process without any issues.
“You know shweet-heart…” Sylvester slurred as Johnny re-tightened the foil blanket. “If you weren’t su-hutch a misses-miserable bitch, you might get a good seeing to. Pop a kn-nnnot right in that—”
“Okay,” Johnny said, whirling Sylvester towards the intox machine just as he made a grab for his dick again.
Isla rolled her eyes and tapped the papers together. “Would you believe he’s only forty-one?” she said, shaking her head.
Taylor baulked. “Fuckin’ hell, he’s had a hard paper round.”
“Hard life of raping and boozing, more like. I interviewed him in prison not long before he was released. His name came up in connection with the Reuben Atkinson incident in Falkington.”
Taylor went cold, because the name, and the man that was Reuben Atkinson was not someone he could think about without the image of Samantha’s dead body flashing through his mind. He shivered.
“Sorry,” Isla said, her grip tightening on the bundle of papers. “Sylvester was cleared, anyway. He was in prison at the time of Atkinson’s attack. Just a rogue DNA hit that came up after we examined his swabs.”
“Right,” Taylor said, running his tongue over his rapidly drying lips. “I’ll just… Yeah.”
His eyes went to the floor as he slipped into the little side room that contained the intoxilyser machine.
Johnny was already mid-way into explaining the procedure when Sylvester opened his legs and started rubbing himself over the top of the foil blanket.
Taylor frowned, because he could safely say that he’d never seen a beta act that horny before. Like he was in heat, or rut.
“For fuck’s sake,” he said, pointing to the huge, dusty machine. “Look, pal, you just blow into the fucking tube and the machine tells us how pissed you are. Got it?”
Sylvester sneered. “Yeah, I know howww it fuckin’ works, piggy.”
Johnny sucked his teeth, reaching towards Sylvester and clamping his thumb and forefinger around his jaw. “What he said.” He squeezed Sylvester’s cheeks as Taylor pulled the plastic tube towards him. “Now simmer down and pucker up, sweetheart.”
To absolutely no one’s surprise, Sylvester had been way too drunk to be interviewed, so he and Johnny had thrown him straight into a cell. Now they were in the cloakroom, bagging up their stinking uniforms after scrubbing themselves raw with a hosepipe in the yard.
Taylor pulled a spare shirt out of his locker and yanked it over his head.
“Peace offering,” he said, reaching back into his locker and grabbing the chicken tikka baguette that he’d bought at the petrol station earlier that morning.
He poked Johnny in the cheek with it. Johnny eyed it, frowning as he looked at the bite marks at one end.
“It was the spiciest thing they had,” Taylor continued. “Buuuuut…” Rummaging around in his locker, he pulled out a bottle of hot sauce. “Here,” he said, peeling back the bag and splashing it onto the sandwich.
Johnny huffed, his mouth twitching. “Thanks,” he replied, leaning forwards to take a bite. He chewed before pulling a clean shirt over his head. “So, are you going to tell me where the fuck you’ve been?”
Straight in for the kill.
Taylor nibbled his lip, eyes turning glassy. The locker room really did need some TLC, because the paint was peeling and the carpet had come away from—
“Taylor,” Johnny said, tapping him across the nose with the baguette. “Stop spacing out. I asked why you didn’t come home.”
Taylor cleared his throat, trying to look at the wall, but was blocked by Johnny getting all up in his face. Eventually he settled on staring at the tiny divot in Johnny’s chin, the one that made him look like a Roman sculpture.
“Because I didn’t want to,” he replied quietly.
Johnny sighed, taking the hot sauce out of Taylor’s hand before placing both it and the sandwich into his locker. He hooked both hands over Taylor’s shoulders. “Why not?” His voice was quiet and cautious.
Taylor shook his head. “Because I didn’t… want… to see what I’d done to you. Fuckin’ hell, dude. It’s embarrassing, okay?”
Johnny licked a fang. His tongue was all pink and wet and kind of looked like he’d been salivating. “How is it embarrassing? You were clearly stressed and I—”
“Because I fucking bitched you, JP.” He shivered as he said it, because it was a word his dad used to use.
“I chewed up your scent gland again. I acted like one of those goddamn alpha-holes that think they can bite omegas just to get what they want. It’s fucking illegal.
I bet your wolf was going berserk.” He was whisper-shouting, and he toed the door closed so none of the others could hear.
Johnny’s hand drifted to the marks on his neck. They’d mostly healed but Taylor could still see the indents running down the cord of his throat.
Suddenly, Johnny shoved him into the wall, one hand splayed over his shoulder. “Do I look like I’ve been bitched to you, Tay? Does it look like you’ve made me into a dribbling, stuttering mess?”
Taylor tipped his head back against the wall and looked up at the halogen lights.
“Look at me,” Johnny growled, hand flying out to grip his chin.
He pressed a knee between Taylor’s thighs, one hand gripping his hip to stop him from getting away and—no, Taylor was not getting a weird feeling in his balls.
He was absolutely, not finding it difficult not to bury his face in Johnny’s neck again, and he was not having inappropriate fucking thoughts.
Taylor squirmed, his jaw working like he was having fucking cocaine withdrawals.
“Do I look like an omega?” Johnny continued, taking the pressure off Taylor’s groin.
“No,” Taylor replied, letting out a sharp breath.
Johnny held his gaze. “And do I look like I’m going berserk?”
“N-no.”
Johnny dipped his head before pushing off the wall. He tucked his shirt into his trousers and said, “That’s right. Now, let’s talk to Amil about getting Sylvester the Molester sent away, because fuck knows if I can remember how to pull together a case file.”
Taylor nodded dumbly, back still pressed against the wall as he watched Johnny stalk back into the report-writing room.
And that was that.
Good talk.
Misunderstanding cleared up, and no unusual feelings in his dick whatsoever.