WHERE'S THE FIRE?

Officer Devon Knight hated traffic duty.

There were better ways to spend a day than sitting in a squad car parked in the bushes on a smoldering July afternoon, her dark skin toasting to a crisp. Compared to Philly, where she used to live, Chestnut Valley was a dead quiet, boring little burg where nothing exciting ever happened.

Maybe I shouldn’t be so quick to judge, she thought to herself.

Yes, this Pennsylvania suburb was much calmer than the bustling city streets of Philadelphia, and the people were, for the most part, a lot friendlier here. It took Devon weeks to get used to being pleasantly greeted by strangers—city people ignored cops until they needed one—but it was refreshing.

The job was easier here, as well. For some reason, Chestnut Valley had an extremely low crime rate. Maybe it had something to do with the schools being privately owned or the low number of tourists passing through. Maybe it was because the town was small enough for every citizen to know each other, from which families they came from to what those families did behind their own closed doors. Whatever the reason was, Devon actually loved being a police officer in this town, even if it meant being bored out of her skull with traffic duty.

VAROOOOMM!

A four-wheeled bullet streaked past the bushes, jouncing Devon out of her nap. Immediately, she flipped on the siren and took off after the speeding car. The driver had to know that a police car was hot on his tail, but that did not slow him down in the slightest. Closing the gap between them, Devon recognized that the car was a silver Lincoln with a vanity license plate reading J-ROYAL.

Oh, boy…

The Royals, as Devon had been told on her first day on the job, were three above-ground generations of the oldest money in Chestnut Valley. To hear them tell it, the Royals paid for every brick, stick, and cobblestone that the town was built with. Jared Royal was the appointed head of the family and was known as the meanest nickel-slick skinflint within a hundred-mile radius.

Devon could not wait to put a face on such superlative evil.

She edged the Lincoln towards a gully that would have ruined more than its paint job if it did not slow down. The driver wisely slowed his pace, allowing Devon to guide him just off the shoulder of the highway. Devon sprang out of the squad car and drew her gun as she approached the driver’s window.

“Out of the car! Now!”

The man that got out of the car was too young, too wiry, and too flashy to be a corporate bulldog like Jared Royal. He dressed like he was more accustomed to spending money than making it.

“Relax, lady,” he said, running his fingers through his short, blond hair. “Where’s the fire?”

“You don’t ask me questions when you’re the one driving like a bat out of Wisconsin in my town!”

“Lady, you’re the one who ran me off the road!”

Devon clicked back the hammer on her gun. “It’s ‘Officer’. Not ‘Lady’.”

The young man scoffed. “You’ve got that right. There’d better not be a scratch on my father’s car. Do you have any idea who you’re pulling a gun on right now?”

Devon stared at this arrogant man-child who had the astonishing temerity to be chastising her for her driving. His crystal-blue eyes glared haughtily at her over Gucci sunglasses, and his perfectly tanned skin looked soft enough to kiss.

Why do the cute ones have to be jerks?

“Show me your license, and I won’t have to guess,” she said flatly.

The young man slowly reached into his back pocket and held out a slip of plastic between two fingers. With one hand, Devon took the license; with the other, she reset the hammer of her gun. His name was Kyle Royal, he was nineteen years old—six years younger than Devon—and he had even managed to take a handsome driver’s license picture. None of this surprised her, but Kyle was surprised when Devon holstered her gun and pulled out her citation pad.

“You’re giving me a ticket?”

“Bright boy,” Devon muttered while writing.

“You can’t do that!”

“Watch yourself, Mr. Royal. I’ve got you for speeding, reckless driving, and what I suspect is grand theft auto. Any more lip, and I’ll run you in.”

“Lady, my grandmother heads the Town Council that pays your salary. You might want to watch yourself.”

This boy is daring me to arrest him!

“Turn around, and place your hands on the hood of the car.”

Kyle folded his arms across his skinny chest. Fresh out of patience, Devon pulled the boy by the scruff of his neck and bent him face down on the hood of the Lincoln. Roughly, she patted him down, and it did not escape her notice that Kyle’s bottom was exceptionally firm beneath the fabric of his trousers.

Ni-i-i-ice…

With her other hand, Devon flipped out her handcuffs and clicked them onto Kyle’s wrists.

“What are you doing?” he shouted.

“My job, Mr. Royal.”

Kyle’s face reddened. “No, you’re making one hell of a mistake! Lady, I’m going to turn your badge into my next custom belt buckle!”

Devon pulled him up by his collar. “You’ve got one more time to call me ‘Lady’!”

“How about ‘Miss Piggy’? You like that better?”

She dragged him towards her squad car and slammed him against the trunk. With the palm of her hand, she took aim and fired a volley of shots against the seat of Kyle’s pants. More than one car screeched as it went by them on the highway.

“Are you insane?” Kyle bellowed.

“No,” said Devon, “but I feel a lot better.” She shoved him into the back seat of the squad car. “You have the right to shut your big mouth! Anything you say from this point forward will piss me off, and you really don’t want to do that.”

Kyle floundered around the back seat like a fresh-caught fish, but he uttered nothing more intelligible than an anguished grunt as the squad car rolled towards town.