| Treats Of The Job

𝐉𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒

JAMES

We finally walked through the revolving doors of the local district station, and I smelled the fat-induced, sugar and spice scent of a fuck-load of doughnuts. Really? No wonder all cops get stereotyped as doughnut-eating slobs—because it's true. In all my years in the force, all these fuckers did was prove every horrible thing ever said about them. No wonder they hated me for being the best of them all. Jealousy they say kills.

"It was nice seeing you again, Rio," I said as I shoved his ass into a chair. "Larry, book him for snatch and grab. I found this on him too," I grunted and tossed the bag of cocaine to the uniformed cop standing around like he had nothing better to do. As if there weren't things like drugs, child kidnappings, or the mafia soiling our streets. Sometimes I feel like the police were given their uniforms so they could look pretty for the magazine.

"And it was a real pleasure doing your job for you, Larry," I spat before adding, "Again."

"Fuck you, Gunner," he groaned and I smirked.

"Funny enough, you're not the first one to say those exact words to me today."

"That's 'cause you're a Brown cocksucker."

"I'm African, idiot. Get a fucking map." I showed him the finger and turned around and he sent me a barely mean glare. The guy was pathetic.

On my way to my desk, I spotted Roman sitting at his desk across from mine. Motherfucker. My day just keeps on getting better. Just when I thought I could have some peace, my Nemesis shows up. Well, Nemesis is a bit of an exaggeration but who cares?

"Roman," I grunted and took my seat next to him. "So nice of you to finally join us on the job. How long has it been? Two, three weeks?" I leaned back so I could properly look at him.

"Lay off it, Gunner," Roman said and glowered at me with his blue eyes while strands of his light blond hair fell across his forehead. There was a brownish tint on his cheeks which wasn't there the last time I saw him.

"You should lay off the scotch that's burning that hole in your liver. Maybe then you'd be able to put in a decent day's work every once in a while."

"I would say 'fuck you,' but something tells me you've been hearing that a lot lately."

I shrugged. "You've got that right. Those words don't have quite the same effect anymore. It's like fucking a cute prostitute. The first time is exhilarating since you know it's so wrong and dirty. But after a while, it just gets bland—unmemorable."

Roman's expression remained stoic. Nothing fazed the old bastard. He was like a rock, granite that had been around long enough to prove it would never crack. And unfortunately, I'd been stuck with him as my partner for the last few months. Do you see why I call him my nemesis? What these assholes didn't seem to realize was I only needed one partner—Bambi. She was sleek, and powerful, and gave me an instant hard-on whenever I touched her. She was also my Glock 23, safely tucked away at my side.

"Are you still investigating the Bologna?" Roman asked.

Roman was not just my partner. He was a perceptive bastard and a straight shooter too.

I crossed my arms and placed my feet on my desk. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"I'm telling you, Gunner, leave that shit for the feds, okay? Let it go."

The way he said it made me roll my eyes. "Okay, Elsa. Just don't go around erecting any ice castles, would you? This place is fucking cold enough during winter as it is."

Roman continued to stare at me, unblinking. One day I would make this man crack, even if it was the last thing I did.

"Gunner."

Oh, God. The sound of that voice gave me an instant headache. I groaned as I pulled my palm down my face, thinking I'd rather be having a conversation with Satan right about now. Remember how I called Roman my nemesis? Well, that was a joke. This bastard right here was the real MVP. Total

I turned in my seat and stared up at a tall, middle-aged man with a serious widow's peak going on. "Commander Pussy."

"It's Puti. As in Pu-Ti."

"Damn, I just can't get it right."

Commander Puti placed his hands on his waist. "It's been three years, Gunner. You should get it right by now."

"It's a mental block, I swear."

"Cut the crap, Stone. Now, please enlighten me as to why a certain Rio Gang is bleeding all over my goddamn floor."

"Not my fault he's dumb enough to walk into a wall."

Grooves formed on his forehead. "Three times?"

"Yup. The dumb bastard walked into a pole as well. He should get his eyes checked. I think his sight might be out of whack."

"You're hanging on your last damn thread around here, Gunner. Right now, I want your badge so much I can taste it." He leaned down, putting his face closer to mine. "So keep on fucking up. I dare you. I don't care if you solve more cases than anyone else around here. Give me just half a reason, and your ass is out that goddamn door so fast Bologna will be your friend for a month. Do I make myself clear?"

The urge to punch this man in the face was so overwhelming, it was like finally feeling that welcome pressure after being constipated for a week.

"Crystal clear, Commander," I replied, the words leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. I'd never been the kind who did well with commands and orders. Fuck knew why I decided to become a detective.

"Good." Commander Puti turned and walked off, his expensive navy-blue suit making it easy for anyone to see exactly who was in charge around here. The bastard.