Chapter 18: Time Out

They hadn’t spoken about it. Not once. Not the kiss, not the way her hand had been on his cock while he came inside Lena, not the way she’d leaned into him and whispered for him to kiss her like a lover.

Part of it was logistics. Wednesday had been a blur—Judith’s bullshit in the morning, the ambush at her door, Lena slinking into their private lives like some kind of high-class succubus. Then sex, way too much sex for one morning, until Maggie had staggered off to bed, wrung out and shaking, knowing she still had a ten-hour shift waiting that night. Scott had showered, picked up the kids, played the dutiful dad. She’d crashed hard, and when she woke up it was already time to get up and head for the station.

And so the subject never came up.

Not Thursday morning either. After her Adam-Watch shift she made her regular rendezvous with Stacy at the gym. They never actually went inside.

Stacy hadn’t lost any of that hungry glow since coming out to herself. If anything, it had only gotten stronger. She was like a teenager in heat, obsessed with sapphic sex, desperate to make up for years of denial. And Maggie ... Maggie couldn’t say no. Not to that tall basketball frame, those big hands that could palm her ass like a ball, that eager mouth.

The minivan smelled like girl sex before they even started. Maggie caught it the moment she slid into the back seat—the humid, musky trace of their last tryst still clinging to the upholstery. She made a mental note to talk to Stacy about it, maybe buy one of those giant cans of fabric cleaner before her husband noticed, but then Stacy’s mouth was on her neck and her mind went blank.

Her pussy had been sore from Wednesday—Lena’s relentless hunger, fingers and scissors and everything else. But Stacy had a way of making sore feel good, working it until the ache melted into slick heat. She ate her like a starving woman, lips and tongue wet and greedy, until Maggie was biting her own wrist to keep from screaming in the gym parking lot.

By the time she stumbled home, still trembling from release, Scott was at the stove flipping pancakes, the kids clattering bowls at the table. He looked at her once, just once, and she saw the shadow in his eyes—the same memory burning in hers—but neither of them said a word. She poured coffee, kissed the kids’ heads, and went straight to bed. She wanted to stay up, to wait him out and talk, but exhaustion dragged her under before he even left with the kids.

Thursday afternoon, she came downstairs around five. Scott was making tacos, chopping beef and browning it in the skillet, the smell filling the kitchen. She sat at the table with tea, shredding cheese and cutting onions while the kids ran in and out like a revolving door. Every time she thought about steering the conversation, another interruption. Another glass of milk spilled, another Nerf dart fired across the room. And so the silence continued.

At six sharp, Mom arrived. Her timing was always precise, her smile warm, her arms open as the kids tackled her around the waist. Maggie loved her for that—for the easy way she stepped in, the comfort she gave.

“You look tired, love,” Mom said quietly, catching Maggie in a quick hug on her way through the kitchen.

“I am tired,” Maggie admitted, letting her lean warmth steady her for a moment. “It’s been one of those weeks.”

Mom chuckled, patting her shoulder. “That’s why I’m here. Go keep the streets safe. I’ll take care of these little tornadoes.”

It was such a Mom thing to say—simple, unassuming, and exactly what Maggie needed to hear.

By the time she and Scott left for briefing, the silence between them had stretched thin and taut, both of them full of words they hadn’t said. They drove in separate cars—Thursday routine, in case one of them got held over. And that was that. No talk. No acknowledgment. Just another night in Northwood ahead of them, both pretending nothing had happened while knowing everything had.

The sheriff’s substation was humming by the time Maggie pulled into the lot. She parked, grabbed her go-bag, and headed straight for the women’s locker room.

Civvies off, uniform on—that ritual had always steadied her. She tugged the khaki shirt into place over her Kevlar vest, fastened the buttons, cinched her belt. She then put on the gun belt. The weight of the Glock, the mags, the cuffs—it was like snapping herself into a war machine.

She wasn’t alone. Boulder was already at her locker, boot up on the bench, lacing with a tug that could’ve pulled a mooring line taut. Carter was perched nearby, checking her hair in the little mirror taped inside her locker door. Byers and Minden were halfway through changing too, the four of them chatting like sorority sisters instead of deputies.

“Winslow,” Byers grinned, yanking her Kevlar down over a t-shirt and a sports bra. “We were just saying—you never talk about your love life.”

“Yeah,” Minden chimed in. “What’s the deal? You got anyone on the line? A little Taster’s Choice International maybe?”

Maggie shook her head, pulling her boots from her bag. “No love life to speak of currently.”

“Bullshit,” Byers said immediately, mock-scandalized. “You always say that shit when we ask. That means there’s something good you’re not telling us.”

Boulder gave her a look, half amusement, half challenge. “C’mon, Winslow. You’re one of the only real lesbians on this shift. And you’re hot so it makes us horny to hear about it. Throw us a bone. Give us a story.”

Maggie smirked, taking her flashlight off the charger. They weren’t going to let it go. “You want a story? Fine.” She straightened, leaned back against the locker, arms folded. “I’m currently fucking one of the MILFs in my neighborhood. She just realized she’s a clam licker, and she will not stop licking my clam until I squirt her with a hose.”

The locker room erupted in laughter and mock cheers.

“Damn!” Byers crowed. “That’s what I’m talking about!”

“Name!” Minden demanded. “We need a name.”

Maggie shook her head firmly. “No names.”

“Tease,” Carter said.

Maggie let the grin sharpen. “And I’m also boning the same MILF Dover’s boning. He knows about it and is cool with it. She even fucked him right after I got done fucking her. Is that hot or what?”

The room went quiet for a second, then Boulder barked out a laugh. “Oh, please. You don’t expect us to buy that.”

Byers groaned, disappointed. “Yeah, now you’re just making shit up. Way to ruin it.”

Carter gave her a look, lips pursed. “Honestly? Sometimes I don’t think you’re a real lesbian at all.”

That stung more than Maggie wanted to admit, but she only smiled faintly and snapped her flashlight into place. “Believe what you want, ladies.”

They filtered out together, the ribbing still echoing as they headed for the briefing room.

There were about fifteen deputies in there already, settling in. The air smelled of burnt coffee and starch. Seniority mapped itself out in the rows: the rookies and younger deputies up front, veterans sitting toward the back.

Scott was in his usual spot, second row—his four years of time on the job entitled him to that spot. No one without at least one five-year hash mark on their sleeve could sit beyond the second row. It wasn’t in the operations manual, but it was a rule nonetheless. Maggie slid into the seat next to him without a word. This too was their Thursday routine, as established as Mom showing up at six sharp and the two of them taking separate vehicles.

The buzz in the room was scattered, deputies swapping scraps of intel before the brass walked in. Stinson was holding court in the third row, talking about a dead body call that he had been on his last shift. The man—they were pretty sure it was a man—was found in the drainage canal out by the airport. “Homeless motherfucker by the look,” he said, shaking his head. “Been marinating down there awhile. Stank was goddamn biblical.” A few grim chuckles rolled through the room.

Rollins, the ten year veteran who worked District 3 Adam-Watch by choice, spoke up from the back row. He told them that bodies ended up at that spot three or four times a year. The bums in the west part of Northwood, over by the homeless shelter and the Salvation Army, sometimes fall into that canal while they are drunk, drown because they can’t get out if the water is chugging along, and end up over by the airport, where there are weirs to trap them. There’s a rumor going around the Northwood homeless population that a serial killer is stalking them and that the homicide cops are ignoring it whenever one of them calls it in.

Maggie and Scott did not participate in the discussion. The air between them was taut as a tripwire. He leaned her way slightly, kept his voice low so it wouldn’t carry.

“You doing okay?”

Am I okay? she thought. I stood naked against this man’s back yesterday and put my hand on his cock while he was fucking one of my female lovers. And I liked it. And we kissed. Not a kiss of friendship, a sexy kiss. And I liked that too.

She made herself breathe steady, eyes fixed on the front of the room. “I’ve got a lot on my mind,” she admitted, voice low. “But ... yeah. I’m doing okay.”

“Good,” Scott said, giving a slow nod. “Me too. A lot on my mind. Maybe we 11-98 tonight, if it’s slow? Talk it through a little?”

“That sounds like a good idea,” she said quietly.

Before either of them could say more, the door opened and the room quieted automatically. No one stood or saluted. That just wasn’t done in the culture of the HCSD. Lieutenant Ransom strode in with Sergeant Yee at his side, clipboard and coffee in hand, looking like he hadn’t been impressed by anything since Dubya. Yee followed in crisp uniform, the eyes and ears that made sure Ransom’s word carried weight.

“Alright,” Ransom said, setting his cup on the podium. “Let’s get this circus rolling.”

The briefing was quick—hits from swing shift, watch your corners on Stanton and Hadley, more car prowls in Northwood, keep eyes open around the canal since word of the body was bound to draw gawkers. He didn’t waste time or words.

When he was done, Ransom swept the room with his lined eyes. “It’s hopping out there. Watch each other’s backs, don’t get complacent, and no matter what happens, make sure you go home at the end of your shift.”

That was it. Clipboard closed. Chairs scraped as the deputies rose, heading out into the night. Maggie and Scott joined the current, flowing toward the exit, the smell of burnt coffee and Clorox giving way to the cool December air as they made for their units.

Time to hit the streets, where the two swing shifts—Charlie and Delta-Watch—were still hopping and Adam-Watch would come in to have some fun too.

The Adam-Watch didn’t ease in—it hit the ground at a sprint. Calls were pending and dispatch sent them flying every which way.

Maggie’s first one was a 415-domestic that had been holding for twenty-five minutes. She rolled across half the district, headlights slicing through dark December streets, and found a woman with one eye already swelling shut. Boyfriend had clocked her—again. He’d been arrested multiple times before, and everyone on the shift knew his name as well as her name. She was a professional victim. Everyone knew she was never going to leave him. And if she did, she would just hook up with someone just like him within a month.

Tonight he was GOA—gone on arrival—and she wouldn’t say where he had gone. Wouldn’t cooperate with the investigation. Wouldn’t even look Maggie in the eye when she said they were going to charge him with domestic violence anyway. It was the law. She just sat there, quiet, stubborn, letting the medics shine a light in her eye, then waving them off when they offered transport.

Maggie took the report. Protocol. “Call us if he comes back,” she told the woman. The woman nodded, but Maggie could see it in her face. She wouldn’t call. She never did.

Back in the car, she rubbed her temples, keyed up and already behind the clock.

Next was a suspicious person at the Walmart lot—Carter had the call and Maggie was assigned for backup. They found him sitting in a beater sedan, spun halfway out of his skull, pupils like dimes. Driver’s license revoked. Searchable probation. The trunk was stuffed with about a thousand bucks in shoplifted crap, and the center console had a meth pipe and enough product to keep him tweaking until Easter.

Since it was Carter’s call, she handled the reports and sorted out the vehicle and evidence. Maggie, as cover, put the cuffs on the guy. Standard drill—she patted him down, made sure no weapons or stray dope were tucked away, and then stuck him in the back of her unit for the ride to jail.

Booking didn’t eat her whole night—just the waiting game. Carter’s paperwork was the heavy lift. Maggie only had to file a short arrest form with the charges and list out the dirtbag’s personal property: wallet, lighter, pack of cigarettes (actual Marlboros—classy shit), and a jar of dispensary marijuana. Brain Ripper no less. Mom had once told her to stay away from Brain Ripper (as if Maggie might accidentally stumble into a pot party off-duty and decide to take a few hits). Maybe she should have told Mr. Dirtbag Tweaker that.

She killed the time catching up with a few of her old coworkers from when she’d done her own stretch in the jail, trading a couple laughs about the spun-out mess she’d delivered.

She cleared the jail. Then two more calls. Then two more after that.

Her shift blurred into a steady churn—domestics, suspicious cars, noise complaints. She didn’t see Dover once. They were sent to no calls together. No 11-98. Not time to even send a few texts back and forth until one in the morning.

Finally, after 1:00 AM, the streets started to breathe again. Dispatch cleared them for dinner.

Brookdale’s All Nighter was one of their spots—a cop friendly greasy spoon with cracked vinyl booths and a neon sign that had probably been buzzing since the seventies. Technically it was across the line in District 2, but the sarge wasn’t going to bust their balls for it. Everyone needed to eat somewhere. And Brookdale’s gave them free coffee and half off on meals. Yes, it was technically against policy to accept meal discounts, but it was the most violated policy that had ever existed in any organizational structure. Getting free or half priced meals was a time honored tradition in law enforcement and the sergeants and lieutenants not only looked the other way, they participated.

They parked out front, two green-and-whites lined up under the glow of the buzzing sign, and made their way inside. The place smelled like coffee, fried onions, and exhaustion. Perfect for a cop’s half-life at two in the morning.