Chapter 25: Badass Bitch in Training

February 5, 1994

I trudged back to my office after the alley bullshit with Zoe and Karla Lewis, the cool evenin’ air still bitin’ at my skin through my half-buttoned blazer, the taste of milk and cum a bitter, lingerin’ memory on my lips as I shoved through the station’s back door, the heavy metal slamin’ shut behind me with a resonant thud that echoed down the grimy hall. The bullpen’s noise crashed over me like a storm—phones shrillin’ off the hook with desperate pleas and barked complaints, typewriters clackin’ in a relentless, mechanical rhythm, voices snappin’ orders or mutterin’ curses under the harsh buzz of fluorescent lights that flickered erratically, castin’ jittery shadows on the stained walls, as if the buildin’ itself was as weary as my fuckin’ soul. My boots clicked sharp on the chipped, scuffed linoleum, each step weighin’ heavy with the day’s burdens—Ricky Malone’s APB hangin’ in the air like a live wire, Leon’s shadow slippin’ closer with every tick of the clock, and the gnawin’ dread for Libra, Gemini, Aries, Taurus, Pisces, and Aquarius back at the ranch, their tiny, innocent faces a jagged blade twistin’ in my gut every time I let my guard down. Zoe peeled off without a backward glance, her faded jeans and tight black sweater cuttin’ a sharp, unyieldin’ silhouette as she headed toward the evidence locker, her radio cracklin’ with some mundane call about a stolen bike, her jaw clenched tight as she muttered somethin’ about checkin’ inventory logs under her breath, leavin’ me to drown in my own fucked-up headspace. She had her sheriff business to grind through, and I had mine—whatever the hell that meant anymore in this cesspool of sin and law I’d clawed into existence.

I reached my office door, the glass pane etched with “Sheriff Teresa” in flakin’ black paint, the letters peelin’ at the edges like old scars, and paused, my hand grippin’ the dented knob as I cast a long, hard look across the bullpen, takin’ in the chaos that passed for order in this shithole. The room was a stinkin’ hive of grit and desperation, desks buried under half-empty coffee cups, their stale, acrid bitterness waftin’ up to mingle with the tang of sweat and ancient paper, stacks of case files teeterin’ like they’d avalanche any damn second, and cigarette smoke curlin’ lazy in the air despite the no-smokin’ signs yellowed and curlin’ on the walls, ignored like every other rule around here. Officers bustled through the mess, a quick tally in my head countin’ about twenty on shift right now—twelve male deputies, their voices gruff as they barked into phones or hunched over reports with scowls, some in rumpled uniforms with ties loosened to slouch around their necks, others sprawled back in creaky chairs, scuffed boots propped on desks, tossin’ crude jokes about last night’s bar fights with gravelly chuckles. Eight female deputies held their ground in this testosterone swamp—two on phones near the front, one with short-cropped hair snappin’ at a rookie about a missed court date, her sharp tone slicin’ through the din like a knife, another three hammerin’ away on ancient typewriters, keys slammin’ with a staccato beat, their chipped nails clickin’ as they churned through arrest logs, and a couple more haulin’ evidence boxes, their uniforms strainin’ at the shoulders from the weight, faces set hard and unyieldin’ against the catcalls some dumbass males thought passed for humor. The split wasn’t even, never had been—guys outnumbered gals, but the women here were forged steel, tempered in a place that chewed up softness and spat out the bones. A radio crackled near the dispatcher’s desk, static spittin’ updates on a vandalism call, while a grizzled vet by the coffee machine—male, pot-bellied, probably on his third divorce—grumbled about paperwork, sloshin’ black sludge into a stained mug, the bitter drip mirrorin’ the sour twist in my own mood. It was a fucked-up machine, this station, grindin’ through crime and corruption with rusted gears, and I was the jagged cog at its rotten heart, watchin’ it all with eyes that had seen too damn much filth to ever look away.

My gaze drifted, narrowin’ to a razor edge as it landed on Karla Lewis near the back, her toned frame leanin’ over a desk cluttered with incident reports, her dark skin catchin’ the harsh light as she scribbled somethin’ with a chewed-up pen, her uniform still slightly askew from our earlier mess in my office, a faint flush of heat lingerin’ on her neck like a silent confession. Her focus was sharp, but I caught the hunger in her posture, the way her eyes flicked up now and then, searchin’ for somethin’—maybe approval, maybe trouble, maybe me. Her uniform clung to her curves with practical severity—crisp navy shirt tucked into tight-fitted navy pants, the fabric huggin’ her strong thighs and round ass, a utility belt slung low on her hips with a holstered sidearm and cuffs clinkin’ soft as she shifted, scuffed black boots planted firm on the floor, a no-nonsense look that couldn’t hide the raw energy simmerin’ beneath. I stepped to the doorframe, leanin’ against the chipped wood, feelin’ the rough grain under my palm, and called out, voice rough as gravel over the bullpen’s racket, “Lewis, get in here. Now.” Heads turned brief, a couple male deputies smirkin’ like they knew some dirty secret, but Karla snapped to attention, droppin’ her pen with a clatter as it rolled off the desk, her hand jerkin’ awkward to catch it mid-air and missin’, a clumsy fumble that made her mutter a quick “Shit!” under her breath, her cheeks darkenin’ slight as she straightened, boots scuffin’ quick across the floor, nearly trippin’ on a stray cord but catchin’ herself with a flustered huff, dark eyes meetin’ mine with a mix of nerves and heat as she followed me in, the door shuttin’ behind her with a heavy click, cuttin’ off the outside noise like a guillotine.