A thick fog rolls in across the pier from the bay, colder than the steel of the gun barrel I hold against my temple and the half-finished bottle of bourbon slumped in my other hand. Maybe the descending gray blanket will deaden the shot that bites into my sorry-ass existence. Anonymize me. Swallow the muzzle flash as I'm added to the growing list of worthless cops this city has ejected like spent shell casings.

My finger tightens on the trigger and I lift the bottle to my lips, some of the stinging liquid dribbling down my shirt and splashing my skin where the loosened necktie hangs. I barely notice. As the alcohol surges deeper into my veins, the bottle base thunks against the boardwalk alongside my thigh and I stare into the encroaching gloom. Water droplets cling to the air like cold sweat on a first-time perp.

I had pure intentions. Didn't mean to get so swept up in the case. In her. But my guilty conscience isn't from dirty mob payoffs or crooked pension funds like a lot of cops who wind up eating lead. It's that I let her down.

Maybe I shoulda seen it coming. Used the investigative skills I'm paid for, on myself. But I was blinkered. Consumed. Over-focused. With hindsight, there’s been a pattern; shoulda seen that too. A few suspensions for not following orders. A coupla short marriages. A string of hot women, one my boss, that contributed to the rocky matrimony record.

Guess I’m just weak. Unable to resist women. Gimme a chick with a confident strut wearing not much, and I'll drown in her. Woman after woman. Over and over. Chase. Fuck. Fun. Lose. Each time, she’s the one… until she's not.

Deep down, I kinda knew women’d be the death of me. Seems fate has finally caught up, just not in the way I expected. Bottom line: there's nothing left for me back home except cold pizza and negative equity. She was everything. Gave it all purpose.

Now she's gone.

And it’s my fault.

I'm not sure if the wetness on my cheeks is fog, tears, or alcohol oozing from my pores, but swipe at it with the back of my hand anyway. Part of me misses her smile more than her touch.

But then, those touches? Magic. Pure voodoo. The way she used to angle her hips and rock on top of me, grinding my lap as she let me maul her sensitive tits was the perfect balance of part angel, part slut. Like she'd stolen a halo from St Pete’s supply closet and slid all the way down the Helter Skelter outside the pearly gates wearing it.

As if that wasn't enough of a draw, she danced like she had nothing to prove. Like the music came from within. That's where I first saw her. JoJo’s, while I was tailing a two-timing husband with connections to the mob. Stupid bastard had it all. Two cars, big house in the hills with a drive longer than most runways, and a platinum blonde wife with an ass that begged to be bitten. He sure as hell don't deserve someone that hot.

The best part of tailing scum like him is watching beauties like his wife. Imagining how she’d taste. How she’d scream for more when I tugged her hair back and drilled her tight ass against his living room wall. And then doing exactly that while he met with his boss one time. Turns out some women are wired all the right kinds of filthy and will do anything for a man in uniform if they ask real nice.

I nearly left JoJo's for a repeat visit. But then I saw her, and it was game over.

When the stage lights brightened and house lights dimmed, she strutted out to a smoky sax riff, sheer lingerie glimmering from beneath the hem of the gold dress that sparkled in the spotlights. I wasn't the only guy in the place that lost the ability to focus on anything except her and their own ratcheting pulse. But I've got a gun and would shoot my way through them all to reach her.

She commanded the kind of respect reserved for heads of state, but moved better than they did. Draped herself around the pole center stage and swung her torso upside down and round in a perfect arc to face the silenced crowd, copper mane dusting the floor. How her tits stayed in the dress, only Newton knew.

When she flicked upright and snaked the pole, my dick began running solely on impulse. By the time she'd pirouetted and looped her way to the floor, knees parted toward the stunned audience, crimson panties grinding steel, the pole in my pants could rival the one to which she clung.

She was the one. I could feel it. And yeah, I say that about every girl. But she was different.

Different, yeah. I say that about every girl, too.

But this one? Mesmerizing. She complemented the lazy brushed jazz beat like the composer had her in mind, her movements almost part of the music itself. It wasn't just a performance, it was art, pure and simple. Restrained, seductive, sexy, detached, tempting. So tempting. Her entire set dripped with lust, yet made it clear she was off-limits unless it was on her terms.

I admired that.

I wanted that. Alongside everyone else in the joint with a fucking pulse.

When her performance ended to thunderous applause and foot stamps, she strode from the stage into the club and swanned to the bar, wannabe suitors in her wake, Viggen formation. Her drink would have been on the house, but the owners sure appreciated the extra business. She coulda had anyone. Anyone. Selected one man with half a head of hair and a dark goatee, hung off his arm and he paid as they engaged in smalltalk.

My mob guy wasn't one of the group. Not at first. But he muscled in shortly after and tried to steal the limelight. She wasn't impressed. Especially when he leaned in and spoke to the guy attached to her. Whatever it was got him spooked. Enough that he melted into the shadows, allowing the two-timer to take his place.

I bristled, instinct to pace over and intervene, but I'm not into the whole White Knight thing. Not my business, and it's demeaning. He was clearly used to getting his own way, and had this entitled attitude I despise. The kind of arrogance borne from money and status. Even carried on bugging her when she turned away.

Something inside me snapped, a little knot of rage forming. I chugged my drink and approached.

“Hey.”

He swivelled to look at me, beginnings of five o’clock shadow framing reedy lips on a face that even a selfie filter would struggle to make appealing.

“What?”

“I think you've outstayed your welcome, buddy.”

“Yeah? Who are you to tell me what to do? And my name ain't Buddy.”

Typical. A wise-ass.

“Just friendly advice.” I met his eyes, my piercing blue stare practised and intimidating, “I suggest you take it, Vinnie.”

That flicker of recognition was hard to disguise. “Who are you?”

“Someone you don't wanna mess with.”

Standing his ground, he sneered and I readied to duck in case he took a swing. I gave it fifty-fifty. But he didn't. Just stared hard, flicking from feature to feature like I was a map and the brothel was missing. He eventually spat, “I have a long memory, buddy,” and stalked off.

I made sure he was gone before taking a breath. Turned to her. If anything, she was more ravishing up close. Cute tapered nose. Lips made to be kissed. Long, natural lashes. And an exotic fragrance of wild berries or somesuch, drifting above the low-level smog of liquor and testosterone in the place.

Lucky I didn't expect gushing praise. It wasn't forthcoming.

“I can fight my own battles.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“So what was that? Chivalry? Or a crappy attempt at getting in my panties?”

I nodded at the barman and pointed to a beertap monogrammed with the unreadable swirling letters of a local brew, then glanced back at her. “Bit of both.”

She crossed her arms, accentuating the swell of her tits. “Then you missed on all counts.”

I caught my reflection in the bar mirror and rubbed my chin. Stubble was out of control. I nodded again. “Figured. He’s trouble anyway. You're better off without him around.”

“And you know this because?”

“Depends if you can keep a secret.”

The barman slid my drink and tab over. I slipped him a ten. Waved away the offer of change. I'll claim expenses.

“Okay, hotshot. I'll bite.”

I regarded her, head to toe and everything I imagined underneath. “You're not the type.”

“To bite?" Shaking hair away from the shoulder straps, the angle of her collarbone drew my attention once again to her impressive cleavage. "Don't be so sure.”

Taking a slug of fresh beer, I put the glass back on the marble and let my resolve follow the frosty liquid down my throat. “Claws too?”

“The sharpest.”

“Figures.”

I waited her out. Raised an eyebrow. Her lips curled into a smile that went deeper than an oil Baron's pockets. She leaned in and whispered, “Buy me a drink and I'll consider it. Spend more, and I'll keep every secret you have.”

She made a zipping motion across her mouth, perfume drifting, carried by an undercurrent of charged heat between us. I stared dead ahead at my reflection.

“Didn't think you'd be the type for sale.”

“You got a lot to learn about women, sugar.”

If only she knew.

I signalled the barman again. She ordered rum and Coke, easy on the Coke, with straw. I paid when it arrived. Drew a circle around the rim of my glass. “I'm tailing him.”

“PI?”

“Cop. Off the books.”

“Ooh.” She gave a theatrical shiver. “Exciting.”

“Hardly. This little stunt cost me my lead.”

“Stunt?! Ha! I didn't ask you to charge in like a dime store John Wayne.”

“You might not have been so sure of yourself by morning. He's dangerous.”

“I'm a big girl.” She eyed me over the tumbler. Took a sip and I never wanted to be a straw so bad. Swallowed. “Am I meant to be grateful? Fall to my knees and worship you for saving me?”

I snorted. “You're not that type either.”

“You got me all figured out, huh?”

I didn't answer. Just drank. 

“Oh, you're one of those. The strong silent type.”

“Yeah. You got me all figured out.”

She smiled. “So what’s your story? No, wait. I'll guess. You're one bust away from retirement or fame?”

I reached the halfway mark of my drink. “Just trying to stay alive long enough to make a difference.”

“And is that achievable?”

My shoulders offered a shrug before my brain told them to. “Guess it depends.”

“On?”

“On whether he comes back and makes life difficult.”

“Is that likely?”

I shrugged again. “The mob's unpredictable.”

Her eyes widened. “For real?”

“Yeah.”

“You taken down others?”

“Not at liberty to say. But yeah.”

Her eyes sparkled in the bar lights. “Spill.”

“Not here. The walls have ears.”

It's true. They did and I knew where the bodies were buried from loose talk.

She sipped her drink and I tried not to stare, but my god she was magnetic. Skin that I swear would glow if it were kissed. Curves accentuated by the glittering material that clung to her body. Wrists I’d be willing to bet my next paycheck she’d let me cuff to the bed. I could get lost in her for hours. Days. Ravage her until she fell apart under my tongue and teeth. And then do it all over again.

I sank another slug. “So where d’you learn to dance like that?”

“The school of necessity. Mom died when I was a kid. Dad didn't take it so well.” She put two fingertips against her skull and mimed a gun going off.

“Sorry.” The silence hung long enough for us to witness the start of the next dancer. Raunchier moves but somehow less watchable than the girl to my right.

“Been on my own since I was sixteen. Worked bars. Ran errands. Survived. Life insurance don't pay out for suicide.” She toyed with the gold hoop in her ear. “Dancing pays better and, honestly, when it's just me up there under the lights, everything melts away, y'know? Worries. The world. It all evaporates.”

I nod. “You're good at it. Captivating.”

In truth that didn't even come close, but anything else would seem corny or insincere.

“Thanks.” She finished her drink and I gave another nod. Turned fully towards her. Gazed, and she knew what was going through my head. Same thing as every guy she ever met, I expect.

The lure was crazy. I'd only just met her, but she had this raw appeal—some hypnotism. One thing was clear: I wouldn't be leaving the planet without kissing her at least once. I had to know how she tasted. Anything less would be criminal.

Normally I’d go for it. Could have pursued her. Might even have gotten a date out of it. Or better. But something stopped me. Hindsight, maybe. Or I just grew a conscience in the shadow of her grace.

Instead, I willed myself to stand. “Been a pleasure, Miss—”

She offered a soft hand that I took, savoring her heat. “Smoke. Samantha Smoke.” Leaning in, our bodies brushing, she whispered, “Even cops have to earn the right to my real name.”

Slipping her hand free, she flashed me a smile—that smile—turned and sashayed into the crowd like a perfect fuckable phantom.

Like mist.

It’s cold without her touch, without her presence, and I shiver. Take another slug from the half-empty bottle in my lap. Stare, vacant at the pier boardwalk disappearing into the middle distance behind the hazy veil.

Choices. Everything’s about choices. I chose to try and forget her, but her brio had other ideas. She wouldn't leave my head. It's like she'd set up residence. Put up drapes and started using my razor. Every thought began and ended with her, punctuated with the way she flowed. The way she looked at me like I mattered. The way I warmed when she smiled.

I wasn't used to it.

Worse—or better—each time the warmth faded, I craved more. Another hit. I recalled echoes of her scent. The brushes of our skin. The cadence of her voice. I couldn’t sleep, mind on spin cycle, endlessly dreaming up excuses—any excuse—to return to the club and see her again.

By the third night of self-inflicted exile, I’d resorted to jacking off to latent images of her just so I could sleep. Imagined her predatorially crawling up my body, rising, standing over my face, swaying and lowering herself to grind on my mouth and tongue. Bouncing. Rocking. Infusing me with her scent in a filthy, private dance. It was the longest three days I could remember, head like a sack of frogs, and I struggled to focus on the investigation.

I'd not seen Vinnie since, and presumed he'd gone to ground after our encounter, so I combed older case notes to distract myself, looking for fresh leads. Stumbled across a related file and something didn't add up. I cross-referenced it with some other cases at the time and barely believed what I found. Had to double check, but it all fit together.

And the best part? It gave me the perfect excuse to visit the club.

I'd like to say the walk did me good. Cleared my head. But every step past boarded up shop fronts and graffiti-daubed walls had the opposite effect. By the time I reached the stairs leading down to JoJo's entrance, I seriously considered taking up smoking again to calm my nerves.

I stood outside and paced. A cruiser roared by, sparklers on, siren wailing, and I waited until the Doppler had passed and I could no longer hear it before leaving the streets to the drunks, hookers and taxis that prowled the evening heat.

Checking my hat in the boxy cloakroom, I paid the entry fee to the girl behind the desk whose tits could double as buoyancy aids. Asked for a receipt. Got a strange stare with the cloak docket. No receipt.

I was propping up the bar with two-and-a-half beers to my name before she strode on stage, the spotlight magnifying her beauty. Her performance was as electrifying as it had been the first night. All hips and curves, allure and eroticism. Same gold dress I craved to unzip and let slither off her shoulders to puddle at her heels. Same dappled perspiration surfacing from pores I could spend all night mapping with caresses. The only change was bare legs that invited my tongue all the way up to the flashes of black underwear I'd nuzzle until she was a writhing wreck on the bedsheets.

She did two numbers. Both had me hanging on every hip gyration, imagining she was grinding into my lap as I stiffened against the lace outlining her delicious pussy. By the time she bowed to the applause and stepped from the stage, I was about ready to punch a hole through my slacks.

Making a beeline for me, she glided more than strutted.

“How's my favourite cop?”

“Still living the dream.”

“Rich enough to buy me another drink?”

I attracted the barman’s attention and ordered. Got myself one more, too. I'm not technically on duty, but I kept the receipt regardless.

Lifting my glass in a toast, I caught her eye. “Incredible dancing.”

Her focus roamed to the remains of my hard-on and lingered before flicking back up. “Thank you. How's the case going?”

“Slow. But...” Now I was here in her formidable presence, it didn't seem right to tell her. I could—probably should—let her live the rest of her life in blissful ignorance. But did she deserve the truth? To reopen old wounds? Had she already closed that chapter and was at peace with it?

Choices. Always damn choices.

She sipped her drink through the straw and made the decision for me. “But…?”

I took a breath. “What did they tell you about your mom?”

She blinked. “Hit and run. Drunk driver over on Mulholland. Never really believed it.”

I wasn't expecting that, and blinked in return. “What made you doubt the story?”

“Purr-lease. Mulholland? Why would she be all the way out there? Makes no sense.”

That made it easier. But I took a gulp and wiped the froth off my lip before continuing. “It was a pro hit.”

Her eyes widened. “For real?”

I nodded. “Likely the mob. They don't often miss.”

“How d’you know it's her? I haven't even told you my name.”

I shrugged. “The pieces fit. The timeline fits. Notes mention a girl your age. Description matches. Further notes about your dad, and then your disappearance when Welfare came knocking. Leap of faith.” I swung my gaze over, her caramel irises alive, a spark behind them. “Sorry, Sophie James, but the cops lied to you to protect their investigation.”

Not sure how I was expecting her to react, but excitement wasn't it. She turned fully to me and placed a hand on my arm. She was warmer than me. “What did Mom have to do with the mob?”

“Probably nothing. Well, nothing directly. Seems she borrowed money off someone who owed them, and couldn't pay it back.”

Sophie screwed up her nose in thought. “Dad was out of work. Times were tight. It's possible.”

“Yeah. Probably wrong place, wrong time and she got caught in the crossfire meeting the guy she owed. He got whacked too. Same night, same shooter.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah.”

I let her process everything. It was a lot to take in. She went through most of her drink while I pretended not to be staring at her tits, before she spoke.

“If your new case is connected, I want in.”

I tossed her a rueful smile. “Policing don't work that way.”

“So? Help me, or I'll find someone who will. Or go it alone.”

“You can't just go vigilante. It's too dangerous. Mob guys mean business. Serious business. And who do you trust? Too many cops on their payroll.”

She waved my arguments away. "I trust you. Surely it's safer to keep me close?” My eyes found hers and I knew there was no dissuading her. A fire had been lit inside and she craved resolution. Couldn't blame her. “You keep me in the loop. I'll make it worth your while.” She stepped in and shifted the warm hand to my shirt, directly over my heart that was hammering beneath. “Very… very worthwhile.”

Slumped in the sodium glow beneath the fog-diffused streetlight, I reflect on just how far her single-mindedness went. Thing is, it didn't seem transactional, even in the early days before we fell in love.

I'd bring case notes back to my apartment. We'd pore over them. Discuss aspects of the various investigative strands. Pass file photos and documents back and forth—some messily hand-written, others typed—fingertips brushing, closeness forming on the low-slung couch. It was far from protocol, but her enthusiasm and the headway we made overshadowed the questionable legalities.

Before I knew it, we were close. Real close. Close enough that, soon after, my lips landed on hers and I got my first true taste of happiness.

The way she responded gave me such a rush. More than any other woman. Even if it had ended right there, I knew I'd never be kissed the same way again. It was like she was massaging my soul with each brush of her lips. Every lance of her tongue was barbed with mounting lust, and heat rocketed from the contact point outward.

I let the glow guide me. Lifted off her top and walked caresses from collarbone to navel, via the valley of her chest.

That first time, I didn't even take her underwear off. Pushed her back, spread her legs, crawled between them, lifted the flowing skirt and devoured her through the wet cotton beneath. Her scent was intoxicating, like rain on a fresh sidewalk lined with pines. I couldn't get enough and she clutched at my head, murmuring my name as I brought her to a thrashing climax.

The orgasm ignited her, and we ended up sprawled over the coffee table among the strewn documents, her dripping panties cinched aside and me ploughing her. I grabbed her wrists, pinned her arms to the table over her head and our groans synchronized as every fiber in me tightened when I filled her slick pussy.

That opened the floodgates. We couldn't stop. Studied the cases daily and fucked against every surface in my apartment, horizontal, vertical, and every other angle that would support us. We staked out buildings and fucked in my Lincoln, her pert ass nudging the steering wheel with every grind of her sensuous hips.

We even fucked in an alleyway outside one of the mob accountant’s offices, her clutching my back as the brickwork scuffed her clothing and I groaned in her ear, jetting deep inside, my hand curled round her throat.

We became inseparable. There's infatuation, then there's her. When we weren't working, we were screwing. Lost in one another. Hard and frantic anywhere we could, or slow and sensual at my place or hers. She loved it rough best of all. Met my kinks head-on and brought some of her own. Breath play. Anal. Sometimes both, in places we should have known better. Breaking into an abandoned church?! Next level. I was on that Helter Skelter with her, and found I didn't give a fuck as long as we were together.

I worked other cases as my boss demanded, but Sophie and me, well, we kept surveilling the mob on the down-low, and rutting like we were on honeymoon.

She became embroiled in how they operated. How they moved money. Laundered it. Shipped guns and dealt with turf invasions, takeovers and dissent. I should have known something was up. That maybe she wasn't solely doing it to see the cogs of justice through to conclusion, but to seek revenge. Blinded by her help and the rampant, animalistic sex, I missed the blatantly obvious staring me in my own stupid face.

She paid the price.

And it was my fault.

The last night I saw her, we were sheltering from a rainstorm under a tree. We’d been watching Vinnie, Johnny ‘Fingers’ and Paul D’Angelo as they unloaded crates from a van at a warehouse on the fringes of the city. I'd parked the car a mile or so up the road and we'd approached on foot. Took it in turns to use the binoculars and snap photos, then got caught out by the sudden rain. Soaked, we raced back and gave up, clothes sticking to our torsos, hair plastered to faces.

Giggling like teens, we scrambled for shelter. She stripped her top off and wrung it out under the tree canopy. I took it off her. Lassoed it round her neck and tugged her into a kiss. Pushed her back against the bark, clutching her tits through the wet bra, then beneath. Headlights swept the bend like a fog searchlight and I hauled her to the far side of the trunk.

Her nipples tasted of rainwater and salt, the marshmallow peaks hardening beneath my swirling tongue. Biting each cap, I increased the pressure until she arched into me and gasped. She scrabbled to remove her underwear from beneath the tight skirt. My belt buckle was next, giving her access to pop the button and reach in to stroke my length.

In no time, I was as solid as a city lawyer's defense case. She tore off my drenched Yankees T-shirt and let her fingers wander from scar to scar as I lapped and bit until she breathlessly begged, “I need you inside me.”

Gripping her wrists, I slammed them above her head, then twisted them behind the tree. Unhooked my cuffs and clapped the steel on her, ratcheting them. Stepping back, I eyed her bound vulnerability, wrapped in the fierce intensity she always wore. I tied the ends of her sodden top around her throat. Cinched it tight until her jaw dropped. Then grabbed my wet shaft and stroked it. For me, for her, didn't matter.

She licked her lips. Willed me forward. I lifted my hand instead. Held it in front of her a moment until she figured what was coming. Then spanked each of her tits in turn, rain spraying from their surface. She twisted in response, gasping, “Yes!” until they were peppered with marks.

I dug fingertips into the soft flesh and used the leverage to step fully in. Nudged her slick entrance with my hardness. Kissed her, and plunged up into her molten cunt.

She rocked her hips in time to my thrusts, weather forgotten. Our thighs rubbed and squeaked, the wet skin of our chests clinging and separating in a primal rhythm. Breath mingled between probing tongues. She felt like home.

The intensity mounted with every grind of our hips until she froze. Her orgasms were always special and this one was no exception. She did this kind of all-body shiver before it fully claimed her, moaning into my mouth and writhing against the rough bark. I wasn’t far behind, panting hard as I pulsed deep inside her trembling body.

When we were spent, I let go and uncuffed her. She immediately flung her arms round my rain-dappled back, and we stayed that way, hugging as I gradually softened. My exit was chased by a trickle of thick cum that slid down her thigh to be washed into the undergrowth.

Eventually we disentangled and picked up our scattered, muddy clothes. Made ourselves partway presentable and waited hand in hand for the deluge to lessen. Then hiked back to the car, stomping in puddles along the way.

The vents on full blast did nothing but steam up the interior so we just wound the windows down and I drove back to my apartment.

We stripped off in the shower. Trampled the mound of clothes in the tray, kissing at a less frenetic pace than earlier. I turned her. Admired the way she curved like a cello. Soaped her back. Reached around to cup and massage her marked breasts with slippery palms and entered her from behind. She pushed back, hands anchored against the white tile to deepen my thrusts.

Our groans drifted, mine alongside her ear. When I grit my teeth and hissed I was gonna cum, she shoved me away. Turned. Faced me. Sank to her knees and jacked my spunk over her angelic features. Pretty sure I caught a glimpse of her dented halo as the cascading water rinsed everything away.

After shutting the shower off, I carried her to the bedroom, still dripping. Dumped her on the bed and dove between her splayed legs. I licked, slathered, kissed, sucked until she bunched the sheets in her fists. Even then, I didn't stop. Carried on devouring her while she clamped my cheeks with her thighs, desperate moans reflected off the ceiling.

Her juices danced on my tongue. I couldn't get enough, and neither could she. I craved to explore every skin cell, taste every tangy drop she allowed me to draw from her body, and lose myself in every whimper and scream.

If I'd known it would be the last time I'd savor any of those things, I'd have fought harder. Held tighter to my forever girl. Not drifted off with her in my arms, only to wake to find my gun and car keys gone and a growing sense of dread in the black hole where my heart used to be.

How was I to know she’d choose that night to begin her revenge? To go back to the warehouse and try to destroy the organization from the bottom up until she reached the people she blamed for taking her parents.

I thought back to all the impatient quips: “When are we going to start shooting them all?” Figured it was just banter. Our little thing. Because I'd always assure her that investigations take time, and legally-obtained evidence is key. And she'd nod. Go along with my leads. Collect evidence. File it.

She wasn't prepared for field work; never would be. Probably thought it was like in the movies where the good guys ride off into the sunset. But she was blinkered. Driven. Determined. All this time planning her revenge.

One of the mob guys got the drop on her. Took the gun—my gun—and put a bullet in her. Moved her body to bleed out. Wiped the gun clean and left it there. Ballistics won't even come back close to suicide. But I knew it was a message. A fuck-you from Vinnie. The case will be closed without further investigation, because the mob have long memories and longer reach.

I choke back a sob and the silver-gray shroud swallows the remainder like a silent accomplice. I stare. Press the gun to my head for what must be the twentieth time and half press the trigger, then take another swig of bourbon.

The distant drone of the fog horn gives way to a rhythmic tap seeping into my conscience. Growing louder. Nearing.

Leather on wood.

Heels.

Click-tap, click-tap. Measured and authoritative.

Nobody but her has that gait.

Jessica.

The clicking stops. “Thought I might find you here.”

No sympathy. Just fact.

My gaze woozily shifts to her legs. Up bare thighs to the charcoal business skirt and white blouse housing tits I've bitten more times than an employee should. Each time, we convince ourselves it's the last, and then six months or so later wind up getting drunk and in bed for the kind of sex they write about. Like some unscripted Plan B. Two lonely souls married to their jobs, recharging and blowing off steam in a tangle of sweaty limbs and filthy language. It's been about six months since the last time.

I lift the bottle in salute. “Congradderlations.” Take a pull.

She leans down and wrestles it off me. “You've had quite enough. Give me the gun.”

I blink. “You took the bottle off of me first?”

“Waste of good liquor if you spill it.”

“Huh. Always thinking with your head.”

I let the six-shooter fall into her palm and she disarms the hammer, clicking the safety on too. One bullet's still missing; the one in Sophie. The other five are symbolic. If number two doesn’t send me to oblivion to join her, the rest will lead the charge down the fiery path of avenging her death.

Jessica drops the piece by my leg with a thud. Sprinkles the bullets. “You're a good cop, Mickey. Don't throw that away. Lord knows I don't need the paperwork."

“See? Head again. Try leading with your heart sometime.”

The slap stings my cheek. “Says the paralytic cop who redefined cynicism the day he joined. Grow up.”

I rub my jaw. Swing my gaze back up to hers. “That was before. She changed me.”

“Ha! The great Mickey Madson. Saved by a woman. I’d pay good money to see that fucking movie.” She looks away into the nothingness that envelops us, like it’ll somehow reflect answers.

“It’s true. I miss her, Jess. So much.” I squeeze my eyes shut and flick them open. My voice hollows. “So fucking much."

She regards me. Pity or scorn, I can't tell. Leaning down, she kisses the cheek she hit, a fleeting brush. “Don't do anything stupid and you’ll pull through. If you need time—”

I don't let her finish. Capture her lips with mine and she squirms. Pulls away. “Mickey, don't. Bad habits aren't what you need.”

“I need to feel alive. Feel something.” I kiss her again. “Make it go away, Jess. Everything. Even if it's only for now. Show me I'm still me.”

“Mickey… you'll regret this. Don't...”

Grabbing her hips, I tug her down to my lap. Kiss her hard, roving my hands up those toned bare legs, familiarity returning fast as I hike the short skirt. Her protests crumble, turning to soft moans in my mouth.

Our tongues slither together. Her knees scuff the outside of my thighs as she grinds instinctively against my dick, rocking to waken it. She takes hold of my shirt lapels and hauls me against her chest. I fumble with the buttons and eventually undo enough to spill her tits into my palms as she unzips and frees my cock.

Condensation forms on her chest and I swipe over it with my thumbs, catching her erect nipples. It makes her gasp. Her hand jacks my shaft, countering the coolness of the fog droplets, and I begin to firm.

Crawling back a little, she stoops and uses practised licks and nibbles to coax me harder. Her lips wrap the ridge and she flutters her tongue around the crown, gradually sucking more of me in her mouth, until I'm fully hard. Until I nudge her throat.

She climbs back up me, tugs her panties aside and sinks onto my prick, exhaling as I disappear. I capture her dewy tits once more and massage them roughly as she begins bouncing in my lap. Her head tips back, brunette locks reflecting silver streaks as I cup and squeeze, then pinch her nipples.

She shoves two fingers in my mouth before dropping the hand between us to circle her clit. Her lips part and soft mewls escape into the damp night air. We ignore the trill of her phone, hips rocking, and the thing eventually rings off. Then buzzes a notification.

Performing squats on my rod, she bounces and moans, filthy squelches radiating. That familiar growl in her throat surfaces; the one that precedes her orgasm, and I slow to delay it. She huffs but slows her actions too, drifting from the edge and then building back up to boiling point.

Any other day, I'd have erupted long before this, but the alcohol has dulled my abilities. By the time I groan I'm about to cum, she’s been riding the precipice too long. Mashes her fingertips against her nub. Shudders. The ripples travel the length of my buried cock and I clutch her chest hard as I pump her full of creamy spunk, groaning into the gloom.

It's release, for sure. But it's not her. Nowhere close.

Our rocking slows to nothing. Just two lonely figures joined at the hips on the fringes of a faceless city, pretending to give a fuck about each other for the sake of an adrenaline high we both need. I shove her off me, like I've betrayed the memory of Sophie by stooping so low, so soon. Cum drips to the boardwalk between my thighs as she stands. Reseats her panties. Smooths her skirt. Tucks her tits peppered with handprints away and does up her blouse.

My withered cock is still exposed to the elements and she stares down at me. “Better?”

I swivel my attention across the pier. “Nah. You always were a lousy lay.”

She kicks my thigh. “That's the booze talking, ya cheeky prick.” Her eyes meet mine. “Do I need to take the gun out of reach?”

Regarding the pistol and strewn bullets, I consider. Eventually shake my head.

“Good." She crouches for her bag. Takes out her phone, the cool blue tint of the display illuminating and softening her sharp features. Clapping it to her ear, she listens, the vibrations of an indiscernible male voice tinny in the quiet. Her eyebrow raises, I go to speak but she holds up a finger. Listens more, then rings off.

"Jesus, they found a pulse.”

I blink. “What?”

She puts her hands up defensively. “Don't get excited. She might not walk again. She might not breathe unaided again. She might not even make it.”

“Which hospital?”

“Mercy General.”

I try to stand. Give up. “Take me. Please?”

Jessica regards my state. “Fuck off, you'll hurl in my car. Besides, the walk’ll do you good. Who knows, maybe you'll sober up by the time you get there.”

She turns and paces away. Leather on wood. Click-tap, click-tap. Receding until it's just me and my stupor in the neverending fog.

I roll onto my side. Then knees. The pier spins, everything tilts off-axis, my cheeks water and I throw up, retching hard, acrid bile burning on its way out.

Spitting, I pocket the gun and bullets, one by one. Five shells is a start. I have more. Fuck justice. Unholy hellfire is heading their way.

I haul myself up. Use the street lamp for support and stagger to my feet. Stabilise. Take a few steps, shove my hands in my pockets and begin to trudge through the damp gloom towards the city.

Jessica's words echo. She might not even make it. Yeah. But in this city full of dirty cops, guilty payoffs and scum, hope is a scarce commodity.

I'll take ‘might’ any day of the week.