Bad Cop, Worse Cop

God, I hoped Amber wasn't busy.

* * *

I stayed up that night, creating my Pixboox profiles. One of them would need to belong to "Lindsay Doyle," one of the fake girls the police had invented a few years ago during an underage sex sting. She was almost 19 now, and I usually enjoyed pretending to be her; I'd turned her into a total slut, and that made her a lot of fun. Lindsay would be roving around the app, digging in to find some incriminating photos and engaging in some harmless banter with whomever she found in there. For Pixboox, I called her ilovesexwithfuckboysxoxo.

The other profile was made for my own use, attached to a fake email account I created just for this. Lindsay would make the police department's case; the other profile would just be me, having some fun. In my mind I named her Lauren, but her username on the site was ButtLove99.

Apparently, my subconscious was still thinking of Lexi.

I did all this while sitting up in bed with Amber conked out next to me, the two of us swaddled in smelly sheets after a particularly vigorous evening. She always liked staying over, and as long as she took the wet spot I didn't mind. Provided she was gone by noon.

Lindsay clicked rapidly through the FAQ and then left the site, no doubt tired after a long day. But Lauren was more adventurous, clicking along to see what the app had to offer.

At once I noticed that you had to be eighteen to use the app at all. Whatever; that was pretty impossible for Pixboox to police, but Officer Shitstain had told me all the East Adams girls who were under investigation were all over eighteen anyway. Okay, fine.

She'd been wrong, of course, about needing to be in the person's contact list to get access to their stuff. Stupid bitch. Well, sort of wrong; you could use the app to get in touch with them and request an invitation easily enough. I immediately searched for the names Roberta had given me and found a bunch of the East Adamites. After that, I just went to the one with the most contacts and requested an invitation from Lauren. It was 1:30 in the morning; there was a good chance she was still awake. Her name was Heidi Kitching, and her profile pic was done with some kind of photo filter that made her look like a fucking Tolkien elf.

While I waited for Heidi I sent a request to Megan Burke, just for fun, to see what Roberta's little girl was up to. I was not terribly surprised when Megan's response came back just a few seconds later, and there we were.

I was in.

I made a mental note to connect Lindsay with Lauren, so that Lindsay could get access to Megan's shit; presumably, now that I had access to her, I could get access to all her contacts too.

Not for the first time I thanked my lucky stars that, other than Bianca's long-gone spawn, I had no kids. This shitty little app, and others like it, were making kids into raving goddamn morons. That, or whores, and I wasn't sure which was worse. Right there on my laptop screen, in living HD, was Officer Shitstain's daughter and one of her friends, twerking straight into the camera while wearing thongs.

Yup.

I'd met Megan once, I remembered, at one of those police open house days where we let the kids climb around in our vehicles. She'd seemed like a sweet enough kid. Now I was looking at her asscheeks, naked to the world, as they swayed and quaked to the beat of some sort of random R&B song. Her thong was black, so it blended right into her asscrack and, a little lower, the bulge of her pussy lips. Beyond I could see her face, in profile, looking over at her friend with a giddy grin; I saved the pic, just for fun. Both girls had nice little asses.

Prime whacking material, this app. And it was only the first video!

The second girl, especially. I was mesmerized at once. Her butt was a pair of perfect spheres, neatly bisected by a red strip of lycra that, I saw at once, was wedged deeply into her slit at the bottom. The backs of her thighs were pulsing with muscle, the kind that showed up on cheerleaders or dancers or gymnasts who weren't afraid of putting in the work. Calves rock solid, feet firmly planted wide apart as she jiggled. I felt my mouth go dry and my dick tense up.

I hovered my cursor over the other girl, and the app provided me her name in a little pink thought bubble: Tori Lynne.

Well now. Tori Lynne would be getting a quick, fervent contact request from Lauren, that was for sure, while Lindsay Doyle spent her time and effort downloading pics of cheerleaders draining shot glasses, Solo cups, and the kind of iridescent nips that have no place off a beach. She'd gather, I don't know, fifty? Sixty images? Whatever the school wanted.

Should take about five minutes, based on what I was already seeing. The background of Megan's video, once I finally ripped my eyes away from those two vibrating eighteen-year-old butts, showed empties everywhere. Easy-peasy. I'd have it done by lunchtime, even with Amber taking up some of my morning energy.

I zoomed in on Tori Lynne, whoever she was, and studied the hi-def image of the thong disappearing into her pussy crack. Shit. She looked like she was built to take it hard. Firm, sturdy legs and what looked like a waist you could really grab onto. Super-flexible too, of course. I couldn't get a look at her tits, not yet, but I figured I would soon enough. No way would a girl like that be shy on her own little corner of the internet, not if she was so easily waving her crotch around in Megan's.

I realized, as I stared at Tori Lynne and her impressively intimate anatomy, that I was hard again, rock hard, my cock stiffening within its dried crust of pussy juice and saliva, overlaid with whatever of my own semen my shaft had carried out of Amber's cooze. Fuck. I reached over absently to find a handy breast, one or another of Amber's nice little handfuls, and began to tug on the pale nipple I discovered.

I did manage to get the laptop closed before Amber woke up and sat on my cock. I find women don't really like it if you're looking at some other girl while you fuck them.

* * *

I heard back from Tori Lynn over a leisurely breakfast of oatmeal and a wedge of cantaloupe. She got in touch at a fortuitous time, for I was feeling cranky because Amber had left early; something to do with getting her son to daycare, I don't know.

Tori Lynne. Pixboox ID slutlucky. She accepted my contact request without any comment and without asking me who I was, the same way I imagined she'd take a dick. Once I got access to her profile, I was mildly surprised to find that Lynne was a last name, and that her first was Victoria; I guess I'd sort of figured she was, like, Tori Lynne Something. Huh.

So, her pictures and videos were exactly as I'd expected. Within three or four images I felt like I knew her better than her doctor did. It started with a weird, short video, just flashing images set to some neo-quasi-EDM beat, showing her doing things like cavorting in a pool with alcohol, lounging on the beach with alcohol, doing the splits in her cheerleader outfit (not with alcohol, actually), and stooped over in the shower. Naked. With alcohol. Not that you could see much: she was bent down, looking up at the camera, with just the teensiest part of the top of her ass visible; you'd see more if you sat behind her while she wore a crop-top, to be honest. And the image was only there for a second or two.

But you could tell she was naked. And that put it into a different category, for a girl who'll post naked pictures of herself on the internet, even for her friends to see, will do any number of other things.

To be fair, Tori had every right to be proud of what she had. She was an interesting girl: not a great face, a bit sharp in the chin with a bad complexion and squinty green eyes. Nondescript hair, really, even if it had been bleached and frayed and frazzled to within an inch of its life. Yeah, so not exactly a conventionally beautiful girl. But, for all that, she absolutely radiated sex appeal. She sprayed it like a skunk, all around her, plain to see in every picture: this was a girl made to fuck, and to be particularly nasty while she did it.

You could just tell.

Her body was a big part of it, all healthy and muscular and tight everywhere. She had all the right peaks and valleys, the ridges leading down to her pussy in a v, the dimples at the top of her ass, the indented crease of muscle running up from her belly button. Her butt, even when it wasn't twerking mightily for a camera, was a perfect, juicy bubble. I had the urge to bite at it, no lie. And those tits! Christ. Tori was fond of swimsuits that left little to guess at, with thin light-colored fabric that showed me big, poky nipples with broad dark circles around them, atop perfectly rounded, perfectly firm, perfectly bouncy boobs.

But more than that, coming through clearly and concisely in every video and picture, was her attitude. It was clear at once that Tori Lynne was a voracious sexual consumer, her eyes and mouth always quirking whimsically at the camera, her tongue often out. She liked to do things in her videos like groping at her pussy, or adjusting her tits, or turning to flip up her cheer skirt. The girl was a natural, destined for smoky, shiny clubs with poles. Or for cameras and fluffers and massive, vibrant cocks poking insistently into every hole.

She seemed particularly fond of a move where she set herself up right alongside someone else's face, their cheeks pressing close, and stuck her tongue way out to touch the other person's tongue. She seemed to do this a lot, with boys and girls both, and she always broke down giggling afterward.

I spent the first part of the morning, straight after breakfast, as Lindsay Doyle, dutifully downloading shots of the East Adams HS cheer seniors downing truly vast quantities of alcohol, smoking great fat blunts, speeding along the beach roads near Seaborne, and driving with open containers. All clear, all distinct, all criminally actionable, all highly illegal. The worst was a dark video on Megan's account which took me a couple of viewings to figure out. It proved to be a small, freckled girl with a bare ass, squatting on a suburban lawn and taking a shit next to a dog bowl. Her deed done, she straightened and pulled her yoga pants back up her skinny legs before she ran off to the scattered laughter of her friends.

Done. The vice principal could do whatever he wanted with those. I took two of the more innocuous shots, making sure Megan wasn't in them, and forwarded them to Roberta Burke along with a well-crafted email suggesting I'd spent hours looking for them, and holding out hope that there might be more coming.

All the rest of the morning, three hours' worth, I spent gawking at Tori and her various images. Shit, but the girl was a hottie. I was very tempted to call and see if Amber could come back over, my dick already rock solid again, but I held off; Olivia would be back after lunch, and I planned to bone her for fifteen or sixteen hours straight.

God, I loved fucking her. I mean, I love fucking any woman, but Olivia is special. She and I fit together perfectly all the time, right from the start, and she was just about insatiable. No doubt, the only better lay I'd ever had was her sister Rachel. Now that one... but she was married, and crazy, and I tried to avoid her. Except when I couldn't.

So I waited, sliding frantically through candid pics of cheerleaders doing awful things, getting harder and harder.

* * *

She sent me a message the next evening, as I was putting on my vest getting ready to go do a traffic patrol. It came across with a winky-face graphic. I noticed you've been checking out my vids lately, she said, and I remembered something Lindsay Doyle had read in the FAQ: the app kept track of who viewed your posts and let you know.

Huh. I thought about whether this was a problem, but my dick and the excitement of getting attention from an eighteen-year-old hottie, even if she thought I was a buttslut named Lauren, convinced me it was fine. I pondered a moment, then thumbed out a quick reply. Ur hawt, I sent. Cool. I'd taken a training course once on how to sound like a teenager while texting. It was one of Chief Brandino's requirements for officers authorized to use the Department's fake accounts. We shud meet. My BF wants to fukk you.

She waited a bit to reply. I hesitated, then finished getting dressed; my sliced-up hand made it tough to fasten the gunbelt, and of course Olivia was working again. I'd broken my dick off in her pussy before she left, though, so I was feeling mellow. The app warbled on my phone as I slid it into my pocket. You share him? The icon had a wink this time, but I started to notice that Tori was not a girl who used sloppy syntax. I'm always interested in new friends.

I giggled. Ill ask him. Gotta go. I sent it with a kissy-face icon, then sighed and headed out. I walked with care, my balls tender.

I had permission from Brandino to leave my cruiser at home while I was doing this little cyber-thing, so I hopped right into it, checked the sirens, and headed out to drive around all night. I was bored already, and my overworked cock was facing a long, dreary night in my trousers. Most patrols, I could find Lexi or Ashley the parolee, or even twisted little Seema, dark and devious, a doctor at Olivia's hospital. Tonight? Naw. I needed a rest.

Five nights before Halloween, and it was Friday. Those two things should have meant a long, brutal night of domestic violence calls and DUIs, but for some reason it was actually a really boring night. The streets were deserted, all except for the road leading out to Seaborne, and that one was in Murcia's sector. Of course. Tonight was the Beachside Monster Mash over in Seaborne.

Clearly, all the drunken assholes had gone out there.

They'd start oozing back around two am, I hoped. I'd just need to hang in there until five in the morning, that was all. A few hours of work, and I could probably spend a lot of that in a "speed trap," doing nothing.

Ahh, but no. My night of peace was shattered shortly after midnight when Dispatch told me a resident had complained about a car weaving past his house, blaring bad music with a lot of bass.

"Fuck." I tried not to say it into the mic, but I think I did. "Roger. Must be some kids. Show me 446, enroute."

"Copy." I turned on the blue lights and floored it, and to be honest this was why I became a cop. Shiny badges and shit? Nice. Get to carry a gun? Great. Aura of power and authority? Yeah, that was nice too. Plenty of shady sex? Fine. Serving me community? Suuure... All that was cool, but at the end of the day I really did just enjoy turning on the lights, driving fast, and not having to worry about getting pulled over.

Down from the Heights, over Main and then South Main, and across to the big old parking lots next to Huntington Park, and there I was in Shit Town. That's actually what people called it, Shit Town. It was where the old nitrate factories had stood before the War, and it was said to have had a special spur railroad line constructed leading in just so that they could get shipments of shit.

Shitments.

I wondered whether the workers back then had called them that. It seemed like such an obvious pun.

I bounced over a few sets of the old tracks, and there I was, in a low-slung neighborhood of split-level ranch houses and big backyards, each with its requisite swingset and dog, and after a few minutes of hunting I found the weaving car, an older Nissan with what looked like a suspiciously large number of kids inside it. I could hear the bass throbbing from the car even from a hundred feet back, over the sound of the rushing wind and the occasional whoop from my siren, and now pale faces were staring out the back window at me and I saw the brakelights flash on.

I smiled grimly. Hassling kids on a night when I was bored; a great way to kill some time. I figured a few field-sobriety tests, maybe a frisk, definitely an "extended license check" while I actually just sat in the car and listened to some music... fun. And, again, it passed the time. The Nissan pulled over just past a little cluster of houses, in front of a dark stretch of vacant land. I saw hurried movement in the car as the kids rushed to stash their bottles, and I let them: if I found the booze, I'd have to arrest them. And who needed that kind of effort?

At last I sighed and got out of the cruiser, making sure to blast my searchlight right into the side-view mirror. I squared my big, offensively authoritarian police hat, rested my hand casually on my Glock, and sauntered over toward the open drivers' side window with that well-practiced gait that screams "I'M IN CHARGE HERE, MOTHERFUCKERS!" to anyone who cares to notice. Old Larry had taught me that, and so much else.

There were the usual five kids crammed into the car, which was good; six would have meant an obvious seatbelt violation, which would have meant more than just the two or three tickets I was already planning to write: I couldn't let the car go if everyone didn't have a belt. That would have meant stuffing one of the kids into the back of my cruiser and giving them a ride back to Mom and Dad.

Nope.

Every one of the kids in the Nissan was a girl, I saw at once, and every one had the sort of hair that spoke of too much time in front of a mirror: these were the popular kids. The backs of several heads were vaguely familiar, even from behind, even as I walked up towards the car, and with a shock of recognition I realized why as soon as the driver turned toward me:

The Nissan was packed with most of the East Adams cheer seniors.

Holy shit.

The bass was still bumping as I approached, until the girl in the passenger seat leaned over and flicked the sound system off. Fumes rolled out from the open windows, the smells of sweat and cigarettes and sweet, cheap liquor.

I knew the driver's name was Gianna Donato, that she called herself lilcutiepantsxo, that she had a small birthmark high up on her left inner thigh, right near her pussy. I knew she shopped at Secret Whispers for expensive lingerie, and that she liked peach schnapps. A lot. I knew she had a dog named Poopoo. I knew she was horrifically athletic, that she got poor grades, and that her mom's name was Amelia. All of this I knew from fucking Pixboox.

And now I knew she'd be getting ticketed for speeding, reckless driving, violating the county noise ordinance, and whatever else I could hang on her. "License and registration, ma'am?"

She handed them over shyly, and I took the opportunity to scan the rest of the car, making sure to keep my eyes properly stern. Ranked in the backseat were Heidi Kitching, the initial twerker, and none other than Megan Burke. She was looking at me very nervously, but there was a flush to her cheeks and a glimmer in her eye; she'd know who I was. Wedged into the middle was a scrawny little ginger named Sofie, who I knew had a thing for tiny green bikinis; she was the one I'd seen shitting on that suburban lawn. She stared at me as if her world was about to end; a lot of kids do, the first time they get stopped. All three waited in tense, thick silence, sitting perfectly still. Even in late October there was a lot of skin on display back there, short shorts and low-cut tops.

"Here, officer." The registration was creased and dirty, as they always are; nobody ever bothers keeping their vehicle registration neat and tidy. The glove box yawned open, nudging at the knees of the girl in the passenger seat.

Tori Lynne.

"Been drinking anything, Ms Donato?" The license picture was a shitty one, but they all are. I peered back in, mostly so that I'd have an excuse to study the lovely little piece in the passenger seat. "Any of you?"