They met under rather unusual circumstances. Graham can still feel the grip of those powerful hands clamping down on his body. The electric thrill of cold metal pressing against his skin. That moment when the adrenaline redlines and your pulse thrashes painfully against your temples. And "he" is so close that Graham can feel the searing heat of his breath against his neck. It's a pity that what falls from those perfect lips isn't a sultry "I want you, Graham," but rather:
"You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand the rights I have just read to you?"
"Hey, easy there, Officer. Don't go scratching my delicate skin," Graham quips, making a futile attempt to wriggle out of the hold and blow a kiss.
In response, the cop roughly grabs him by the collar and shoves him into the backseat of the cruiser. They drive in silence, which doesn't particularly surprise Graham. After all, what is there to say to a piece of trash like him—someone who actually got turned on by a routine arrest?
But in his own defense, Graham would tell anyone to just look at this young officer. The man's physique is perfectly etched through the fabric of his shirt; his trousers hug lean, muscular legs, and his hair is windswept from the brief chase. And then there are those blue eyes. Deep and bottomless as the ocean. Graham spends the entire ride admiring them in the rearview mirror, feeling himself start to drown. That gaze pulls him into a whirlpool with no hope of rescue. Honestly, he'd be willing to commit a few more crimes just to feel those strong hands pinning him against a car hood again.
"Officer, maybe you could just let me slide? I'm telling the truth. I didn't break into that house. It's been vacant for ages."
Of course I broke in, he thinks. That junkie Mike owes me a mountain of cash, and I just went there to grab something of value. I'm not a charity; a guy's gotta eat and sleep somewhere.
"You ever heard of squatters' rights?" Graham persists.
"Zip it. Save the story for the judge."
"Your whole damn system is rotten to the core. You should be out catching real criminals, not poor students living paycheck to paycheck, eating crusts of bread because they can't pay the bills." He tries to pour on the pathos, appealing to the cop's conscience.
"You're not a student."
Sharp one, isn't he?
"But I could have been! If it weren't for this broken system!"
"Your chatter doesn't work on me. But hey, if you pull that sad face for a jury, it might just stick."
"And why would it work on them, but not on you?"
"Because. I deal with ten guys just like you before lunch."
Oh no, darling. You'll never have another one quite like me.
"And they all whine about the same thing: how unfair life is," the officer continues. "Next time, try to be a bit more original."
Graham, for his part, is willing to spout any kind of nonsense just to keep hearing that captivating voice. He wonders: does the cop realize how incredibly sexy he is? He probably does. You can see it in that look—the unwavering gaze of a man who knows exactly who he is.
They pull up to a red light. The stop gives Graham fifteen seconds to admire the man's broad shoulders. Suddenly, the man behind the wheel turns around with a faint, knowing smirk.
Damn. Did he catch me staring? It's getting way too hot in this car. When are we finally getting to the station? Graham thinks, his heart racing.
When they finally exit the car, Graham lets out a breath of relief. The ride had been a genuine ordeal. Being trapped in that confined space with this officer, trying to keep his composure, was no small feat.
"Officer White!" someone calls out, nodding in greeting. "Get him to the interrogation room."
The officer grips Graham's shoulder firmly, steering him into the building with practiced force.
"Seriously, White, take it down a notch. I'm not running. Otherwise, I'll have to leave a one-star review for this precinct on TripAdvisor: 'Not recommended. Poor service.'"
The cop just lets out a dry chuckle.
"You've really lost it, haven't you? Cracking jokes in a spot like this?"
Graham falls into a pouted silence. The officer doesn't understand that Graham is practically starving for attention; hence, the childish behavior.
He walks as slowly as possible, dragging his feet just to get a rise out of White. Graham is desperate to prolong these moments, to savor the heat of that touch. He knows that once the interrogation room door slams shut, they'll go their separate ways.
"Name."
"Graham."
"Last name."
"Young."
"Age. Prior convictions?"
"Twenty-five. Clean record."
"For now," a mocking voice interjects from behind. It's a man with a graying goatee, letting out an unpleasant laugh.
The precinct is a cacophony of noise. Phones ringing off the hook, the desperate shouts of the local dregs, the smell of burnt vending-machine coffee. Someone is sobbing; someone else is crinkling a candy wrapper. Mostly, it's just a sea of profanity. The sounds bleed together until it's almost impossible to focus.
Heavy footsteps echo down the hall as Graham is led away from the chaos.
Then comes the standard routine: the booking, the fingerprints, and a little photo op for the archives. Finally, a heavy door thuds shut behind him, the lock clicking into place with finality. He is left alone in a dim room with nothing but his thoughts. Only now does the gravity of it all start to sink in. This isn't a game. He's actually in a police station. He's actually under arrest.
A bit late to realize I'm in deep shit.
Graham loses track of time in that stale, windowless room. Eventually, the door screeches open, and the man with the goat beard saunters in. He sits across from Graham with an air of unearned importance and tosses a file onto the table, straight out of a B-list detective movie.
"Let me guess. My file?"
"Since I've got such a bright spark on my hands, let's get straight to it, Mr. Young." He spits the word "Mr." with pure sarcasm. "I need you to give up the main dealer. Do that, and the breaking and entering becomes a simple misdemeanor."
"I want a lawyer."
"Of course you do. What else? You want me to do your laundry? Order you dinner? Sing you a lullaby?"
"That'd be lovely, but let's stick to the lawyer for now."
The detective's face flushes with anger, making his goatee twitch. He looks more like a goat than ever, and Graham decides his personality matches the face perfectly.
"Oh, and one more thing. I'm only talking to Officer White."
"You think you're in a position to set conditions, you little punk?" the man hisses through gritted teeth.
"You want me to talk, don't you? Well, I'm only talking to him."
"Damn it, Ashley White," the detective mutters, storming out and making sure to slam the door for emphasis.
Graham is left alone in the void again. It becomes so quiet he can hear the heavy thudding of his own heart. Fear begins to creep into the edges of his mind, sparking desperate, half-baked ideas of escape.
He doesn't know how long he can play this game before they realize he has absolutely nothing to offer. He's never been in a spot this tight, and he isn't sure what the right move is, but his gut tells him to trust the sexy Officer White.
So, your name is Ashley. I'm looking forward to our first date, hottie.