CHAPTER TWO

Ever since he was a kid, Micah had wanted nothing so fervently than to become a decorated police officer. He’d spent entire Statistics and Anthropology classes in high school daydreaming about saving innocent civilians from hardened criminals, chasing down “bad guys” and solving case after case as an ace detective.

Somehow, he never quite imagined… this.

He was working the streets again, loitering on a corner near a cheap motel – no more than a handful of blocks away from where he’d been assaulted on Saturday. Assaulted and saved by an unreasonably attractive man hellbent on filling his belly with authentic Mexican food and dressing him in layers to protect him from the cold.

Not that Micah had given the man another thought since he’d squeezed himself out of that tiny bathroom window a few nights ago.

He definitely didn’t daydream about broad shoulders during his morning showers or reminisce about thick thighs at night while he lay in bed trying to sleep.

That’d be weird. Not to mention inappropriate.

And even if his thoughts did sometimes stray into the morally questionable area of wondering how dark the man’s blue eyes turned in the grips of arousal or how thick and purple his cock got before the brink of release… there was simply no way Micah was going to be able to get it up in this weather.

It was at least ten degrees colder than the last time he’d gone undercover, and the wind made it seem closer to twenty. It was only November, but there was no doubt winter was quickly approaching.

Of course, it didn’t help matters that he was in a skirt.

It clashed horribly with the too-tight red shirt and bomber jacket he was wearing – not to mention the same torn-up sneakers he’d donned last time, but Tessa had assured him multiple times that he looked effortlessly sexy – you know, in a grungy, New York City prostitute sort of way.

As for Micah, he stood by his assertion that there was absolutely nothing effortless about a man wearing a pleaded, schoolgirl-style skirt. On the corner of a mostly deserted street. Mid-November.

Unlike his last attempt at pretend prostituting, there were no drunk johns to keep his mind occupied. No shot of adrenaline rushing through his veins to keep him warm. No ridiculously handsome Good Samaritans coming to his unnecessary rescue.

Not that Micah wanted to see the guy again or anything.

He was just bored. And cold. His testicles felt one stiff breeze away from retreating back into his body permanently.

Micah didn’t know if it was just the difference between a Saturday and a Tuesday, but he’d seen absolutely zero action since he’d started loitering on the corner shortly after six. He’d been standing there for hours, and while he’d endured plenty of leers – one ballsy frat boy had even attempted to stick his smart phone up under his skirt and get a picture – the most suspicious thing to have happened all night was an elongated Rolls-Royce slowly rolling past where Micah had situated himself against the brick wall of an out-of-business barber shop.