Beyond The Badge (A Hot Police Romance) Prt 1

 

Chapter 1
Natura POV

Give or take—mostly take.

I’d been sitting in the holding room for over two hours, and my shift at Fanny’s was supposed to start in less than one. The problem was simple, if I didn’t give up anything about what my boyfriend of ten years and I had been doing when the cops decided to run one of their “random” raids, I wasn’t getting out.

My choices were clear.
Rat Sage out and go back to my shitty life.
Or keep my mouth shut and risk prison this time.

This wasn’t my first time in here. I sat on the busted plastic chair, counting the 6x6 tiles climbing from the grimy floor up to a ceiling that looked like it had caught a cold and never recovered. It wasn’t my first time breathing in that sharp mix of bleach and rot.

Not my first time feeling the cuffs dig in, either—each twitch of my wrists only made the metal bite deeper into the bone. And, honestly? It wouldn’t be my last. days like this had become routine.

My boyfriend sells drugs. He tops up the scraps I make at Fanny’s.
Chicago’s streets? Busted up, hooked on crime and dope. No tourists, no promises—just people stuck like flies in amber. Coldville isn’t the kind of place you escape.

Graduate, go to college, get out—the easy way. But that path? Krrr! Dead. Not even mysterious. Not when the bullet hole is still fresh and gaping like a hitchhiker’s thumb.

The door creaked open. I stared at the cuff chained to the iron bar, my reflection ghosting back at me from the two-way mirror. That mirror’s the worst—forces you to look at what you’ve become.

Straight A’s and bright futures on one side. A black eye from both sides of the street on the other.

“Mr. Toro, you know I’ve gotta be at the diner in under an hour. And you know I’m not talking. So cut me some slack.”

Mr. Toro had always been a father figure—both to Sunnyvale and to Coldville. He lived over in Sunnyvale, the rich dog‑shit side of the city. But I couldn’t hate him for it. He still looked out for us poor dog‑shit kids, the ones stuck in Coldville. More often than not, he’d let us off with nothing more than a warning and a sharp, stern look.

“Not Mr. Toro this time.”

The voice was like a plunge of sea blue; it made me jerk my head up so fast I felt the muscles in my neck pull tight.

A woman stood in front of me. A cop. From the look of her, definitely Sunnyvale stock. I could spot rich dog‑shit anywhere, even if they dressed in rags. They carried themselves different, like they’d already judged you before you opened your mouth.

“Where’s Mr. Toro?” I asked, squinting up at her.

She looked like a rookie, fresh badge and all. She wasn’t rough around the edges yet, but her body was built like an athlete. She crossed her arms and glared down at me. Probably thought her stance alone would scare me. Truth was, she didn’t look like she could hurt a fly.

“What’s wrong with your eyes?” she asked.

That answer? A drunk for a father and a shitty, drunk boyfriend. My old man and Sage were the same filth from the same asshole—stinking the same, just shaped different.

“None of your business,” I shot back. “Where’s Mr. Toro? I’ve got somewhere to be.”

“You were caught selling drugs.” She tossed a file onto the table; a few loose papers slid out, fluttering across the surface.

“I don’t sell drugs.”

“Then who does?”

This was the part where they wanted me to hand over Sage’s full name, his age, maybe even his favorite corner. They wanted me to say it so they’d have a witness or proof that he really did sling on those blocks. They’d never caught him with anything on him. Sage was careful like that. He only did his business on the corners, never from his house. But buyers? Oh, they came to his ends plenty.

Didn’t make much sense, really. At home, Sage took the cash himself and sent buyers off to the drop‑off point.

“Real funny, Mr. Toro!” I barked at the two‑way mirror. My black eye throbbed, swelling worse by the hour. My living conditions were getting more unbearable with every damn day. “Do I look like I know who sells drugs?”

The cop’s eyes—warm, Nutella‑brown—swept over me. A smirk tugged at her mouth.

“Kind of,” she said, stepping closer. The cuffs on her belt jingled lightly with each step. “You look like you take drugs.”

“Fuck you.” I yanked at the cuffs, metal biting into my wrists. Part of me knew I could take her if I had to. Maybe I wouldn’t land many hits, but I’d survive. I’d survived worse. Two men had already turned me into their personal punching bag, and I was still standing.

“Uncuff me and let me go,” I growled.

To my surprise, she flicked a key between her fingers, the metal glinting under the buzzing light. “This is your freedom, right?”

“Yep.”

“Well… just give me a little something, and you’ll get it.” She smiled, teeth bright and perfect. As she leaned forward, a single loose strand slipped from the neat pile of hair on her head, brushing her cheek. “And you’ll walk out of here.”

They couldn’t hold me forever. Sooner or later, I’d be out—one way or another. Still, a part of me clenched with fear, fingers crossed behind my back, praying they didn’t decide to lock me away and toss the key for good.

I wanted freedom. But staying on the right side of the law? That wasn’t in my cards right now.

“I have nothing to say,” I told her flatly.

She sighed, long and heavy, and I couldn’t help mocking her with an even louder, exaggerated sigh.

“Well,” she said, “we have to let you out. Just know, this time I’m the one sending you out.”

I scoffed. “Where’s Toro? You know what forget it. Just take the damn cuffs off.”

She slid the key into the lock and popped the cuffs open. My free hand immediately rubbed at the deep grooves on my sore wrist. I didn’t move, not yet. We were there in a silent standoff until she hopped up to sit on the desk bolted to the wall.

I knew this room like the back of my hand. I knew every corner, every bolt. They always caught the women first; we were the ones who broke under pressure, who spilled the most when things got ugly.

“Hurts, huh?” she asked.

“Is that your kink? Hurting women?”

Her lips coiled into a smirk, and that’s when I noticed the tiny scar etched there, faint, but visible up close.

“Probably,” she said lightly.

I growled, pushing to my feet. “Asshole,” I spat.

“I’m sure whoever did that to your beautiful face is a bigger asshole,” she replied smoothly.

“Who knows, maybe I did it to myself.”

“Then you’re the bigger asshole for hurting yourself.”

“Maybe.” I gave a half‑shrug, then turned and walked straight to the door, shoving it open and stepping into the hallway.

I rushed down the stairs two at a time. Outside, Sage was already leaning against his car, waiting. No cuffs, no guns aimed at him, no cop reading him his rights. Seeing that, I knew he was still in the clear...for now.

It was almost a hobby for him, waiting for me. Every time I got busted, Sage was there, leaning against his car at the bottom of those long, wide steps. I couldn’t help smiling when I saw him, but the smile slipped away the second I heard my name called from behind.

I turned back toward the entrance, scanning the steps. What now? What did she want? I didn’t even know this cop. Most of them I was familiar with, they swung by the diner often enough, always after coffee and Ms. Fanny’s blueberry pie. That pie was her family recipe, and cops were suckers for it.

“What...come to cuff me again?” Over my shoulder, I lifted a hand to signal Sage I’d be there in a second. I could feel his stare burning through me, feel the fight brewing in his chest, but I wasn’t about to step away with a cop right in front of me.

“Maybe.” Her boots stayed planted at the landing of the steps as she faced me. “Aren’t you going to thank me?”

“No.”

Her thin lips—made for a poker face—twitched into a smirk. “You sure? You’d be looking at two years if it wasn’t for me.”

She rested her hand on the railing, and I caught sight of the scars across her knuckles. Sage had scars like that. My father too. Knuckles torn from punching out someone’s lights, most often mine. Maybe she wasn’t just a paper tiger. Maybe that fit frame of hers wasn’t for show. Maybe she liked hurting people.

“I’d rather take my chances with two years than thanking you.”

She laughed, tossing her head back just enough for the ink on her neck to show. “Okay, rebel.”

“Yo!”

I looked back. Sage was pacing now.

“Can I go now, cop girl?” I asked, turning back to her.

“Dante.” Her smile faded, her face too flat and guarded to hold it for long. “He abusing you?”

“No, Dante. I can take care of myself.”

“Well, I hope I don’t see you in here again.”

“Mhm… maybe,” I teased, though we both knew the truth. She’d see me again in that same shitty holding room.

“Maybe next time you’ll give me something on that punk.”

“Don’t call him that.”

Her gaze shifted to Sage, taking in the beefy, tattooed drug dealer leaning against his car. A smirk sweep across her lips. “Oh, he’s definitely a punk.” She lifted her hand, shaped her fingers like a gun, and aimed playfully, squinting as she made a little air‑shot.

I glanced back, Sage was fuming, jaw clenched, eyes locked on her.

“Bye, Dante. Thanks,” I muttered, halfhearted, and turned quickly, rushing down the stairs.

“Hey, bab—”

“Which cop bitch is that?” Sage cut me off, pointing back up the steps.

“She’s the one who let me out.”

“I didn’t ask that.”

“Can we just go? I’ll tell you on the way to work, Sage. Let’s just go.”

We both looked back up toward Dante. Her eyes were still on me until I climbed into the car. The window rolled up, and Sage pulled away, tires crunching against the street as we drove off.

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