Lost Puppy
1300 Words
Luke:
She was in my head.
That smirk. Those eyes. The way she walked into the middle of the road like she owned it, daring the world to blink before she did. And I blinked. I f*****g blinked.
I drove away because I had to, not because I wanted to. If I hadn’t, I would’ve climbed out of that cruiser, backed her against her bike, and let my badge burn in my back pocket while I found out how far I could push her before she shoved back.
And I knew she'd shove back. Hard.
By the time I got back to the precinct, I was a mess of adrenaline and restraint. My jaw ached from clenching it the entire ride, and my hands hadn't unclenched from the wheel since I left her in my rearview mirror.
Rodriguez was inside, munching on some vending machine trail mix, like he wasn't watching me damn near combust over a woman we weren’t even supposed to be tailing.
"You good?" he asked, lazy and oblivious.
"Peachy," I muttered, brushing past him toward my desk.
I dropped into my chair, logged in, and opened the DMV database again.
I told myself I just wanted to verify something. A detail. A lead. Something clean and professional.
But that was bullshit.
I typed it again, slower this time.
SIREN-13
ALEXANDRA DONOVAN.
There it was again—her record, her face, that same sharp stare in the DMV photo. Chin tipped up like she’d spit in the camera lens if they’d taken one second longer. I stared at that photo for too long, memorizing every sharp edge of her cheekbone, the curve of her jaw, the way her lips refused to smile.
I wanted to see her smile.
No. I wanted to make her smile.
But more than that, I wanted to make her crack.
I clicked into the MC activity logs—unofficial files we weren't supposed to have, but Rodriguez had a cousin who owed him favors. Siren Syndicates. All female. All ruthless.
Suspected gun-running. Suspected drug transport. Suspected arson.
Everything about them was a whisper.
Everything about her was a scream.
My phone buzzed on the desk. I ignored it.
The more I read, the deeper I sank. Every time, she slipped out of cuffs like she was born to dodge them.
One report caught my eye—a bar fight two years ago. Three men in the hospital, one with a broken jaw. Witnesses claimed it was self-defense. The file was sealed after a sheriff’s deputy intervened and said the men “got what they deserved.”
I read between the lines.
She didn’t need saving. She never did.
“Jesus,” I muttered, scrubbing a hand down my face.
This wasn’t just curiosity anymore.
It was a slow spread of infection under my skin.
I leaned back in my chair and stared at the ceiling. I knew what this was. I’d seen it in the eyes of men who chased ghosts, who let obsession replace instinct.
I wasn’t chasing justice.
I was chasing her.
And I knew damn well how that ended.
“Yo,” Rodriguez called out. “You coming tonight or what?”
“Where?”
“Cougar’s. That dive off 89. Half-price bourbon. Live band. You look like you need to get laid or hit something.”
I stood. “Maybe both.”
The bar reeked of old sweat and desperation. Red neon lights cast shadows on faces that were already too dark. Rodriguez was in the corner booth, nursing a beer and chatting up some girl with snakebite piercings and a laugh like broken glass.
I didn’t join him.
I ordered whiskey, neat. Sat at the bar. Watched.
I didn’t know what I was waiting for until the door creaked open and a gust of cigarette smoke rolled in with her.
Alex.
In black jeans, boots, a sleeveless tee that hung off one shoulder like she didn’t give a damn how many necks she snapped walking past. Her hair was messy, like she’d just come off a ride. She was flanked by a tall blonde—Kandi, the one with the busted chain from earlier—and another chick I hadn’t seen before, all red lips and sharp eyes.
Alex didn’t see me right away. She didn’t have to. She moved like someone who always knew where the threats were. Always knew who was watching.
Her gaze slid past me, doubled back, and landed.
She stopped walking.
A flick of her brow.
A twitch of her lip.
Recognition.
But no smile. No reaction. Just that look again.
Like she was trying to figure out whether I wanted to save her or break her, but her eyes said maybe she wanted both.
I lifted my glass.
She didn’t return the gesture. Just turned, whispered something to Kandi, and headed for a table in the far corner of the bar, where shadows swallowed half the booth.
I finished my whiskey in one swallow.
She wasn’t ignoring me. She was baiting me.
So I bit.
Ten minutes later, I slid into the booth across from her like I belonged there.
Kandi arched a brow and made herself scarce. The third girl followed.
Alex didn’t flinch.
She just looked me over with slow, deliberate scrutiny. "Lose your way, Officer?"
“Didn’t realize this was your territory.”
“It’s not.”
“But you act like it is.”
“I act like I don’t give a f**k whose territory it is.”
I smirked. “So you just walk into bars, pick the darkest corner, and hope no one bothers you?”
“No,” she said, slow and dangerous. “I walk into bars, pick the darkest corner, and wait to see who’s dumb enough to sit across from me.”
Her eyes dropped to my badge, barely visible under my jacket. “Guess I have my answer.”
My blood thickened.
“You always play this hard?” I asked.
She leaned back, legs crossed, eyes like loaded chambers. “I don’t play. Not with cops.”
“Good thing I’m not here to play.”
Her head tilted. “Then what are you here for, Jennings?”
She said my name like it was an insult. Like it tasted like gunpowder and regret.
“I wanted to see if the woman who walks into traffic for a staring contest was just for show,” I said.
Her lips twitched. Not a smile. Something meaner.
“You’re not scared of me,” she said.
“Should I be?”
“No.” She leaned forward. “You should be scared of what you’ll do to get close.”
That hit somewhere low in my gut. She wasn’t wrong.
Because I was already there.
Crossed lines. Ignored warnings. Stared down truths I wasn’t ready to own.
“I’m not the good guy you think I am,” I said.
She smirked. “I don’t think you’re a good guy, Officer. I think you’re a wolf pretending he forgot how to bite.”
I looked at her mouth.
At the little scar above her lip.
At the way her fingers tapped the table like they were bored or itching to reach for a weapon.
“You don’t have to pretend with me,” she said.
“And what do you want from me?”
Her gaze pinned me. “Nothing.”
She stood. Smooth. Slow. Lethal.
“But if you’re going to follow me around town like a lost f*****g puppy—”
“I’m not—”
She cut me off with a smirk.
“—then you better start learning how to keep up.”
She walked out without another word.
And I followed.
Of course I f*****g did.
- Writer
