The Search Gets Personal
1578 Words
Not once.
Harley stood in front of the mock cruiser, heart racing, the fake cuffs clipped loosely to her belt, knife tucked deep against the inside of her underwear.
She felt exposed before it even started.
Beau stepped into the center.
“Suspect is non-compliant,” he called out. “Officer is to execute full control and body search with assumed contraband.”
Jr motioned. “Harley, you’re up.”
She forced a cocky grin.
“Oh, you want to frisk me, Lieutenant? Should I act scared? Or moan when you reach the good spots?”
Some of the cadets laughed nervously.
Beau didn’t blink.
“Get on the car.”
“Or what?” she snapped, lifting her chin. “You gonna manhandle me like you did last time? Give the boys another show?”
Another ripple of laughter.
But her hands were already sweating.
Her breath coming too fast.
This wasn’t sass.
Not really.
This was panic in a prettier dress.
She turned and leaned against the cruiser, hands planted wide on the trunk, head down.
Beau stepped in behind her, hand sliding over her back, slow and deliberate.
The moment he touched her—everything burned.
She fought the flinch. Fought the need.
“You’re not gonna find s**t,” she snapped louder than she meant to. “Just another excuse to put your hands on me in public.”
Jr glanced at Laramie, whose smirk had deepened.
“Lieutenant?” Jr asked.
Beau’s voice didn’t waver.
“Subject’s escalating verbal aggression. Potential concealment in waistband or groin.”
Harley growled. “If you put your hands in my pants, I’ll break your wrist.”
“You won’t,” Beau said quietly, just for her. “You’ll beg me not to stop.”
Her knees nearly gave.
But she locked them tight and threw her body into the performance.
Kicked back, thrashed, twisted hard.
Beau grabbed her wrists.
Fast. Hard.
Then spun her, slammed her stomach-first against the cruiser, and cuffed her.
Click. Click.
Harley gasped, but she didn’t yell.
Not this time.
Because he was leaning in again, his breath at her throat.
“Keep going, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Let Laramie see what it looks like when I get you to fall apart with a smile on your face.”
Her blood ran cold.
And hot.
Because Laramie was watching.
Arms crossed. Chin lifted. Trying to act like he wasn’t eating every second of this up.
And Beau?
Beau didn’t rush.
He started the search.
One hand steady on her back.
The other trailing slowly down her sides.
Then over her hips.
Across the seat of her pants.
And lower.
Harley sucked in a breath she couldn’t seem to let go.
She tried again—louder this time, for the show.
“Get your f*****g hands off me, you creep! You even trained for this or just hoping I’ll bite you again?”
Jr shook his head. “Goddamn, she’s convincing today.”
Beau crouched behind her—kneeling—hands trailing up the inside of her thighs.
She tensed when his fingers brushed the waistband.
And he felt it.
Felt the slight shift.
The giveaway.
Beau’s voice dropped, for her alone.
“You’re soaked.”
Her head snapped forward into her arms.
He reached inside.
Slow.
And pulled the knife out—clip catching once on the cotton before slipping free.
“Recovered,” he said clearly for the class.
He held it up like a trophy.
Then looked over his shoulder at Laramie.
Smirked.
And set the blade on the cruiser roof like it was nothing.
Harley didn’t speak.
Didn’t move.
And when Beau leaned in—lips barely brushing her ear—his voice was a sin made of gravel and heat.
“Next time you want to scream,” he whispered, “you’ll be in my bed. Not on my mat.”
The drill ended, and Harley couldn’t get off the mat fast enough.
The cuffs had barely come off before she was walking—fast, eyes forward, jaw clenched.
She didn’t look back.
Didn’t give Beau the satisfaction of seeing her fall apart.
She made it to the Tahoe, flung the door open, tossed her field bag inside, and leaned over the driver’s seat with her head down—just trying to breathe.
Trying to stop shaking.
“You looked good out there.”
She froze.
Every muscle in her spine locked.
Laramie.
She turned slowly, the door still open between them.
He leaned against the side panel with that same smug tilt to his jaw, arms crossed, eyes roaming unapologetically down her body.
“Really sold the performance,” he drawled. “Hell, I almost believed you weren’t enjoying it.”
Her stomach twisted.
“Get the f**k away from me,” she said, voice low and lethal.
But Laramie pushed off the panel, stepped in close, and—too fast—crowded her against the open door, one hand catching the frame just above her shoulder.
“Come on now, don’t ruin it,” he said. “You looked like you were gonna come on his fingers in front of the whole class.”
Her blood boiled.
“I said back off.”
But he didn’t.
He leaned in, breath curling against her cheek, that cheap aftershave burning into her throat like poison.
“What? You only get loud when he’s touching you?”
She moved fast.
Too fast for him to expect it.
Her hand came up and shoved him hard, slamming his shoulder against the door edge.
“Touch me again,” she snapped, eyes blazing, “and I swear I’ll drop you like evidence in a flood zone.”
Laramie blinked, shocked for half a second.
Then he smirked—always smirking—and reached for her one last time, fingers curling around her upper arm like a dare.
It lasted half a second.
Just long enough for the scent of him to press into her shirt, her collar, her skin.
And then he stepped back.
“Easy, tiger. Just saying hi.”
Then he walked off like nothing happened.
Like he hadn’t just left her pinned again by the stench of him.
Like he hadn’t just planted a goddamn landmine for the man who’d watched her unravel all morning.
Harley didn’t go back inside.
She couldn’t.
The moment Laramie walked away, smug and victorious, her whole body buzzed with adrenaline and shame and fury. She yanked the Tahoe door open, hands trembling as she reached for the wheel.
She needed out.
Just five minutes.
One road.
One goddamn breath.
She reached for the handle to shut the door—
SLAM.
It crashed shut from behind her, the force rocking through her entire chest.
She jerked around—
And Beau was there.
Hand flat against the metal.
Eyes black.
Expression unreadable.
He was close—too close—his chest rising slow, controlled, his jaw clenched so hard the muscle ticked.
Harley swallowed. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” he said, voice low and sharp. “Don’t stop you from running again?”
She shook her head, stepping back—but her spine met the Tahoe door, and he didn’t move.
Didn’t give her an inch.
He leaned in, nose brushing her collarbone, breath dragging in through his nose.
And then?
His voice dropped.
Dangerous. Controlled.
“You smell like him.”
Her stomach plummeted.
“I don’t—he—” she started, but her voice cracked.
Beau’s palm planted next to her head, pinning her in place with nothing but his presence.
“He touched you,” he said, low and lethal. “After that scenario. After I f*****g warned him.”
Her chest heaved. “It wasn’t like that—”
“But he still got close enough,” Beau snapped. “Close enough to mark you. Like a dog pissing on a fence.”
Her hands shook.
“I told him to back off,” she said. “I shoved him. He grabbed my vest—”
Beau leaned in farther.
So close his breath ghosted across her neck.
“I should’ve broken his f*****g hand the first time he looked at you sideways.”
“You can’t do that,” she whispered.
He smiled.
But it wasn’t kind.
“I will.”
Then—soft as a sin—he dipped his head, nose brushing her throat, right where Laramie’s scent clung to her collar.
“You let him get this close, Harley,” he murmured. “But I’m the one you dream about.”
Her knees went weak.
“I’m the one you think about when your hand is between your thighs and your jaw’s tight from holding back.”
“Stop—” she choked.
“No.”
His hand curled around her hip.
Not yanking. Not dragging.
Just claiming.
“This is the last time you let him near you,” Beau growled. “You understand me?”
She tried to speak.
Failed.
Tried again.
“I understand.”
“Louder.”
“I understand,” she said, breathless, furious, wrecked.
Beau nodded once.
Then stepped back like nothing had happened.
Voice calm. Controlled.
“Get in the truck, Harley.”
She didn’t argue.
Didn’t look back.
And the whole ride back, her heart pounded with one single truth:
Beau Winters wasn’t circling anymore.
He was closing in.
And she was already his.
- Writer
