Disclaimer: Don't own anything.
Part 1: Coffee and Cigarettes
Over a cup of coffee and a pack of Kools, we were discussing the latest case when Flack leaned against the plastic of his chair, and looked out over the balcony, aimlessly staring at the rain, he said, "Do you ever have the feeling that all this that we do, all the people that we save and all the people we cant are just a meaningless design by God to punish us?"
I was very much overtaken by his sudden display of honesty; we'd been talking without purpose for the passed three hours, torturous circles made by tongue in the hopes of finding some sort of means to our conversation, and suddenly this beautiful blue-eyed brunette shocks me. His speech so effortless, as if he's been hiding this question in the back of his mind, and loved torturing me, trying to get me to open up.
I light another cigarette, the menthol flavor coating my taste buds. I take a strong puff and ponder on his question. He doesn't seem too anxious for an answer his eyes watching the rain, his strong arms moving lazily around the table, searching for the ashtray, not tearing his gaze away from the weather.
"You know why I became a cop?"
I shake my head fervently, as if the vigor of my actions will foreshadow the answer, and he laughs at my eagerness. At times in his presence I feel like a child, and then he looks at me with a smoldering cobalt gaze and I'm rejuvenated with a feeling of anxiety and urgency for touch.
"A girl I loved a long, long, long time ago died because the cops that took an oath to protect our small town overlooked a drunk driver, and my girl was caught in the cross fire. I vowed never to let that happen to anyone."
I smile to myself, having anticipated such an answer, it seems it's the great investigators in our community that have lost something in the past.
I look at him, this time his eyes are cast down; he's searching for acceptance for his admission so I reply,
"I can't say I lament what happened to her after all you wouldn't be here sitting with me on my balcony if she were alive, would you?"
Flack doesn't say anything, at least not at first anyway, he's all pensive, eyebrows furrowed and that lovely mouth of his in a pursed expression. I lean across the table, running my finger across his cheek.
"You aren't entirely conscious." He said, referring to my cold remark about his dead girlfriend, but I don't care, I want him so bad right now the tightening feeling inside me is overpowering all my human senses, and reflexes, because suddenly, I am being pulled up and my cigarette stubbed out.
"Flack, what are you doing?" I ask, thrilled but at the same time terrified of being controlled by this man.
"You want me, I can see it, so here-…" He stands in the middle of the living room, his breath smells of cheap coffee bean and his hair reeks of cigarettes, "I'm ready for you." He says in the most vulnerable voice, and though I realize he isn't in a state of mind to be fucked senselessly, I bite at his lower lip in unabashed hunger. My senses overpowered as my tongue caresses his, my hands frantically undressing him, and I know I just fucked up the best thing that's ever happened to me.