20

Master of Puppets - Metallica

D aniels is out today, sick at home with the flu, leaving me on my own. The station's been quiet, with most officers out on their scheduled duties or responding to random 000 calls. I'm at my desk, catching up on paperwork for cases that popped up over the weekend while I was away. A part of me feels guilty for being away when so much was happening.

There was the break-in at Mrs. Jenkins' bakery early Saturday morning, some teenagers causing a ruckus at the local park on Saturday night, and a missing dog report from Sunday afternoon—nothing too extravagant, just typical small-town incidents. But I can't shake the feeling that I should've been here handling it all.

Lately, it's like I'm wrestling an uphill climb to prove myself, to be the rock-solid officer this town leans on. Each day I suit up, the weight of duty settles heavy on my shoulders. It's not just about upholding the law; it's about being a foundation for this community, earning their trust. I've been striving to forge my own path, to step beyond my father's shadow and carve out a name. Yet, with every case, every call, I question if I'm measuring up, if I'm truly making a mark that counts.

And on top of that, Amelia won't leave my fucking thoughts. It's been a week since I last saw her. She swung by the house when I was out back with Xavier, but we missed each other. Liv's been going on about dinner and a girls' night that they had at Isla's place all week, but that's about it.

It's probably my fault. I know she won't make the first move. Why would she? I should be the one to step up. Shouldn't I?

But what do I even say?

It's not just about wanting her—though, fuck, I do, with a fierceness that catches me off guard. It's about doing right by her, making sure this isn't just some goddamn fleeting thing. She deserves more than half-assed moves and my fucking indecision. She's too damn important, too fucking special. I've spent years keeping her at arm's length, telling myself she's off-limits, too young, too innocent. But after Sunday night, all those walls I built are crumbling.

And she's Liv's best friend, which makes it all feel fucking wrong. I should know better, should have control, keep those lines clear. But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't interested. Because I am.

More than I want to admit.

It's the way she looks at me, the way her eyes light up when she's into something, the way she genuinely gives a shit about people. There's this purity to her I've always wanted to protect, but now... now I can't help but want to be close to her, to shield her, to be the one who puts that smile on her face. I miss how she felt in my arms, her lips on mine, the sounds she made.

Fuck, I need to stop.

Last thing I need is to get caught with a hard-on at work. I've got responsibilities here, a job to do. But fuck, it's hard to concentrate when all I can think about is her. I lean back in my chair, stretching my arms overhead. The station's quiet, just the hum of the AC cutting through the silence. I take a deep breath, let it out slowly, and focus back on the pile of paperwork on my desk. But the tension's still there, coiling tighter by the minute.

I need an outlet, something to blow off this steam. If I can't fuck it out, sweating it out's the next best thing.

The old-school way.

Mid-rep, I push the barbell up, the weight heavy and unyielding. My muscles burn with the effort, but I welcome the pain.

It means I'm here, in the moment, not lost in my thoughts. The gym is quiet this late in the afternoon, which surprises me. Usually it's pumping.

Metallica's "Master of Puppets" blares through my AirPods, the aggressive riffs fueling my intensity. I'm working on my chest and back today, pushing myself harder than usual. The bench press bar holds 1kg, the weight a familiar challenge. I bring it down slowly, feeling the strain in my chest and arms, then push it back up with a grunt.

After a set of ten, I rack the barbell and sit up, wiping sweat from my brow. I move to the pull-up bar next, grabbing it with a firm grip. I pull myself up, feeling the muscles in my back engage, then lower myself down slowly. The pull-ups are brutal, each one a test of strength and endurance.

But I need this.

I need to exhaust myself, to drown out the chaos in my mind.

The physical exertion helps, but it doesn't fully silence my thoughts. I grab the dumbbells next, going for the heavier set. I start with chest flies, the weights heavy in my hands as I stretch my arms out and then bring them back together. The motion is controlled, deliberate, each rep a way to focus my mind.

I finish my last set and sit down on the bench. This time, "Chaos" by I Prevail starts playing, the heavy, driving rhythm matching my need to stay focused.

I stand up, take a deep breath, and move on to the next exercise, determined to keep my mind occupied for a little while longer. As I run on the treadmill, my headphones announce a phone call, and Siri reads out the number, signalling that it's not saved into my contacts.

My heart drops when I recognise those digits.

I quickly take my phone from my pocket to read the number, confirming it's Amelia's—the one I hadn't saved in my phone because, well... I wasn't sure if that's something I should do.

Panic sets in. Why would she be calling?

My intuition tells me something isn't right. I answer after it rings again, and say, "Hello," but what I hear on the other end freezes me to my core.

"Bradley, oh, my god, I don't know what to do," Amelia's voice comes through, shaky and panicked, her voice an octave higher and more hurried than normal. "I didn't know who else to call. I panicked, so I called you."

My mind races. "What's wrong?" I demand, trying to see if I can hear anything in the background. I can hear water running and an echo. Is she in the bathroom?

"Oh, my god, it's getting closer. Shit, shit, shit!" she says in a state of panic. She's swearing . That means something is definitely wrong.

What is coming closer?

"Please, c-can you come here? I'm t-trapped. I can't move," she pleads, and I don't have to be asked twice. I stop the machine, grab my stuff, and storm out of the gym.

"Just stay there. I'm coming."

"Okay. There is a spare key under the mat," she says, before I hang up and speed to get to her place. I don't care at this moment if I'm breaking the law.

I'll run every red light if it means I get to her sooner.