Ocean-4

At 37. Ofc, Divorced. Slade “bags” Miller. I guess I sport a swagger, Standing 5’10” in my Gucci boxer shorts. With a mop of hair and texture of a Golden retriever. Usually rocking on my Kawasaki with saddle bags. With my signature “Tommy Cruise” aviator sunglasses, even when its foggy, I walk the talk with confidence and effortless charm. With a sense of humor and a dose of sarcasm. If you act like a “bozo” or display a narcissistic behavior, I will pop your top off and shut you down. I have zero time for nonsense and bunny rabbits.

My path from Shiloh to Beaufort was anything but conventional. Most kids grew up with walls and curtains; I grew up in a strictly nudist household with two siblings and a mother who believed clothing was a suggestion rather than a rule. There is no such thing as a “white lie” when you’re spending your formative years completely exposed; you learn early on that honesty is the only way to survive the chaos. That lack of privacy forged a level of mental toughness that made two years of university feel like a vacation, which naturally led me to enlist in the Marine Corps.

After eight years of grinding it out with the Aiken PD, I decided the scenery needed a change. I packed my life into those saddlebags and rolled into Beaufort, landing just twenty-six miles from the Parris Island Marine Depot. It’s a town where the humidity clings to you like a wet blanket and the locals treat outsiders with a level of suspicion usually reserved for suspected smugglers. I didn’t mind the vibe; I’ve always played better when the odds are skewed.

Twenty-three hundred hours hit, marking the official start of the late shift. I found myself standing in the briefing room, a cramped, fluorescent-lit hole the regulars called the “Cookie Jar.” I was fully kitted out, the weight of my Glock 17 settling comfortably on my hip, feeling the familiar pull of the duty belt. The room smelled of burnt coffee and stale desperation, filled with the low hum of officers who had seen too many midnight calls to care about the dress code.

That’s when I spotted her: Sergeant Sienna Leon, badge #0614. She was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, looking like she was personally offended by the very existence of everyone in the room. Leon was one of only nineteen women in the department and one of three working this brutal graveyard shift. Even from across the room, past the glare of the overhead lights, it was obvious she had a massive “ornery” on. She didn’t just look tired; she looked like she was calculating exactly how many ways she could fire me before midnight.

Twenty-three hundred hours. First night with a new partner.

There are few things I dislike more than being assigned a new partner. Not because they’re necessarily bad cops. Sometimes they’re very good cops. The problem is that I don’t know which kind I’ve been assigned until I’ve spent enough time with them to discover what their particular brand of stupid is. A new partner means new habits, new quirks, new paperwork, and usually at least one thing I have to teach a grown man who should already know better.

Apparently, I got Miller tonight. Officer Slade Miller. Thirty-seven. Divorced. Former Marine. Eight years with Aiken PD. Transferred to Beaufort and apparently brought his swagger with him. The kind of confident walk that tells you he has never once wondered whether a room noticed him when he entered it. I noticed him. Not because I was impressed. Because I was trying to figure out how long it would take before he irritated me.

He was sitting in the Cookie Jar, looking entirely too comfortable for a man on his first night with a new partner. His file said, Marine. His posture said he expected people to know it. His expression said he thought he was funny.

First night in a new department and he already looked comfortable. That bothered me. He tapped his leg while he waited. That bothered me too. I don’t know why. Maybe because people who can’t sit still usually can’t keep their mouths shut either. He looked over when I came in. I looked back. Neither of us said anything.

I’ve been a cop for eighteen years. I’ve learned that first impressions are useful, but they’re not always right. My first impression of Miller was that he was confident. My second was that he knew he was confident. Those are two very different things. I’d find out which one I was dealing with soon enough.

I’m Sgt. Sienna Leone. Forty-two years old. Eighteen years in law enforcement. Divorced. Five-seven, red hair, hazel eyes, and apparently an expression that makes people think twice before approaching me. I’ve been told I’m intimidating. I don’t think I’m intimidating. I don’t have much patience for bullshit. Enough attitude that somebody decided ”ornery” was an appropriate description. Fair assessment.

I’ve spent most of my life surrounded by men. I grew up with three younger brothers and enough male cousins to qualify as a small army. If you wanted to be heard, you didn’t whine about it. You spoke up. I learned a long time ago that if a man wants to talk over you, you either talk louder or make him regret starting the conversation. I prefer the second option. Miller was going to learn that eventually. Hopefully sooner rather than later.

Twenty-three hundred to zero seven hundred. Eight hours together in Ocean-4. Eight hours trapped in a vehicle with a man I’d known for approximately fifteen minutes. Something told me I was going to need every ounce of patience I had. Which wasn’t much.

What could go wrong?

I had a feeling I’d find out.

I looked over at him again.

“Let’s establish some ground rules, “bags.” Your GI Joe background doesn’t give you veto power over where we eat. You’ve got eight years on the job. I’ve got eighteen. That’s ten years you don’t have to argue with me about.

“In this vehicle, you’re the passenger, the navigator, and the guy who holds the flashlight. That’s it. You interfere with my investigation, my driving, or my patience, and I’ll make sure your reports come back to you looking like they’ve been through a paper shredder.

“And quit tapping your leg while I’m talking to you. It’s distracting.”

“One more thing. Keep your eyes where they belong. I don’t care what you’re looking at, but if I catch you looking at my tits again, you’re going to spend the rest of the shift explaining to me exactly what you found so interesting about the upholstery on my passenger door. ”Now buckle up, Miller. We’ve got eight hours together, and I’m still deciding whether you’re going to be a problem or just a pain in my ass.”

“I was actually looking at the upholstery on the passenger door…you aint big, you ain’t big, you’re just tall.”

TIME: 2315 hours
Call for Service: Domestic Dispute (1422 Elm St, Apt 4B)
Dispatch reported a verbal argument turning physical.

On Scene: Arrived at 2315. Heard loud shouting from the hallway. Knocked and announced. A female victim opened the door, visibly shaken with minor redness on her left wrist. The male, cohabitant was cooperative but agitated. dressed in a full Bunny Suit. Action Taken: Separated both parties to defuse the tension. taking the basket from the.bunny. The argument was strictly verbal over financial stress; the redness on her wrist was from him grabbing her sleeve to prevent her from leaving. Victim declined medical attention and refused to press charges. The male party agreed to leave for the night to stay at his brother’s house to cool down. Provided the female victim with a domestic violence resource card. Chihuahua pissed on OFC Miller’s trouser leg.

“A bunny suit, Miller. A literal fucking bunny suit,” I muttered as we walked back to the cruiser. I didn’t look at him, but I could hear him fighting back a smirk. The humidity had spiked, turning the air into a thick, salty soup that made my uniform stick to my skin. I climbed into the driver’s seat and slammed the door, the sound echoing through the quiet street. I could smell the faint scent of dog urine wafting off his leg, and for the first time tonight, I actually felt a flicker of kinship toward the man.

Ocean-4, left the scene and drove to laundrymat down the street. “Bags” stripped to his Gucchi’s and launderd his trousers…45 minutes later, emerging in a tie dyed dried Capri trousers smelling like industrial detergent…keeping the swagger.

0130: Traffic stop on 4th and Maple. Driver doing 48 in a 35 zone. Gave a verbal warning for the speed, but noticed his registration was expired by six months. Wrote the citation. He wasn’t happy, but he was polite. No issues, but wearing, afore mentioned, bunny suit.

I watched Miller lean against the hood of the cruiser, his new tie-dyed Capri pants glowing under the yellow streetlights like a bad trip from the seventies. He was still wearing those aviators, despite the darkness, leaning back with a smirk that suggested he’d just won a bet I didn’t know we were making. The smell of industrial detergent was so strong it was fighting the salty sea breeze for dominance in the cabin. He looked ridiculous, yet he carried the outfit like it was custom-tailored in Milan.

0245: incident of a reported shooting at the Avery Strip lounge.

The call crackled over the radio, cutting through the silence of the cabin and killing whatever smug momentum Miller had gathered. The atmosphere shifted instantly; the sarcasm evaporated, replaced by the cold, mechanical precision of the job. I didn’t wait for him to settle his swagger. I slammed the cruiser into gear and floored it, the tires screaming as we tore away from the intersection. Miller’s expression went flat, his posture locking into something tighter and more focused. The “Bags” persona slid away, leaving behind the Marine who knew exactly how to move when the stakes shifted from traffic tickets to ballistics.

The Swat Team engaged the sirens, but I didn’t need the noise to feel the adrenaline spiking. I took the corner on a prayer, the cruiser tilting on two wheels before slamming back down with a bone-jarring thud. The Avery Strip Lounge was a neon-soaked dive where the drinks were cheap and the regulars were desperate. As we pulled up, the flashing blue and red lights painted the asphalt in rhythmic pulses, illuminating a scene of absolute chaos. People were spilling out of the front doors like ants from a disturbed hill, their faces pale and eyes wide with the kind of panic that only comes when a gun starts talking in a crowded room. The psychopath was neutralized.

0430:The 24-hour service station with sandwiches behind refrigerated glass doors, the store was lit with 50 shades of bologna. “Tank” had a green meat ball sandiwich and I had green pickle loaf, and I ask for grey poupon. Then lit a cigarette after. She accused me of being an arsonist as I flicked the Zippo.

“You know, for a woman who spent ten minutes lecturing me on ground rules, your driving is remarkably reckless,” Miller said, leaning back against the hood of the cruiser. He was chewing on the edge of a sandwich that looked like it had been made in 1994, his eyes hidden behind those damn aviators again.

“It’s called efficiency, Miller. Some of us prefer to arrive at a crime scene before the body gets cold,” I snapped, leaning against the door and staring at the neon sign of the gas station flickering overhead. “And for the record, the ‘reckless’ part was to make sure you didn’t fall and asleep in your tie-dyed pajamas…also don’t put your cheese crackers, on Unit-4’s vanity, dashboard.

He chuckled, a low sound that almost sounded like he was enjoying the tension. “Pajamas? These are a statement piece, Leon. Besides, you’ve got to admit, the way you handled that suspect at the strip lounge was almost as impressive as your temper.”

I didn’t laugh. I just looked at him, really looked at him. The swagger was still there, but there was something else now, a sharpness in his eyes that suggested the “Bags” persona was just a mask for something far more calculating. We stood there in the heavy, humid silence of the pre-dawn hours, two divorced cops eating processed meat in a parking lot, waiting for the next disaster to chime in over the radio.