❪ 𝖚𝖑𝖙𝖗𝖆 𝖛𝖎𝖔𝖑𝖊𝖓𝖈𝖊 ❫ ˖ ׁ ⁩ 𓂃
𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚁𝙾𝙾𝙺𝙸𝙴  ⸻  ✧˖°.ᐟ
❝ DOUBLE OH SEVEN ❞

「𝜗𝜚 . ❝ she's the only rookie who's ever made him question every rule he thought he believed in ❜

𝐽𝐴𝐶𝐾𝑆𝑂𝑁𝑆 𝐺𝑅𝐼𝑁 was infectious as he hit the record button on his phone, the camera's soft beep signaling the beginning of their sparring session. The small, dimly lit gym seemed to shrink around them, the air thick with the scent of sweat and determination. The overhead lights flickered slightly, casting uneven shadows across the worn-out mats.

John loomed over Charlotte, his broad frame blocking out the overhead lights. His attempt to shield himself from any quick jabs was evident, but Charlotte found a weak spot and swiftly landed a punch. The satisfying thud of fist against muscle echoed in the small room.

His reaction was immediate; he grabbed her arm and twisted it, a sharp pain shooting through her shoulder. She yelped, instinctively trying to shield her stomach from his knee. Their bodies moved in a chaotic dance of practiced violence, the mattress beneath them absorbing their grunts and impacts.

The mats smelled faintly of rubber and old sweat, a testament to countless hours of training and exertion. In a sudden move, Charlotte managed to flip John, his face smacking into the padded surface with a dull thud. "You're holding back," she said, frustration lacing her words.

"I wish I was," he grunted, pushing himself up. Sweat beaded on his forehead, glistening in the dim light, and his breathing was heavy as he prepared for another round. They clashed again, each movement a calculated risk, their muscles straining as they tested each other's limits.

Jackson's voice broke through the intensity, "I could watch this all day, and now I can," he said, still recording. His tone was light, but there was an edge of excitement in his voice. The camera lens captured every detail, the sweat glistening on their skin, the determined set of their jaws, the raw intensity of their sparring.

"Are you recording this?" Nolan huffed, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. His voice was breathless, a mix of exertion and mild annoyance.

"Uh, yeah, just for, uh, educational purposes," Jackson murmured, his eyes not leaving the screen of his phone. There was a hint of mischief in his tone, as if he knew he was pushing the boundaries.

"Alright, focus," Charlotte laughed, raising her knuckles once more. The sound of their breathing filled the room as they circled each other, eyes locked in concentration. The mats felt cool and slightly sticky beneath their feet, grounding them in the moment.

This time, Nolan surprised her. With a swift move, he pinned her to the mattress, the air rushing out of her lungs as she hit the surface. The thud resonated through the room, a testament to the power of his takedown. "Ooh! There you go! Nice takedown, Nolan," Jackson said, giving him a thumbs up and grinning widely.

Nolan scoffed, muttering a soft "Thanks" as he stepped back, catching his breath. His eyes flickered with a mix of satisfaction and determination. The room seemed to buzz with the aftershocks of their clash, the air heavy with their exertion.

Charlotte rolled her eyes, trying to hide the smile tugging at her lips. "Lucky move," she said, crossing her arms over her chest, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts. The adrenaline still coursed through her veins, her heart pounding in her ears. She could taste the salt of her own sweat, mingling with the faint metallic tang of exertion.

The gym was filled with the sounds of their heavy breathing, the faint hum of the overhead lights, and the distant echo of other fighters training in adjacent rooms. It was a place of hard work and relentless effort, where every bead of sweat and every bruise was a badge of honor.

Jackson's phone beeped softly again as he stopped the recording, the screen going dark. "That's a wrap," he said, his grin widening. "You two are going to love watching this back."

Charlotte shook her head, a laugh escaping her lips despite the lingering ache in her muscles. "Just don't post it anywhere," she warned, though there was a playful glint in her eyes.

Jackson raised his hands in mock surrender. "Wouldn't dream of it," he said, though his mischievous smile suggested otherwise.

As the adrenaline began to ebb, Charlotte and Nolan exchanged a look of mutual respect. They were competitors, yes, but there was also a camaraderie born of shared struggle and the relentless pursuit of improvement. And in that dimly lit gym, amid the smell of sweat and the echo of their exertions, they found a moment of connection that transcended the physical, a fleeting glimpse of the deeper bonds forged in the crucible of training.

The room was thick with the smell of sweat and the faint scent of worn-out gym mats. The overhead lights cast a harsh glow, highlighting the glistening sheen on their skin and the intensity in their eyes.

Charlotte watched as John quietly climbed out of the ring, splashing some water over his face before taking a long sip from his bottle. He swung his towel over his shoulder, heading for the locker rooms with a measured pace. His steps were heavy, as if burdened by unseen thoughts.

She exchanged a look with Jackson, a silent question passing between them. What had put John in this mood? Was it just a bad day, or had something happened? They didn't dwell on it too long, realizing they had to change as well.

Charlotte slipped between the rubber ropes of the wrestling ring, her muscles aching with each movement. She quickly grabbed her bottle of water and duffle bag, giving Jackson a quick smile before heading to the locker rooms. The dim hallway echoed with the faint sounds of other training sessions, a constant reminder of the relentless effort that defined their lives.

Sighing softly, she undressed, the fabric of her clothes sticking to her sweaty skin. The locker room was filled with the damp, metallic smell of steam and soap. She hurried to the showers, the cool tiles beneath her feet a brief relief. The water cascaded over her, washing away the grime of their sparring session. She avoided wetting her hair, mindful of the time.

Quickly drying herself off, she slipped into her long-sleeved, dark blue uniform, the crisp fabric a stark contrast to the softness of her gym clothes. She buttoned up her shirt with practiced precision, each button a small anchor grounding her in the routine. As she started braiding her hair, a message popped up on her phone, reminding her that her shift was about to start.

Charlotte hurried to the garages, the already hectic morning only going downhill from there. She spotted Bradford, his tall figure standing out amid the bustling activity. His arms were crossed, and his expression was a mixture of impatience and resignation.

"The battery was dead, so they had to find us another shop, and then I had to put gas in it. But we're ready to roll now, so—" She panted out, trying to mask her frustration with a forced smile.

Bradford sighed, shaking his head slowly. His eyes held a glint of the countless stories he could tell about his own rookie years. "You know, when I was a rookie, I got here two hours before roll call to get the best shop from motor pool, re-wash it, and load the gear."

Charlotte couldn't help but chuckle, the sound a mix of amusement and disbelief. "Is this the cop version of parents walking a marathon to school?"

That comment made Bradford shake his head again, a small scowl forming on his face. "This isn't story time, Boot. I'm reminding you how easy you have it."

"Right," she hummed, the words almost automatic. "Understood, sir. Thank you for all your support." Her voice was steady, but the undercurrent of sarcasm was unmistakable.

The sun was just beginning to rise, casting a soft, golden light through the windows of the precinct. The air was heavy with the mingled scents of fresh coffee and stale paperwork. Bradford stood near the entrance, listening intently as a passerby murmured something into his ear. His face remained impassive, but his eyes flickered with a hint of concern.

"Get the shop set up. I'll be right back," he said, his voice a low rumble.

Charlotte nodded slowly, feeling the weight of his words. She moved with purpose, heading to the quartermaster to retrieve the weapons for their shop. The cool metal of the guns was a familiar comfort, the weight of responsibility settling on her shoulders. After securing the gear, she allowed herself a brief respite—a snack from the vending machine and a bottle of water drained in long, thirsty gulps.

Impatience gnawed at her as she sat in the shop, the minutes ticking by with agonizing slowness. Finally, she decided to search for Bradford instead of waiting. The precinct buzzed with activity, officers and civilians alike moving through the hallways in a chaotic dance.

Charlotte walked towards the briefing room, her steps quickening as she neared. The fluorescent lights cast a harsh, clinical glow, emphasizing the tired lines on the faces of those she passed. She found Bradford immediately, sitting alone, his posture tense.

"Hey, what's, uh, what's going on? Are we going out? Rumors are spreading that Grey wanted to speak to you personally," she murmured, her voice low and cautious. Her eyes darted around the room, noting the wary glances and hushed conversations.

Bradford slowly turned, his frown deepening. Before he could respond, Charlotte's attention was drawn to Isabel being escorted into the precinct by two detectives. The sight of her, disheveled and anxious, sent a jolt of unease through Charlotte. They passed Grey's office just as he stepped out, his expression grim. He murmured something to the detectives, who nodded in acknowledgment.

Grey then signaled for Bradford to step into his office. Bradford stood, casting a knowing look at Charlotte before following Grey inside. The door closed behind them with a soft click, leaving Charlotte standing alone, her heart pounding.

She glanced around, ensuring no one was watching, before quietly moving closer to the door. The wooden surface felt cool against her ear as she pressed against it, straining to catch fragments of the conversation within.

Inside the office, the tension was palpable. Grey's voice was low and measured, each word heavy with implication. "We'd like more details on the arrest."

Bradford's words was a murmur, too soft for Charlotte to make out clearly. She held her breath, every muscle in her body taut with anticipation. The muffled conversation continued, punctuated by moments of silence that seemed to stretch into eternity.

The walls were lined with corkboards, plastered with photos, maps, and strings of connections that told a thousand stories of crime and justice. The air smelled faintly of old coffee and disinfectant, a scent so familiar it had become almost comforting.

Charlotte stood just outside the room, her ear pressed against the cool wood of the door, straining to catch every word of the heated conversation within. Her heart pounded in her chest, each beat echoing in her ears like a distant drum.

Inside, one of the detectives was speaking, his voice calm but firm. "We assisted on a DEA task force, tracking a heroin distribution network. They flagged a car known to make drops for them. We pulled over the suspect and found four grams, individually wrapped, which means intent to sell."

Charlotte could hear the underlying tension in Bradford's reply, a mix of worry and defensiveness. She silently prayed he wouldn't say anything that could be misconstrued as favoritism. "Isabel isn't a dealer," he scoffed, his voice filled with an almost desperate certainty.

"How do you know?" The other detective's voice was sharp, his skepticism palpable. Charlotte imagined him standing with arms crossed, eyebrows furrowed in a challenging stare.

Grey, sensing the rising tension, stepped forward to intervene. "Officer Bradford and Isabel were rookies together," he explained, his tone measured and authoritative.

Charlotte's lips parted in surprise, and she quickly covered her mouth to stifle any sound. Isabel was a cop? The revelation sent a jolt of shock through her. One of the detectives seemed to read her mind, voicing the same question aloud.

"Was. Undercover narcotics. Another division. Been off the job for a year," Bradford answered curtly, as if he had been asked the question many times before.

"You used to date," one of the detectives hummed, his voice tinged with curiosity.

"She's my wife," Bradford corrected him, his tone flat but carrying a weight of emotion that belied his stoic demeanor.

The conversation grew more heated. "Well, I'm sorry to hear that. Fact of the matter is she's in pretty deep with some heavy dealers. Being arrested with that kind of weight, she's looking at one to three in county," one of the detectives said, crossing his arms and shrugging as if the matter were already settled.

"I know that, but she doesn't even own a car. You bother to check the registration?" Bradford's voice rose, frustration seeping into his words. Charlotte could picture his face, lines of worry etched into his features, eyes hard with determination.

Charlotte felt the weight of the situation pressing down on her, the gravity of the accusations and the complexity of the relationships involved. She could hear the murmur of voices, low and intense, as the argument continued behind closed doors. The precinct around her buzzed with its usual activity, but it all felt distant, like a backdrop to the drama unfolding in that room.

The detective shook his head, the lines on his face deepening. "Doesn't matter. She was the one driving."

Tim Bradford's jaw tightened, his eyes flashing with a mix of frustration and concern. The tension in the room was palpable, the kind that seemed to make the very air hum with unease. Charlotte, standing just out of sight, felt her heart pounding in her chest as she listened.

"Look, this is not something that we can make go away even if we wanted to. Your wife's gonna need a lawyer. And your officer needs to figure out where he stands. Is he a cop or a suspect's husband?" The detective's words hung heavily in the air, directed towards Grey with a pointed glance.

"Thank you," Grey replied with a simple nod, his tone conveying a finality that brooked no argument.

Charlotte quickly retreated to her previous spot, a little away from the door, trying to act casual as if she hadn't been eavesdropping for the past ten minutes. Her pulse raced, each beat echoing the urgency and gravity of the situation.

The two detectives exited Grey's office, leaving Bradford alone with their superior. Grey's expression softened slightly, the hard lines of his face relaxing into a more concerned demeanor. "He's right. Listen, why don't you take a personal day, all right? Make some phone calls." Grey crossed his arms, his eyes steady on Bradford.

Bradford shifted uncomfortably, a frown creasing his brow. "It's not necessary," he muttered, though his voice lacked its usual confidence.

"They need to process her. Then they're gonna wait for her lawyer to show up, and then they're gonna sweat her in interrogation. You won't get a chance to talk to her for hours. So if you don't take a day, that means you're going back on the street. You have a problem with that?" Grey's explanation was calm, his tone firm but not unkind.

Bradford swallowed hard, clearing his throat. "No, sir."

Grey nodded approvingly. "Okay, go back to work." His voice was a soft hum, a stark contrast to the tension that had filled the room moments before.

As Bradford left the office, Charlotte could see the strain in his posture, the weight of the situation pressing heavily on his shoulders. His steps were measured, almost mechanical, as he tried to maintain his composure.

The precinct around them buzzed with activity, officers moving purposefully, the hum of conversations and the occasional ring of a phone creating a backdrop of controlled chaos. Charlotte felt a mix of anxiety and determination welling up inside her. She knew that the line between personal and professional was razor-thin in their world, and today, it felt more like a tightrope walk.

A couple of hours later, they were back at the station. The atmosphere felt heavy, the usual hustle and bustle of the precinct muted by the weight of the situation. The sharp smell of coffee mingled with the more acrid scent of sweat and tension, creating an almost tangible fog of anxiety. Charlotte walked in, her eyes immediately scanning the room, taking in the familiar sights and sounds with a heightened sense of awareness.

"Isn't public urination usually a citation?" Charlotte questioned, her voice cutting through the noise of the bustling booking area. The fluorescent lights cast a sterile glow, harsh against the worn, institutional green walls and the scuffed linoleum floor. She guided a cuffed man towards a bench, the metallic clink of the handcuffs blending with the murmur of voices and the hum of electronics.

"You need to brush up on your California Penal Code," Bradford murmured, his eyes darting around the room with a restless energy. "Section 314. Indecent exposure is a misdemeanor subject to six months in jail." His voice was distracted, tinged with worry, as if searching for someone—Isabel.

"Hmm. Doesn't indecent exposure require an offended party?" Charlotte set the man down on the bench, securing him to it with a practiced efficiency. The smell of sweat and antiseptic mixed unpleasantly in the air, the scent of bureaucracy and human frailty.

"Plenty of offended families living in the apartment building across that alley," Bradford responded absently, his eyes continuing to scan the room. His shoulders were tense, a rigidity that spoke of deeper concerns.

"Mm. Respectfully, sir, that'll never stick," she countered, her tone both respectful and insistent. She could see the strain in Bradford's expression, the lines etched deeper by worry.

"It doesn't matter. Start processing," Bradford waved her off, his focus still elsewhere.

Charlotte felt a pang of sympathy for her T.O., seeing him so worried and stressed. The sight of him this way was a stark contrast to his usual composed demeanor. She knew he had seen Isabel for the first time in a year just a couple of days ago, and now she might end up in county. The thought weighed heavily on her mind.

"Hey. Do you want me to give you a shout if I see the detectives?" She nodded towards him, hoping to offer some semblance of help without overstepping her bounds.

"Yeah," Bradford nodded back, his voice clipped, before asking one of the officers to open a cell for him. The cell where Isabel was sitting alone. He glanced around cautiously before closing the door partially, leaving a small gap open to avoid raising suspicion.

"I screwed up," Charlotte heard Isabel murmur, her voice laced with sadness.

"You think?" Bradford sighed, shaking his head. "How bad is it?"

Isabel chewed on her lip, a habit Charlotte recognized from her own moments of stress. "It's a solid arrest," she sniffled, her eyes avoiding Bradford's.

"Who's Carson Holland? The car you were driving is registered to him. Is he your boyfriend?" Bradford's voice dropped two tones, becoming more serious and intense.

Isabel hesitated, her gaze flickering uncertainly. "Sometimes," she admitted quietly.

Bradford nodded, his mind already racing through possible solutions. "Okay, you have to tell them the drugs belong to him."

Isabel quickly shook her head, her eyes wide with fear. "We both know it won't matter. I was in possession. Isn't there something you can do?"

"What?! They won't drop the charge. It's connected to a DEA case. This is real, Isabel," Bradford hissed, his frustration barely contained.

"It's gonna get worse. Because tomorrow, they're gonna have a warrant to search my apartment." Isabel's voice trembled, tears welling up in her eyes as she nervously picked at her skin.

Bradford paused, his heart sinking. "What will they find?" he asked quietly, dreading the answer.

Isabel looked away, her voice barely a whisper. "Carson stashed a kilo of heroin in my heating unit."

Bradford's eyes widened in shock, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Are you that far gone? Why would you let him do that?" His anger was mixed with disbelief and sorrow.

"I will not be able to plea out of this. So, i-if I go to jail, they're gonna find out I was a cop, and I'll be dead. Please, baby. Go—Go to my place. I need you. If you help me, it'll be different, all right? I'll go to rehab. For real this time." Isabel's voice broke, her desperation evident as she stammered out the words, tears streaming down her face.

Bradford's lips quivered, and he looked down, trying to hide the turmoil in his eyes. This was killing him. "You're just saying that," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

"No, no. This is different. I ca— I can be different. Please help me, okay? Please." She begged, her voice raw and pleading, as she gently tugged his hand and pressed a kiss to his knuckles.

The small, intimate gesture broke Bradford's resolve. He closed his eyes briefly, taking a deep breath, the weight of his decision pressing down on him. The faint scent of Isabel's perfume, mixed with the stale air of the holding cell, enveloped him. He knew the risks, understood the gravity of what she was asking, but love and duty waged a fierce battle within him.

Finally, he opened his eyes, meeting Isabel's desperate gaze. "Okay," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "I'll help you."

𝐴𝐹𝑇𝐸𝑅 𝐻𝐸𝐴𝑅𝐼𝑁𝐺 that conversation, Charlotte decided to keep track of Bradford. She assumed he would most likely head to Isabel's apartment. The afternoon sun cast long shadows on the street as Charlotte followed discreetly, her heart pounding with a mixture of concern and determination.

She parked a few cars down, watching as Bradford approached the door to Isabel's apartment. The faint creak of the gate and the rustle of leaves in the slight breeze were the only sounds, emphasizing the quiet tension of the moment. Charlotte held her breath as he skillfully picked the lock, his movements precise and practiced. The soft click of the door opening was barely audible, but to Charlotte, it sounded like a gunshot in the stillness.

Bradford slipped inside, and she could see his shadow moving through the slats of the blinds. He seemed to move with purpose, checking corners and kneeling down briefly before standing back up. The silence inside the apartment was oppressive, broken only by the occasional rustle of papers or the creak of floorboards.

As he exited the apartment, locking the door behind him, he spotted Charlotte standing by the car behind his. Her posture was tense, arms crossed, her eyes reflecting a mixture of frustration and concern. Bradford's expression hardened, a defensive edge creeping into his voice as he asked quietly, "What are you doing here?"

Charlotte simply shook her head, her voice firm but laced with worry. "No, what are you doing here?"

Bradford crossed his arms, his stance mirroring hers. "Look, you're out of your depth on this," he said, his tone dismissive.

Charlotte sighed deeply, the weight of the situation pressing down on her. "Look, I've been riding with you for two months. You project the rogue cop thing, but you are always on the right side of the law."

Bradford's eyes flickered with a hint of shame, but he quickly masked it with a stern expression. "If you came all the way over here to psychoanalyze me, you wasted your time," he retorted.

"No, I... I came here to remind you that you'll regret helping her," Charlotte said, her voice softening. "Because it's not gonna change her. But it'll sure as hell change you."

For a moment, they locked eyes, the air thick with unspoken emotions. Bradford's gaze was filled with a mixture of guilt and defiance, but Charlotte could see the internal struggle behind his stern facade. He clenched his jaw, the muscles working as he tried to suppress his turmoil.

Without another word, Bradford turned abruptly, his movements stiff and controlled. He got into his car, slamming the door shut with more force than necessary. Charlotte watched as he sat there for a moment, his hands gripping the steering wheel tightly, knuckles white. Then, with a roar of the engine, he drove off, leaving her standing alone in the fading light of the afternoon.

Charlotte stood there for a few moments, the quiet street around her feeling even more silent in the wake of Bradford's departure.

She took a deep breath, the cool evening air filling her lungs, and tried to shake off the lingering tension. She knew this was far from over, and as she got into her own car, she resolved to keep a close eye on Bradford, ready to step in if he veered too far off course.

HELP why did i take such a long ass break from this story im so sorry

please feel free to engage with the story !!
– comment, like, & interact. your participation keeps me motivated! thank you!!

❪ 𝖚𝖑𝖙𝖗𝖆 𝖛𝖎𝖔𝖑𝖊𝖓𝖈𝖊 ❫ ˖ ׁ ⁩ 𓂃
𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚁𝙾𝙾𝙺𝙸𝙴  ⸻  ✧˖°.ᐟ
❝ 27.08.24 ❞