Chapter 6 Emilio
SIX
EMILIO
I’ve always hated ride-alongs. They’re a pain in the ass—plain and simple.
Just another excuse to throw untrained civilians into the middle of situations they’ve got no business being in.
Liability magnets. Distractions. Extra weight in a job that already demands everything you’ve got.
But when your boss tells you to take one, and your overly eager partner agrees before you can object, you don’t argue.
You grit your teeth, swallow the irritation, and deal with it.
So yeah—I wasn’t exactly thrilled when Rodriguez told Kline and me we’d be saddled with a ride-along for the first half of the shift. I didn’t bother hiding my annoyance. I didn’t want to.
But what I didn’t expect was that the rest of my shift would be haunted by the girl in the backseat—uninvited, persistent, and impossible to ignore.
Raelynn Carson.
All attitude and sharp edges, stuck in my thoughts like a goddamn splinter the second we dropped her off at Rodriguez’s office. I didn’t want to think about her, but she embedded herself in my mind anyway, uninvited and stubborn.
And beautiful.
God, was she beautiful. But not in some soft, delicate way—but in that quietly devastating kind of stunning that sneaks up on you and leaves a mark.
She had a full color, half butterfly, half cherry blossom tattoo on her left forearm and a black and white lunar moth on her right bicep.
Her dark brown hair had been thrown up in a messy bun that begged to be undone, strands escaping just enough to tease.
I kept catching myself wanting to run my fingers through it, to grip it and see if she’d still glare at me the same way.
And those lips…
When she spat my name out like it left a bad taste in her mouth, all I could do was stare at her mouth. Soft, full, pink. The kind of lips made for kissing. Biting. Bruising.
It took every ounce of self-control to will my cock not to pitch a tent in my pants like some hormone-wired teenager seeing a tit for the first time. And the second I caught myself drifting too far into those thoughts, I did what I always do when things get complicated: I shut it down.
Shut her down.
I was an asshole to her. No sugarcoating it.
Blunt. Cold. Dismissive. Not just because the morning had already gone to hell before she even showed up, but because the second I laid eyes on her, something in me short-circuited.
She got under my skin without even trying, and I didn’t know how to deal with that, so I defaulted to the only thing I knew: keep her at arm’s length. Push before I could be pulled.
She didn’t deserve that.
She could’ve gone straight to Rodriguez with a complaint. Could’ve thrown me under the bus during her debrief or dragged my name through the dirt for being the exact kind of cop most interns expect to hate.
But she didn’t.
And I’ll be damned if that didn’t catch me off guard.
Especially after I laughed at her career choice, as if it were some kind of joke. Like her ambition didn’t matter. Hell, I don’t know what the fuck I expected her to say when I pushed, but it wasn’t that. Wasn’t her snapping back with fire in her voice and pain in her eyes.
And that’s what did it. That moment. That shift.
I saw it—clear as day—in those hauntingly beautiful emerald eyes.
There was more behind her words than irritation.
There was weight. Grief. The kind of pain that doesn’t come from a hard class or a bad breakup.
This was older. Deeper. The kind of ache that nestles into your bones and stays there, quietly rotting you from the inside out.
The kind of hurt you carry like a second skin, invisible to most but impossible to ignore once you’ve seen it.
I don’t know her story. I don’t know what shoved her toward a career in homicide as if it were her only lifeline. But I know the look of someone who’s been through the fire and still has the burns to prove it.
And I hate that I want to know more.
By the time I finished typing up my portion of the shift reports and filing statements, and logging the last of the shift data, it was already creeping past six. My head ached, my shoulders were tight, and the building hum of frustration hadn’t quite faded, even after clocking out.
The locker room was in its usual state of organized chaos—officers filtering in and out during the shift change, a blur of banter, boots, and duty belts.
The air smelled of sweat, cheap deodorant, and the bitter bite of burnt coffee.
Lockers slammed shut, radios squawked, and conversations overlapped in a steady hum.
I move on muscle memory, peeling off my uniform, folding it neatly, and stuffing it into my backpack to wash later. I pull on a fitted black t-shirt that clings to my chest and arms, followed by a pair of dark gray jeans.
I slide my feet into my black Vans, then lean against the bench for a second, rolling my neck to work out the tension still sitting there like it pays rent.
Across the room, Kline’s locker swings shut with a dull clank. He’s fastening the buttons to his plain light gray dress shirt when I glance over, his expression relaxed in that annoyingly zen way he always seemed to carry post-shift.
“Kline,” I call out, catching his attention as he fastens the last button on his shirt.
He looks over. “What’s up?”
“You got plans tonight?” I ask, zipping my backpack shut.
“Nope,” he says, lifting his boot onto the bench to start lacing it. “Why?”
“Thinking of grabbing a drink.” I pause. “You in?”
Kline raises an eyebrow, his mouth twitching. “Depends. You buying?”
I snort, shaking my head. The corner of my mouth lifts despite myself. “One round. After the kind of day we had? Feels like we earned it.”
He finishes tying his left boot, then glances around the half-empty locker room—the last of the shift-change crowd trickling out. After a beat, he shrugs. “Sure, why not.”
I slip my arms through the straps of my backpack as he grabs his duffel off the floor.
“Cool,” I say, as I head toward the door to the locker room. “Meet you at Zeke’s?”
“That works,” he replies, slinging the bag over his shoulder and following me out.
We step out into the hallway, the noise of the shift change fading behind us.
Outside, the air is cooler than it’s been all day—a welcome break after being out in the heat all day in wool uniforms and bulletproof vests.
The dry heat still lingers, but it’s mellowed, the edge taken off by the slowly setting sun.
Streetlights flicker on above us. Patrol units idled nearby, radios crackling faintly, headlights cutting through the dusky haze.
We cross the lot in silence, but my mind’s anything but quiet. She’s still there, pacing circles in my thoughts like she’s got a damn key to the place.
Reaching into the side pocket of my backpack, I pull out the keys to my Black Silverado as Kline peels off toward his dark gray Grand Cherokee, giving me a quick chin lift before hopping in.
I climb into the cabin of my truck and fire it up. The engine growls to life, and a few seconds later, the radio kicks on. The chorus of “Numb” by Sleep Theory spills through the speakers, too, on the nose to ignore.
For a second, I sit there, letting the engine idle while I adjust the vents and roll my neck. Then a sharp honk makes me glance up—Kline, already pulling out, his hand stuck out his window as he gives me a wave.
I blow out a breath and throw my truck into reverse, then follow.
About fifteen minutes later (would have been less if I didn’t have to make a pit stop at the gas station), I’m creeping into the gravel lot behind Zeke’s, which is tucked between a pawn shop and a tire outlet.
For a Tuesday night, the place is surprisingly packed.
The lot’s nearly full, and I have to circle twice before I finally snag a spot near the back, wedged between a rusted-out F-150 and someone’s beat-up Impala.
I throw the truck into park, kill the engine, and hop down from the cabin.
Gravel crunches under my Vans as I shift my weight and shut the door with a dull thunk.
I lock my truck, then make my way toward the front entrance.
Neon signs flicker above the door—one half burnt-out, the other buzzing like it’s on its last leg.
Country music bleeds through the cracks in the door—something twangy and upbeat, paired with the low hum of conversation and clinking glass. The scent of stale beer hits before I even open the door, thick and familiar. Not exactly pleasant but oddly comforting after the day I’ve had.
I yank the door open and step into the semi-lit haze of the bar. Neon signs flicker above the counter. A TV in the corner is playing some muted baseball game, and the crowd is a blend of off-duty workers, regulars, and a few cops still in partial uniform.
A few familiar faces glance up and nod when they see me, fellow officers already halfway through a beer. I politely nod back but don’t stop because Kline’s waving me down from a table tucked into the back, already posted up with a half-empty bottle of Dos Equis.
He raises it in salute as I approach and knocks back the rest in one long swig before setting the bottle down with a clunk.
“What happened to me buying the first round?” I ask, a smirk pulling at the corner of my mouth.
“You got the next one, compadre,” he replies, flashing a grin.
I roll my eyes and head toward the bar, weaving through tables and elbows as I dig my wallet from my back pocket. The music shifts to something slower, and I signal the bartender before settling against the counter, trying not to think about how much I’ve needed this drink.
“What’cha havin’, darlin’?” the bartender drawls, her thick Southern accent wrapping around the words like honey.