"...Maybe it's not that bad?" John muttered as he pushed open the precinct door—only to be greeted by a long pair of fishnet-clad legs.
A stunning blonde was perched atop a step ladder, stringing holiday lights onto a garland of tinsel. Her curves were impossible to ignore, especially in a snug leather mini-skirt and low-cut sweater. She looked down just in time to lock eyes with Jack, her gaze flashing with mischief—and a hint of admiration.
"Oh my, did you boys get lost?"
She suddenly let out a surprised gasp as if her foot had slipped, tumbling sideways from the ladder.
Jack reacted instantly, stepping forward to catch her. Soft curves met strong arms. And nestled between them, right below the hem of her too-short skirt, was a cheeky little Hello Kitty looking up at him with a wink.
"I take back all my complaints," Jack said, holding her easily. "Detroit sure knows how to make a man feel welcome."
"I thought a guy like you would be more of a gentleman," she said, adjusting her skirt to hide the pink cartoon kitten—though her other arm remained comfortably looped around Jack's neck. Her voice was husky, sensual—classic "smoky-voiced siren."
"I thought a woman like you would wear something a little more... seductive," Jack shot back with a grin as he gently set her down.
She scoffed lightly and tugged her neckline higher. "Do I look old to you?"
With her bold makeup—smoky eyes and crimson lips—she was definitely playing the "mature bombshell" card. But her skin was flawless, and she couldn't have been older than twenty-eight, thirty at most.
Jack had to forcibly tear his gaze away before he got too distracted. He glanced toward the empty reception area and cleared his throat.
"Is Sheriff Ronick in?"
"Who are you two?" she countered, cocking a perfectly arched brow. "Today's the last day for Precinct Thirteen. We weren't expecting visitors."
John stepped up, offering her a set of papers. "We're from Los Angeles. Officer John Nolan, reporting per transfer orders. This is my friend, uh..."
He faltered for a second, unsure how to introduce Jack. Saying "FBI" outright might cause unnecessary alarm—or worse, suspicion.
"Jack Tavoller," Jack offered smoothly. "Friend of John's, also his former colleague. I'm on leave, and I was heading to New York anyway, so I figured I'd detour and see Detroit. Never been here before."
The blonde blinked, eyes widening as she took the paperwork and scanned it quickly.
"Oh my God. One-week assignment? Someone must really hate you. This station shuts down tomorrow."
"Could be," Jack said casually. "Orders are orders. We're supposed to help finish the closure process and await further assignment."
The building was old and worn, but at least the heating worked. John shed his heavy coat, revealing his LAPD uniform. Jack didn't bother to take his off but undid the front buttons.
"Well," the blonde purred, hands spreading to show off the festive decorations. "At least we'll have a good time tonight."
John laughed awkwardly, still not sure what to make of her. "We're looking forward to it. But where can we find Sheriff Ronick? I still need his signature on the transfer."
"He and Jasper went down to the evidence locker," she replied, then turned and flashed them a wink. "Almost forgot—name's Alice."
As she sauntered off toward the stairwell, Jack leaned in with a smirk. "Looks like I won't need to stick around for the whole week after all."
Alice returned shortly, followed by two uniformed officers. One was an older man with white hair and a salt-and-pepper beard. The other looked to be in his early thirties—sharp, alert, and clearly in charge.
"Sheriff Ronick? Happy New Year," John said, spotting the nametags and extending a hand to the younger man.
"Happy New Year, Officer Nolan." The sheriff shook his hand with a warm smile, then glanced toward Jack. The open coat revealed his dress shirt and suit—federal agent style. His eyes narrowed slightly in curiosity. "FBI?"
Jack noticed his gaze and returned the favor. The moment he glanced at Ronick's wrist, he caught sight of a tattoo—a faint but unmistakable gang ink, though it was faded and partially covered by his uniform sleeve.
He might not know Detroit's every corner, but Jack could still tell the difference between military ink and something from the streets.
"Jack Tavoller, FBI. On leave," Jack replied smoothly. "John's an old partner. I figured I'd tag along and get a look at Motor City."
They shook hands just as the older cop—Jasper—pulled something from a dusty box he was carrying.
"You won't believe what Ronick and I found in the evidence room," Jasper said with a grin, holding up a bottle covered in grime and age. "An unopened bottle of Irish whiskey. At least forty years old. Perfect gift to welcome our guests."
"Is that something you stashed away when you bagged your first perp?" Alice teased.
"Please, that would've been Civil War–era contraband," Jasper laughed, cracking a joke at his own age.
After the greetings settled, Ronick turned his attention to Jack again and inclined his head slightly.
"If you don't mind, Agent Tavoller—er, Jack—I've got some good coffee beans upstairs. Care to join me for a cup?"
He wanted a private chat. Jack smiled. "Wouldn't miss it."
Alice, ever the instigator, blinked dramatically. "Wow. Two Jacks in the same place? We're gonna need to come up with a nickname for one of you."
"Easy, Alice," Ronick cut in with a small cough, reining her in.
"Alice, get Officer Nolan a desk. I don't know why HQ's sending someone here on our last day, but maybe it'll help this ghost station feel a little less... dead."
Alice rolled her eyes but obeyed, lips pouty. "Fine, boss. But the 911 calls are already rerouted. The computers and weapons are gone. If we have to stay open until midnight... why not start the New Year's party now?"
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