Page 10 of Dirty Sweet Cop
“I won’t. I won’t, I promise—”
“You can’t promise that.” The words come out harder than I mean. Desperate. “You’re eighteen. Your whole life is ahead of you. And I’m…fuck, Winny, I’m twice your age. I’m set in my ways. I’m possessive and controlling and I install cameras and follow you to the grocery store and growl at college kids. What the fuck kind of future is that for you?”
She pulls back. Looks at me with those clear, honest eyes, and says the thing that breaks me completely:
“The only one I want.”
I kiss her. Hard. Desperate. My hands framing her face, thumbs under her eyes catching the wetness there, and she kisses me back with the same hunger, the same wild, broken certainty.
We don’t talk about it again. We don’t need to. I hold her the rest of the morning, her head on my chest, my hand in her hair, and the rain keeps falling and the cameras keep watching and nothing is fixed. Nothing is certain.
But for now, she’s here. In my arms. Where she belongs.
Where I need her to stay.
six
. . .
Winny
The social worker’s name is Donna. She has a clipboard, sensible shoes, and the particular brand of concern that makes you feel like you’re failing a test you didn’t know you were taking.
She sits on Clayton’s couch—our couch, I guess, though I still think of everything here as his—and asks questions in a voice calibrated to sound neutral. It doesn’t work. Every syllable drips with judgment she’s trying very hard to hide.
“So, Winnifred—”
“Winny.”
“Winny. You’re eighteen.”
“Yes.”
“And Detective Holloway is...”
“Thirty-six.” I say it before she can. Might as well rip off the bandage.
Donna’s pen pauses over her clipboard. She doesn’t look up. “I see. And how long have you known each other?”
“About six weeks.”
The pen stops completely.
“He responded to my 911 call. The night of the break-in.”
“I’m aware of the circumstances.” She sets the clipboard down. Looks at me with the practiced empathy of someone who’s seen too many bad situations to count. “Winny, I need you to understand that what I’m about to ask comes from a place of concern, not accusation. Has Detective Holloway ever made you feel pressured? Coerced? Has he used his position of authority to—”
“No.” The word comes out sharp. Defensive. I dial it back. “No. He’s been…he’s been the only good thing since my parents died.”
Something shifts in her expression. Not relief. Something sadder.
“Age gaps like this, especially with a power differential—a police officer and a vulnerable young woman—they raise red flags, Winny. I’m required to note that.”
“Note away.” I cross my arms. “But I’m an adult. I’m grieving, not incompetent. And Clayton has done nothing but keep me safe.”
She makes more notes. Asks about finances (separate, though he pays for everything). Asks about sex (I lie and say we haven’t, because the truth—that he fucks me every night with the devotion of a man claiming territory—would probably get him fired). Asks if I feel free to leave.
That one gives me pause.
