30 Days or Less
Pairing: Mark Meachum x Reader
Summary: The full story. The true story of how you met Mark, with every tantalizing shade of public humiliation. You knew better than to date a cop, let alone a detective in your father’s division. But Mark Meachum was exactly the kind of stubborn and reckless man that threatened to knock every responsible thought out of your head, if he could convince you to take a chance on him.
AN: And we’re back to the beginning with this series! I was very happy that so many of you said you wanted more Mark because I had a craving, and I truly love coming back to TWDUP. It’s now gotten pretty long with the main series and post-series shots. About time we get to some more prequel shots tho. One scene in particular should be familiar to you. 😉
‼️ Remember that this is set six years before the main series, so I'm pinning Mark as 39, reader in her late 20s.
Posted on Patreon: May 22, 2026
Word Count: 11K
Tags & Warnings: Meet cute (lol), Mark being a walking warning label (his version of flirting), father-daughter dynamics, detective work and other sleuthing, the return of Rachel, and more…
🎵 Series Playlist: YouTube || Spotify
⊹ Series Masterlist
The smell of stale coffee hit you the moment you got off the elevator. It never failed to remind you of ink-stained pages, and your dad’s calloused fingers turning them.
You knew him best by the shape of his shoulders hunched over his work, like that alone could stop you from being curious.
You would hazard a peek inside his office at home, on late nights where you were meant to be in bed hours ago. But if your dad was still awake, you knew the house was safe. For some reason, as a kid, you needed that reassurance. You needed to know the monsters he caught—the ones you overheard him telling your mom about—were outside. They weren’t getting in. Not past those broad shoulders.
The memory of that cold, forgotten mug of coffee that sat as a near constant by his writing hand wafted nostalgia in your mind’s eye as you hastened down the second-floor corridors of the Central L.A. police station.
It was one of those rare days when you were actually nervous to meet your dad for lunch.
…Okay, maybe not nervous exactly, but you knew you need to bring your A game. Today had a purpose, and you wouldn’t be you if you didn’t have a plan.
You asked Sarah, your best friend since college, to help you prep for the interview you had later this afternoon. You found what you thought was the perfect outfit: professional, approachable, but sharp.
You had a folder balanced in one arm, the strap of your purse hanging on the other shoulder. The clack of your heels echoed in the hall as you wove your way through the building. You’d already sped past general reception, avoiding the booking rooms and various administrative offices, then taken the elevator upstairs. Your dad’s office was through these glass double doors that revealed an ecosystem of desks and cubicles, as well as various officers and personnel scattered throughout the bullpen.
The corralled chaos downstairs was for tourists. This was the Homicide division.
Phone calls, conversations and voices thrown across the room, research typed out at speed, the whirring of printers and coffee being made in the breakroom on a constant basis—it was a familiar drone that you mostly tuned out as white noise. But there was one voice you couldn’t, up ahead. It was deep, soaked in whiskey, and seemed to cut through it all.
“I don’t need to take it slow, Lieu. What I need is a real fucking case, not a milk run. Give this one to Vance. He likes traffic detail, lets him plant his ass on a corner and catch up on Below fucking Deck.”
You almost rolled your eyes as you turned the corner of a cubicle. Typical alpha male thinking his dick drags across the floor. Too good to keep people from killing each other during rush hour. Probably drives a fucking Prius.
“All right, look, wise guy—”
You heard the exasperated warning from Lieutenant Rivera, but you didn’t see the officer in question until he was shoulder checking you to the ground, startling as gasp out of you when you slipped in your heels. But his firm, steadying grip on your arm kept you from busting your chin, at least.
“Jesus!” you breathed.
“Ah, sorry, ma’am. That’s totally my bad,” he said, crouching down on bowed legs to help you pick up your scattered belongings. Meachum read the badge at his belt.
Once you got past the shock of it, you aimed a narrow look at him.
“Okay, cowboy, you don’t have to ma’am me. I’ve got it,” you said flatly. You were on your hands and knees on a dirty linoleum floor in your best interview pantsuit, your freshly styled hair getting in your eyes.
It was your big “everything” purse that got knocked over too, as in everything you might need on the day-to-day, or even in a pinch.
Which was why your head snapped up at hearing his intrigued hum. A gasp choked and died in your throat.
From his loose fingers, a lacy pair of panties unfurled like a delicate theater curtain. Dark purple. Victoria Secret.
In his other hand, he held a pack of condoms and travel-sized baby wipes. His lips twitched at a smile.
“Something tells me you’re always prepared,” he teased.
Your face flushed and burned with increasing degrees of outrage and embarrassment. By now there were other officers and staff members eying you two, some smirking, others at least having the decency to hide their smiles and pretend to be working. Every single one of these people knew who you were, even if this guy apparently didn’t.
And if he did, it meant he didn’t care much about getting his ass raked by his boss.
You glared hard at Meachum and snatched the panties out of his hand.
“Can’t always expect a man to be packing, now can I?” You dipped a purposeful glance down his body, down to his jean-clad thighs and the taut muscles there—then back up to the amused sage of his eyes. His lips curved into a smirk.
You stuffed the panties and the rest of your shit back into the purse and managed to stand back up in four-inch heels, refusing his offered hand of help when he stood along with you.
“Don’t you want these?” he said. His eyes gleamed while he shook the condoms and wipes in his hand. “You might need ‘em in the near future.”
You bit the inside of your cheek. Don’t hold your breath, asshole.
“Keep them. Now you can say you’re packing.”
With the last word claimed, you doubled down with a swift walk-off, breezing by him to yank open the door of your dad’s office. You could almost feel the burn of the officer’s head-tilted stare on your ass.
Your face was still flushed—now mainly from repressed anger—when Dan looked up at you from his computer. His frown was telling as he took you in, then glanced past you, spying one of his usual suspects walk past through the gap in his office blinds.
“What the hell happened out there?” he asked.
You finished gathering yourself together, smoothing out your blazer and blouse underneath.
“Some asshole, Meachum,” you said. “Lacks spacial awareness, and clearly thinks he’s God’s fucking gift to women.”
Dan blinked his surprise, then huffed in lack of amusement.
“Been back all of five goddamn minutes, and already he’s a persistent pain in my ass,” he muttered, watching Meachum continue arguing with Rivera about his assignment, all cool cocky confidence and an audacious fucking grin, as if he knew he was about to get his way.
Dan rolled his eyes and refocused on you.
“Don’t mind him. He just got back a couple weeks ago from being on a federal assignment,” he said. “He’s just antsy to get back in the action here.”
You couldn’t help your curiosity, or the glance you made toward the detective. He was tall, a sharp jawline covered by a well-trimmed beard, his brown hair somewhat lengthy framing his face, but more tapered toward the back. His arms were crossed and likely toned under his buttoned-down shirt and brown leather jacket. He carried himself a lot like your father—like a military man. Relaxed, but controlled.
“What kind of federal assignment?” you asked.
Dan shot you a shrewd look. “A long one. He’s been out for a year.”
If his goal was to quench your curiosity, that only tipped another shot of lighter fluid and lit the match.
“Explains why I haven’t really seen him before,” you murmured. You’d just started making a point to have lunch with your dad during the week, ever since you moved into your own apartment six months ago. You were finally in a position where you could afford it in Los Angeles. But speaking of your job…
“Okay, anyway, let’s just go to lunch. I have something I need your input on,” you said, reminding yourself to concentrate on the plan here.
You’d take him to a place with a good burger, or maybe even a steak, and get a strong drink in his hand to lull him into a more contented state, like a lobster in a slow boil. Then you’d get him talking about the Lakers’ recent win, hitting him with the proverbial slab of butter before you came for his hard shell with the pliers.
Dan stood up from his desk and eyed your outfit with suspicion.
“My input, huh? Does it have something to do with why you’re all dressed up and made up? And why you’ve got that folder on your arm, like you’re getting ready to interview me for the 7 o’clock news.”
“Maybe.”
“Sweetheart, you know how much I love surprises,” he said dryly, “but how about you just lay it on me then.”
So much for the slow boil. You took a moment to steel yourself.
“Actually, the interview is for me,” you said. “This afternoon.”
Again, Dan frowned. “Didn’t think you would actually leave that school. It pays well, doesn’t it?”
“Dad, being a paralegal at a private school in Beverly Hills is like being at the DMV with celebrities. All I do is file complaints. One of the assholes from How I Met Your Mother tried to get their kid’s teacher fired, just because she failed him on a midterm.”
He arched a brow. “All right. So what’re you going for, another law firm?”
“I saw an open position in the Head District Attorney’s office for an executive assistant,” you said.
Dan’s face slackened. He raised an incredulous hand.
“Wait, wait. Valwell? You wanna work for that fucking suit?” he said gruffly, shaking his head. “Why would you want to work for the DA? So you can slog case after case on murderers, drug dealers… I told you about the ADA who got shot and killed last year, right? Left behind a husband and three kids. That the kind of career you want to have?”
You sighed. Time to pivot.
“Dad, this isn’t anything close to actual criminals or fires or drugs,” you argued. “It’s a desk job. It’s something I know I can do, it’s got decent pay and great benefits, and it’s my foot in the door, helping the office that prosecutes criminals. I can even try to help make sure the victims get the support they need. One day, I might be able to help make a difference. You put that idea in my head, remember?”
He breathed the hot air of resignation through his nose. He could see that you were serious.
Stubborn as hell, being the usual key phrase.
“I do have other prospects, but for this one I need a recommendation letter,” you said, and opened your manilla folder to show him the printed copy you wrote for him, leaving space for his signature.
“See? It even sounds like you. I think I nailed down your voice pretty well.”
“Honey—”
“And it would be great to be able to say my dad, the literal police captain, believes in me.”
Dan’s gaze returned to yours, a slight smile tugging at his lips.
“That’s never been in question,” he said.
You smiled back. His soon fell, though.
“Listen, I’ve told you this before. This world,” he said, tapping his fingers on his own desk. “It’s messy even within the rules, and it’s flawed across the board. The higher up you go, the more you see it.”
“I know,” you said. “But I think this one’s right for me.”
Dan could see that you were serious. You wouldn’t have come to him like this if you weren’t. At the end of the day, if either one of his daughters was going to step into law enforcement, in any capacity, he knew it would have to be you.
He took a pen from his desk and signed the letter after giving it a cursory read. You really had nailed his voice.
You took the letter when he was done and smiled brightly, kissing him on the cheek.
“Thanks,” you said. “How about Leonardo’s for lunch? I’ll buy.”
He snorted, holding the door for you as you led the way out of his office.
“Not a chance, honey. You know that wallet’s only good for showing ID when you’re with me.”
Rivera finally caved and gave the traffic duty job to Vance. At the moment, he did have the most margin in his schedule out of the patrol officers. It might mean a few more hours of work for Vance, but at least he’d get overtime. And it freed up Mark to finish the rest of his paperwork before he could officially take on another Homicide case.
It also gave him the opportunity to watch from his desk when you stepped out of the Captain’s office. The man himself walked with you toward the glass exit doors. Mark once again got to appreciate the calm, confident sway as you walked in those heels, brushing your hair over your shoulder when a strand stuck to your lipstick.
“We have plenty of time. My interview’s not until 4,” you said.
“Did you get the day off or something?” Dan asked.
“Yeah, I took PTO. I already know traffic’s going to be insane.”
“What you want to do is avoid the expressway. Remember the shortcuts I taught you…”
You stepped through the door he held open, all while Mark ran mental calculations on what your relation was to the Captain. You weren’t in law enforcement. That, Mark was almost certain of. You were too young to be Dan’s wife or sister. So most likely, you were one of his daughters. Mark knew there were two.
While Dan followed you out and the door began to swing closed, you happened to look back, your gaze catching on Mark.
His lips tugged at a grin. He just couldn’t help himself.
He shot you a wink.
Your lips pursed in annoyance.
The glass door shut, but you were already turning on your heel, headed down the hall with the Captain right behind you.
Mark leaned back in his chair, folding his hands on his chest. He glanced over at Finau, another detective who now sat at the desk to his left. Some new guy named Stevens had Mark’s old desk. Apparently a lot of shuffle could happen in a year, even with something as sacred as an officer’s fucking workspace.
“You know who that is?” Mark asked, gesturing in the direction of your sexy little storm off.
Finau chuckled, a small shake of his head.
“You don’t? That’s the Captain’s daughter, man.”
Bingo.
“Hmm,” Mark nodded. “What’s her name?”
Finau blinked, both amused and slightly beside himself.
“Bro.”
“What?”
“You really think she’s gonna give you the time of day after the shit you just pulled, in front of the whole fucking squad?”
Mark popped his brows. “I can be persuasive.”
Just then, the department’s office assistant, Vanessa, breezed between them with her cobb salad, vinaigrette on the side, no croutons. She greeted him with a bright smile.
“Welcome back, Mark,” she said, with a certain smoothness in her voice and a gleam in her eyes. He knew them well, and he gave her a nod.
“Hey, Vanessa. Good to be back.”
“Let me know if you need anything,” she said.
Her hand brushed his arm as she walked by.
Finau watched the exchange, his expression wry and incredulous at the same time.
Mark gave a smirking shrug, reaching for his phone to make sure he still had Vanessa’s number saved. He could use a good homecoming.
Finau just rolled his eyes. “Right.”
By 2:30 in the afternoon, the Captain returned alone. He called Mark over on the way to his office. The younger man followed, feeling the prickle of censure coming. He decided to be preemptive.
“Ah, if this is about this morning, I just want to apologize for the little episode you might’ve heard about in the bullpen there,” Mark said. “That was your daughter, right? Didn’t mean to run into her like that. But she’s very, uh…”
Dan sat back in his desk chair and crossed his arms. A stoney deadpan fell across his face—one that made Mark wisely rethink his words.
“You know, driven,” he said.
Dan snorted. “Take some advice, Meachum. You want a long career?”
Mark inclined his head. “Yes, sir.”
“Keep your eye on your fucking cases, and not my daughter,” Dan said. “Is that understood?”
Mark’s brows rose a tick, but he nodded.
“Very much so.”
“Good.”
And with that, the Captain’s gaze cut away from the detective and down to his computer. A clear dismissal. Mark took his cue to leave the office, letting the heavy door shut behind him.
Well then. He’d just been given the first official warning. It’d probably be smart to follow this one, but when Mark thought about your testy mouth, that spark of challenge and appraisal in your eyes when you’d seized him up from dick to face…
Yeah, it was hard to put an off-limits label on that one.
Just as he got back to his desk, his phone buzzed with a call from Dispatch. He temporarily shut the thought of you away as he answered the call.
A body was found in Elysian Park.
Manuel Silva, 73-year-old Hispanic man
He got up early for his morning walk, like he did every day before he opened up shop at his family-owned insurance agency. He was murdered by a small fry drug dealer who was high himself. He just wanted Silva’s vintage leather jacket.
At least it didn’t take Mark long to track the asshole down. Within a week, he was booked and arraigned for second-degree murder.
But Mark was also the one who had to drive down to Mr. Silva’s house on the day of the murder and talk to his wife. It was never easy to see the loved ones break down. Mrs. Silva clung to him the same way his mom had, after his old man’s stroke three years ago.
Now, Mark was once again eyeballs fucking deep in reports.
What should perk up his day but you, strolling into the bullpen as if those glass doors were meant to open just for you.
But you still paused to say hi to Hank, a custodian you also knew by name. You gave him a genuine smile as you breezed by in an outfit that was professional, but still clung to your form in every right way. Mark found himself tracing your shapely lines with his eyes, on route to your face, and the new shade of lipstick you wore. He was partial to red.
Mark was a natural opportunist. He would’ve been remiss if he hadn’t gotten up from his desk, grabbing a few papers he had no intention of copying at the printer. It gave him a reason to cross paths with you though, nearly making a repeat of last week’s collision.
He steadied you with a light touch on your arm and chuckled through an apology.
“My bad,” he said, meeting your eyes. “Though we gotta stop meeting like this.”
You had the look of steeling yourself as you cleared your throat, curling a strand of hair behind your ear. You gave him another one of those appraising looks. He wondered just what you were thinking, and if you secretly liked what you saw.
“Meachum, right?” you said.
“Detective,” he added, injecting a little more charm into his smile as he offered you his hand. He hadn’t forgotten your name, though you hadn’t been the one to give it to him. “Again, I’m sorry about last time. I didn’t know you were the Cap’s daughter.”
“So if I was a nobody off the street, that would make bulldozing over a woman like a linebacker acceptable?” you retorted.
“Hey, to be fair, I tried to help you like a gentleman. And you generously made sure I didn’t walk away empty handed,” he said. A grin pulled at the corner of his lips, noting the way your face slid into a familiar testiness. “How’d it go with your interview, by the way?”
You paused in surprise. “How’d you know about that?”
“Your dad mentioned it last week,” Mark said. Or he might’ve overheard some of your conversation when you stepped out of Dan’s office.
“Oh, um, I think it went well, but I’m still waiting to hear back,” you admitted. “It could be a few weeks before they call me.”
“What’s the job?”
“D.A. Valwell is looking for an executive assistant.”
Mark whistled lowly. “Okay, the order side of Law & Order. That tracks. What are you, a lawyer?”
“Paralegal.”
“All right, cool. Where do you work now?”
“Uh, well, I work for a school full of trust fund kids who’d rather do blow in the bathroom than learn algebra,” you said, shifting on your feet. Mark’s broad frame was blocking your way to your dad’s office—on purpose, you were beginning to think.
The man chuckled. “Interesting. I’d like to hear more about it, but I know you’re probably here to have lunch with your dad. How about you join me for a drink tonight? There’s this chill place near downtown. Not too loud. Good beer on tap. Unless you’re more of a martini kind of girl.”
You sighed in amusement. “More of a whiskey sour girl, actually.”
“Well, what do you know. A woman after my own heart,” Mark said, his brows raising along with his grin.
He eyed you in a subtle way, yet you’d never read a clearer danger sign in your life.
You glanced around his arm and caught the way your dad was frowning while sitting at his desk, his firm gaze planted on you and Mark.
“Something tells me you’re severely lacking in self-preservation,” you said, more quietly. “Either that, or you’re just that fucking cocky.”
Mark’s lips quirked. “Maybe a little of both, I’m ‘a be honest.”
You bit your lip against a laugh. “Well, I’m sorry to tell you this, Detective, but I don’t date cops.”
“Why’s that?”
“First of all, terrible work-life balance,” you said, citing the least of your reasons on your index finger.
“Mmm, fair,” Mark conceded.
“Divorce rate. Some studies say as high as 75%,” you said, adding the point to your middle finger.
“As opposed to the average?”
“40-ish%.”
“Well, we’re not getting married anytime soon, are we?” Mark teased.
Your lips tugged at a smile, but you still raised a challenging brow.
“Domestic violence,” you added onto your ring finger. “28% of law enforcement relationships, versus the average 16%.”
He acknowledged that with a nod. Unfortunately, he’d seen it happen a few times, on the force and in the military. Some people just couldn’t handle the stress of the job, what they’d seen and done, and how it fucked with their head. Some had control issues. Some guys were just fucking animals who liked the job a little too much.
“I can assure you, sweetheart, on my mother’s life,” Mark said, “I’m one of the good ones.”
There was still a degree of cocky in his crooked smile, but his eyes were serious. You didn’t know quite how to feel, only that your own sense of self-preservation was throwing up several color-coded flags in your mind. The problem was, they all conflicted.
“If you say so,” you said, in a tone of acceptance. Pending evidence to the contrary.
“While I hope none of those points are from personal experience, I’ll bet I can change your mind,” he said.
“Oh, really? Wonder how long that’ll take,” you mused wryly.
“All right, you wanna up the stakes? Let’s say…30 days or less,” he bargained. Still, with that smile that did everything to compliment his handsome features: a GQ-worthy jawline covered by the kind of beard that wasn’t too rugged, clean lines, with enough scruff to run your nails through.
There was a quiet intensity to his eyes, hunter green. And if you were honest, his voice was the kind that likely knew how to make you wet.
But you’d already had your unfortunate entanglements with men like him. Hence the dating rule. After a while, the thrill wore off, and the reminder came—the one that said you’d always be second best to the job.
“What about me is making you this tenacious?” you asked.
“I’m good at reading people. Kind of part of the job description. But I’ve just got a feeling that you’re worth knowing,” he said, meeting your gaze. “Intimately.”
A blush flared hot in your cheeks. The man had nothing but audacity, and he knew how to sling it.
You managed to contain your reaction though, tilting your head up at him as you crossed your arms. You were all too aware of the fact that he was close enough for you to smell his cologne, hovering just on the edge of what was appropriate in the middle of a busy office.
Your lips parted, and you managed to unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth.
“It’s been tried, Detective.”
The way his gaze roamed your face, then held your eyes…it made a warm tingle run up your spine.
Another slight smile curved his lips.
“I’ve got no doubt about that,” he said.
Despite the way you rolled your eyes and finally managed to slip around him, Mark won your smile.
He spied the edge of it before you brushed by him to get to your father’s office.
Day 3
You hadn’t been back to the station for another visit just yet, but that wasn’t unusual. Mark found out from Finau that you came around for lunch with your dad roughly every other week. Sometimes less, depending on your schedule and the Captain’s.
You two must have been close. Mark couldn’t exactly relate. His father had been the drag you by the ear between his next beer kind of parent.
Mark subtly (carefully) asked around with the people that knew you a little better, like Vanessa. A couple of drinks after work at his favorite bar led to a couple more at his apartment, and another homecoming.
When he mentioned how often you’d been visiting the station, Vanessa told him over morning coffee that you’d recently moved into an apartment in Central Alameda. You’d asked for her opinion on nearby gyms. You even told her you tried to go three days a week after work.
But this was fucking LA. That gave him a solid 15 options on gyms within a five-mile radius. Mark decided against checking out the yoga studio and the hot Pilates just yet, and went for the LA Fitness Vanessa suggested to you first.
Mark took advantage of a free trial day promotion. He knew it was a long shot to think he’d run into you—never mind the mild creep factor of this kind of reconnaissance.
But he wanted to see if he could catch you outside of the station, where your dad’s presence loomed large and his eyes were on Mark’s back like a red-hot target.
Day 4
Captain Polenta, Mark’s old CO in the Army, always told him he was fucking hardheaded. Stubborn. Unwilling to quit while he wasn’t ahead. Until he was—until he proved himself.
After that waste of time the previous afternoon, Mark lost patience and came by the gym again after work. The difference was, he was still dressed in his normal jeans and jacket combo rather than activewear. He whipped out his badge at the front desk. Some twenty-ish Timothée Chalamet looking dude was distracted on his phone. Mark thought he heard some kind of TikTok video playing.
“Hey, man. Detective Meachum. I’m looking for someone who might be a member here. Have you seen this woman come in here in the past few weeks?” he said, holding up a picture of you on his phone that he found on your Instagram profile.
“Uh…” Chalamet’s brows knitted together as he looked over the photo. He shook his head. “I don’t recognize her. What’d she do?”
“Can you look her up by name?” Mark asked.
Common tactic to avoid giving away unnecessary information: ask follow-up questions.
Chalamet looked annoyed, but he nodded.
“Yeah, what’s her name?”
Mark gave it to him, silently wondering why the fuck he hadn’t done this earlier.
The guy was able to tell him that while you didn’t have a membership, you’d come in for your own free trial day four months ago.
Mark decided to use the same tactic across four other gyms over the next few days, until he finally found you. Rise Bodyworks. A little bougie for his tastes, but he could see you fitting in with the small sea of tights and grip sock-wearing women, with their high ponytails swishing on the ellipticals or balancing mini hoola hoops between their thighs in the pilates room.
Interesting, he thought, his lips tugging upward.
He lingered near the front desk as he scoped the place out, and soon enough, he actually spotted you on a mat in the stretch zone. You had your own pair of tight-ass yoga pants, the straps of your sports bra crossed between your shoulders, your body curving into Warrior 2 as a fine sheen of sweat glistened on your bare skin.
Jesus Christ.
He ducked out quick to grab his exercise bag from the car. He was driving some bullshit sedan while his car was in the shop with an oil leak problem.
But in a rare moment of hesitation, he had to ask himself: Was he really about to do this?
Were you worth the trouble he was sure to rack up with the Captain if this little calculated risk didn’t pay off?
Again, Mark thought of that spark of challenge and appraisal in your eyes, the cheeky curve of your mouth.
Hell yeah, he thought. Understanding an order didn’t make it a good one to follow, and he’d come this far.
You breathed through your cooldown routine, bending forward at the waist for a full-body stretch. Your arms shook a little when you went into Downward Dog. You were lost in the music playing through your Airpods and the concentration you’d managed to maintain for the past hour, until felt the vibration of steps coming toward you.
You glanced up and nearly went cross-eyed at the sight of those familiar bowlegs approaching. You almost fell over when you took in the rest of the man. He was grabbing two 25-pound weights off the rack.
“Jesus!” you uttered, your knees sinking to the mat less gracefully than you would’ve liked.
It earned the attention of the detective, Mark fucking Meachum. He glanced over your way with a look of surprise. It soon melted into a grin as he took out his own Airpods.
“Well, hey. Small world,” he chuckled, veering over to your mat.
He offered you a hand to help you stand. This time, you actually took it, if with an edge of suspicion in your almost involuntary smile.
“What, are you following me?” you said, raising a brow.
“Come on. I’ve been coming here for a few weeks now,” Mark said. “I tend to work out in the morning though.”
“I…try to get here after work, when I can,” you said. You still didn’t know if you believed him, but you supposed it was possible. “Where do you live?”
“Not far,” he said. “You?”
Kind of vague, but you guessed you couldn’t blame him. You didn’t feel comfortable telling him you lived barely ten minutes away, most of which due to traffic.
“Same,” you said. “Well, um, have a good workout.”
You grabbed a hand towel you left on the ground and began rolling up your mat.
“You done already?” Mark teased. “That was some nice stretching, but I doubt that justifies the price of this little monthly membership.”
$50 a month was steep as hell. Thank fuck Mark was able to talk himself into a free seven-day trial with the girl at the front desk.
He grabbed your water bottle for you though, even as you eyed him in contemplation.
“FYI, I’ve already been here for an hour,” you said, gesturing at your sweaty arms and chest as you patted them dry with a hand towel. “But if you’re willing to take it easy on the treadmill, I guess I could use a longer cooldown.”
Mark nodded, setting the weights he grabbed back on the rack.
“Sounds good to me,” he said. “I should probably get some cardio in first before the lifting.”
“What’s your typical routine?”
“Oh, you know, start with 25 pounds each just to warm up. Then work my way up to about 175, 205 if I’m bench pressing.”
You noted the look he aimed your way, gauging your reaction. You smiled in amusement.
“Well, that is impressive,” you said.
He chuckled again. “You don’t sound like you believe me.”
“Oh, I sure do, Detective. You’ve got meaty man muscles upon muscles. That’s got to be worth at least a Police Star.”
You had a way with sarcasm. It sounded like silent laughter in between.
“All right, I warn you. I’ll bench press you if you want proof,” he teased.
You snorted, despite the prickle of a blush.
“That’s not necessary.”
Mark joined you at the treadmills, and you two fell into an easy walking pace side-by-side.
“Heard back on the job yet?” he asked.
You were surprised he remembered. “Um, yeah, actually. I have the second round tomorrow.”
“Good,” he nodded. “So, paralegal, huh? You aiming at being a lawyer?”
“Not so much,” you said. “I mean, that was my plan at first, since I was Pre-Law in college. But I was still studying for the LSAT when I worked for my first law firm. Defense attorneys who give the decent ones a bad name. They cared more about getting their Jag detailed than the scumbag clients they were representing.”
Mark hummed in commiseration. “I’ve been cross-examined for some cases. It’s no picnic. They’ll try anything to trip you up.”
“Yeah, because they’re assholes,” you said. “It made me realize that one day, I’d probably turn into exactly what these people were. I’d owe my cheating ex-husband alimony and let a nanny raise my kids. I’d live out of my office and survive on Red Bull for breakfast and depositions for dinner, until I’m successful enough to have the underling lawyers at the firm doing all the grunt work while I’ve upgraded to vodka tonics, trading witty repartee with rival lawyers instead of genuine conversation. That’s no way to fucking live.”
Mark wore a faintly amused look, just watching you. You couldn’t tell if he even heard what you just said, or if he was just trying to figure out when you’d take a breath.
“What?” you asked, smiling on reflex.
He shook his head. “Nothing. I’m just impressed. I wish my suspects were more like you. They’d crack under interrogation in .5 seconds.”
You had to laugh, holding onto the treadmill to keep yourself up and moving with the pace you set. Mark chuckled and briefly grabbed your hand too, for balance.
“My point is, the paralegal thing has been my way to pay the bills while I figured out what I actually want to do,” you said, meeting his eyes. “I want to do something that matters, you know, in a good way. I’m just…open to the possibilities.”
He nodded, still amused, but more genuine too. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”
You shrugged. “Well, that’s where I’m at. What about you? Was being a cop always the plan?”
He whistled low and shook his head.
“Hell, no. Per my father, I thought I had a healthy mistrust of the whole system. That was until he had me enlist.”
Your brows rose in interest. “You were in the military?”
“Airborne Ranger, Sergeant in the 75th Ranger Regiment,” he said, taking some pride to do so, you noted.
But this time, you really were impressed.
“Very A-Team of you,” you remarked. “You probably know my dad was in Special Ops, a Weapons Sergeant.”
Mark nodded. “That I did. Kind of hard to believe he hasn’t moved further up the ladder in PD.”
“He doesn’t want to,” you said, quirking a smile. “He already resents the fact that he has to review budgets and all the other heaps of paperwork. He always says it only gets worse the higher up you go.”
“I hear that,” Mark said. “You’ll never catch me in a desk job. I’d go fucking comatose.”
You laughed. “Not enough adrenaline, huh? That why you were out for a year working for the Feds?”
He blinked in surprise.
“Well, well, look who’s done some due diligence of her own,” he teased. “You checking up on me?”
You rolled your eyes, despite your more reluctant smile.
“My dad told me. After you ran me over, I had to ask him who the hell you were.”
He hummed, gnawing on his lower lip.
“All right, what’s it gonna take for you to forgive me on that one, huh? I offered to take you out for a drink. Hell, I’ll take you to dinner. We can settle our little bet here and now.”
Your mouth pressed into a line.
“Oh, I know you haven’t forgotten about that,” Mark said knowingly. “I’m serious about it too.”
“I’m sure you are,” you replied. “Sorry, like I said. I don’t date cops anymore. Too much stress on my life that I don’t need.”
“Anymore,” he echoed with interest. “Okay, so there is a story there.”
You sighed, then laughed as you rubbed both hands over your face. You were probably smudging your makeup, but at this point you could care less.
This guy just didn’t quit.
Day 12
He didn’t manage to get your number out of you that day in the gym, but you did let it slip that you liked working out on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays if you could make it.
By Thursday, Mark had gotten some more stories out of you—namely the one where you’d actually dated an officer who’d gotten promoted to Sergeant a few months ago. Peter Callahan. Mark knew him by reputation: a bit of a kiss-ass when it came to the higher ups, but a solid cop overall.
It was hard for you to tell that story though. Mark saw the struggle in your eyes, the old scars that hadn’t made you hard, just guarded. He could understand that.
“Peter’s a good man,” you said eventually. “He just…didn’t have room in his life for me. Not where it mattered.”
Mark took that in with a nod, and a hum that didn’t really give his opinion one way or the other. Because that was the moment he began to doubt himself.
He started to think that maybe he should leave you alone after all.
You weren’t a Vanessa. And you wanted more than he could probably give you on his best day, after a twelve-hour shift finished kicking his ass.
But every time he considered ending this, whatever it was starting to be, a flash of your smile, your teasing, your sharp sense of humor, or that thing you did, when you swept your tongue across your lower lip after taking a sip from your water bottle—
It all kept him reeled in, somehow willing to pay for a gym membership he didn’t need, just to have an hour or two with you. He knew he was doing too much, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was worth it.
Day 18
The next time you saw Mark Meachum was in the lobby of the police station. Your dad told you to start calling him when you got there on Tuesdays. Instead of going all the way up to his office, he intended to meet you downstairs. You had a feeling it was less due to his schedule than it was the potential for…future collisions.
Too bad one of his Homicide detectives had basically gotten your scent embedded in his brain, like a goddamn dog.
Mark was on his way out when you were on your way into the station. The moment he saw you, a slow smile spread across his face.
“Hey, there. Been a minute,” he said, squeezing your arm in greeting. It wasn’t quite a hug, but it was close enough that you needed to crane your neck slightly to meet his gaze. Again, you could smell his cologne—musk and spice, with a hint of sandalwood. It was probably imprinted on the brown leather jacket he wore so often. It hung on his shoulders well.
You now knew just how broad and toned they were, since he always came to the gym wearing loose sleeveless shirts. He’d spotted you once while showing you how to deadlift the meager weight you could. His chest had been warm at your back, with his big, steady hands molded to the curve of your waist.
“Hey. On a case?” you asked, clearing your throat.
“Grabbing lunch real quick,” he said, a grin beginning to pull at his lips. “You’re welcome to join me.”
There was the slightest hesitation in your reply, and he didn’t miss it.
“Can’t exactly bail on my dad, can I?” you said.
“I’m sure he’d understand.”
“No, he wouldn’t. And you know that,” you said with a snort of laughter, shaking your head. “Jesus, you’re a walking warning label.”
He smirked. “Well, I promise the contents are worth a night of bad decisions.”
“One night, huh?” you said.
Mark’s lips quirked. “Your dad certainly doesn’t have to know about it.”
Your gaze lowered as you nodded in understanding. “Hmm, I get it.”
Mark paused, noting the way your demeanor began to shift on him. While he tried to work out why, you crossed your arms, your amusement fading.
“You know what, Mark, it doesn’t feel like this is about dating me. Feels like it’s about nailing the Captain’s daughter, with a side of bragging rights. Been a hot minute since I’ve heard that one,” you said.
Mark’s mouth parted, but he found himself in the unusual position of coming up empty on something to say. He followed you though, when you started to walk away from him. He called your name, more seriously.
“Listen, that’s not what I meant.”
You had no intention of stopping to hear him lie. You had a mind to just reschedule your lunch with your father all together. But you did pause for an older woman walking into the station. She looked uncertain, intimidated by the bustle of so many people—mostly officers and staff—in such a large, open space.
“You need some help?” you asked her.
“Uh, yes. I’m looking for a policeman—”
“Mrs. Silva?” Mark cut in. He stepped around you to greet her with a friendly, guiding touch on her shoulder, leading her away from the chaos of the central lobby.
You were curious enough to linger there, just close enough to hear their conversation.
“You have good timing. I was just about to step out,” Mark said. He reached into his pocket. “I’ve got something for ya.”
He pulled out a small plastic bag, marked Evidence.
“I spoke to the ADA, and I was able to convince him that this wasn’t essential evidence to the case,” he said.
Mrs. Silva took the bag with slightly shaking hands. She opened it and found a broken silver Rolex inside.
“I can give you the number of a good repair shop,” he said, pointing at the spindly crack at the corner of the watch face.
Mrs. Silva shook her head.
“I got this for him on our 25th anniversary,” she said, in a soft, unsteady voice. “Manuel was a bit of a butterfingers. He dropped it the first time he tried to put it on.”
She laughed and swiped a tear from her eye, then another.
“But when he picked it up, the watch still worked. So he wore it like that for twenty years more.”
Mark smiled. “My mom had an old shelf Dad built for her flowerpots. She kept that thing until it had rain rot and splinters.”
Mrs. Silva’s face warmed that slightest bit. She took his hands in hers, along with the watch.
“Thank you, mijo,” she said.
She even smiled at you on her way out. You reciprocated gently and opened the door for her. But after she left, you glanced back at Mark with mixed feelings. He might not have been as big of an asshole as you thought, but he was probably still an asshole.
He tried to close the distance between you, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Look, I’m—”
“Meachum,” the Captain said sharply. He’d just gotten off the elevator, and he met you with a hand on your shoulder. His gaze fell back on Mark. “Rivera has a case for you and Harmon. They’re waiting for you upstairs.”
“Yes, sir,” Mark said, biting back the sting of a lost opportunity.
Dan guided you toward the exit doors. You were annoyed at his obvious meddling, even if you were finally on the same page with him. And yet, you couldn’t help glancing over your shoulder.
Mark met your eyes for a moment, but ultimately, he didn’t have the follow through. He headed back toward the stairwell.
“A weekend cruise would be fun, but if we try to make it a girls’ only trip, Lauren’s going to throw a tit-fit that she can’t bring her man. Like seriously bitch, it’s been three months already. You can’t go three days without his dick?” Rachel said as she scrolled through her phone, looking at an Instagram reel of Top 10 Hottest Spots in Downtown LA.
You were sitting at your mom’s kitchen table, a glass of wine in your hand while you counted the number of paisley flowers across the table. After twenty minutes of this, you were starting to zone out of your own body.
“That’s the honeymoon phase. She still likes his dick,” you remarked.
Lisette was busy peeling garlic in the kitchen for the spaghetti, but she frowned in distaste at both you and your sister.
“Do you have to say dick at the table?” she asked. Rachel got up to grab a Celsius from the fridge.
You smirked. “You’re right, Mom. Best place is in the foyer. The acoustics are better.”
Rachel snuck up behind Lisette and leaned in close to her ear.
“Dick-dick-dick-dick-dick,” Rachel whispered, giggling when your mom grabbed a wooden spoon to swat her with.
“You both are horrible. I blame your father entirely,” she said, despite her amusement.
You snorted. Your dad, the literal army sergeant? Your mom’s attempt to implement the swear jar hadn’t even lasted through your fifth birthday.
“You married him,” you reminded her. Rachel rejoined you at the table and continued snacking on the salami and cheese Lisette put out. Your mom was nothing if not the perfect host, even when it was just her daughters coming over for a family dinner.
“Yes,” Lisette sighed. “A fact I have to contemplate every day. Speaking of, he got held up again. But he should be here by 7:00.”
“Right, so you mean 8:00,” you said, finishing off your glass of wine. “Time for more Chardonnay. What time is The Bachelor on again?”
Rachel grabbed onto your arm and held you back from leaving the table.
“Nooo, wait, you’re supposed to help me figure out what to do for my birthday!” She leaned over and showed you the list of clubs she was breezing through on her phone. “Look, this one’s new. It has a rooftop bar!”
“Why don’t we just go out to a nice restaurant. If you want to go dancing, I know a cool salsa club,” you suggested.
Rachel pouted. “I’m turning 25! I want to let loose and have some fun! You know what, I’m calling Yesenia. She’ll know what clubs are hot right now.”
You watched her go out to the back porch, restraining a sigh. You didn’t really want to be the de facto designated driver for these girls. They were mostly your friends in high school, who’d gotten used to Rachel tagging along with her older sister. But even now, they still acted a lot like Rachel, especially when they were drunk (or high).
She had a point though. It was her birthday, and she could go a little wild if she wanted to. Your job, as always, was making sure she didn’t go too far off the reservation.
A few days later, you ended up paying a whole $25 to park near Exchange LA, a trendy club in Downtown. You corralled Rachel and the other girls like herding cats—all the way from the parking garage and into the immense club. Already you could see the large TV screens and streaming lights. You felt the bass in the floor, vibrating in your chest and underneath your platform heels.
Well, here we go.
It was damn near three in the morning when Mark handed his perp off to Murphy, one of the officers in Booking. After thirty-six hours on a stakeout, he finally caught her coming back to regroup at her mom’s house, after shooting her cheating ex-boyfriend and taking back her cat.
But what Mark saw in one of the other female holding cells made him pause. He blinked in disbelief.
He found you, sitting on a bench with a young woman laying down with her head in your lap. Both of you looked frizzy and wrecked, your mascara and eyeliner dark around your eyes, lipstick smudged, along with a bruise forming under your eye.
The moment you recognized him, your lips pursed, and you looked away in embarrassment.
Two other women were sitting near you—he assumed they were your friends. They were trying to sleep sitting up against the wall with the pairs of their six-inch heels resting in a line on the bench beside them.
“What the hell?” he said incredulously. “Is this a fucking Bridesmaids reenactment?”
He looked around and realized that there were three other women in the next holding cell, similarly dressed like they’d just come from a club. And they were even more fucked up than you and yours. One girl had tissues stuffed up her nose and dried flecks of blood on her dress.
You sighed tiredly and rolled your eyes heavenward. “Of fucking course.”
“What the fuck happened here?” he asked.
“My sister’s birthday.”
“Okay. So, what, not enough Magic Mike strippers to go around?”
You snorted. “I’m never going to another fucking club in Downtown again. The girls hit harder than their boyfriends.”
At that, Mark frowned harder, but he nodded at the officer who came through to check on the scene. Perfect timing.
“Hey, Murphy. Get this door open for me, would ya?”
Murphy came over, giving you and the others a once over to make sure you were fine. He was resistant to Mark’s request though.
“They haven’t been processed yet.”
Mark’s frown deepened.
“Don’t you know who the fuck they are?” he said, gesturing at you and your sister with a jab of his thumb.
“Yeah, we called the Captain. He said to leave ‘em there ‘til morning.”
Mark had a hard time believing that, but he showed the officer his watch.
“Well, look at that. It’s 3:00 a.m. I’d say that’s morning,” Mark snapped. “Open the goddamn cell, Murph.”
Your previous annoyance slowly melted into surprise. You perked up hopefully.
The officer shot Mark a terse look, but the detective knew how to throw his weight. It was just enough to let him inside the cell so he could help you up, then your sister and your grateful friends. They murmured their sleepy thank yous while slowly putting their shoes back on.
“Seriously, what happened?” he asked. He touched the side of your head lightly as he got a closer look at the bruise under your eye.
You winced on reflex, but seeing the note of concern in his eyes, you almost smiled. You finally gave in with a sigh.
“I took them to Exchange,” you said. “It was crowded and crazy, but it didn’t get bad until we were all a couple drinks in. In Rachel’s case, more like a few. This guy was all over her on the dance floor.”
“Jesus, I was just vibing,” she interjected.
“Fine, I’m just telling him what happened,” you said to her. Then you returned Mark’s gaze, more than a little exasperated. “To be fair, she was just letting loose. How the hell was she supposed to know this fucking guy had a girlfriend?”
You gestured at the cell next door. As far as you were concerned, those were the real perpetrators. “One of those bitches came out of nowhere and started running her mouth. By the time I got over there to try and deescalate, she was dragging my sister like a ragdoll, and her asshole friends were helping her. I caught a few strays just pulling them off each other. Then shitty boyfriend joined in, and it all was fucking insane. But when Security finally showed up, they didn't ask any questions on who started it, and they didn't care! They just dragged all of us out.”
You rubbed your arm in annoyance as it all replayed in your mind like a shitty reel.
Mark noticed a bruise there too, right above your elbow.
“I’ll take care of this,” he said.
Within the hour, you, Rachel, and your friends were free to go, as were the other girls who attacked you and your sister. As it turned out, they were vacationers from New York. They had more than learned their lesson.
Mark called the club and talked the manager out of pressing charges for the disturbance and damages, especially the glass you shattered over the skeevy boyfriend’s head.
But by then, your father arrived at the station, just in time to chew you and your sister out in his office. But mostly you.
“Fucking disgraceful,” he snapped. “How could you let this happen? You’re supposed to look out for her, not let her reenact Girls Gone Wild at the fucking club!”
You crossed your arms defensively, on her behalf. She looked sad and pitiful sitting in the spare chair, even with his jacket thrown over her shoulders.
“She’s an adult, Dad, and not a damn nun either,” you argued. “And I was looking out for her—”
“Really? Is that why you’re both all tore up, looking like a couple of scrapping junkies? You could've just called Security over, instead of engaging in a goddamn free-for-all,” he said cuttingly. “And you’re the one who wants to work for the DA’s office. What if Valwell hears about this little stunt, huh? What’s he gonna ask me the next time I gotta be in the same room with him? You oughta think about your reputation—and how it’s going to reflect on me—before you go smashing bottles over people’s goddamn heads.”
You looked away, your jaw clenching. Mark caught a glimpse of tears welling up, even though you tried to blink them back. Until now, he’d been a silent watcher from where he stood against the wall with his arms crossed. But he felt compelled to say something.
“It sounds to me like she stopped a creep from taking advantage of her sister, and his crazy bitch from thrashing her on the dance floor,” he said, earning the steely look of his captain. “I’d say that protective instinct reflects pretty well on you, sir.”
Dan held up a finger, aiming his firm glare at Mark.
“Now’s a good fucking time for you to butt out, Meachum. Matter of fact, you’re dismissed for tonight. Go home,” he said.
You looked over at Mark, a hesitation in your eyes as you blinked back their watery shine. His lips quirked, but he followed his orders and stepped out of the office, heading out of those glass double doors.
Rachel sniffled, wiping at her own tears.
Dan let out a heavy exhale. “Come on,” he said, reaching to help her up with a note of gentleness. He nodded up at you.
“Let’s go. I’ll take you home,” he said.
“It’s fine. I can drive myself. I need to pick up my car anyway. It’s sitting in a parking garage racking up an hourly fee,” you said. You swept your hair away from your face to disguise the way you brushed away any remnants of tears.
Dan hesitated. He realized then that he may have been a little hard on you.
“It’s almost four o’clock in the morning. Just let me take you over there,” he said.
“Sorry, I can’t be in a car with you right now,” you said, grabbing your jacket and your purse off the floor. You stepped out of his office and headed for the hallway elevators on aching feet.
When you stepped off, the lobby was dark and empty—except for the two night guards, and one Detective Meachum.
He stood leaning against the wall with a hand resting in his pocket, the longer strands of his hair falling forward as he scrolled through his phone. He looked up at you with a smile. Your face slackened in shock and confusion.
“What are you still doing here?” you asked.
“You left your car behind, right?” he said.
You shook your head with a huff of laughter.
“Didn’t exactly have a choice on that one,” you remarked, quirking your head. “What if I had come down with my dad? You really do have a death wish, don’t you?”
“Calculated risk,” he said, grinning a little. “I’ll give you a ride Downtown if you want. Or, I can just take you home. I’ll call in a favor and have your car dropped off at your apartment in a few hours.”
You didn’t know what to make of this guy. But you also didn’t have a lot of time to deliberate. You knew your dad and sister had to be coming down on the next elevator. Your nails tapped against your purse in contemplation.
“I’ll give it to you. You’re trying real hard to get into my panties,” you muttered.
“It’s got nothing to do with your panties, though I know better than most what a sexy sight that is,” Mark said, earning a flicker of your reluctant smile.
More earnestly, he said, “Are you gonna let me help you, or what?”
You sighed in defeat.
“All right, Mark,” you said. “What do you drive?”
“A sexy Ford Bronco. 1975. But it’s in the shop at the moment, so I’m stuck with a Chevy. This way, please.”
He fell into step with you as you switched directions and headed toward the staff parking lot out back. He matched your slower pace to rest a supportive hand on the small of your back. You looked exhausted, cranky, and sore enough to fall ass over tea kettle.
He held the door open for you when you reached the end of the hall, and held you steady by your arms when the cooler winter air buffeted you back against his chest.
He shrugged out of his jacket, pulling it over your bare shoulders. He liked the look of you in the little black dress you had on, even better in those heels. You murmured your thanks, your hand brushing with his when it fell away from your arm.
You were starting to picture that Bronco he mentioned, even as you approached his rental car, a silver Chevy Cruze.
“1975, huh?” you mused. “The year of Jaws and rioting Led Zeppelin fans.”
“You’re a Zep fan?” Mark asked in pleasant surprise.
You smirked. “Through Good Times and Bad Times.”
He smiled too. “The Song Remains the Same.”
“Call it my ‘Immigrant Song.’”
“Only ‘In My Time of Dying,’” he replied, opening the passenger side door for you.
You hesitated there, leaning against the side of his car for a moment. You met his eyes with a cheekier curve of your lips.
“Good one. I guess ‘You Shook Me,’” you said, “all night long.”
You ducked into the car, and Mark shut the door for you. He jangled his keys in hand as he made his way to the driver’s side. He smiled to himself and quirked his head.
“Okay,” he said to himself.
Whatever the next hour was going to be, he was up for it.
It was still dark when he walked with you from his car to your apartment building. You punched in the code that let both of you inside the lobby. Only one hazy light was on to let you actually see the way down to the elevator, but you stopped short, slipping out of the jacket and the scent of his cologne washing over you. You handed it back to him.
“Thank you. For tonight and…everything,” you said. Your voice was laden with more than one meaning, and he read them all.
His lips tugged upward. “You’re welcome.”
You considered him then, wondering if he was going to be bold enough to ask you how grateful you really were.
“I’ve heard some things about you, you know,” you said.
“Uh oh,” he said in amusement.
“Let’s see. My dad called you a pain in his ass. You have a reputation for being reckless, with surprisingly little regard for protocol or paperwork, for that matter,” you said, a smirk playing at your lips. It soon faded though. “One thing you do seem to appreciate is the hard work of my dad’s office assistant, Vanessa. Then there’s Anette in Billing, Officer Bella Hastings, and let’s not forget Nina, the receptionist in HR.”
His chuckle was a bit strained. He ran a hand through his hair and rubbed absently along his neck.
“Okay. You’ve certainly done your research,” he said, crossing his arms as his head tilted. “Which means you’ve been contemplating this, you and me.”
“It means, I do appreciate what you’ve done for me tonight, but I don’t think I’m what you’re looking for,” you said.
He hummed, his gaze dipping down to your mouth, and back up to your eyes.
“Oh really, and what’s that?” he asked. “Since you think you know me so well.”
“I think you’re the guy who throws everything he has into the job, because that’s what it demands. I’m familiar with the type,” you said wryly. “So you look for what’s convenient in the half a second you let yourself breathe—between the bastard you’ve got in front of you, and finding the next one who murders a man for his fucking jacket.”
Mark took a calculated step closer, beginning to breathe your air.
“Think you’ve got me all figured out, huh?” he asked.
Your gaze met his, direct and firm.
“I’m not convenient, Mark. I’ve already been down that road, and I don’t like bullshit.”
“No, I don’t imagine you do,” he said. “And I respect that. But you gotta know, the fact that you’re telling me this after you just spent the night barefoot in jail for beating some dude’s ass—”
“I was protecting my sister, okay?”
“Exactly,” he smiled, gesturing at your frizzy hair, the strap of your dress slipping down your shoulder, and the heels hanging from the tips of your fingers. “This is just about the sexiest thing I can imagine.”
Somehow, he got you to smile.
No matter how much you fought it, a bubble of laughter managed to escape you too.
He laughed with you, then gave into the itch to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb brushing your cheek. He got to feel the warmth of your blush. By now you’d fixed some of your smudged makeup, but it didn’t take away from your natural beauty. A rarity in this town.
Your mouth parted softly, but for the first time he could remember, you were at a loss for words.
“You know, tomorrow marks 30 days,” he said, with a teasing grin. “It also happens to be my day off. How about you let me take you out. Give me one day, and you make your judgment call on me. I’ll respect whatever you decide. But just so you know, while I also respect your father, I don’t give a shit that he’s your dad. What I’m not looking for is bragging rights.”
You bit your lower lip as you thought it over.
At the very least, he heard you. He seemed to respect you too. He cared about you enough to make sure you didn’t spend the night in jail, and made sure you got home safe.
Your head was telling you one thing, but maybe if you gave him a chance, he’d prove you wrong.
So, you smiled.
“All right, Mark. You’ve got a deal,” you said. “Tomorrow around 5?”
“Let’s do it. I’ll pick you up,” he nodded.
You tacitly agreed, though a mischievous idea had you wanting to test his resolve. Smiling, you adjusted the shoulder strap of your dress back into place. You turned on your heel, hesitating on purpose as you fiddled with the back zipper at the base of your neck.
“Hey, would you mind helping me with this? I always have a hard time with this dress,” you said, sweeping your hair to the side.
Mark’s brows arched high. That certainly wasn’t what he was fucking expecting. But you had a habit of keeping him on his toes.
“Sure,” he said, clearly his throat.
He stepped in behind you, close enough to feel body heat. He took the edge of your collar between his fingers and started dragging the zipper down slow. He drunk in every inch of your smooth skin that he exposed.
“All the way?” he asked.
“Halfway is good,” you said. He wasn’t able to see your smile, but he heard it.
Little minx.
Mark obliged you, but his hands lingered, his knuckles just brushing your spine. He was very tempted to lean in and lay his lips wherever you allowed him, starting with the side of your neck, and moving downward from there. But he knew, this had to be a damn test.
“Thank you,” you breathed.
Then you walked away from him, heading toward the elevator. As you went, he watched you reach back with nimble fingers and drag the zipper the rest of the way down, past the small of your back, stopping just above your ass. He followed the natural curves with his eyes.
And his jeans were getting tight.
You turned on your heels and hit the elevator button for your floor. You met his eyes, and the tease of your smile made him shake his head in amusement. You were a cruel woman.
“Goodnight,” you said.
“‘Night, sweetheart,” he said, just as the elevators closed.
Afterward, he quirked his head and turned to leave. He accidently pushed on the pull handle of the exit door, making him stumble slightly. Clearing his throat, he stepped out more smoothly on the second try. He headed back to his car, like that didn’t just get caught on the surveillance cameras.
He was taking today as a win though.
He had a date.
AN: loll not always as smooth as he thinks he is. 😆 How'd you like the very start of their story? 💛
And are you ready for the steamy continuation of their first date, directly after Pedal Down? 😏
Next Time — in One Good Try:
“Third floor, huh? I like that,” Mark said.
His beard rasped along your neck as he pressed a kiss there. He smelled like dulce de leche churros from the Mexican restaurant he took you to—like caramel, cinnamon sugar, and whiskey. You would never admit to melting a little more, your head tilting with a sigh as you braced yourself against the elevator wall. You needed the stability.
“Why’s that?” you asked.
“Safer than the ground floor,” he said, humming in pleasure as he inhaled your perfume. “That’s nice. What’s that, Burberry?”
“Yves Saint Laurent,” you replied, smiling harder, trying not to.
“Fancy,” he murmured against your skin.
“It was a birthday gift.”
He wondered if your ex, Sergeant Perfect, was the one to get it for you. But he realized that it didn’t matter. Mark had a hold of you now, and he didn’t feel inclined to let go.
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Alex! This was so perfect! 🫠
I love the back and forth of reader and Mark going from strangers to sort of friends over the course of this like month and half or so. He's suuuuuuch a flirt and like of course she'd turn him down but he just can't help himself, can he?
It could have so easily been one of those situations reader thought it was of she was just a "conquest" being the captain's daughter but Mark let enough of his real self slip in to give that little bit of trust. Gah, they're so cute with their bantering! And Mark immediately being like, yup, I'm gonna win you over, just wait and see. *fans self* 🥵
It was a bittersweet to see that reader and her sister had a better relationship back then (or at least less jaded back then) and I loved reader's dad's interactions with both her and Mark.
Off to see what's in store with One Good Try now! 🩶🩵
