Charlie Foxtrot (Code 11-KPD SWAT 5)

Turning on my heel, I walked back to the bedroom and slipped on a pair of black shorts.

A pair which happened to be Foster’s.

I was happy with them, though, since I planned on throwing a pot or two while I waited.

I was fairly sure he wouldn’t care, either.

After taking care of that little tidbit, I walked back out to the living room and started to gather my things.

Since what I planned to do today was a large vase, I cut a much bigger piece of clay with my wire instead of the small one I’d used with Foster the previous time.

We both stayed silent as I started to get the things collected that I’d need.

I was fully aware of her assessing me, even though she never bothered looking up from her magazine.

As I sat down, she finally deigned to speak to me again.

“So, you’re a dispatcher?” She asked offhandedly.

I looked up at her sharply, not liking the tone she used to say dispatcher.

She might as well had called me a garbage man.

“Sure am,” I said.

“How come I’ve never seen you?” Alice asked, not bothering to look up from her magazine.

It was one of Foster’s Guns and Ammo ones that he had on his nightstand.

I remembered it distinctly because it had a pink gun on the front, and there’d been a little blurb that was asking if it was okay to make guns look ‘pretty.’

I’d actually wanted to read that article, but I’d left it on the nightstand to get to when I got a chance.

And I knew Foster had already read the entire thing since we’d had our own debate on whether guns should be made to look like that.

His main argument had been about kids.

How they’d, if the gun was left within reach, be more tempted by a gun that was pretty rather than a gun that was just plain black.

In fact, I’d argued with him about it, and had meant to read the article, but he’d put his foot down that we’d be watching a movie, so I’d left it in the bedroom.

Which meant that she had to come in the bedroom.

And she’d seen me naked.

What the fuck?

Rather than dwelling on it, I got some water on my hands, and pressed the pedal with my foot to get the wheel spinning.

Then I started to press my fingers into the clay, moving them up to form the base of the vase.

“So what do you think of him?” Alice said sometime later.

I’d just started to work the vase up about nine inches in height when she’d said the words, and accidentally pressed harder than I’d meant to, making it lean slightly to one side.

Sighing, I fixed it before I stood and started to press inward. “What do I think about whom?”

“Foster,” she answered quickly, finally looking up at me.

Something which I caught out of the corner of my eye.

I didn’t look at her, though, so totally focused on my vase that I didn’t even care enough to look up.

“I love him,” I said simply.

It was true. I loved him.

Something which didn’t scare the shit out of me like I’d thought it would.

When I’d left David, I’d had a party to celebrate our split.

A party of one where I got drunk, and then passed out in my rented hotel room.

But it’d been fun.

However, I’d made a promise to myself that night that I’d never let myself fall apart over a guy.

A promise that I broke the first day I met Foster Lager Spurlock.

A promise that I was happy to break.

I knew in my heart that Foster was a good man.

When he’d expressed his disgust over David’s behavior, I’d felt relief.

Utter relief that there were still good men in this world that weren’t taken.

“You love him?” She asked slowly. “You’ve only known him for like a month.”

I ignored her, thinking it’d be best to not bring attention to the fact that she was getting to me.

“He’s not a love kind of guy. He’s a fuck and go home kind of guy,” she said, turning to face me now.

She was wearing short shorts that rode up to her vagina, and a skin tight tank top that had some sort of police symbol on it.

How did the woman become a police officer?

She was the epitome of dainty, dumb blonde. Which was saying something since I was blonde myself.

How’d a woman like her become a cop?

I’d heard that the KPD’s fitness test was one of the hardest in the State of Texas to pass.

Did she have to suck someone’s cock to get them to pass her?

“You know, when he called my number last night, I was fairly sure he was calling me to come up to his apartment for a completely different reason,” she said snidely.

The insinuation in that comment had me backing away from the table before I could even think better of myself.

Once my foot left the wheel, the spinning vase slowed slowly, before stopping completely.

Once I was sure it would stay where I wanted it, I walked purposefully to the woman, muddy hands and all, and stopped until I was toe to toe with her.

She’d stood once she saw me coming towards her, quickly dropping the magazine on the table and squaring her shoulders.

“So tell me,” I said, eyeing her. “What’s your malfunction?”

She moved forward, putting her face into mine before poking me in the chest.

“He’s mine,” she hissed. “I’ve been waiting for him to come back. I had to give him time because of his handicap. He was so good, he’s worth the wait.”

I scrunched my eyebrows at her. “He’s not handicapped. And if he wanted to be with you, he’d have been with you. His dick wasn’t affected, it was his leg. And Foster doesn’t do things half assed. If he wanted you again, he’d have had you. Which means only one thing. He doesn’t want you.”

I heard the lock on the door click open, and heard the tink-step of Foster walking into the room.

Did I turn around and face him?