CUFFED

In 2015 - B

- 2015 - Miami, Florida - Danielle

Of all the arrogant stupid jerks I could get partnered with, I got James Whitlock. Witless. Whitmore... Ugh! Whatever his last name is. I stomped my way outside and took a deep breath. Okay, maybe I overreacted. 

Was he just trying to be nice and let me know how things worked here? Maybe his tone wasn't as condescending as I thought it was. Perhaps I was just trying to distract myself from the way his voice made my thighs clench. And that accent. Ugh! 

I'm so fucked. My last partner loved his donuts. A bit cliche really but they made him happy so I wasn't judging. Sure a few of the guys at my last district were good-looking. Heck, I even dated one for a few months. That was fun-ish. 

None of them had James' eyes though. 

I swear it's like looking into a freshwater spring. So light, so blue. I rolled my eyes at my own thoughts. I really can't afford to screw this up. Falling for your partner is the pure definition of that. So, it was time to pull myself together. We had our first body to get to. 

My first case as a detective! 

When the Captain told us I wanted to jump for joy. Oh, that sounds so wrong. I will never wish ill will on someone. Nor will I ever condone murder, but this was my job. Sure, I've seen bodies before. It comes with the territory, but that was all I ever got. 

To see them. I never got to find out if it was murder, suicide, and accident. There was never a chance for me to follow clues and figure out who the murderer was. I never got to know the outcome of the case unless I hunted down the detective on it. 

Usually, they just told me they got the guy or that it was wrapped up. It was my turn to hunt down the sick pieces of shit and put them behind bars. 

As soon as I find this dude's truck. He said it was red right. I spied a red Dodge in the parking lot and made my way over. He wasn't very specific about the make and model. But honestly, it looks like the only red one on the lot so that can be understood. 

He sauntered out of the front door like he didn't have a care in the world. Sauntered, not walked or strutted. Right. Passed. Me.

"Hey, Wilson!" I called out, "where you going."

He turned back and looked at me as he kept walking, "that's not mine. And it's Whitmore."

"It's the only red truck out here!"

He walked up to a Chevrolet that looked almost brown and scraped what I assumed was mud off the side to reveal the red color.

"You have got to be fucking shitting me," I said annoyed.

"Everything okay?" He turned to ask with a raised eyebrow. 

"You take this hunk of junk to crime scenes?"

He chuckled. The deep vibrations escaping his throat made my insides quake. I had no idea a simple chuckle could be such a turn-on. Then he smirked. Like he knew exactly what he was doing to me. But that's not possible. I've spent years hiding my feelings and emotions from not just the opposite sex but everyone.

It's a discussion I've had several times with my best friend, Natalia. She hates that she can't read me. She also likes to point out that I haven't always been this way. But she understands my reasonings and doesn't harp on me too much. 

"This 'hunk of junk' is brand new," Whitmore's voice pulled me from my thoughts.

He smiled at my scoff and leaned against his truck, "well I knew you were a city girl but damn. Figured you knew what mud looked like."