Dark Places Read Free

curb at the last second. I guess that’s why they hit the lamppost with the Christmas star on top. Sometimes I’m just too alluring for my own good.
    I looked up into the lightly spiraling white snowflakes and made sure the rocking glittery adornment wasn’t going to fall on my head. That would be a catchy headline: POLICEWOMAN /HOOKER SMASHED FLAT BY FALLING STAR. All business now that I had a couple of easy marks, I worked up some serious slither and sidled sexily toward my dynamic duo waiting under the streetlight.
    â€œHey, there, hotties, you looking for a date?” Sexy, breathy, freezing. Hey, I’d seen how the hookers do it on HBO.
    The guy in the passenger seat said, “Hey, there, you sweet little piece of thang.”
    Huh?
    My fellow deputies laughed heartily into my earpiece. Unprofessional, they are, yes. But I, being the only serious police officer in the group, ignored their glee, kept a straight face as I batted snow-crusted eyelashes at my twin Prince Charmings. I hoped all my old scars and bullet wounds were hidden under my skimpy attire. Sometimes my battle mementos make the guys courting me get all nervous and jumpy. Except for Black. He just prescribes painkillers and tells me to duck and weave next time. He’s got a couple of impressive scars himself from his Army Ranger days, I might add. Not that we’re in competition, or anything.
    Fortunately, Billy Joe Naughty Boy wasn’t looking at my hatchet scar. He was looking at my Grapette legs with more than a little concern on his face. He had lots of dirty-blond hair everywhere except on top of his head, and a bushy beard with a little piece of Big Mac lettuce crusted in it. Wilted, maybe with a little Special Sauce, too. Dinner, I presumed. I resisted the urge to pluck it out as an act of goodwill and wondered if his gold nose ring made his nostril freeze in these cold climes. My kind of man, all right.
    The driver leaned around and got into the act. My, he was so attractive, too. Mohawk haircut all spiked up with Dippity-do and tattooed race cars with flames coming out the back decorating his grimy hands. Also a suave charmer, he said with such self-confidence, “Wanna go party with us? We got lots of beer and Funyuns in back.”
    Jeez Louise, my dreams have surely come true—twin gourmands willing to share their stash of oniony snacks. Then I thought of the great party going on in the motel rooms just behind me, where more friendly deputies than you could shake a stick at were babysitting all my other eager suitors of the evening. I guess you can call that a party; half of them were having fun.
    â€œYou bet, I do, sweetie. What do you guys have in mind?”
    Mr. Dreamboat at the passenger window chortled with lots of feeling, or maybe he was just embarrassed at my endearment. Or maybe he was a choking wildebeest in heat. I waited for him to regain his composure and draw breath and wondered if Nose Ring’s burning, Christmasy leer could warm up my frozen kneecaps.
    Mohawk behind the wheel had his visor down and was spitting on his palms and slicking up his mussed coiffure. I bring out that primping thing in the men I meet. Nose Ring probably would’ve primped, too, if he knew how. The latter finally figured out how to answer my question.
    â€œWell, both of us are horny as hell, that tell you anything, darlin’?”
    I didn’t mention what that told me. But just think about bulls in heat, you know, barnyard creatures, scruffy coats, manure smell, and all that.
    â€œTell you what, sugar. I gotta nice warm room right back there in that motel.” I tossed my head toward our makeshift incarceration units, chock-full of armed and gleeful cops humming “Getting To Know You.”
    NASCAR Hands backed up into a parking spot so fast he almost hit the trash receptacle on the corner. The boys were excited, I guess. Maybe I’m a regular Pamela Anderson with a Glock 9mm hidden in my