The King I Can't Arrest

Chapter 7

(Song: "Shirt" by SZA)

Desrianna

By the time I pull into the precinct parking lot, the sky's already dark again.

Funny how a single day can feel like a whole damn lifetime.

I sit in the cruiser longer than I should, hands still tight on the wheel, trying to scrape together enough energy to survive another shift.

After that phone call, I tried to sleep.

Like—really tried.

But every time my eyes closed, it replayed.

The voice.

The warning.

The way he said my name like we were already acquainted.

The more I turn it over in my head, the more convinced I am it was Onyx.

But I'm not telling anyone that.

Not yet.

I need proof.

Real proof.

So until I have something solid...

I need to keep my mouth shut.

And my eyes open.

I grab my iced coffee and step out. Humid air hits like a damp slap, enough to jolt me halfway awake.

Inside, the precinct looks like it always does.

Bright overhead lights.

Crowded desks.

Too many burned-out people pretending they're fine.

I breathe out slowly.

Routine.

That's what I need right now.

Something predictable.

Something that still makes sense.

I head toward the locker area, weaving past officers finishing paperwork before clocking out.

Someone calls my name.

Or maybe they don't.

At this point, I could just be hearing s**t.

Either way, I keep moving.

I don't have the mental bandwidth for small talk tonight.

The uniform shirt I wore this morning is still shoved at the bottom of my locker, smelling like sweat and smoke. I wrinkle my nose and slam the door, making a mental note to deal with it later.

I smooth down the clean uniform I changed into before leaving the house and adjust my vest until it sits right.

Gun.

Radio.

Badge.

Everything where it's supposed to be.

I grab my duty belt and clip it on, forcing my breathing into something steady.

Because the second I stop moving, my mind goes right back to that call.

And I can't afford that right now.

Not when there's a real chance my life might actually be in danger.

When I step back onto the main floor, something feels... off.

The usual noise is there.

Phones ringing.

Keyboards tapping.

Radios crackling.

But underneath it, tension hums low and constant.

Officers speaking in hushed voices.

Heads bent close together.

Like something just shifted.

"...explosion..."

"...industrial district..."

"...car completely torched..."

My steps slow before I even realize it.

I angle toward the bullpen, trying not to look like I'm suddenly very interested in what they're talking about.

Sergeant Alvarez glances up when he spots me.

"Hey Banks, you hear what happened out on Harbor this morning?"

My breath catches.

Harbor.

What the hell happened out there?

"No," I say carefully. "What happened?"

"Somebody blew up a vehicle in front of an abandoned warehouse. Fire department says it looks intentional. Detectives are already crawling all over it."

My pulse spikes.

Holy s**t. Could it be connected?

The call echoes in my head.

The warning.

The threat.

Something about this feels linked.

Like the fallout from Javon's murder is already spreading.

I swallow and keep my expression neutral.

Because the second I let even a hint of what I'm thinking show, people will start asking questions.

And I'm not ready to answer them yet.

Not until I know exactly what I'm dealing with.

I head toward the briefing room, every step heavier than the last.

It's already half full.

Some officers look like they never made it to bed.

Others sit wired, tension coiled tight in their muscles like they're bracing for impact.

I grab a seat near the back, set my iced coffee down, and focus on literally anything other than the knot forming in my gut.

Someone drops into the chair beside me.

I glance over.

Dustin.

"Officer Banks," he says, a smirk tugging at his lips.

I give him a curt, professional nod like I wasn't just tangled in his sheets this morning.

"Officer Hayes."

"You hear about Harbor?" he asks under his breath.

Fuck.

So everyone knows.

News travels faster than patrol cars in this building.

Sometimes that's a blessing.

Sometimes it's a damn curse.

"Just caught bits of it," I reply, trying to sound bored.

"You think it's connected to the Platinum Allure shooting?" he presses, already connecting dots the same way I have.

That's the thing about Dustin.

We work well together.

Always in sync on the job.

But when it comes to me wanting to keep things strictly physical?

Only hitting him up when I need some d**k and stress relief?

Yeah... he's not exactly on that same page.

Before I can answer, Sergeant Alvarez storms in, slamming the door hard enough to kill every side conversation.

"Good morning, night shift."

His gaze sweeps the room.

"First things first... we had a suspicious vehicle explosion in the Harbor industrial district this morning. Detectives have it, so that's not our circus tonight."

Low murmurs ripple through the room.

"Which means," he continues, voice sharpening, "we're focusing on what is ours. Patrol coverage is thin, and I don't need to remind any of you that summer nights bring out the stupid."

A few tired chuckles break the tension. Someone groans.

He starts assigning zones, calling out names like he's reading off a grocery list.

I try to focus.

I really do.

But my mind keeps drifting back to that burnt-out car.

"Banks."

My head snaps up.

Alvarez is staring right at me like he's already called my name more than once.

Shit.

"Uh, yes, sir?" I rush out, heat creeping up my neck.

His eyes narrow just slightly, like he can tell I'm not fully present, but he doesn't call me out on it.

"You're riding with Hayes tonight. Sector Five. Quiet shift if you're lucky."

Lucky.

Yeah. Sure.

I've never known that word to apply to me.

"Yes, sir," I manage to respond.

He gives a single nod and moves on, already calling the next name like I didn't just embarrass myself in front of the entire room.

I lean back, heart still pounding like I just got chewed out by my father instead of assigned routine patrol.

Which is ridiculous.

Pretty sure my dad disappeared for cigarettes when I was five.

And I'm not a scared kid anymore.

I'm a cop.

I've gone hands-on with armed suspects without blinking.

But one phone call, and suddenly I feel off-balance.

Like something's building and I can't see where it's coming from.

I reach for my cup, taking a long drink, forcing my breathing to level out.

Get it together, b***h.

Dustin nudges my shoulder.

"Relax," he teases. "Sarge only bites when paperwork's late."

I shoot him a glare.

He just chuckles softly, leaning back and kicking up his feet while Alvarez wraps up with reminders about reports and increased patrol presence near the industrial district.

My stomach tightens at that.

Part of me wishes we were heading out there.

But that's not our sector tonight.

"...stay alert," Alvarez finishes. "Watch each other's backs."

"Yes, sir," echoes around the room.

Chairs scrape. Everyone stands.

Night shift officially begins.

Dustin grabs his coffee and jerks his head toward the door.

"C'mon, partner."

I roll my eyes. "We're not partners, Dustin."

A slow grin stretches across his face.

"Tonight we are."

Lucky me.

We file out with the rest of the shift, the familiar buzz of voices and radios filling the hallway.

On the surface, everything feels routine.

Another shift.

Another night.

Same city. Same problems.

But after this morning, I already know this one isn't staying quiet.

Something else is about to go down.

And somehow, some f*****g way... we're going to end up right in the middle of it.