Donuts and Handcuffs

It was nice working in a somewhat normal neighborhood. I had been so relieved when I was reassigned to the east end. Working up in Rose Hill for a few years had made me sick to death of the whiny voices of rich women complaining. It was truly unbelievable what they deemed worthy of summoning the police.

A neighbor’s dog shat on their lawn. The housekeeper took a swig of the good vodka. Their gardener pruned back their roses too much. Those privileged princesses had us running to their mansions so frequently that it was making me seriously wonder how their husbands could stand them.

My last girlfriend Ashley was a demanding, spoiled brat, and I suppose it was my fault for staying with someone who behaved that badly. I tried to tell myself it was because she was so damn sexy that I wanted her, but that actually wasn’t the case. She wasn’t hot. She wasn’t interesting. She wasn’t kind. But she was there for me in a time when I couldn’t stand being alone.

Then she suddenly crossed a series of lines, which reflected badly on me, but also simply sickened me. Stupid little things like scamming salespeople for freebies, and lying about her birthday for free drinks at pubs.

There was no way that a police officer should be seen on the wrong side of the law, even for something so petty. I put my career first, always. I’d told her that from the start. So I had to wonder if she had done those things on purpose because she didn’t have the guts to end our relationship.

After leaving her and moving to the east end, a transfer to my new neighborhood was a huge relief. It was quiet, almost tranquil. It had a small-town vibe, even though it was on the subway line, and only twenty minutes from downtown Toronto.

I thought that I’d be able to walk around the farmer’s market, wave to little kids, and constantly ticket idiots who drove like demons on the sleepy residential streets.

I could barely focus through the meeting, finding myself thinking about the fascinating flavors of the snacks. All afternoon, I found myself watching the clock, waiting for my shift to end. Coworkers occasionally appeared with a muffin or donut, and I instantly knew where’d they’d been.

Many people in the area were dropping by the new bakery, and I could see why. It was a great little mental break when you needed to recharge.

It was time for me to recharge my entire life, and take the plunge of attempting a new relationship. When I finally clocked out, I told myself that asking Bailey out for dinner was the only logical thing for me to do.

As I walked across the street and past the window of the candy-colored shop, I told myself I was an ass for being so nervous. Men asked women out all the time. And if she said no, I’ll just make a lighthearted joke and we’ll stay flirty acquaintances. No problem.

Except that I couldn’t stop thinking about her, and was bordering on becoming seriously obsessed already. The more I thought about her, the more I realized she was utterly perfect for me. I needed to find a way to connect with her immediately so that she didn’t end up dating someone else before giving me a chance.

“Hey Bailey,” I called out as I entered the bakery. It was eerily quiet as soon as the chime from the bell over the door died out. “Hello? Your deadbeat customer has come to pay up.”

There was no answer, but the door had been unlocked, so the shop must still be open. Hoping that I wasn’t overstepping any boundaries, I headed for the back. My heart was in my throat as I turned the corner around the counter, trying to look casual as I walked into the kitchen area. Asking a girl out was normal. Having dinner was normal. All I had to do is be brave, I told myself as I plastered on a smile.

And looked down to see Bailey in a pool of blood.

My own blood was suddenly thick, icy, and immobile. Seconds count in a crisis. This was not the time to freeze.

I’d trained for this. I’d thrown my partner into the backseat with a gashed shoulder and a fractured ankle. I’d broken up fights that would shatter a normal person. But now it was my turn to nearly shatter. Oh god, Bailey...

I called in while dropping to my knees, tapping her cheek, checking her pulse. It was weak, but there. She was breathing. Her skin was cool, so she may have been here a while. A puddle of some dark red sauce was on the floor, even darker than her blood – oh Jesus, that was too much of her blood. A huge knife. A gash on her left forearm, thankfully above the wrist, but it definitely nicked a vein.

Ripping my shirt off, I yelled directions at the phone while tearing strips of fabric to make a tourniquet. The operator assured me medics would arrive in minutes but Bailey wasn’t moving. I tied her arm off tightly, applying pressure carefully while raising it as high as I could. “Baile

y,” I called to her gently through whatever fog she was in. “Can you hear me?”

Her eyelids fluttered and I was almost relieved for a second. Seconds ticked, as I mentally screamed for the ambulance, anybody better qualified to get here.

“What...” Her eyes opened as if for the first time in years.

“Look at me, Bailey. Lock onto my eyes and don’t look around, okay? Can you tell me what happened?” She began to look down to her arm, but I barked, “At me. Do not take your eyes from my face.”

It seemed like it was hard for her to focus. “Bailey, did somebody do this to you?” Never in my life would I hope that somebody had an accident, but it was better than the thought that she may have been attacked.

“I fell,” she said simply, her voice delicate and tiny. “I never fall. Why are...” She stared at my bare chest, my wide shoulders, her other hand twitching as if she wanted to touch me. “Wow.”

“Does your head hurt? Did you hit it?”

“I don’t know,” she said woozily. “Why is there cherry sauce on your hands?”

“It’s just a little blood, sweetie,” I said as gently as I could with my damn gruff voice. “We’re going to get you to a hospital for a few tiny stitches then you’ll be fine, okay?”

She tried to flinch backward into the dark tile floor, every muscle twitching as fresh blood began seeping between my fingers right through the strips of shirt fabric. “No, no needles,” she squealed.

“Okay,” I said quickly, lying shamelessly. “No needles. They can just clean and bandage it then. That will do the trick.”