This story probably falls more within the moderately nonconsent/reluctance region than in the strongly nonconsent region. There are more than a few twists to it, as it ends up being almost a romantic thriller. As always, everyone in the story is eighteen or older. Hope you enjoy the read.
I want to extend many thanks to the tireless Ms. Mariposa, who was gracious enough to take the time to read and edit an early draft of this story.
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"Live and let live. My ass and fuck you," Jack Dorn muttered to himself as he sat in his car.
Jack hates his job, but is good at it. That simple statement of fact is the main reason he's perpetually pissed at himself and the world.
Prior to his current low state of moral, Dorn worked robbery-homicide in Metro Squad. By all accounts, he was first-rate detective with a sterling arrest record, and unlike most of the other detectives at Metro, he didn't need to 'tune up' suspects for confessions, or plant evidence if a confession, bogus or otherwise, couldn't be obtained.
What also set Detective Dorn off from the other cops was that he never took a payoff. That's not to say Jack wouldn't take a gratuity, such as a free diner or drink from a grateful citizen. He was a cop, not a saint. However, he drew the line accepting any kind of payoff from perpetrators and suspects, particularly payoffs from gang-related interests, what Jack deemed drug and murder for hire money.
Some of the other brethren in blue had no such scruples, and took any sort of payoff from any sort of suspect. This could have set them at odds with Dorn, except that all knew Jack lived by a personal code of conduct far above even what the 'Blue Wall of Silence,' demanded. 'Live and let live' was Jack's motto. Everyone knew if you didn't piss in Jack's pool, he'd leave you alone, and everyone extended the favor toward him—that is, all except Santos Medina, a lieutenant in Internal Affairs.
Two years ago, Jack caught a pretty open and shut case. A smalltime dealer was boosting autos on the side. A disgruntled girlfriend of the perpetrator pointed a finger at a stolen Mercedes housed in a friend's garage. Fingerprints found in the stolen Mercedes lead Dorn right back to the perpetrator. As stated, open and shut.
Dorn was about to hand the case off to the ADA, when Santos Medina made it clear he wanted the car thief to take the fall for something bigger. Jack refused to go along. Setting up suspects for crimes they didn't commit, even if guilty of other crimes, was a line Jack wouldn't cross.
Medina must have wanted the car thief badly, because before Jack could hand off his case, signed, sealed and delivered, and thus safeguarding the perp in the system, Jack was brought up on departmental charges. Seems an anonymous tip implicated Dorn in corruption and drugs. Jack would have fought the charges, but, coincidentally, five ounces of heroin, too much to be considered 'for personal use,' were found in the glove box of his car.
It was a rigged parlay from the get-go, and rigged by all concerned; from the Captain of detectives on down to the Internal Affairs investigator assigned the case. They all had a hand in destroying Jack's career as a cop.
Jack was given a choice: resign with half his pension and a small payment that amounted to half a year's salary, or be prosecuted for possession of drugs with the intent to distribute. Naturally, Dorn took early retirement.
Jack knew Lieutenant Medina instigated the investigation into his career, and was probably the one who dropped the dime on him. Once Jack was out of the way, the brakes were off, and Medina arrested his perp for murder.
"Live and let live, my ass and fuck you," Jack often muttered from then on—just a small malediction to life.
*****
That was two years ago, and after having been a detective for nearly twenty-one years, Jack Dorn found himself a civilian.
Usually when patrolmen were forced into retirement, they went into one or more of the four 'Bs,' bounty hunting, bail bonds, bartending, or bouncing. A retired detective, on the other hand, was best suited for one of the two 'Ps,' private investigation, and/or, protection.
With the small payment given to him for resigning, Jack opened up a PI business after buying some first-rate surveillance equipment—bugging devices, a couple of remote, wide angle, fiber optic lenses, and a laptop with software to bundle and monitor it all.
He worked mostly for divorce lawyers and their clients, gathering evidence of spousal infidelity, which is why Jack always felt like needing a shower. Instead of being a good investigative cop, he was relegated to glorified 'Peeping Tom,' making low budget, amateur porn films for shysters.
Jack had a real talent for surveillance, which probably galled him the most about his present circumstances. Typically, he'd find out when and where the suspect was having a rendezvous—usually a motel—then grease the motel manager or desk clerk for the room key. Planting the wide-angle lenses ahead of time, he always got nice, clear movies of the proceedings, making the case of spousal infidelity a slam-dunk.
Jack couldn't complain too much, however. The hours and pay were better now, and there were added bonuses to the PI jobs.
For example, if the cheating spouse happened to be good-looking, someone he considered his 'type,' Jack would show her all the evidence he had gathered, first, before his clients. Then, using not so subtle persuasion, he'd convince her it would be in her best interest to spend a little quality time with him. In return for the week of fucking, blowjobs, or whatever else Jack had in mind, he would lose the evidence and let her go back to her marriage, the husband none the wiser.
Of course, once Jack discarded the evidence, he wouldn't be paid by the client, but most times, it was worth the hit to his bank account. The slutty wives usually took their temporary duties servicing Jack in stride. Some probably even liked it, although they would never admit it. Of course, it helped that Jack was genuinely a very handsome fellow and kept in shape. Tall, dark and ruggedly handsome, although clichéd, was an apt description of him. It also helped that he had a good-sized package, bigger than most of what the wives were used to with either their husbands or boyfriends. It was just an extra perk in their duties that made them forget they were being used, at least for a little while. Moreover, Jack knew how to use his package well, which made their new duties easier to accept.
The job he just concluded, the one that had him presently waiting and thinking in his car, were cases Jack liked best.
The client wife who hired him, suspected
her
husband of cheating—which he was, as Jack expertly documented. However, what really piqued his attention was with whom the suspect was cheating with, a very buxom, cool blonde. She was just Dorn's type, and, as it happened, was also married.
He called these cases 'twofers,' for obvious reasons. Not only would he coerce the blonde bimbo into performing a little extramarital fun time with Jack to keep her affair on the QT, he would still be paid by the client.
Yep, things were beginning to look up for Jack Dorn. So much so, he actually whistled a happy tune as he waited for the two to leave the motel room so that he could retrieve his cameras.
It was then, as he waited, Jack noticed another woman entering a room on the second floor of the motel.
The woman was a short, middle-aged redhead, probably in her early forties, and no more than four-foot-six, if she was an inch. Although slightly on the plump side, she dressed well, hiding the few extra pounds she carried. Her ample breasts and wide hips made her look quite alluring and voluptuous to Jack, even though she wasn't even remotely his type.
What really caught his eye, however, was the way she quickly looked around the motel, staring up and down the open causeway and scanning the parking lot, before entering her room. It was the behavior of someone making sure no one saw her before disappearing into her room.
Jack had seen her behavior hundreds of times before and in as many suspects. It always meant one thing. The redhead was planning to do something potentially illegal.
By her dress, maybe a high-class hooker,
Jack mused, but quickly disregarded the thought. A high-class hooker wouldn't be caught dead in a dump like this. Drug business is more likely, but she didn't have the air of a dealer or the skanky appearance of a user.
It was a mystery, but one Dorn quickly let go. It wasn't any of his concern what she might be doing. "Live and let live, right Jack? My ass and fuck you," he muttered under his breath, before returning to thoughts of the blonde in the room below.
Another fifteen minutes past, and the couple he had been monitoring hadn't left their room. Jack figured they must either be taking a shower or fucking again. He was about to pull the laptop back out of its case to find out, when he saw a guy in his early twenties strutting along the second floor causeway.
Jack noted the guy—boy, really—is about six foot, thin, sported a thick mop of light brown, curly hair, and the barest traces of a beard and mustache. There were even a few blemishes dotting his face; although he could tell they were the last vestiges of childhood.
When the kid knocked on the redhead's door, the reason for her prior behavior became all too obvious. "Jesus, bitch, you're robbing the cradle," Jack chuckled to himself.
The redhead opened the door wearing a sheer, one piece, black nightie, the kind that just covers the torso while leaving the arms and legs bare. Her heavy tits were almost spilling out the top, as the whole get-up was barely supported by a thin pair of spaghetti straps. She gave the young man a quick kiss on the lips before pulling him into the room. Just before she closed the door, she took another quick peek around the motel grounds.
Now that he got a good look at the redhead's face, Jack thought he recognized her, but he couldn't remember from where.
He wracked his brain trying to figure it out. Where had he seen her before? Was she someone he arrested? Did she frequent some of the same haunts as Jack, another bar patron perhaps, bartender or waitress?
No. Every time he saw her in his mind's eye, he kept associating her face with large crowds of well-heeled patrons, raffles, and dancing. Yet, as hard as he thought, Jack still couldn't nail it down precisely where he had seen her.
In the days as a detective, he would have had instantaneous, total recall, remembering exactly, when, where, and with whom, he saw her. It wouldn't have mattered how distant in the past or how brief their encounter, he would have known who she was; so honed his senses had been through years of experience—razor sharp.
Now, after two years of retirement, his cop skills had atrophied, and it pissed him off. It pissed him off that he was no longer the man he was, a good cop. It pissed him off even more that lesser cops, lesser men than he, got undeserved advancement and accolades, while he was relegated to making amateur porn movies for divorce lawyers. Moreover, it galled and sickened him to know that real murderers and thieves were getting away with their crimes because these lesser men were now in charge of cases he would have solved. Justice was not being served by this police force, and it was eating Dorn up with hate knowing that.
One thought led to another, and soon Jack's mind dove deeper into memory, back to the early days of being a cop. The duties, the procedures, the normal routines one does in their job passed through his memory; as did all the faces of his partners, all the suspects he arrested, all the midnight sessions in the interrogation rooms. Even the social functions, the ones Jack hated to attend as a junior patrolman, invaded his consciousness. Dog and pony shows he called them. All spit and polish and dress blues, done mainly for the upper brass and their wives...
