James Moore - Blood Red

She was on the verge of tears by the time she climbed out of her vehicle. He held out his hand for the purse, and she actually started crying by the time he pulled out the baggie with the cocaine inside it. Not enough to make a felony, but definitely enough to cause her a world of grief.

She didn’t cry quietly. She let out soft, high-pitched whines from her throat. Freemont looked down at her and shook his head like a teacher who’d found someone passing notes.

“You do know this is an illegal substance, don’t you?”

“Yes. I’m sorry. I forgot it was in there.”

“Oh, no reason to apologize to me,” he smiled as he spoke. “You should be saving all of that for your parents. I bet they’re going to be very disappointed in their little girl.” He found a second bag; this one with a decent amount of what he guessed was marijuana inside it. He dug in again, pulling out a pocket knife that was just past the legal length.

Brian held the bag up and watched the girl break down even more, savoring every noise she made. He gave her a few minutes to soak in the full impact of how fucked up her life had become with the simple act of speeding, and then he gave her back her purse.

“Are you taking me to jail?” Oh, her voice was so tiny, smaller than the squeak of a mouse. He looked her over for the first time, taking in the details of her tear-streaked face and her body. She was short, moderately heavyset with long blond hair and the sort of face that looked good when she cried.

“Well, now, it is my job. I’m supposed to arrest the bad people who break all the laws…” He made his voice stern, just for her, but couldn’t quite keep the smile off his face.

She broke down again and this time he put a hand on her shoulder, patting lightly.

“My dad’s gonna kill me. My dad’s gonna skin me alive.” Her voice broke and the words were slurred by tears.

“Well, you knew the risks when you started carrying illegal drugs and walking around with concealed weapons.” A little sterner now, more edge to the tones he spoke with because, of course, she had to understand the full gravity of the situation. “Long as you don’t have a record, they’ll probably let you off with a warning, but I do have to carry out my duties.” Her arm trembled beneath his hand.

“You do have a clean record, don’t you?” Oh, that one did it. She was crying into her hands, her whole body shaking. He made his face as neutral as he could.

Then he reached for the handcuffs. “Come on then, we’ll get this taken care of. You’ll be with your folks in no time.”

“No! Wait, please?”

He kept silent. It had to be her idea.

“Could we work something out?” Her voice was still shaking and ruined, but she had a little edge of strength coming back. No, not strength; resolve.

“Work something out? What did you have in mind?” He sounded doubtful himself now. It was important to make sure they thought it up all on their own.

Danielle Hopkins, her pretty face still red from crying, reached out with her hand and stroked the front of his pants. The contact got his attention as quickly as it always did.

“Say it. Tell me what you want to work out.” His voice was still stern, his demeanor as professional as possible when he considered where her fingers were massaging.

“We could… you know… and you could forget this happened?” Oh, and she sounded so desperately hopeful when she said it.

Brian reached for the front pocket of his shirt, his fingers patting the package of condoms he kept there. He wasn’t stupid enough to get caught in the act. And he wasn’t going to leave around any DNA evidence that could cause him grief later.

“I think maybe we could work something out, Danielle.”

And was that hope he saw in her eyes? Yes, yes it was. Because, really, it had to be better rolling in the back seat of a squad car with him than it would be riding in the back alone and heading for a holding cell.

It worked damned near every time.

Sometimes it was good to be a cop. He let his hand slide under her jacket, under her blouse, to feel one of her full breasts. Her hand started tugging at his zipper as he guided her away from the road and into a small copse of trees.

It was dark, no one would see what they did, but they would both remember for very different reasons.

Benjamin Kirby watched through his window as the sun started to rise. It was his morning ritual. The girl from his Lit class would be coming home any minute, and he wanted to see her. He always wanted to see her, because, of course, she was beautiful.

Mary Margaret Preston; even thinking her name made his insides feel electrified. She’d been stuck in his mind ever since freshman year, when he tutored her in calculus. She’d been funny, intelligent, and friendly. She’d also treated him like a human being, instead of like a door mat. So, naturally, he’d fallen for her in a big way. He’d fallen bad enough that he moved into the same apartment complex as her, just so he could see her from time to time.

Coffee. Coffee was his friend, and one that he abused regularly. He was abusing it right now, actually. Or he would be as soon as he refilled his cup.

He didn’t always wait up to see her. He wasn’t completely obsessed; just mostly.

Ben poured another cup of coffee and set his term paper aside. He turned off the lights in his apartment and waited near the window. He wanted to see the look on her face when she saw the package.

It wasn’t much. Just a poem he knew she liked, done on vellum with his best calligraphy and a few small illustrations that suited the piece.

She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that’s best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellow’d to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impair’d the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o’er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. And on that cheek, and o’er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent!

Lord Byron. Ben sighed and waited, and at last was rewarded for his patience. Even after a full night out, she looked like heaven to him. He held his breath as she came into view, afraid to even exhale for fear she would somehow see him in his darkened living room.

Margaret walked over to her door and had it opened before she saw the small rolled paper tube. She looked around; her pretty face set in a puzzled frown and then unrolled the poem.

It was nothing overly elegant. He’d kept it simple in design because, frankly, he didn’t know if she liked the extra scroll work and decorations. Better to err on the side of caution than to give her something she couldn’t use or would have no desire to look at.

He studied her, memorized the minutiae of her features, her dark curls, every aspect of her expression. And he smiled with her when she looked at the poem.

It was stupid to be in love with a woman who probably didn’t even remember his name. He hated himself for it.

But he was in love. He had no doubt of that at all in his mind.

He would do anything for her. Anything.

And one day, he would get up the nerve to tell her that.

But for now, he watched and he savored the few moments a day when he could see her outside of the classroom.

Ben watched Margaret walk through her front door, a tired, happy expression on her face. He left the coffee on the window sill and got ready to take his shower. Classes started all too soon and he had to be ready.