Against my better judgement

Chapter 1: the wrong foot

Colorado Springs Police Department.

She stood, feet perched on the edge of the sidewalk, the tips of her toes toying with the idea of moving forward. Even now, with her first day of work just minutes ahead of her, the words plastered across the side of the building filled her with doubt. Her own experiences as a black woman told her all she needed to know about police. Dishonest. Corrupt. Racist. Her mind whirred back and forth over the decision, fingers rubbing across her closed palm in anticipation. Still, this sidewalk deliberation would not pay her bills. The CSPD would. She took the first step.

The inside of the building is as she remembers, kitted out in deep wooden strips and glass panels. The man on the desk, despite having seen her for both her application and her interview, double takes when he sees her.

"I'm here for the records room job," she states, as if to jog his memory. "It's my first day."

She gains a grunt in response, accompanied by a short nod. For a moment, it seems as if their interaction is over before he pushes himself up from the desk and walks her―at what he must assume is a safe distance―to the records room. Its dark and has a strong smell of must that almost makes her cough in response. He opens up the latch on the desk, folding part of the thick wood upwards. He throws a hand to the side carelessly, gesturing she should go through the gap.

"Officers come in here, they ask you for a file, you hand it to 'em. When they're done, you put it back in the same place. That's it." He lets the wooden panel slam back down into place. "You got that?"

She nods, although he's half way out the door by the time she does. She takes a moment to assess her new workplace. Cardboard boxes scattered amongst the shelves, dust settling on the desk top, the faint murmur of phones only just audible through the glass. This is her life now. She better get to work.

* * *

The first day goes slow.

She finds the officers regard her in one of two ways, either with open criticism or a sheer lack of care that she's there at all. At least the first keeps things interesting. By the time three o'clock rolls around, she's had enough of the day and its offerings. Or so she thinks. She just about hears the door as it opens, already elbow-deep in a box full of files in a bad attempt at re-arranging them. She's in no rush to see to her newest visitor as she shuffles the box backwards and walks back toward her desk. When her eyes first meet his, dark brown against dark brown, they seemed to share a simultaneous confusion, as if neither belonged in that stuffy little room.

"Where's Carl?" his voice is deep, booming almost.

His dark hair hangs sleek to his jaw, a goatee and small moustache fixed around thick lips. A strong nose, sharp cheekbones and dark eyes inspect her. Though part of her wants to shrink away, she stands firm in the face of this new stranger despite her better judgement. Even at the distance between them, she still a few steps behind her desk and he a few in front of it, she can tell he has almost a foot on her. He is unlike his shorter, stubby counterparts, with a wide, strong build poorly hidden underneath his red plaid shirt. She wonders idly why he isn't uniformed like the other men.

"He doesn't work here anymore, I do." Her words are unintentionally standoffish. She had a problem with that.

He walks his light brown brogues closer to her desk, resting large hands on the countertop. As he closes the distance between them, she felt her heart speed. Not for the first time today, she feels threatened. His dark eyes have not moved from her since he entered the room, and for a moment, she wonders whether he will respond.

"I can see that." He says blankly. "I need a file. Paulson, Michael."

If his intention was to make her feel stupid, he has succeeded.

She clenches her jaw as she makes her way to the P section of the files. It's on a low shelf near the back, and she finds herself crouching to remove the box and flick through the folders. Her fingers move fast, eager to relieve herself from his watchful gaze. She wonders, for a moment, how much her skirt has hitched up at the back. Clearly not enough for him to comment like the other officers, and yet, she puts that down to his seemingly reserved nature. His hand is already outstretched for the file when she stands, crossing the floor to hand it to him. He flicks through it wordlessly, a strand of hair falling down over his strong features. She seizes her chance to be observer, eyes pouring over him.

A holster holds together his large frame, brown panels forcing their way down the sides of his thick chest. The leather has seen better days, the surface frayed in a number of different places. He's been a cop for a while then, she deduces. She tries to imagine the fear that a cop this size would instil into her, were this meeting taking place anywhere other than the records room. His face takes the place of cops in her memories. The cop who split up the parties she attended in college. The cop who pulled her over for nothing, insisting a full body search. The cop who beat her mother for reading her rights when she was nine. Whatever intrigue this man has fades from her, like smoke into the night.

"If you're takin' that out, you need to sign here." She tells him, hoping to usher him out.

She pulls a small sheet from her right and slides it towards him. Lifting a pen from under the desk and placing it atop the paper. He looks from the file, to the sheet, to her. His expression is unreadable.

"Carl never asked for one of those."

"I'm not Carl." She corrects. "But I suppose you can see that."

The pain from her past memories project onto the man in front of her. He holds her gaze hard before he scoffs, snapping shut the file and placing it on the desk top.

"You know," his voice is low as he picks up the pen, "a girl like you should learn to watch that attitude of yours. Guys 'round here won't like you talkin' like that."

He says the words casually, as if they don't matter. A chill runs through her body before it's replaced by a burning rage. The other remarks from officers haven't quite hit her like this one. The words are condescending, as if he's doing her a favour.

"Is that a threat?" She sputters.

It's not until his eyes meet hers that he realises she has grossly misunderstood his comment. Even as he straightens up from his hunched position, her fiery eyes do not leave him. He gulps.

"No," he's only just short of raising his hands in surrender. "It's advice. This is already gonna be a difficult position for you to hold, there's no need for you to make it harder for yourself."

His response throws her off balance. Advice? From him? Why would he care? Her brow furrows tightly over her still blazing eyes. If he was really threatening her, surely there would be no need for him to back down afterwards.

"Advice? And why would you want to give me advice?" She juts her chin towards him, mind still not made up on whether he's telling the truth.

Externally, he still seems unfazed by the situation. His mask of calm bothers her.

"You look like you could use it." He picks up the file and crosses the few steps towards the door, his fingers lingering on the handle as he holds it open. "Plus, it would be a shame to lose such a pretty face."

He sees her face contort into confusion as he passes through the door and down the hall. Her mind whirs over everything he said. ...Does she have an ally? She can't work it out. Her fingers drum on the desk in frustration, fingertips falling against his archive sign-out sheet. Through his blocky scrawl, she can just about make out his name.

Flip Zimmerman.