Pretty Policeman
PRETTY POLICEMAN
BY FIFER ROSE
Copyright © 2022 by Fifer Rose
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
References to real people, events, organizations, establishments, or places are intended to provide a sense of authenticity and are also used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons – living or dead – are unintentional and coincidental.
All songs titles and lyrics mentioned herein are the property of their respective songwriters and copyright holders.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means – including information storage and retrieval systems – without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover Art: Pretty Indie: Book Cover Designs
Cover content is for illustrative purposes only. Any person depicted on the cover is a model.
“Love is a fire. But whether it is going to warm your hearth
or burn down your house, you can never tell.”
-Joan Crawford
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CONTENT WARNINGS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
TEASER
Content Warnings
Please be aware that this book contains crude language, instances of graphic violence, and features at least one character who touts homophobic garbage, using religion as an excuse to do so. Don’t worry, he’ll be swiftly delt with, and any hurt suffered by our main character will be followed up with a heaping helping of comfort.
Oh, this book also contains (extremely) detailed sex. But do we really need a warning for that?
CHAPTER ONE
“Quit staring.”
“I’m not.”
“Oh, you are, honey, and I don’t blame you. Those shoulders go on for dayzzz.”
“I feel like you said that with a ‘z’. Possibly multiple of them.”
“Oh, I did, sweet pea. And that ass. I have one word for it: yum.”
“You literally sound like you’re drooling. Are you sure you’re not the one who’s been staring, Tessa?”
“Of course, I have been!” She didn’t sound the least bit ashamed about it either. “Look at that gorgeous specimen of a man. If he’s not the offspring of some Greek god’s bastard, I will chop off my right tit.”
He wrinkled his nose. “Gross.”
Even as he pretended to gag over his partner’s declaration, however, Micah found his gaze – and attention – drifting back to the man they were discussing: the supposed descendent of a Greek god.
He was tall, at least a couple of inches past six feet, and the suit jacket he was wearing clung to the expanse of his impressively broad shoulders. Said shoulders tapered off to form a trim waist, under which matching pinstripe pants gripped onto thick thighs – which Micah hadn’t known he had a thing for until now.
Seriously, even from a distance, Micah knew those things had to be ripped. The man’s entire body looked rock-solid. Micah couldn’t quite make out any facial features, but if there was any justice in the world, the man must have had the epitome of a butter-face.
Still, Micah could probably look past it, considering, as Tessa had so eloquently put it: “that ass”.
“Micah,” Tessa hissed into his earpiece. (Speak of the devil.) “I said to quit. You’re not even trying to hide your ogling now.”
“You also said to look,” he couldn’t help but point out, but he obediently dropped his gaze to the ground, anyway. He was wearing a pair of shabby red Converse. There were holes on the top of the right one where his toes threatened to peek out, and the left had a loose outsole that liked to flap when he walked.
Not exactly his usual style, but it wasn’t like Micah had picked them out himself. In fact, he hadn’t picked out any part of his current ensemble.
“I meant metaphorically. You’re in the middle of an undercover operation. You can’t let yourself be distracted by every hottie that walks by; you need to keep your wits about you.”
Okay, first of all, that wasn’t just any hottie. Secondly-
“You’re my handler,” he pointed out. “You need to keep your wits about you.”
“Oh, you don’t worry about my wits, honey. I’m not the one that’s thirsting after some babelicious stranger, completely ignoring the potential john coming in at three o’clock.”
Micah tensed, subtly peeking in the direction she’d indicated.
Tessa was right.
A man dressed in a cheap suit was quickly approaching, the graying hair near his temples and the deep-set wrinkles of his brow indicating he was probably in his late forties or early fifties. His uneven gait and the stumble in his step meant he was probably drunk.
Micah tried not to grimace as the man got closer and he spotted the wedding band on his finger. The guy didn’t really fit the profile they’d come up with for their perp – he was too old and looked to be married to boot.
Most likely, he was just another asshole going through a midlife crisis – not the serial killer going around killing male prostitutes they were searching for.
Micah voiced his thoughts aloud, muttering lowly into the mic hidden in his shirt – if the obscene, canary yellow crop top he was wearing could even be considered a shirt. “I doubt he’s our guy, Tess. Too sloppy.”
“Probably not,” the woman agreed, “but you never know. You of all people should know that looks can be deceiving. Let him pick you up. If nothing else, you’ll be able to arrest him for solicitation.”
Resigning himself to do as she suggested, Micah let himself sink into the brick wall he was lounging against near the mouth of an alley. He winced as the brick scratched against his exposed lower back where his shirt didn’t quite cover the skin, but he forced himself to school his expression as the man moved closer.
Honestly, he hadn’t expected to be picked up within the first fifteen minutes of his shift.
“How much?”
Apparently, Mr. Midlife Crisis wasn’t one for small talk. Which was unfortunate because Micah needed him to actually say the words. “How much for what?” he asked.
“Don’t be coy, you little tart.” Micah fought the urge to wrinkle his nose when the man took another step forward and the stench of alcohol hit him straight in the face.
He wasn’t intimidated – or, at least, that was what he told himself when arms braced themselves on either side of his head, effectively trapping Micah against the brick wall. Sure, he didn’t have his Glock, but Tessa was watching out for him. Not to mention the fact that he was well-versed in hand-to-hand if worse came to worst.
“$100,” Micah said, knowing he was highballing the man even before his bloodshot eyes widened in disbelief.
“$100?” he repeated, scoffing. “For a loose hole like yours? I’ll give you $50 if you can even make me bust my nut.”
This. douchebag.
Micah had planned on just wrangling the man’s hands behind his back and arresting him as soon as he’d said enough to incriminate himself, but now he was pissed.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I thought you were asking after my mouth,” he retorted. “If you want a piece of the filet mignon, the going rate’s 300 bucks.”
He heard Tessa sigh into his earpiece, and judging by the dull thud that followed, could perfectly picture her banging her head against the steering wheel of the undercover van she was parked in across the street.
“300 bucks?” Mr. Midlife Crisis sneered. “Who do you think you are? Sluts like you are hardly worth the time it takes for you to get me off.”
“You’re the one who approached me, buddy,” Micah reminded him. “Must be worth something.”
Admittedly, he wasn’t expecting for the guy to take him by the hair, backpedal him into the alley, and smash his head against the wall. The hit wasn’t hard enough to make his ears ring, but Micah’s eyes watered involuntarily when the man’s grip on his hair tightened, and he leaned his face into his personal space. “How about this, you little bitch? Since your ass is apparently off limits, why don’t you get on your knees so I can show you how you ought to be treating your customers with that smart mouth? Consider it a free lesson. If you manage to bring me to finish, I’ll even think about leaving a tip.”
Alright, play time was over.
This guy was more than just your typical drunkard looking to pick up a hooker – he clearly didn’t give a rat’s ass whether Micah was willing to blow him or not, he was going to make him. The fact that there were real people out there working the streets and being treated this way – probably pretty regularly – made anger burn hot in Micah’s gut. He was about to elbow the asshole in the throat and force him to his knees so he could slap the zip ties he had hidden on his person for just this reason around his wrists when Mr. Midlife Crisis was abruptly pulled off of him-
“Get your fucking hands off him!”
-and punched in the face by the man he and Tessa had been ogling but five minutes earlier.
Micah watched, taken aback, as the Greek god lookalike pulled back his fist and pummeled the man again. And again. His assaulter fell back onto his ass after the third hit. He scrambled backward awkwardly, attempting to shield his bloody face from more attacks while simultaneously doing the crab walk.
Micah may have laughed if he weren’t so stunned.
As things stood, the guy shouldn’t have bothered hiding his face. His rescuer (unneeded though the assist may have been) had no problems targeting the man’s mid-section with his foot instead. The man let out a pained yelp when a kick connected sharply with his ribs.
“Micah,” Tessa hissed in his ear.
It was enough to break him out of the surprised stupor he’d fallen into.
“Stop him before we have to make two arrests.”
She had a good point. It would hardly be kosher to have to drag his knight in shining armor (more like shining Armani, but the point still stood) in for assault right after he’d saved Micah from the human garbage currently yodeling on the ground.
Micah lurched forward. “Stop!” he yelled, all but flinging himself at the man. “Stop! He’s not worth it,” he insisted, grabbing his rescuer by the arm.
The man startled at the contact, turning to face Micah. The scowl he was sporting did absolutely nothing to take away from his attractiveness.
A jawline that was both sharp enough to cut glass and yet covered in enough stubble that you knew it’d leave a pleasant burn behind when it rubbed up against your skin? Check.
Absolutely ridiculous cheekbones? Check.
The bluest pair of eyes Micah had ever seen peering down at him under thick, expressive eyebrows? Check.
Micah was honestly shocked he hadn’t spontaneously combusted the second the man had turned his head – he was that attractive.
For a long second, the man just stared at him. And then-
“What are you doing?” he asked gruffly, pointedly eyeing the hands Micah had wrapped around his bicep (and what a nice bicep it was) like they had personally offended him. “This guy was hurting you.”
Micah cleared his throat, horrified to realize saliva had begun forming in his mouth at some point while he’d been gawking at the Adonis before him. “Uh… stopping you from committing murder?”
It came out as more of a question than he’d intended.
“I’m not going to kill him,” the man replied, sounding offended. “I’m just making sure this is what springs to mind the next time he even considers touching someone against their will.” The man punctuated his point by delivering another swift kick to the man on the ground – this time to the meat of his thigh.
The guy howled, and Micah knew there’d be a baseball sized bruise there the next morning.
“That way, he’ll never be able to get his dick up again – that is, if I let him keep it.”
A man threatening to castrate another man – even if it was in some weird defense of his honor – should not have been a turn on.
Apparently, the prospect of losing his bits was enough to finally get the man on the ground scrambling to his feet. Shoulders hunched and one arm curled protectively around his stomach, he booked it out of the alley as fast as he could hobble, hurrying back onto the street it was connected to.
Mr. Dreamboat took a threatening step forward, clearly intending to give chase, but Micah tightened the grip he had on the man’s arm. “Hey, no! What are you doing? Stop! Just let him go!”
The man could have probably shaken Micah off of him if he really wanted to, but he didn’t. Instead, he just glared. “He was hurting you,” he repeated himself, like Micah hadn’t heard him the first time – like he was crazy for not wanting retribution.
“I’m fine,” he hastily assured the man. “Just a bump on the head is all.”
After all, it wasn’t like Micah could tell him that Tessa already had a cruiser en route to pick the guy up and arrest him for solicitation and assault.
The man eyed him like he didn’t believe he was “fine” at all, which (unfortunately) prompted Micah to keep talking. “I’m good, honestly. Completely unblemished. Peachy keen. Hunky-dory.”
Hunky-dory? What the hell was wrong with him? He sounded like some wannabe cowboy from those western dramas his father used to make him watch as a kid. This was New York City, for Christ’s sake.
Thankfully, the man didn’t address his odd choice of phrase. Although he did keep staring. On the plus side, his expression had lost most of the anger it’d contained when Micah had first grabbed him. (Though the bicep he was holding was as tense as ever.)
Abruptly realizing he was still touching the man, Micah hastily released his arm. He cleared his throat. “Sorry about that.”
The man’s brow screwed in consternation as his eyes continued to drink Micah in. “You’re sorry?”
Micah didn’t know how to respond to that. “Um…” he floundered.
Luckily, it didn’t seem like the man actually expected an answer. “What are you wearing?”
Micah blinked at the sudden change of subject, glancing down at his current ensemble. The tight leather pants and revealing crop top were essentially a costume, and Micah hadn’t been particularly bashful when it had come to putting them on – it was his job, after all. But, somehow, under this man’s critical gaze, he found his face heating up in embarrassment. “Uh… c-clothes?” he eventually managed to stutter out.
The wrinkle in the man’s brow told Micah what he thought of that answer. “Where’s your coat?” he demanded.
Micah felt his jaw loosen of its own accord. Was this guy serious? “Well…”
(He was so eloquent this evening.)
“It’s November,” the man interrupted sharply – before Micah was even able to begin mustering up an explanation. “It’s supposed to get to below freezing tonight.” Almost as if in agreement, the wind decided to gust through the dingy alley they were standing in, goosebumps immediately erupting over Micah’s bare arms.