Maybe Swearing Will Help (SWAT Generation 2.0 3)

“Hey, let him go!” Douchebag one ordered.

Except Ashe was there, ordering him to turn around.

“Turn around and put your hands on your head,” Ashe ordered. “And don’t even think about…”

Ashe grunted out in pain as the douchebag tried to sucker punch her, too.

He missed hitting her face by mere inches as she moved out of the way just in time.

She didn’t waste her hits after that.

The kid was on the ground, his arm in an armbar, even before he could draw in his next breath.

She had him cuffed and on the floor, her entire body holding him still, while trying to get the unconscious man to look at her.

He wasn’t responding, which was what had me moving my kid to the back of my cruiser.

All the while, the kitten was mewling pitifully, tucked up against the bleeding man’s face.

When the kid was finally in the back of the cruiser, I came back inside for the other one, who was still struggling.

“I’ll take him,” I said to Ashe.

Although she could handle her own, she didn’t have the strength to hold him down and keep him still without hurting the little fucker.

Something in which he deserved.

“Youth nowadays,” an elderly woman said as she watched me shove them into my cop car.

I looked up, surprised to see someone so old out so late.

Then realized that the car she’d gotten out of was packed to the gills with vacation shit and two sleeping kids.

“Wow, what happened?”

I ignored the couple and took Douchebag one to Saint’s cruiser. Saint, who’d just pulled up in time to receive his precious cargo.

“Careful with this one,” I drawled as I threw him in. “He’s lively.”

Saint scoffed and got out, walking into the building with me.

I frowned when I saw Ashe on her hands and knees doing chest compressions to the man who’d been punched.

“What the fuck?” I asked, dropping down onto my knees.

“I don’t know.” She shook her head. “He’s not breathing, though.”

Saint had already disappeared back to his car, coming back with a face mask.

Then the three of us continued chest compressions before he was hauled off in an ambulance eight minutes later.

The mewling kitten was the only thing left behind of the aftermath.

Saint picked it up and stroked its head.

“You can keep it,” Ashe said. “I already have way too many.”

Saint was already shaking his head.

“I can’t keep this cat,” he said. “It looks traumatized. I don’t do traumatized.”

The kitten closed its eyes and started to purr. Loudly.

Saint blew out a defeated breath. “I don’t even like cats.”

Ashe turned to me. “That guy was dead before he even hit the floor.”

Yes, yes, he was.Chapter 9

Saying ‘have a nice day’ sounds friendly. Saying ‘enjoy your next twenty-four hours’ sounds threatening.

-Text from Ford to Ashe

Ford

It was the knock on my door at eleven in the morning the next day that had me wanting to kill who was on the other side of the door.

Blearily I opened it up and stared at who was outside.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, hair sticking up every which way, eyes on the woman, and death in my eyes.

She grinned at me.

“I’m here to talk about kitten and cat disappearances.” She waggled a sheath of papers at me.

“Since I’m off for the next two days with you, I decided not to go to sleep.”

I grunted something unintelligible, then turned to go back to the couch where I’d fallen asleep earlier.

I would say that it was because it was more comfortable, but honestly, I’d just been too goddamn tired to make it all the way into my room.

Not to mention that the pillow I’d been using smelled of Ashe when she’d come over for pizza the other night.

Something girly. Floral and scented.

I liked it.

Too much.

Especially since I wasn’t supposed to continue to want the girl that was a pain in my ass ninety-five percent of the time.

“I found like eighty missing cats in the area,” she said as she sat on the couch next to my face.

Her phone buzzed right against my head, and I pushed her away with a shove.

“Move over,” I ordered.

She didn’t.

She did, however, remove her phone from her pocket.

“Who’s texting you so early?” I asked tiredly.

“I joined the Facebook dating app thing,” she answered. “Rowen and Calloway made me do it.”

A dart of anger started to angle through my blood.

“No shit?” I asked, much more awake now.

And pissed.

“Yeah,” she sighed. “Actually, they filled out the app online for it. Signed me up for it, anyway. I don’t actually know how it was done. But they forced me to do it because they said I’d never meet anyone if I didn’t put myself out there.”

Anger now licking at my features, I kept my head down as I said, “You want to date?”

“It’s not like I don’t want to date,” she admitted. “I have no reason not to.”