Total pages in book: 45
Estimated words: 41952 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 210(@200wpm)___ 168(@250wpm)___ 140(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41952 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 210(@200wpm)___ 168(@250wpm)___ 140(@300wpm)
He drank a bottle of water and stood in front of his laptop still set up on his breakfast bar from earlier and logged into his personal email. It was just as blank as it always was except for the junk. He opened his local meeting app only to find zero interest clicks on his profile. He stared at the images of him in his uniform, smiling around his cup of coffee, and for the millionth time wondered if he should change it. Maybe he shouldn’t tell anyone he was a cop until after maybe the third date.
Feeling mentally wary but his body still too wired to sleep, he changed out of his uniform into a heavy sweatsuit, deciding to grab Pixie and go for a run. Thankfully, he only had two days left of checking in on the pup, but he’d admit he rather enjoyed her company. Mason set an easy pace as the late-night silence settled over him and the brisk nip in the air filled his lungs with each quick inhale. It was an amazing high, and he could already feel his mind drifting to a calm place.
He rounded the corner on Glenwood Avenue, deciding to avoid any potential danger tonight while he had Pixie. He could start doing intel and asking around to his sources again on Monday.
“You’re out awfully late, Mason,” a sexy English accent whispered in his ear, sounding as if it was coming from directly inside of his brain.
“Fuck!” Mason hollered, jumping five feet backward as if someone had magically appeared in front of him. He flailed like a moron and fell into some low bushes along the sidewalk. He was so grateful the streets were deserted, and it was only Pixie that’d seen him go down like a drunk failing a sobriety test. Her cocked head and blank stare were enough to still make him feel ridiculous.
Mason crawled out of the bushes, sitting back on his haunches with Pixie nuzzling against his side. “Damnit, Free. What the fuck?”
“Sorry.” Free chuckled. “I tried to say it quietly. I was simply updating the software on your earpiece and saw you were out.”
“At almost four in the morning,” Mason gritted out, brushing his scraped palms.
“Hey. Are you alright?” a male voice asked as two strong hands gripped Mason’s biceps, helping him to his feet. Pixie sniffed and brushed against the stranger’s thigh as if she knew he wasn’t a threat. “Did you see what happened? Did someone push you?”
“No, no, no. I’m fine. I just tripped.” Mason was staring down at his now filthy sweatpants, dusting them off best he could. He glanced up and got a good look at his Good Samaritan, intending to extend his thanks when his breath hitched on a set of kind but sad eyes.
It was him.
As if they recognized each other at the same time, a slight smile graced his face before it fell way too quickly. “Officer Mason. Sorry. I um… I—”
He remembered my name.
“I wasn’t doing anything. I was just across the street slee—I mean, sitting on that bench over there when I heard someone scream,” he stuttered, already inching away like he’d made a mistake. “I just came to see if anyone needed help.”
Doesn’t sound like the traits of a criminal. Mason instinctually stepped forward. “No, really. It’s fine, I mean I’m fine. I tripped.” He held up Pixie’s leash. “She wouldn’t let anyone creep up on me.”
The guy smiled again, but it never quite reached his eyes. He had the look of a man that was bone-tired and down. This tall blond had a story, and it must be an unfortunate one that had caused him to end up here… sleeping on a bench in a struggling neighborhood in Atlanta.
“So ask him what’s a nice man like him doing out so late on a Friday night?” Free said in Mason’s ear, causing him to jump again as if he had Tourette’s.
“Knock it off,” Mason hissed.
Free’s laugh was like a goddamn gnat in his ear. “Um, you do know the person in front of you cannot hear me or even see that you are wearing a comms device… soooo, it just looks like you are a bit barmy and talking to your imaginary friend.”
Mason groaned.
The guy held out one long, leather-clad arm and touched Mason’s shoulder, staring down at him, dare he say affectionately. “You sure you didn’t hit your head or anything?”
Mason stared transfixed like an inexperienced idiot. He couldn’t understand how this young man’s touch heated him to his core, yet he stood before Mason trembling from the cool temperature that’d slipped into the fifties tonight. His teeth chattered noisily, and it seemed that neither of them wanted to mention the obvious. There was definitely some attraction going on, but the guy was homeless, or at minimum a drifter, and Mason was an officer of the law. How would any of this look?