Evan Malone liked the midnight shift. 12 am to 8 am along a stretch of Pacific Coast Highway right at the border of Malibu. It was never dull, and the arrests and citations were easy and built up his record. Most of the time he was pulling over rich drunk fucks in their BMWs, Porches, and Mercedes. Half the time they had hookers or call girls in the front seat, and when he looked inside he'd catch an unwelcome glimpse of their cocks halfway out of their flies. He pulled over producers who tried to bribe him, trophy wives who tried to seduce him, lawyers high on drugs, famous actors with underage girls or the occasional tranny. He'd often told his ex-girlfriend he could write a bestseller on the sexual intrigues of rich LA.
The hours between 4 and 8 am were usually quiet, and he'd sit in his cruiser looking up at the lights on the hills, listening to the ocean and planning his future. Sometimes he tuned into the chatter on the police radio, thinking "Better them than me." He'd worked the worst parts of the city for too many years as a rookie and had had enough of it. He was more than happy to babysit the city's elite if it meant he never had to worry about getting shot.
He hadn't pulled anyone one over for an hour on a beautiful, balmy Friday night when the dusty blue Porsche clocked in at 85 mph. Holy shit. It was brand new, with the dealers' tags still on it, and if he didn't pull it over it would soon be $120,000 of worthless metal wrapped around a telephone pole. He felt adrenaline surge through him as he turned on lights and sirens. Curiosity as well as excitement pumped through his body. What would it be—another actor? A coked up plastic surgeon?
It took a good minute for the driver to notice him and stop. Evan stepped out of the car, his right hand on his holster.
He saw the window unrolling as he approached. He checked his radio—it was 4:10 a.m. The hand at the window was manicured, deeply tanned and Evan saw a heavy silver Rolex. His senses heightened, as soon as he got close Evan smelled the alcohol, along with a deep whiff of, what was it, gardenias? There was a bouquet of flowers crumpled in the passenger seat. It was a lush, heavy, and sexy scent—something he was sure he'd smelled once in his ex's apartment.
"License and registration, please."
"Officer," came a slightly slurred voice, "This is a new—"
"You have your paperwork?" Evan interrupted him. "Pink slip?"
"Yes, uh. . ." the man mumbled as he foraged in the glove compartment.
"I'm going to need you to step out of the car," Evan ordered. At 6'1 or so, the man was several inches taller than Evan, and just as built.
"Turn around." The man obediently did as he was told and passively held his hands behind him. Well this was different. No resistance, no asshole comments. He acted like he knew he'd done something bad. Evan held onto one strong, warm forearm as he slipped on the cuffs. It wasn't till he heard the click that he glanced up and saw a handsome face with red-rimmed blue eyes, dirty blond hair, and two days thick growth of beard.
Evan ran the check on the man's information, looking for old tag numbers. Craig Symons, 30, unmarried, address in Malibu, no record, no citations or arrests. Well, he might have both now.
This guy just reeked of money. It wasn't only his car. It was the perfect haircut and teeth, the personal trainer body, the unique cologne, the expensive linen shirt and casually torn jeans. He had everything but the arrogant attitude. On the contrary, he seemed utterly defeated and depressed. Evan wondered if this had been some kind of unconscious suicide run.
As he wrote out the speeding ticket, he suddenly felt like someone was standing behind him—as if a mouth was softly breathing on his neck or some unseen presence was sensing his every thought. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and a familiar trickle of excitement creep down his spine. He recognized that tingling feeling; it could only mean that this guy was gay. Hmmm, he wouldn't have thought so. He was very good-looking, gorgeous even, but nothing in his manner or voice would have suggested it. But Evan knew the meaning of the prickling sensation down his back; he only got that vibe when he was around gay men.
It didn't bother him. Evan had something of a soft spot for gays. He didn't know why. Perhaps because his father was such a homophobe. Perhaps because he hated assholes so much—wife beaters, rapists, thugs, arrogant pricks who thought they were above the law. No, he had no problem with gays. He found it odd that they seemed to affect him in this way, but he didn't think too much of it.
Evan grabbed the portable breathalyzer and got back out of the cruiser. As he approached the man, the vibe got stronger. Electrical sensations emanated from the back of his head and traveled down his whole body. Craig Symons was leaning casually against his car, one leg bent at the knee, his thighs spread, watching him intently. Evan noticed his eyes travel down his body to his thighs and crotch, and back up to his face.
It was a strangely intimate situation all of a sudden. The mist coming off the ocean was swirling around, it was incredibly quiet, and the odor of gardenias was saturating the air. When he undid the cuffs his hands grazed firm ass cheeks, and something warm and exciting pulsed in his stomach when he touched him.
"Thanks," Symons said softly. "I didn't realize I was going so fast."
"Could you blow into this for me, please?" Evan ordered him.
"Oh yeah, sure . . . wait, how do I do it?"
Evan gently helped him with the device. Mr. Symons—Craig—was out of it, but Evan didn't think he was that drunk, just mentally lost. "Put your mouth over that and blow. Right." Craig continued to look at him as his mouth covered the disposable tube. Evan was completely unaware of the fact that he gazed into his blue eyes much longer than necessary, though it was not lost on Craig.
Evan removed the meter and read it. It was just at the edge of the legal limit. The numbers flashed on and off below and then rose up before falling again.
In any other situation he would have made the arrest, but he didn't. Craig seemed on his last leg and he decided to cut him a break.
"All right Mr. Symons," he said, "I'm citing you for excessive speed
and
reckless endangerment. Do you mind if I ask what the hurry was?"
"Just . . . had a bad night." No shit. He'd obviously been crying. Evan thought about the crumpled bouquet. Some kind of lover's spat?
"Well try not to make it any worse."
"What about that?"
Evan glanced at the breathalyzer and continued to write. "You're just barely under the legal limit. I'm letting you off with a warning this time. I'm noting it in your record. If it happens again, you'll be arrested."
Craig took the ticket and got ready to leave.
"Thanks, I really appreciate this, Officer . . .?"
"Malone."
"Where do you work? I mean, what station? Santa Monica?"
"That's right. Now I'd appreciate it if you drove 35 up to Malibu. The whole way."
"Yeah," he sighed. Evan was certain now this has been some kind of act of self-destruction. The idea of going home seemed to fill him with despair.
As Evan watched the taillights disappear, he decided on impulse to tail him home. The last thing he wanted was to read about a tragic accident the next morning. His thoughts lingered on the stranger, attracted to him in an abstract way. What does someone have to do to get that kind of money? And what could have been so bad to make it all worthless? This was a new one—seeing a gay man's heartbreak up close. What a strange job.
In the Porsche, Craig Symons saw the cop car following him. It vaguely registered that it was a nice thing to do. Funny it would be a hot cop to stop him on this night of all nights. When he finally pulled into his private driveway he flashed his lights. Thank you, he silently said to himself. You probably saved my life.
+++
A week later, Evan was filling out paperwork at his desk when he got buzzed by the secretary.
"Evan Malone. How can I help you?
"Officer. This is Craig Symons calling."
"Who?"
