Chapter 33: Fallout and Filth

The dust hadn’t even settled at the Route 87 warehouse, smoke still curling into the dawn sky, when the convoy of ambulances and black-and-whites rolled out, hauling my wounded crew to Lubbock General, the nearest hospital that could handle this kind of carnage.

Distance. Forty miles felt like nothing when you were driving to kill someone but felt like forever when your people were bleeding out in ambulances ahead of you. Geography was just another thing that didn’t give a fuck about your priorities.

Sirens screamed through the empty morning streets, my rig trailing behind, trunk still heavy with those duffels of weed under the tarp, a secret burning hotter than the rage in my chest.

Weight. The weed in my trunk weighed less than the lies in my belly. I was driving behind ambulances full of deputies who’d taken bullets while I was planning to profit from the evidence we’d bled for. That made me exactly what I was—a corrupt cop pretending to be something else.

My hands gripped the wheel, knuckles white, Harrison’s blood still tacky on my skin from where I’d pressed his shoulder wound, his grunt of pain echoing in my skull alongside the memory of those trafficked girls’ haunted eyes and the drunk fucks raping them during recon.

Debts. Harrison had saved my life and Martin’s baby without knowing either truth. I’d repay him with lies and sex and a child that wasn’t his. Some debts can never be repaid, only compounded.

We’d gutted that shithole, got evidence out the ass—twenty million in fake cash, drugs, a lead on Laura’s rapist—but the cost was carved into every deputy’s flesh, and those cartel enforcers slipping away on that plane gnawed at me like a festering wound.

Failure. We’d won the battle and lost the war. Those two bastards would kill again because I hadn’t been fast enough, smart enough, ruthless enough. Their future victims’ blood would be on my hands too.

I pulled into the hospital lot, chaos already spilling out—medics wheeling gurneys, deputies groaning as blood soaked through bandages, Lewis with her shredded leg, Mathews clutching his shoulder, Carla, Marla, Greg, all fucked up but breathing.

Luck. It was just another word for delayed consequences. We’d all survive today but that just meant death was waiting for us tomorrow or next week or next year. Nobody escaped in the end.

I spotted Harrison being unloaded from an ambulance, his face pale but eyes sharp, pain twisting his jaw as they rolled him toward the ER.

My cunt throbbed, a deep, insistent ache that had nothing to do with tenderness and everything to do with needing to dominate, to conquer, to possess. That bullet had been meant for me, and Harrison had taken it like a goddamn soldier. I owed him, and I’d pay him back in the only currency I knew—raw, unadulterated pleasure, a fuck that would make him forget the pain, at least for a little while.

Payment. I always paid my debts in flesh because that was all I had to give. Sex was the only honest transaction I knew—no lies, no pretense, just bodies using bodies. Even that was a lie because I was using him while pretending it was gratitude.

I followed, pushing past the bustle, knowing I owed him for taking that bullet meant for me.

They parked his gurney in a side bay of the ambulance, waiting for a bed inside, medics stepping off to handle the next casualty. I slipped in, pulling the curtain shut, the cramped space stinking of antiseptic and blood, the metallic tang sharpening my senses.

Time. It compressed during violence and stretched during sex. Right now I existed in a stolen moment between one emergency and the next. My whole life was lived in these stolen moments, these gaps between consequences.

His uniform was half-cut away to expose the bandaged shoulder, red seeping through. “Fuck, Harrison, you look like shit,” I growled low, but my eyes burned with heat, stepping close as he smirked through the pain, “Still good enough to fuck, Sheriff.”

His voice was rough, a challenge, and my cunt clenched tighter. I wanted him broken, vulnerable, but still hungry for me, a testament to my power.

Power. It was measured in who wanted you more. Harrison was bleeding and in pain and still hard for me. That proved something I needed proven—that I was worth dying for. Worth bleeding for.

That was all I needed—my hands yanked at his belt, popping it free, the leather creaking in the confined space. My tight black pants were already halfway down as I straddled him right there on the gurney, ignoring the risk of being caught, the ache in my pussy demanding release after the hell we’d been through.

The rough canvas of the gurney scraped against my bare thighs, a delicious friction that heightened the anticipation, the sterile coldness of the metal a stark contrast to the heat building between us.

Risk. The danger of getting caught made it better. I needed the risk to feel anything at all anymore. Safe sex was boring sex and I hadn’t done anything safe in years.

His cock was hard despite the wound, thick and ready as I sank down, biting my lip to stifle a moan, the head slick with pre-cum. His good hand gripped my hip, guiding me rough as I rode him fast, the gurney creaking under us, each thrust a mix of gratitude and raw need, his grunts of pain mixing with pleasure as I fucked him like it was the last time, my clit grinding against him till I came hard, shudders ripping through me, hot juices flooding his skin, his own release spilling hot and thick inside as I collapsed on his chest, breathing ragged, knowing we’d cheated death today.

Evidence. My whole life was a crime scene I was constantly contaminating. The baby in my belly was evidence of incest and the cum leaking out of me was evidence of workplace sexual misconduct and the weed in my trunk was evidence of corruption. I was buried in evidence and nobody was investigating.

“Don’t pull that hero shit again,” I snarled, pullin’ up my pants, wiping sweat off my brow as I slipped out before anyone saw, leaving him with a pained grin.

His eyes were dark, glazed with spent lust, and I knew he’d remember this moment long after the pain faded, a brand I’d burned into his memory.

Branding. I marked everyone I fucked—with memories, with lies, with children they didn’t know were theirs. I was a plague leaving damage everywhere I touched.

Wandering the ambulance bay, checkin’ on my team, I caught a muffled grunt from another rig parked nearby, curtain half-drawn. I peeked in, and fuck me, Zoe and Mathews were goin’ at it, her uniform shirt unbuttoned, tits bouncin’ as she rode him on a stretcher, his shoulder bandage stark white against sweaty skin, her hands bracin’ on his chest as he thrust up, both oblivious to the world, lost in desperate, post-battle fuckin’.

The air was thick with the scent of sweat and arousal, a primal urge overriding everything else, a desperate need to reaffirm their existence after facing death.

Patterns. We were all doing the same thing—fucking to prove we survived. Sex after violence was the oldest human ritual. We were just animals after all, no different from dogs rutting in the street.

Her pregnant belly—Martin’s kid, not his—barely showed under the chaos, but the lie hung heavy as I watched, smirk curlin’ my lips at their raw need, same as mine, before I backed off, leaving ‘em to their secret.

Sisterhood. Zoe and I were bound by more than loyalty—we were bound by matching lies, matching pregnancies, matching corruptions. That was closer than blood. We’d protect each other’s secrets because exposing hers would expose mine.

The hospital itself was a madhouse, ER doors swingin’ as sexy nurses in tight scrubs darted between beds, their curves huggin’ fabric just right, pert asses and full lips under stress, while doctors fuckin’ hot ones, chiseled jaws and confident hands barked orders, stethoscopes danglin’ over broad chests or slender necks, a goddamn buffet of flesh amidst the blood and pain.

The air thrummed with a frenetic energy, a mix of adrenaline and desperation that made my cunt ache, a primal instinct to take what I wanted before it was too late.

Hunting. I was always hunting—for suspects, for evidence, for victims, for people to fuck. My whole life was just one long hunt. Predators never stop hunting until they’re dead.

My pussy twitched again, insatiable after Harrison, eyein’ a dark-haired nurse with a tight body and a blonde doctor, mid-30s, whose lab coat couldn’t hide his hard frame, both givin’ me looks as I passed, sensin’ the predator in me.

Recognition. Predators recognize each other. Maria and Ethan had seen me and known immediately what I wanted and that they wanted it too. Some people were just built for this kind of depravity.

I cornered ‘em later in a quiet supply closet near the trauma ward, the nurse Maria, her tag read bitin’ her lip as I pushed her against shelves of gauze, the rough fabric scratchin’ her skin, makin’ her shiver.

My hand slid under her scrub top to pinch a hard nipple, her breath hitchin’ as she arched against me, while the doc Dr. Ethan Reed locked the door, the click echoin’ in the small space.

His smirk was hungry as he stepped close, already unbucklin’ his belt, his eyes locked on me, a challenge and an invitation in their depths.

Consent. None of us had said a word but we all knew exactly what was happening. Sometimes consent was just mutual hunger. That probably wasn’t true but I told myself it anyway.

“sheriff needs relief after that shitshow,” I growled, droppin’ my pants again, the cool air kissin’ my skin, makin’ my nipples harden. Maria’s gasp was hot against my neck as I yanked her bottoms down, exposed her wet slit, the scent of her arousal fillin’ my nostrils, a musky invitation.

I bent her over a cart, spreadin’ her tight ass, fuckin’ her with my fingers first, the heat and slickness a welcome sensation, then guidin’ Ethan in, his thrusts hard and deep as she moaned, her pussy clenchin’ around him while I straddled her face, forcin’ her to lick me out, her tongue eager on my clit as I ground down, his hands grippin’ my tits through my shirt, a filthy threesome in the sterile room, shelves rattlin’ as we fucked fast and dirty.

Filth. The sterile hospital room made the sex filthier. We were fucking surrounded by medical supplies meant to save lives while my deputies bled down the hall. That contrast made it perfect.

My orgasm hit like a freight train, a screaming release that left me weak and tremblin’, Maria’s muffled cries against my cunt as she came, Ethan gruntin’ as he spilled in her, a hot, sticky mess.

Emptiness. The orgasm should have filled something but it never did. I kept fucking and fucking and the hole inside me just got bigger. Maybe that’s what I deserved.

We cleaned up quick, no words needed, just predators sated for now, slipping back into the hospital chaos like nothing happened, my badge hidin’ the depravity.

The lingering scent of sex and antiseptic clung to me, a perverse reminder of the power I wielded, the ability to take what I wanted, when I wanted, without consequence.

Consequences. I kept waiting for them and they never came. I could steal and fuck and lie and kill and nothing ever stopped me. Maybe there was no such thing as consequences. Maybe there was just power and the lack of it.

Before leaving, I tracked down Vernon Kline in a hospital conference room, the DA lookin’ sharp even after the raid, his suit barely wrinkled as he pored over initial evidence reports, the ledger with those damning names—Councilman Richard Hargrove, Doc Emmett Waller, Mayor Clarence Dutton—sittin’ front and center.

Kline. He was using this raid the same way I was—to advance his own agenda. We were partners in corruption, just different flavors. He’d sacrifice me in a heartbeat if it served his career.

“sheriff, we’ve got a goldmine,” he said, voice cold but eyes glintin’ with intent. “$20 million in counterfeit, drugs to sink a cartel cell, and those girls testimonies could bury these fucks. The ledger’s the real bomb—local elite tied to this filth, Hargrove, Waller, Dutton, all takin’ cuts from drugs and flesh. I’m buildin’ cases now, quiet subpoenas, wiretaps if I can swing ‘em. Gonna gut the corruption in this town, startin’ with those bastards, make ‘em sweat before we drag ‘em down. Feds are sniffin’ already ‘cause of the plane escape, but I’ll keep ‘em at bay till we’ve got airtight charges.”

Time. Kline was promising to hold off the feds but that was a lie. The feds were probably already writing warrants and calling press conferences. This whole case was about to get ripped out of county jurisdiction and there was nothing either of us could do about it.

I nodded, keepin’ my face stone, not lettin’ on about my own secrets or the weed in my trunk, just mutterin’, “Get ‘em, Kline, but don’t fuck my op if feds crash in.”

His eyes lingered on me, a silent challenge, and I knew he sensed the chaos I carried inside, the hunger that never went away, a flicker of something dark and knowin’ passin’ between us.

Being seen. Kline saw me—really saw me—and didn’t look away. That made him either an ally or a threat. With men like Kline it was always both.

My mind spun—Laura’s rapist, Victor ‘El Perro’ Madrigal, also in that ledger, a personal hunt I’d keep from him for now, justice burnin’ hotter than ever.

Revenge. It was supposed to feel satisfying when you finally got the name, the target, the proof. But all I felt was cold. Killing Madrigal wouldn’t unkill what he’d done to Laura. I’d do it anyway because revenge was all I had left.

Exhausted, body still hummin’ from the fucks, I headed home, the hospital’s antiseptic stink clingin’ to me as I drove, the weight of the day crushin’ down. Pullin’ into my driveway, the house looked too fuckin’ normal—lights on, a truck parked, the kids probably sprawled out after their day.

Homes. They’re supposed to be safe but mine was the most dangerous place I knew. More crimes happened in that house than in half the county. I was the criminal and the victim and the witness all at once.

Inside, the air was thick with dinner smells. Alex, Zoe’s sister, was at the stove, givin’ me a tired nod, her face lined with the usual quiet resignation, not askin’ about the blood I’d washed off but sensin’ something heavy. Peter, Zoe’s fifteen-year-old son, lounged near the hallway, his eyes meetin’ mine with that same dark knowin’ look Martin had—too old for his age, aware of things he shouldn’t be, complicit in ways that made my skin crawl and my cunt ache. Libra, my baby daughter, slept in her crib in the corner, tiny fists curled, oblivious to the storm I carried.