“Oh, yeah. You’re right.” My heart rate doubles and with a mixture of fear and excitement now coursing through my veins, I sit up straighter to get a better look. “What are you going to do?”
Slowly pulling over to the curb, Donovan puts the car into park. “I’m going to go talk to him. Stay here,” he orders. Now I’m scared. This guy is big. He’s about as tall as Donovan, but a little thinner. His hood is down and his dark hair is shaved close to his head. What if he is the robber? This is the first
real
criminal we’ve come into contact with tonight.
Donovan steps out of the car and onto the sidewalk. I roll my window down to listen to what he’s going to say, but my heartbeat is thrumming in my ears.
“Hey, buddy, can I talk to you?” Donovan yells over to the man while striding toward him.
The man turns his shoulders to glance back, his eyes narrow and converge with recognition, spotting Donovan, and he takes off running.
The chase is on.
Donovan bolts into action after the guy with the gray hoodie and gains on him rapidly. I freeze in place like I’m watching the TV show
Cops
. Everything seems so surreal all of a sudden, moving in slow motion. Donovan moves with the grace of a mountain lion, legs extended into a full sprint. About four car lengths ahead of us, Donovan tackles the guy and takes him down hard. Fortunately, they land on the grass, padding their fall. I grab the tan microphone, trying to remember which button to push and what to say into the radio for help, but when I peek over the dashboard, gray-hoodie guy’s hands are behind his back and Donovan’s slapping the handcuffs on him.
He gets up off the guy and pulls him up to his feet by the arms, leading him back toward the car. Gray-hoodie guy isn’t resisting, but his stiff limbs and quick mouth movements indicate to me he is
not
happy about being arrested.
“You motherfucker. Why you always harassing me? I’m not doing nothin’ but mindin’ my own business. Don’t you have nothin’ better to do than keep harassing me?”
Donovan doesn’t answer as he walks him toward me. He isn’t even breathing hard. With a tight grip on the guy’s arm, Donovan leads him to the back of the car, but throws me a Cheshire grin on the way. I relax at his smile. He’s in control of the situation.
Donovan searches gray-hoodie guy. “Do you have anything sharp in your pockets that I can poke myself with?” Donovan asks.
“Fuck you! I ain’t telling you shit, motherfucker.”
Watching through the rearview mirror, Donovan pulls little baggies of white powder out of the guy’s front right pocket and a wad of cash out of his left. Donovan puts the contents on the top of the trunk and continues searching his back pockets and frisking his body.
“Looks like you’ve been out here working tonight. That’s going to add to the robbery suspicion from earlier. You may end up spending all weekend in jail.”
“What? What robbery? I didn’t do no robbery,” gray-hoodie guy protests, his face distorted.
He may be in his late twenties or early thirties, but with his weathered and tatted skin, I can’t tell. His dark, soulless eyes are tight with a lifetime of adversity.
“See what I mean? You fuck’n pigs are always harassing me for shit I didn’t do. Now I gotta spend all weekend in jail? Fuck you!”
Donovan continues his search of gray-hoodie guy, telling him all he’s being arrested for, and reads him his rights. Donovan opens the back door and sits him in the backseat. “I need you to sit back so I can put your seat belt on for your safety,” Donovan instructs the guy.
“Fuck you,” gray-hoodie guy spits at Donovan.
“Suit yourself.” Donovan closes the door. He walks to the back of the car, collecting the contents from the guy’s pockets, placing them in an envelope, and moves around to the driver side of the car. Donovan hands me the envelope when he gets in the car. “Hold on to this and bring it with us when we get to the jail. We have to book it into evidence,” he instructs.
I hold the envelope on my lap, saying nothing. Never exposed to a violent criminal like this before, I’m thankful there’s a thick piece of Plexiglas separating him from us. Donovan starts the car and we drive wordlessly back to the station.
Through my peripheral vision I spot gray-hoodie guy leaning forward, his eyes settling to my side of the car. “Who’s this sweet little thing? Your trainee?” Gray-hoodie guy’s attention is now drawn on me. “You learning to become a little piggy, too?” I don’t say anything, but neither does Donovan. “I’d like to pull your little tail and make you squeal, little piggy.” Why doesn’t Donovan say something to this piece of crap? You know, defend my honor and all. Isn’t he supposed to swoop in and rescue us damsels in distress? But he continues to drive, unaffected by the disgusting words purging from this guy’s mouth.
Gray-hoodie guy scoots a little closer to the Plexiglas. I shy away toward the door, leaning forward a tad. “Oh, you’re no trainee…You’re just a sweet young thing. What are you nineteen, twenty?” The guy pauses for a moment, assessing us and this situation. He turns his head toward Donovan. “Is this your girl?” he asks Donovan, but Donovan still says nothing. Trying to goad Donovan, gray-hoodie guy continues, “You tapping this fine piece of ass? Because I’d be all over her fresh shit, if she were mine.”
Yuck. Now he’s creeping me out. Donovan sits closemouthed with his jaw working back and forth and his eyes narrowing to thin slits.
“Hmm. I bet you feel as good as you—” gray-hoodie guy starts to say before his face slams into the Plexiglas when Donovan stops suddenly for a red light. “Arrrgh!” he exclaims upon impact and his body is thrown back in the hard plastic seat. “Motherfucker, you did that on purpose.” Donovan grins. “You just wait. I’m gonna get you. You and your tight little pussy here,” gray-hoodie guy threatens and I go rigid in my seat but keep looking straight ahead. He doesn’t say anything else the rest of the ride to the station and sits back so he won’t fly headfirst into the Plexiglas again.
When Donovan and I get out of the car at the station, blood is trickling down the left side of Donovan’s face from a small cut over his eyebrow. “Donovan, you’re bleeding. It looks like you cut your head above your eye when you were tackling that guy.”
Donovan pulls a cloth handkerchief out of his back pocket and tries to wipe the blood. I step forward because he keeps missing the spot. “Here, let me help you.”
I wipe away the dripping blood and evaluate the cut. He stands behind the car, letting me take care of him, still in rigid cop mode. This is the first physical contact tonight and it’s taking all my resolve to not fold myself into his arms and let him take away the feelings of fear and disgust running through me at this moment. I want him to hold me and tell me I’m safe and he will protect me. But he doesn’t.
I finish cleaning the cut and hand Donovan his handkerchief. “It’s not bleeding any more, but you may need stitches. It looks pretty deep.”
“I’ll take a look at it after we’re finished here,” he says and gets back to work. Donovan is all business. He only talks to gray-hoodie guy to instruct him through the process, although, I think being arrested isn’t anything new to him. Donovan processes the guy and finishes his paperwork within minutes. I’m glad when we leave the cold, gray jail to go to the report room.
Upstairs Donovan goes to the bathroom to access the cut above his eyebrow. He finds a small adhesive bandage and covers the wound. He talks to the watch commander on duty and gets permission to visit the hospital when he’s done with his report and further permission to leave to go home from there. It’s midnight and way past my bedtime, but I’m wired from the adrenaline surge during our last arrest. I’m teeming with feelings of distress, anxiety, and excitement because we may have caught the guy who robbed Mrs. McGuire and I’m in no way ready to go home and go to sleep.
Donovan leaves me in the lounge while he changes out of his uniform. I’m trying to watch what’s on the TV, but my mind keeps playing the scenes from the night over and over in my head. From my peripheral vision I catch Donovan’s confident gait and posture when he enters the room, back in jeans and a long-sleeve white T-shirt. I turn my head and smile when he ambles over to where I’m sitting in one of the leather recliners. The sight of him alone relaxes me and puts me more at ease.
I’m about to get up, thinking we’re ready to leave for the hospital, when he squats down to my level. Donovan takes my hands into his. “How you doing, baby?” he asks with concern laced in his voice. “That last arrest was a little more than you can handle, I think, for your first time out.” He releases one of my hands and cups the side of my face, stroking my cheek with the pad of his thumb. “Are you okay?”
His words are like a soothing caress massaging away the tension. I exhale and nod into his hand, relishing his warm touch. This is
my
Donovan. The man I understand. “I’m okay,” I say.
“Oh, baby.” Donovan pulls me off the chair up into his arms for a hug. “You try to be so brave. I’m very proud of you. You did very well tonight, given the circumstances.” He hugs me tighter and kisses the top of my head. Releasing me from his tight hug, he pulls back and searches my eyes. “Do you want me to drive you home before I go to the hospital? I don’t want you driving home alone this time of night.”
I shake my head. “No. I don’t want to leave you,” I say with a pleading tone. “I want to be with you. I want to go with you to the hospital. I don’t want to go home.”
Donovan exhales and smiles, nodding. “Okay. Then let’s go to the hospital and we’ll see how you feel after that? Sound like a plan?”
I nod and Donovan grasps both sides of my face in his hands, leaning down for the most tender, sweet kiss. He releases my face and takes hold of my hand, leading me out of the station and to his car.
The doctor assesses the cut on Donovan’s forehead and decides to use Steri-Strips instead of stitches. Most of the nurses know Donovan and move him in and out without a wait. Not saying much, we reconnect physically, leaning toward each other on the examining room chairs. With his left arm hooked under mine and pulling me closer to him, he lifts my hand to his lips and gives the back a tender kiss between gentle strokes. All my tension is draining. I’d sit in his lap if we weren’t in a public place, but I’ll settle for his sweet hand-holding for now.
“It looks like we’ll be done here pretty soon.” Donovan interrupts our silence, nuzzling my hair. “Do you want me to just drive you home from here or do you want me to follow you home after you pick up your car from the station? I can pick you up in the morning and bring you back to get your car if you want.”
I turn my face toward his, inches away from his lips, breathing in his scent. “I’m not ready to go home, yet.”
Donovan scrunches his eyebrows. “Are you hungry? Do you want to get something to eat?”
“No. I’m not hungry, either. I’m kind of enjoying just what we are doing here. I just want to be with you.”
I need his physical touch, his masculine scent, and his strength to help me decompress from tonight’s events. The sensory overload is pressing a heavy weight on my usual self-assurance. I’m edgy, jumpy, like I drank too much caffeine, and Donovan is a sponge absorbing all the tension and stress.
“Do you want to come back to my place for a little while?” Donovan asks with hesitation.
I nod and Donovan leans over and kisses my temple, speaking into my hair. “Okay, we’ll go back to my place for a little quiet time.”
I smile because this is the man I’ve missed all night, aware of what I need before I do and how to give it to me. He behaves like someone who has studied my operating instructions, memorizing what buttons to push or levers to release, giving me satisfaction and comfort.
The drive to Donovan’s place is short. We’re still quiet, each in our own meditative state, only communicating through physical touch. We park on the side of his parents’ house and access the backyard via the side gate. A motion sensor light is activated when we start on the path to his guesthouse. The main house is all black with no sign of movement.
Donovan opens the door, flipping on the lights over the kitchenette and his sleeping area as he enters. Stepping on the heels of his shoes, he walks out of them at the door and throws his keys on the two-person table. He walks over to his minifridge and offers me a bottle of water and takes a diet soda for himself. Not sure what to do with myself, I take the water and sit on the edge of the bed, following him around the room with my eyes. Walking over to the side of the bed, he sits down with his back propped against the headboard and taps the spot next to him, motioning for me to move closer.
I kick off my shoes and crawl over the comforter and lay next to him, snuggling in the crook of his arm against his shoulder and chest. I fit so perfectly in this spot. He caresses my arm and back, and I melt into him with my hand on his chest. Donovan’s musky scent, distinct only to him, is like testosterone mixed with cologne, and excites my senses but calms my nerves.
“Let’s talk,” he says.
“What do you want to talk about?”
Donovan stops stroking my arm and motions in the air. “Why don’t we start with you telling me how you’re feeling right now and what you think about what happened tonight.”
I’m not sure where to begin. So much happened tonight with highs and lows. I’m not used to all the drama and danger and the angry people…so much hatred and defiance hurled at us. I figure out where to start.