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CHAPTER ONE
Doug
I stride down the sidewalk, my boots hitting concrete with a steady rhythm that echoes the pulse of New York City. I'm Doug McLean, in my prime at thirty-something, badge polished and presence undeniable. The city's heartbeat syncs with mine. I'm part of its veins, a guardian of its restless energy.
"McLean," crackles the voice over the radio, "we got a 10-31 at Fifth and Lexington."
"Copy that," I respond, my voice a low hum as I pivot on my heel, heading towards the call. A shoplifting incident isn't the peak of crime in this city, but to me, every call is a chance to protect, to serve. That's who I am—protector first, enforcer second.
As I approach the boutique, my senses sharpen. It's not about the thrill of the chase or flexing authority. It's deeper than that. There's a need in my gut to fix what’s broken, to be the barrier between chaos and order, even if it's just stopping a petty thief.
Shoplifting—it's often a cry for help disguised as a crime, and I can't ignore it. My heart may pump blue, but it's lined with compassion, understanding that sometimes people are just one bad day away from making a mistake like this.
"Officer McLean on scene," I report, stepping into the fray, ready to unravel this minor chaos in the heart of the Big Apple.
Glass cases buzz with alarms as I muscle through the boutique's front door, the scent of fear and expensive perfume mixing in the air. Shouts ricochet off luxury handbags and silk scarves flung in disarray. The place is a battlefield of wealth versus desperation.
"Stay back!" a clerk yells, voice pitching high above the din, her finger stabbing towards the back of the store. I follow the line of terror-stricken faces, each one a snapshot of the chaos at hand.
There, amidst the toppled displays and scattered jewelry, stands a girl—a tempest in her own right—clutching a leather purse like a lifeline. Her jet black hair is a curtain of defiance against the world, swaying with untamed life. Piercing green eyes lock onto mine, fierce and unyielding, as if challenging me to step closer into the storm she's conjured.
"Freeze!" My command slices through the noise, automatic, but it feels hollow bouncing off her hardened exterior. She doesn't bolt, doesn't scream. She just stares, sizing me up as the keeper of her fate.
"Officer, she—" A saleswoman stammers beside me, but I raise a firm hand to silence her. My job isn't just to apprehend. It's to understand, to de-escalate. To protect, even those who seem beyond reach.
"Hey," I say, voice softer now as I close the distance between us, badge glinting under harsh fluorescent lights. "I need you to hand over the bag, okay?"
"Are you gonna arrest me?" Her words are laced with a challenge, but there's an undercurrent of something else—fear? Desperation? It's hard to tell with the facade she's built.
"Let's talk first." I keep my stance non-threatening, though every muscle in my body is coiled, ready for whatever move she makes next. But damn, those eyes—they're windows to a soul that's seen too much darkness, yet they burn with a fire I can’t ignore.
"Talk." She echoes, almost mocking, but her grip on the stolen goods loosens ever so slightly. That's all the invitation I need.
"Outside. Less audience," I suggest, gesturing to the gawkers recording every second of this little drama for their social feeds.
She hesitates, then nods, stepping forward with a sort of reckless grace that only someone with nothing left to lose can manage.
"Lead the way, Officer." Her tone is edged with irony, but she's coming along. And hell, maybe it's the adrenaline or the way New York City never stops surprising me, but as we walk out of the boutique and into the night, I can't shake the feeling that this encounter is going to unravel me in ways I never saw coming.
The cool evening air hits my face as we step outside, away from the chaos of flashing lights and the cacophony of voices. It's quieter out here, but the turmoil inside me is just getting louder.
"Okay, we're alone. What do you want to talk about?" her voice rips through the silence, her words sharp like she's ready to cut through whatever bullshit I'm about to serve.
"First off," I start, trying to keep my tone even, "what’s your name?”
She looks down and blows out a breath before she answers, “Lori White.”
“How old are you, Lori?”
She lifts her chin and stares at me defiantly. “Nineteen.”
Nineteen and already wearing the weight of the world on her slim shoulders, carved from a life that hasn't been kind. Probably an orphan, no family to speak of, no one to miss her if she disappears behind bars tonight. My heart swells for her.
“Why'd you do it?"
She scoffs, crossing her arms defensively. "Why does anyone steal? Maybe because I'm not exactly swimming in cash, Officer."
Her sass hits me like a slap, and a part of me wants to snap back with the full weight of the badge I carry. But another part, a part I'm not proud of, is intrigued by her boldness, her spunk. She's nineteen, for Christ's sake. A damn kid who's probably been dealt a shitty hand, and here I am, a cop in his thirties, getting all twisted up over her.
