Witch (2 page)

“Officer,” he said, coming towards me, holding out his hand.

“Constable Sydney Hart,” I smiled back at him.

He shook my hand, his fingers strong and rough as they enclosed around my fist. At first I wasn’t sure if it was my imagination, but Michael held my hand just a fraction longer than perhaps was necessary.

“Constable,” he smiled, releasing my hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

“She needs a statement or summin’,” the farmer cut in. “I don’t have the time. If I’d known calling you out was going to cause so much trouble, I wouldn’t ‘ave bothered.”

“It’s no trouble,” I said, looking back at him, and as I turned my head, I could see that his son was now studying me. It was like his eyes were boring through my uniform, as if I were standing in the dimly-lit kitchen naked. It didn’t make me feel uncomfortable – I was used to it. With my blond hair, full lips, and petite figure, I had grown used to men staring googly-eyed at me, or practically tripping over their tongues as they turned their heads to take a second look. It was just men – it’s what they did. Since joining the police force, I had only to turn up at a drunken stag night to have groups of pissed-up men holding out their wrists and begging me to arrest them. The only date I would’ve given them was with the custody officer when they sobered up the following morning. 

Turning to look at the farmer, I said, “It’s just that I have to take a few details so I can file a report...”

“Well, my son can tell you all you need to know,” he moaned, heading towards the back door and pulling it open. “It was Michael who found the busted lock.” Then he was gone, heading back out across the fields to do whatever it was he so urgently needed to attend to. I kind of got the impression that if I had been up for storming over to the witches’ place, as he had called them, he would’ve taken a little more interest in the crime reporting process. But as there obviously wasn’t going to be any lynch mob forming today, the farmer had lost interest.

“Take no notice of my father,” Michael suddenly said. “He can be a miserable old sod at times.”

I turned around to discover Michael had moved from the kitchen door and was now leaning back against the sink, his thick arms folded across his chest. 

“Aren’t you a little bit young?” he said.

“What do you mean?” I quizzed him.

“To be a copper, I mean,” he half-smiled.

I couldn’t be sure if he was being patronizing, teasing me, or just flirting.

“I’m old enough,” I said with a stare.

“For what?” he grinned.

“For all sorts of things,” I smiled back.

There was a pause as we eyed each other across the kitchen. Feeling uncomfortable for the first time since I had laid eyes on Michael, I took out my pocket notebook, and said, “If you just tell me what happened, I can write up my notes.”

“So how old are you?” he asked, ignoring my question, not wanting to leave the previous topic.

“Twenty,” I said, my eyes still fixed on my notebook.

“Legal then?” he pushed, and I knew even without looking up at him that he was smiling.

“Legal for what?” I played along.

“To handle a weapon,” he laughed.

“I don’t carry a gun,” I said, looking up at him, to see a boyish grin stretched across his face.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said.

“Are you always like this?” I smiled, closing my notebook.

“Like what?” he said, unfolding his arms and stepping away from the sink and coming across the kitchen towards me. 

I looked back down at my notebook, my heart speeding up and mouth turning dust-dry. I didn’t usually feel like this in the presence of a guy. It was me who usually shot back the cute one-liners as I stood before them, brimming with a confidence that most considered to be bordering on arrogance. So to claw back some ground, and not wishing to come across like some inexperienced schoolgirl, I said, “Why are you being so full on?”

“I’m just being friendly – that’s all,” he shrugged just inches from me. 

I reopened my notebook wrote his name, my usually neat handwriting looking now like a spidery scrawl.

“Do you want my number to go with that?” he asked.

“I think I’ve got your number,” I said with a wry smile. 

“What else would you like to know about me?” he said, taking another step closer.

Michael came to stand behind me, but just an inch too close. From where he stood, I could smell the shower gel he’d used on his body and the shampoo he had washed through his untidy hair. My heart started to race faster, and I knew I needed to take back some ground – after all, I was the one in authority here – wasn’t I?

“Please step away,” I asked, turning to meet his stare.

“Why?” he said, as if completely clueless as to what he was doing.

“Because I’m meant to be working here,” I shot back.

With his eyes almost seeming to sparkle, he continued to stare at me for what seemed like the longest time. Slowly, Michael stepped back from me and said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable, officer.”

“That’s okay,” I murmured, feeling as if I could breathe again – as if I was
back in control. 

T
urning to face me, he said, “Look, I’m really busy right now...”

“Busy doing what?” I sighed, just wanting to take down as much information as I could to complete the crime report back at the station.

“Why don’t you come back another time?” Michael suggested, heading towards the back door.

“Like when?”
I asked, knowing now for sure that he was messing with me and enjoying it. Deep inside me, there was a part that liked the fact he was doing this. It kind of turned me on.

“How about Wednesday, officer?” he said, opening the back door for me. “I’m free all day.”

I mentally scrolled through my shift pattern and knew I was on a middle shift on Wednesday – two ‘til ten. “I could make the report out right now...” I started.

“Wednesday will be good,” Michael smiled back at me, the door still wide open and the sound of the rain beating against the saturated ground outside.

Raising the collar of my coat about my neck, and placing my cap on my head, I stepped out into the rain. I looked back again, but Michael had already shut the door. I hurried down the path, dodging the puddles as best I could, and climbed into my patrol car. Inside I sat and listened to the sound of the heavy rain drumming off the roof above me as it beat in time with my racing heart. I looked back at the farmhouse in the distance and pictured Michael in his spray-on tight T-shirt and scruffy jeans. With that picture of him at the forefront of my mind, I started the engine and drove the patrol car down the lane.

Of co
urse I went back to the farmhouse on the Wednesday – I had to. Since meeting Michael, I hadn’t been able to get him out of my head. I had never met a guy so in my face before. At first I wondered if I hadn’t imagined how he had come on to me; had I read too much into the situation? I knew I hadn’t. Michael had flirted with me – he had made it so obvious that he liked me, and I liked him, too. To be honest, since leaving the farmhouse on that bleak afternoon, I had been unable to stop wondering what it would feel like to have those short, sharp bristles and rough hands all over me.

That very afternoon, after getting off from work, and unable to get him out of my head and shake off those feelings of wanting Michael, I paced between the bedroom, living room, and kitchen of my poky apartment. My skin felt hot and flushed, and I had a warm, needy, sensation in the pit of my stomach. I busied myself by ransacking my wardrobe, pulling out dresses and skirts for an evening of clubbing with my
friends. In the end I didn’t go out, I had an early night instead, lying alone in the dark, one hand between my thighs, fantasizing about Michael.

So on Wednesday, kidding myself that I would be spending my afternoon undertaking police work, I wrote in the office diary that I was out taking statements for the rest of the shift. Even as my patrol car
lurched over the uneven dirt road which led up to the farmhouse, I told myself that my afternoon would be spent in the company of the disgruntled farmer and his son, completing the paperwork necessary to file my crime report. I climbed from the car. The day was cold, but not wet, so I left my raincoat on the backseat of the car along with my cap. I made my way up to the front door, utility belt with all of its equipment swinging about my hips.

With my fist, I knocked on the door once before it swung open. Michael stood in the doorway.
He wore a red checked shirt unbuttoned down the front and the same pair of faded jeans he had been wearing a few days before. Without saying anything, his eyes locked on mine. Michael stepped to one side, gesturing for me to enter. He closed the door behind me. I felt a nervous tension inside the cluttered kitchen. I turned to look at Michael. He stood with his back against the closed door, barring my exit, shirt open. I could see his well-defined stomach and chest. It looked rock hard, as if chiselled from stone. My eyes followed that sexy ‘v’ line that was such a turn on for me, a thin line of wispy black hair poking up from beneath the waist of his jeans. He caught me staring at him, that warm sensation spreading out from my stomach, downwards.

Knowing the answer to my question before I even asked it, I said, “Is your father home?”

“No,” Michael said with a shake of his head, his thick black hair spilling over his brow. “He won’t be back for ages, but you knew that already, didn’t you?”

“Did I?” I asked back, the room suddenly feeling hot and claustrophobic.

“Of course you did,” he half-smiled, stepping away from the door and heading across the room. He stopped before the kitchen table, and picking up a bottle of whiskey, he poured two glasses. Michael came back across the room and offered me one of them. 

“I’m on duty,” I told him, refusing to take the glass.

Slowly he raised the other glass to his mouth, taking a gulp. Michael peered at me over the rim of the glass. “Do you always play by the rules, officer?”

“Yes,” I told him, as he continued to hold the glass of whiskey out before me.

“That’s good to know,” he smiled wistfully at me, then emptied his glass. “So if I were to break the law, you would have to punish me, right?”

“It wouldn’t be down to me to punish you...” I started as he waved the glass beneath my nose again. This time I took it and drank its contents straight down. The liquid scalded the back of my throat and I fought desperately not to cough and splutter. 

“But you would have to arrest me, right?” he said, heading back towards the whiskey bottle. He picked it up and poured another glass almost to the brim. Sipping it, Michael headed back across the kitchen towards me.

“Whether I arrest you or not all depends on what sort of crime you committed,” I told him, placing my empty glass down and taking the one he had been drinking from. I gulped down the remains, and with a smile, I said, “Why? Do you have something you want to confess?”

Slowly, Michael reached out and cupped one of my breasts in his large hand. I looked down as he gently brushed his thumb over my nipple. It felt good.

“You’d have to arrest me for assaulting a police officer,” he smiled, taking his hand away.

We stood and looked at each other in the quietness of the kitchen. The only sound was that of my racing heart. 

“Are you going to arrest me?” Michael
dared, his eyes wide with delight.

“This is insane,” I breathed.

“What is?” he whispered.

“This,” I said, reaching out for him and pulling him close.

Our lips met as we kissed. Michael eased his tongue into my mouth, where it slid wildly about. I kissed him back with as much passion, my own tongue darting beneath his. He buried his hands in my hair, loosening the bun I had pulled it into. Once my hair was free, he yanked and pulled at my shirt, desperate to get at what lay beneath. I ran my hands down his back, his body hard beneath my touch.

“I’ve got a good mind to take you into custody,” I whispered in his ear.

“Do what you like, officer,” he said, pressing himself against me. I could feel his cock was hard beneath his jeans. He starte
d to move his hips in a slow, deliberate, circular motion as he rubbed against me. I was tempted to unfasten his jeans and release it – take it in my hands. Before I’d had the chance, Michael was guiding me back towards the kitchen table, his rough hands now working their way down the back of my trousers and squeezing my arse. My utility belt came free, my baton, radio, and quick-cuffs clattering against the stone floor.

I looked sideways at the front door. If I was going to leave, then I had to do it now. I knew that if I stayed, there was no going back. I would’ve crossed a line which I m
ight never come back from. With Michael’s hands now between my legs and just wanting him, I closed my eyes on the door and on all of my reasoning.

I
lay on my back across the table. Michael ran the palms of his hands over my breasts, his fingers playing with the nipples. I moaned, as he lent over me letting the tip of his tongue flicker over the hollow of my belly button.