Commanding the Curvy Girl (Spoon Heroes)

Chapter Nine

Molly

I don't know what Easton and Dillon are doing, but I know they're up to something the minute they leave the parking lot together. Not even five minutes later, Dillon keys up on the radio, confirming my suspicions.

"Unit 100 to dispatch."

"Go ahead," I say, generating a call for whatever headache they're about to cause me. They always give me a headache when they're together.

"Show me en route with Unit 232 to an address off of Robinson. I'll give it to you when we get there." He unkeys and then keys up again. "And call Unit 233. Tell him to head to the main department. We may have his suspect from the burglary this morning."

"Great," I mutter, even as my heart leaps into my throat. They're talking about the man who broke into my house. It's a strange thing to be anxious and excited at the same time…but both course through my veins in tandem as I key up to acknowledge his transmission.

I don't know how they found the guy so fast, but I'm not going to complain. If they get him off the streets, maybe I'll be able to sleep. I certainly didn't get much today. Even with Easton's arms around me, I felt restless and anxious. I kept seeing his face at the window, his eyes meeting mine. I must have woken up six different times, shivering.

Easton was awake every single time.

I pick up the phone and call Ashton.

"If you're calling to ask me to work, I quit," he says dramatically.

"Too bad, you can't," I say, a smile in my voice. "Dillon needs you to meet him and Easton up here. They think they may have your suspect."

"Shit. Seriously?"

"Yep."

"Who?"

"Don't know."

"Where'd they find him?"

"They're going somewhere over on Robinson. That's all I know," I grumble. "You guys never tell us anything. I mean, it's not like keeping you alive is our job or anything."

"Aww. Is Easton making you cranky?" Ashton teases.

"No. You are," I say, deadpan. "Go to work, Gannon. Or I'll give you all of his calls next week."

"Shit. Don't do that. I'll be—"

I hang up on him, smiling. Sometimes, being a dispatcher is fun. They stress us out. We terrorize them. It's a symbiotic relationship built on mutual respect, understanding, and ball-busting.

And just because I never would have dated a cop before Easton doesn't mean I don't respect them. I do. I just…do not understand their life choices sometimes. A lot of the time. I like coffee. It doesn't mean I accept every time someone offers it to me. But for some of these guys, if sex is on the menu, they're gorging themselves every single time. I don't get it.

Ashton isn't one of them. He's a genuinely good guy like Easton, I think. But some of the other guys? I don't get it.

Okay…maybe I get it a little more today than I did yesterday. After being with Easton, I could definitely gorge myself on that every day. Being with him was incredible. But a different penis every day? Yuck.

Sex without emotion is just release. It doesn't mean anything. Maybe that's what I don't understand. Shouldn't it mean something? Maybe it doesn't have to mean marriage and babies and happily-ever-after, but intimacy is…well, intimate. If the people are interchangeable, the emotion is missing. Where are the fireworks? Where's the intensity?

I don't know. Maybe it's just not meant for me to understand. All I know for sure is that sex with Easton meant something. When he touches me, my entire body ignites. I want that feeling. I want the way my heart races and my soul lights up. I want the sparks and the butterflies. I want it all.

"Because you're in love with him," I whisper, admitting it out loud for the first time. "I'm in love with Easton."

My heart flutters and races. I smile like a crazy person. I'm in love with Easton. Good grief. I don't think I even fell for him. I just crashed into it like a dang meteor, leaving a crater behind me. But it feels right. No, it feels better than that.

This is butterflies. This is sparks. This is…good. Really freaking good.

"Unit 100 to dispatch."

I bump my coffee cup, nearly knocking it over as I hit the button on the mic stand. "Go ahead," I squeak, grabbing for the cup before it spills all over the place.

"Show us out at 1197 Robinson Rd attempting to make contact," Dillon instructs.

"10-4." I quickly type in the address. "Do I need to set the channel?"

"Negative, not yet."

I acknowledge his transmission before a 911-line lights up. It takes two seconds for me to turn to answer it, but they've already hung up by then. I hit the button to redial, checking the ping, but it's still in phase 1. Naturally.

Whoever it was sends me straight to voicemail.

I disconnect and dial again.

"Dispatch, give us the channel," Dillon growls.

I immediately set off the tone, reserving the radio channel for their traffic only. My heart races, adrenaline spiking through me.

"White male, blue eyes, dark hair, wearing jeans, black t-shirt, and white tennis shoes stepped outside, saw us, and then bolted back inside," Dillon says. "Believe he's our suspect."

I disconnect my 911 line as it goes to voicemail again and then type in the description he gave me in the call notes, my heart in a vise.

"I'm sending a photo to your phone from my bodycam. Can you confirm if he's our suspect?" Easton asks, his voice calm and steady.

"10-4." I grab my cell with shaking hands, waiting for the photo to come through.

I'm still waiting when 911 rings again.

I snatch it up, refusing to miss it this time. "911, where is your emergency?"

No one says anything.

"Hello? 911?"

My cell phone dings. I glance down at the photo and my vision goes blurry. It's the same man, only he's a lot younger than I thought he was this morning. He's still just a kid.

"Dispatch to Unit 232," I say, my voice shaking. "Picture received. That's him."

"10-4. Thank you."

"911, hello?" I say again, trying to get my caller to answer me. "Can you hear me."

"I…I can hear you," a man whispers so softly I can barely hear him.

"Do you have an emergency, sir?"

"I…I need help."

"What's going on?" I ask, instantly alert. He doesn't sound right. Nervous. I flick my gaze at the screen, and my blood runs cold. It's the same address where Easton and Dillon are right now.

Crap. I think this is their guy.

"Um, I-I don't know. The cops are at my door. I'm scared."

"Okay," I say calmly. "Have you spoken with them?"

"No. I'm scared. I don't want to get in trouble."

"Hey, it's okay," I tell him, my voice soft. "It's always a little overwhelming to have to talk to the police. I work with them, and it still makes me nervous. It's the way they look at you, right?"

"Yeah, I guess so," he whispers.

I mute the line so I can key up on the radio. "Dispatch to Unit 100. I have your suspect on the phone. He says he's afraid to come out and talk to you."

"10-4. I bet he is," Dillon says dryly. "Do your thing, Molly. We need him out of that house with his hands up. You can do it."

"10-4."

I unmute the phone. "Can you tell me your name?"

"Daryl."

"Okay, Daryl. I'm Molly. I'm going to talk you through this, all right? If you listen to what I say, I promise you, we'll all get through this. Does that sound good?"

"I…okay," he says. "But I don't want to go to jail."

"Well, I can't make you any promises, Daryl. If I could predict the future, I'd be a billionaire now and you'd be talking to someone way less cool than me," I murmur. "But I can tell you that I know the two cops at your door, and they're pretty good guys. One of them is a pain in my butt, but he's a really great cop. The other is a really great man. They won't hurt you. And they won't take you to jail if you didn't do anything wrong."

He's quiet for a minute. "W-what if I did do something wrong?"

"Well, I guess it depends on what you did," I say carefully, trying to let him talk himself out here. The lines are recording. Anything he says can be used. I don't want to lead him. "I mean, people jaywalk, speed, or litter, and don't go to jail, right?"

"I did something worse," he says. "I was mad at my dad so I…" His voice catches. "I've been breaking into houses and wrecking them. Stealing stuff."

Mad at his dad?

"Daryl, how old are you?"

"Sixteen," he whispers.

Crap. He's just a kid.

I mute the line and key up. "Unit 100, be advised, your suspect is sixteen."

"Uh, 10-9, dispatch?"

"Your suspect is sixteen years of age."

Dillon is silent a moment and then, "10-4. Good to know."

I unmute the line again. "You're right," I say calmly. "That is a bit worse than jaywalking. But did you hurt anyone, Daryl?"

"No. I w-wouldn't. I scared a lady this morning, though. S-she got home while I was still in her house," he admits.

Yeah, you little shit. That was me. You shaved twenty years off my life.

"I'm sorry about that," I tell him gently instead of admitting that I'm the one he scared. It won't solve anything for him to know. "Look, Daryl, I get it. I really do. My dad…well, he wasn't exactly father of the year material either. He was a cop like the two guys outside your door. But unlike them, he wasn't one of the good ones."

"Really?"

"Yeah." I take a steadying breath before continuing. "He slept around on my mom all the time. Broke her heart over and over again. Eventually, he checked out on me, too." I think guilt ate away at him after she died. He couldn't handle it, so he just stopped coming around. We talk maybe once or twice a year now.

Daryl is quiet for a moment. "My dad just left us," he says softly. "One day he was there and the next, he was just gone. He didn't even say goodbye. And now my mom cries all the time and I'm so angry and I just…I wanted to make someone else hurt like I'm hurting."

His voice breaks on the last word and my heart clenches painfully in my chest. I know that feeling all too well. The rage, the pain, the soul-deep ache of being abandoned by someone who is supposed to love you unconditionally.

"I know, Daryl. Trust me, I know exactly how you feel," I murmur soothingly. "And I'm so sorry you're going through this. You don't deserve it. No one does. But listen to me, okay? You and me? We owe it to ourselves to be better than the men who fathered us. To rise above and build a life that we can be proud of. One where we don't hurt innocent people just because we're hurting."

I pause, letting my words sink in. They hit me hard, too, because they're all too true. I was such a bitch to Easton, trying to punish him as if he was guilty of my dad's crimes. But it's not his price to pay. It's my father's…and mine.

"Being better starts with facing the things we've done wrong and owning up to them," I tell Daryl. "It's not easy, believe me I know. But it's so worth it in the end. Because that's how we break the cycle. That's how we become the good guys."

He's quiet for a long time and I hear him sniffling on the other end of the line. My own eyes are misty, and I blink rapidly to clear them. This poor kid. I know his anger. I know his pain. I've lived it. If I can help him, even just a little, then I owe it to him.

"You're right," he finally says, his voice rough with emotion. "I don't want to be like him. I don't want to be the guy who hurts people just because I'm hurting." He exhales into the phone. "I'll talk to the cops, tell them what I did."

Tears spring to my eyes, and I blink them back, so proud of this kid I've only just met. "You're doing the right thing. Remember, just keep your hands visible, follow their instructions, and everything will be okay. You're going to get through this."

"Thank you, Molly," he says fervently. "For talking to me, not judging me. For understanding."

"I'm glad I could help." I dab at my eyes. "Go ahead and walk toward the door, honey. I'm going to let them know that you're coming out, okay? You can sit the phone down right inside the door before you open it so I'm with you all the way until you have to step outside."

"Okay. Thank you."

This time when I key up, I don't mute the phone. I let him hear so he knows what's happening on this end. "Dispatch to Unit 100. Daryl is going to step out. He'll sit the phone down inside the door and step onto the porch with his hands raised. He wants to talk to you."

"10-4, dispatch. Send him on out. We're ready to talk."

"Did you hear that, Daryl?"

"I h-heard him," he says. "I'm almost to the door."

"Do you have anything in your pockets or on you that they need to worry about, Daryl?"

"No, nothing," he promises.

"Good. That's good. Go ahead and set the phone down when you get to the door, okay? Don't forget to keep your hands where they can see them. I'll keep listening in."

"Okay." He exhales. "I'm setting it down now. Thank you." He pauses. "And Molly?"

"Yeah, honey?"

"I'm sorry if I scared you this morning."

I pause, caught off guard. "How did you—?"

"I saw your stuff in your house. Sorry for everything I broke. I'll replace it," he promises.

"It's okay, honey."

For the first time all day…it actually feels okay.

Easton doesn't say a word when he steps into dispatch two hours later. He simply stands at the door, looking at me.

"Hey," I whisper, fidgeting under the weight of his gaze. "How is he?"

As soon as he hears my voice, he breaks, storming across the room toward me. In two steps, I'm in his arms, and he's kissing me like he's never going to come up for air.

I don't say a single word of complaint. I kiss him back the same way. For a few minutes there, I was worried I might not ever get to kiss him again. Had Daryl been anyone else, it could have ended that way. But he's just a scared kid, angry at the world because his dad is an asshole who doesn't deserve him.

"He's going to be fine," he says against my lips. "Dillon is going to talk to the prosecutor, see what he can do for him. With any luck, he'll be doing a whole lot of community service and probation until he gets everything paid back, but he's going to try to keep him out of jail."

"Thank God," I whisper, exhaling a relieved breath. "He's just a scared, broken kid. He needs help, not jail."

"I love you," Easton growls against my lips, startling me.

I pull back, staring at him in shock. "W-what?"

"I said I love you," he says, his fiery gray eyes locked on my face. "I don't care if you're ready to say it back. Don't care if it takes you a lifetime to say it back, I love you."

"Easton," I whisper.

"That boy idolizes you right now," he says, cupping my cheek. "You know what kind of special person it takes to do what you did tonight? What kind of person it takes to forgive and help instead of demanding justice?"

"I was just doing my job."

"No, baby. You weren't. Helping get him out of that house safely was your job. But he broke into your house, scared you, ruined your shit, and you still met him on his level and gave him a reason to believe in himself. You gave him hope." His lips meet mine again, his kiss sweet and worshipful. "You're a special kind of perfect, Molly Tessler."

"No, I'm not," I whisper, staring up at him. "Easton, I…" I take a breath. "When I was talking to him tonight, I realized that I've been doing the same thing. I've been shutting you down and shutting you out because I've been scared and hurting. What my dad did messed me up in ways I'm only just beginning to understand. But you don't deserve to carry his guilt. You don't deserve to be collateral damage because I haven't ever let myself see past it."

My dad was an asshole. He didn't deserve me or my mom. But Easton isn't my dad. He's deserved me since the very beginning. He's done nothing but deserve me and fight for me. So I can either keep hanging on to the past, letting it eat at me…or I can let it go and move on. I'm ready to move on. With Easton.

His gaze flits across my face. "What are you saying, baby?"

"I'm saying…I'm sorry. I'm so damn sorry that I've been a jerk. All you've done is fought for me all along, and I've made it so much harder than it had to be. You didn't deserve that." I press my palm to his cheek. "And I'm asking…for a chance to love you the way you deserve to be loved."

Heat and hope flare in his eyes in tandem, those blue flecks sparkling like diamonds. "Say it," he growls.

"I love you, Easton. Despite telling myself not to do it, I fell in love with you, and I don't want to stop falling now." I bite my lip. "So I want to change my rules."

"Yeah? What are your new rules?"

"I only date one cop. You." My teeth sink into my bottom lip as I flick my gaze up at him. "And maybe that one cop marries me one day."

"Fuck," he groans, pressing his forehead to mine. "Does that one cop get to flirt with you?"

"Maybe."

"Does he get to touch you?"

"Definitely."

"Does he get to kiss you at work?"

"Don't get too carried away now," I say. "What we do is too important to get distracted, and that one cop is very, very distracting."

"What if that one dispatcher wasn't a dispatcher any longer? Could that one cop kiss her at work then?" He brushes his nose against mine, rubbing his hands up and down my back in a way that's all too distracting—exactly like I told him.

"I'm not quitting just so you can kiss me whenever you want, Easton," I say, laughing softly.

"Obviously not. But you won't need to work here if you're working for the FBI, princess."

"They keep rejecting me."

"No. One asshole recruiter keeps rejecting you," he corrects, his tone making it clear what he thinks about that. "But you have a meeting with the SAC in Houston next week. He's a helluva lot smarter than that asshole recruiter, baby. At least, he will be if he hires you."

"I…what?"

"My dad called the SAC about you earlier today," he murmurs. "He wants to meet you next week." He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a wrinkled Post-it. "All you have to do is call him and set it up."

"I…don't know what to say," I whisper, staring in shock at the number scrawled across the yellow slip of paper.

"You don't say anything, princess," he growls, pressing his lips to my ear. "You know exactly how you thank me."

I shiver, goosebumps breaking out all over my body at the reminder of how he wanted his thanks before work. Honestly, it felt more like a thank you for me than him, but am I really going to complain about orgasms?

Absolutely not.

Instead, I press myself deeper into his arms, clinging to him. "I don't deserve you," I whisper.

"Yeah, you do," he whispers back. "You absolutely fucking do, princess."