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.
