The King I Can't Arrest

Chapter 2

Desrianna

I wake up in a room that smells like sweat and bad decisions.

For a second, I forget what happened last night.

Then the blanket shifts, cool air brushing against my bare skin.

I'm completely f*****g naked.

My gaze slides to the sleeping body beside me.

Short, black curly hair.

A broad, caramel back.

A snake tattoo curling down his shoulder blade.

Shit.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

I never stay the night.

It leads to expectations.

Attachments.

And Dustin knows better than that.

We're just having fun.

He's stress relief.

Good d**k.

Nothing more.

I guess last night I just got carried away.

Had too many drinks after a long shift.

Yesterday we responded to a call where a fifteen-year-old Black kid was shot and killed.

It hit a little too close to home.

And instead of sitting with it, I decided to drown it in alcohol.

My phone vibrates on the nightstand.

Dispatch.

Of course it is.

I close my eyes, dragging in a slow breath through my nose.

Nothing good ever comes from a call this early.

Especially in a city where the crime rates skyrocket the moment the weather turns warm.

Dustin's phone starts ringing a second later.

He groans beside me.

"You gotta be fuckin' kidding me."

He fumbles for his phone without opening his eyes.

The glow from his screen lights up the room.

Same precinct number.

Because it's always a good idea to s**t where you eat, right?

I thumb the green button and press the phone to my ear.

"Officer Banks."

Across the bed, Dustin does the same.

"Officer Hayes."

"Multiple 911 calls reporting shots fired at Platinum Allure," dispatch says, her voice calm despite the urgency underneath. "Unknown injuries. Detectives requested. All available units respond."

Adrenaline kicks in instantly.

I'm already out of the bed, hunting for my clothes.

Platinum Allure.

The newest—and hottest—club in Virginia Beach.

Figured it wouldn't be long before something popped off there.

And of course it had to happen at four in the morning.

I yank on my uniform, already running through worst-case scenarios.

Multiple victims.

Possible fatalities.

And whoever pulled the trigger could already be halfway out of the city by now.

I need to get to the scene.

Find out exactly what we're dealing with.

Every second matters.

The faster we respond, the more chance we have of saving a life.

Just as I clip my gun into my holster, Dustin clears his throat.

"You riding with me?" he asks.

I frown as the reality sinks in.

When he picked me up last night, it seemed convenient.

Now it's just inconvenient as hell.

My cruiser's sitting in my driveway.

And there's no time for him to take me back for it.

Which means I'm riding with Dustin whether I like it or not.

"Let's go," I reply curtly, barely sparing him a glance.

Humiliation burns hot in my chest as I wait for him to finish getting dressed.

That's it.

This was the last time.

I can't do this s**t anymore.

I don't care how good the d**k is.

Some mistakes aren't worth repeating.

Over and over... and over again.

Dustin grabs his keys off the dresser, and we rush out the door toward his cruiser.

The hallway of his apartment smells like stale cigarettes and some kind of stank-ass fish.

Our boots pound against the concrete steps as we take them two at a time.

Outside, the Virginia air is thick and humid.

Sirens wail somewhere in the distance.

Too many of them.

Dustin unlocks the cruiser with a quick click.

"You good?" he asks, jumping in as I climb into the passenger seat.

I slam the door harder than necessary.

"Yeah. Just drive."

He glances at me with concern but doesn't argue.

Smart man.

The engine roars to life, tires peeling away from the curb as he pulls into the empty street like a bat out of hell.

Streetlights blur past the windows.

A group of drunk college kids stumble out of a bar on the corner, laughing, completely oblivious to the chaos unfolding right across town.

Must be f*****g nice.

Dispatch chatter crackles through the radio a second later.

"Units responding to Platinum Allure, additional callers reporting possible injuries. EMS staging nearby."

My stomach tightens.

Possible injuries mean someone's already bleeding.

Or worse.

Dustin pushes the cruiser faster, weaving through traffic like he's done it a thousand times before.

"The crime in this city's getting out of hand," he mutters.

I stare straight ahead, my heart thudding harder than it should.

Even after five years on the force, sirens still make my pulse spike.

Still stirs up memories I tried to bury a long time ago.

I immediately shove them back down.

"Heat and alcohol don't mix well," I respond, my voice flat as I stare out the window.

The rest of the ride to the club passes in tense silence.

Blue and red lights slice through the darkness long before we reach the block.

Finally, Platinum Allure comes into view.

Traffic crawls ahead of us, nosy-ass drivers craning their necks to see why the parking lot's sealed off with yellow tape.

From where we sit, I can already see the crowd gathered outside the door.

I can practically feel their panic from here.

Dustin slams a hand against the steering wheel.

"Get outta the fuckin' way," he growls.

My fingers drum impatiently on my thigh.

Come on.

Come on.

Come on.

Someone's running out of time.

The moment Dustin pulls in behind a line of parked units, we jump out.

Noise hits all at once.

Sirens.

Shouting.

Someone screaming in pain.

I shut it out, letting instinct take over.

I need to find the wounded.

Help the ones still breathing.

"Stay close," Dustin orders.

I don't answer.

I'm already moving.

A young woman stumbles toward us, clutching her arm, blood dripping between her fingers.

She's alive.

Good.

But not everyone will be.

"Help me, please," she chokes out, panic shining in her eyes.

"I got you," I tell her, already reaching for her wrist.

Blood slicks my fingers as I gently pull her hand away from the wound.

It's a gunshot graze.

Messy, painful... but not life-threatening.

Relief flickers through me.

"You're gonna be okay," I say, guiding her toward the ambulance staging area. "EMS is right there. Keep pressure on it."

She nods frantically, stumbling in the direction I point to.

I don't watch her go.

There's no time.

More people pour out of the club entrance behind her.

Crying.

Shouting.

Some covered in blood that clearly isn't theirs.

A patrol officer wrestles with the barricade tape as another wave of people surge forward, demanding answers.

"Back up! Everybody back up!" he shouts.

The bass from inside still pounds through the walls.

The music never stopped.

That's never a good sign.

My gaze sweeps the entrance.

Broken glass crunches under our boots as we move forward.

A single high heel lies abandoned near the door.

I draw my weapon, falling in behind Dustin as we step carefully inside.

Lights flash overhead, strobes cutting through drifting smoke.

Up ahead, a small group of Black men crowd a raised VIP section overlooking the dancefloor, a red velvet rope hanging loose at the entrance.

Blood coats the floor around them.

My stomach drops.

We rush closer.

One of them is already on his knees.

Performing CPR.

I take in the victim at a glance.

One gunshot wound to the chest.

Another dead center in the forehead.

Training takes over before emotion can.

He's already gone.

There's nothing we can do.

"Jace, he's gone!" one of the men shouts, grabbing the guy performing CPR by the shoulders.

"No!" Jace roars, his voice cracking as he presses harder on the victim's chest. "Not my brotha! He can't be fuckin' gone, man!"

"Step back," Dustin orders sharply, taking a step closer.

I lower my gun but keep it steady.

Jace doesn't even look at us.

He just keeps pumping.

The memory hits without warning.

Antron on the pavement, blood spreading beneath him.

My hands pressing frantically against a chest that wouldn't rise.

I blink hard, forcing the nightmare away.

Not now.

"Jace."

My voice cuts through the music still pounding overhead.

He doesn't stop.

His hands just keep slamming against the man's chest, breaths coming fast and uneven.

"C'mon, bro... c'mon..." he mutters, shaking his head as tears streak down his face.

I holster my weapon and crouch beside him.

Up close, the damage is worse.

Blood mats the victim's chest.

His eyes are still wide open.

Brown.

Empty.

I swallow hard.

"Jace," I say again, quieter this time.

His gaze finally snaps to mine.

Red. Wild. Desperate.

"He ain't breathing," he chokes out. "You gotta help him."

My chest tightens.

Nothing hits harder than seeing a grown man break down.

Especially one who looks like he's never shed a tear in his life.

"I'm sorry," I tell him gently but firmly. "He's gone."

His hands slow.

Then stop.

Behind me, Dustin exhales under his breath.

For a moment, nobody moves.

The music keeps playing.

Loud.

Obnoxiously normal.

Like someone isn't lying dead on the f*****g floor.

"Turn that s**t off," Dustin barks over his shoulder.

An officer near the entrance rushes toward the DJ booth.

The bass cuts out mid-beat.

Silence crashes over the room.

All that's left are Jace's broken cries.

As he collapses into one of his friends' arms, I stand up slowly.

"What happened here?" I demand, scanning the men.

Nobody answers at first.

They look shell-shocked.

Angry.

Lost.

A normal response after witnessing your friend get murdered in cold blood.

"Did anyone see a weapon?" Dustin presses, frustration creeping into his voice. "One shooter? More than one? Give me something."

One of the men drags a shaky hand down his face.

"Man, we don't know s**t," he says hoarsely. "One minute Javon was 'bout to hit the stage, next thing we hear shots goin' off. We ducked. Everybody ducked."

His gaze drops to the victim's body.

"We ain't even know he got hit till he dropped."

Dustin scans the group again. "You got enemies? Anybody threaten him lately?"

The question hangs heavy in the air.

Once again, they hesitate to answer.

Then—

"This wasn't random. If that's what you're askin'."

I flinch at the sudden voice behind me.

It's deep.

Gravel-lined.

Low enough to feel it in your chest.

Instinct takes over.

I whip around, drawing my weapon at the potential threat.

He towers over me.

Tall.

Muscular.

Skin deep brown under the flashing lights.

Tattoos crawl over his arms and across his hands.

A thick chain that probably costs more than my yearly salary rests against his black T-shirt.

Even with a gun trained on him, he doesn't move.

Doesn't even blink.

His amber eyes lock onto mine.

Steady. Cold. Knowing.

And then it hits me.

I've looked into those eyes before.

At my brother's murder scene.

Twelve years ago.