|Protect and Serve: Speed Demon
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Copyright ©2012 Cynthia Sax
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“It’s been a hell of a day,” Nero rumbles, his deep voice coiling around me, causing me to think thoughts no straight man should ever think. He’s a damn demon and they have powers, you know. They can make people do things they would never otherwise do. “Yeah.” I shift in my fuckin’ uncomfortable chair, careful not to touch Nero’s thigh; my partner’s sitting too damn close to me. Before you get any ideas, he isn’t my partner in a sexual sense. Hell no. I’m not gay. I’m not. No matter what other people might think. I’m not. We’re cops, and he’s the man, male, whatever you call a demon, assigned to watch my back. I watch his back as he bends over, his muscles rippling against his uniform. Nero has the broadest shoulders I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen a lot of broad shoulders, believe me. There’s nothing gay about looking at other men. It’s an animal reaction, not a sexual response. We size up the competition, and holy fuck, is my competition built. The big cop flicks a piece of unidentifiable crud off his polished boots, straightens, and wipes his thick fingers on a tissue. The demon was meticulously neat. I love… like that about Nero. My last partner — moved two months ago to a pre-retirement paper-pusher position — wasn’t as tidy. I’d find moldy doughnuts, discarded coffee cups, and other shit under the seats of our shared vehicle. Once I excavated a half-eaten hamburger, a giant green vibrator, and what looked like a cock ring from the badlands we called a trunk. After that discovery, I cleaned the car wearing gloves and a gas mask. “I’ve heard of this place, but I’ve never been.” Nero casts his red-eyed gaze over the Fox Hole. The strip bar under new management had maintained its trademark seediness, the room smelling of cum and sweat and horny men. Naked women gyrate around the stage, their titties bouncing, as a DJ plays hyper-fast techno music, the profanity-spewing vocalist chirping out lyrics like a chipmunk on speed. Nero catches my gaze and holds it, his demon eyes all-seeing and all-knowing. “Why are we here?” Why are we here? “We’re men.” Isn’t the reason obvious? “And?” he prompts. Nero has lived for centuries and is one of the most intelligent beings I know. Usually. Right now, he’s making my friend Wright look like a mental giant, and that’s a feat I thought impossible. “We’re here to look at naked women,” I snap. We spent the day dealing with drunk-ass underage hedgehog shifters and wrong-way-driving fairy godmothers. I’ve already filled my quota of stupidity for the entire week; thank you very much. “Why do you think we came here?” “To look at naked women? Really? That interests you?” Nero raises one ink-black eyebrow. “Really. That interests me.” I huff, fed up with his insinuations. Sargents aren’t gay, and I’m a Sargent, my father’s son. Nero hums, the sound vibrating through my body. He tilts his head toward me, the lights reflecting off his longer-than-regulation-length hair, and he purses his perfect lips. “So which stripper do you like?” I leisurely peruse the selection, giving the women my full attention for the first time this evening, my thoughts previously preoccupied with my partner. This is the Fox Hole so the selection isn’t great. A sad-eyed blonde crawls on her hands and knees upon the dirty stage, her big breasts jiggling and her ass shaking. A scarred man with a handlebar moustache thinks he’s being clever when he sneaks a quick feel, sliding a bill into the stripper’s G-string, the flimsy garment held together by safety pins. He’s not clever, that move having been perfected by strip bar-going men the world over, but he can do what he wants as she’s not my type. I’m not digging the excessive curves or the trailer-trash, pinned-in-place outfit. A leaner woman spins around the center pole, her legs long and tanned, the six-inch metallic heels of her shoes gleaming with every rotation. Flesh-colored makeup doesn’t quite cover up the giant “I heart garden gnomes” tattoo decorating the stripper’s lower back. She’s a cone-hat lover. I curl my top lip, having briefly dated a gnome-obsessed woman, our sex life constituting me looking up her skirt while wearing a fake beard and pointy hat. The stripper is also too skinny. I like a woman who can hold me down if I get too frisky, not some twig I’ll snap in the heat of passion. The third woman stands with her back facing me. She has wide fuck-me shoulders, narrow pump-it-harder hips, and the fit, muscular form I like, not an ounce of extra flab on her fine physique. Come to Officer Sargent, sweet momma. I lick my lips, hankering for a taste of that tight ass. “I like the brunette.” I nod toward her. “That’s your choice?” Nero smirks and casually drapes his arm around the back of my chair, the scent of fire and man filling my nostrils, making me hungry for barbecue. During the first month we worked together, I ate baby back ribs every damn night for dinner because of his natural cologne. My blood pressure shot through the roof. “Chris,” my partner, a.k.a. Satan’s choice, hollers. The brunette turns around, and I wish she hadn’t, her large and clearly fake breasts shattering my boner-inspiring fantasy. She scans the audience, spots Nero, and smiles, her lips painted a garish glittering pink. Nero would know her; my partner’s questionable connections were a constant pain in my ass. My face heats as the stripper Chris sashays toward us, her hips swaying. “Nero, darling,” Chris purrs, her voice unexpectedly deep. She crouches down, her knees part, and I blink at the unmistakable ridge tucked into her G-string. “What the fuck.” I jerk backward. Either she has found an inventive place to carry a gun or she has parts no woman should have. Nero’s hand clamps down on my shoulder, holding me still, his touch strangely reassuring. “She… he…” Nero massages my muscles with his fingertips, using his demon powers to scatter my thoughts. The stripper’s lips quirk upward. “Who’s your new playfriend, doll? I love him. He’s kind of cute.” She… he drifts a dagger-length fingernail over my badge, and I shiver. I don’t know why I shiver. I’m a cop, genetically enhanced to kick ass, and I’m scared of fuck all. “Sarge is my partner,” Nero rumbles, his tone possessive, and my cock twitches to life. Hell no. Not here. Not now, I silently beg my wayward dick. “We’re cops,” I squeak, dismayed over my physical reaction. “I’m not gay.” “Of course you aren’t, sweetie.” The stripper gives me a condescending smile before turning his attention back to the demon by my side. “He’s adorable, Nero, and I’m happy for you. This is the one. I can feel it in my gut.”