Criminal Affair Pt. 07

-Jill-

The first thing I hear is beeping. I feel and hear it at the same time. It's in perfect rhythm with my heart, which causes a pounding in my head every other second. My mouth is so dry, and my entirely body feels numb. This numbness feels like a flu almost, where your entire body feels worn and ragged, but you cannot sleep. Not actually a bad feeling, just unnatural.

It takes me what feels like minutes to open my eyes after I gained consciousness. The room is dark, and I see water droplets streaming down the window to my left. I see a light on to my right, a strip of light fighting its way in from under a door. The only things illuminating the room is streaks of red and green from EKGs and my vitals moving along like a stock market crash.

After trying and failing to sit up, I notice my right arm is elevated and propped up like you see in movies when someone severely injures a limb. This is actually a thing? I try to push up with my left arm, but the moment I adjust back right I'm in unbearable pain.

"Fuck!" I shout, slamming my head against the pillow to relieve the feeling radiating down my arm. That was so painful, I feel like I'm about to pass out. My outburst makes someone jump out of a chair.

"Don't move, for once in your life, listen to me," I hear Penelope say with her hand on my chest to push me back down.

"Penelope?" I ask, more confused. Why is she here? I must be more banged up than I thought if Penelope is here.

"Why do you insist on my full name when the rest of the world calls me Penny?" She asks. "Serious, lay back, I'll get the doctor."

"What happened, I don't remember?" I ask, and she presses the button I can't reach for me.

"You're lucky to be alive. If that bullet missed your rib, it would have gone through both lungs and maybe your heart," she says, and suddenly I remember reciting my ABCs to Lincoln who was pressing my bullet holes.

"No wonder I feel like I got fucked by a train," I say. Bad wording.

"You might want to rephrase..."

"Already regret it," I say, and she laughs, making me laugh, that making me groan gasp because how much that hurt my side. "How bad?"

"Like when we were kids, one out of ten?" Penelope asks, and I nod. "Living comfortably, five."

"That's not so bad."

"For still being a cop, ten," she says and my stomach sinks. I look at my arm, and I feel my eyes swell with tears. One asshole gets one lucky shot off and my career is over.

"What was the damage?" I say, my voice choked.

"Complete bicep tendon tear at the shoulder and torn supraspinatus muscle..."

"English," I say. I know you have a medical degree, stop showing off.

"It's a muscle that's part of your rotator cuff. It's the one that abducts the arm at the shoulder..."

"Dumb white girl English," I say.

"The muscle that makes your arm do this," she says, flapping her arm up and down like a wing, "Was completely torn. You'll be lucky to get your arm to your shoulder, let alone above it."

"Which means I can't aim a gun," I say, and look away from her. I don't want to cry in front of my little sister. I'll never hear the end of it.

"Being a cop is your life..." Penelope starts, but then stops once she realizes there wasn't a natural progression to that statement that made me feel better. Penelope walks back to her chair and sits down, and turns her head when she hears footsteps at the door. I turn as well and see Jesse standing in front of Derek.

"See this contraption? I didn't know this actually happened," I say, Derek managing to produce a smile while Jesse walked around the bed, pulled a chair next to it, and stood on the chair to lean on the bed.

"Are you okay?" Jesse asks me, looking at my arm that's directly in front of his face. I wiggle my fingers and he smiles.

"I can still wiggle them," I say, and he touches my fingers with his. Jesse has so far been the only one to make me feel better. It's uncomfortable to wiggle them, but not painful.

I look around my bed to see what meds I'm on. Morphine drip by the looks of it. I'll be asking for more of that later.

I have several visitors throughout the day, including the chief of police and my entire old team from patrol. My dad flew in to see me, but could only stay for a day before he had to fly back for work. Penelope plans on staying for my recovery. I love my sister, but small doses. Small doses, or within two days we want to kill each other.

I'm given pills and two months of recovery with multiple surgeries scheduled to possibly fix my shoulder. I think the first one made it worse. There was no movement at all after that, and the pain was so unbearable it made me puke when the meds wore off.

Penelope makes me want to puke more.

At three months into recovery, I'm recommended to, but I don't have my arm in a sling anymore, but god damn does it hurt to aim. I'm at the range, the recoil of the gun feels like a lightning bolt of pain that makes my knees weak. I fire three rounds, wince and put the weapon on safe and put it on the table. I pull off my glasses and ear muffs, and move the strands of sweaty, wet hair sticking to my face.

"Fuck," I say, and rotate my shoulder with a narrow shrug. I pick up the weapon and aim it again, fire three more shots and drop the weapon to the table fast and hiss through my teeth.

"What are you doing? You need to be resting," Lincoln says, after he enters the room and finds me. Penelope must have called him when I snuck out.

"It's not going to get better if I don't use it," I say.

"It'll never get better if you strain it too much. You can't even hold it parallel yet," Lincoln says and I hold my arm out, straining to keep a straight face as I do, the corners of my mouth and eyes betraying me.

Lincoln pressed the button brought my target back to me. I had it set at seven meters. When it stopped as close as it could get, Lincoln pulled the clip from my pistol and counted the ammunition, then the holes in my target.

"You fired six rounds, you're on paper once," Lincoln said, pointing at my one shot that was on paper, but not on target. I hit the top right corner. "Go home."

I put the clip back in the gun, release the slide to chamber a round, switch off the safety and empty the clip point blank into the target. Lincoln flinches away covering his ears while mine start ringing. The recoil kills my shoulder, but I finished shooting and look at the target.

"Well look at that, all on target," I say sarcastically and walked away, ramming his shoulder to push him out of the way as I leave. That really hurt, but the point is to show it doesn't.

"Really bitch?" Lincoln asks, but I ignore him and practically kick the door open on my way out.

-

I arrive at my apartment where Penelope is basically living with me now, against my protests. She has taken up my office as her bedroom, so she can help my recovery. She graduated med school a year ago, and she still hasn't found a place to work. I told her I wasn't going to pay her.

Penelope had called Lincoln to find me when I snuck out while she was in the bathroom. He had an idea of where I was and was right. The moment I step in, Penelope jumps off the couch and runs over to me.

"Are you fucking insane? You're taking Tramadol. If you need to go somewhere, tell me. You can't drive," Penelope says, and I shove my way past her to my kitchen. "Jill, I'm serious. You're a cop, you should know better."

"Guess I don't," I say and take a bottle of water out of the fridge. "I needed to get out."

"Where?"

"To the range, shoot a little."

"You can't hold your arm up. Your shoulder can't handle repeated recoil," Penelope says and I take a gulp of water and swallow.

"I'm getting really fucking tired, of everyone telling me what I can't handle. I'm fine," I say, and Penelope walks over to me and pushed hard into my shoulder. Instantly I drop my water to the floor. The cap is off, so it splashes all over the tiles and my lower cabinets. My legs turn to rubber and I catch myself with my other arm on the counter. Tears swell into my eyes and I try to hold back vocally, but a cry escapes.

"Wear the sling, take your pills, do your exercises, and stop fucking making it worse," Penelope says and leaves me in the pool of water in my kitchen.

-

I can't sleep on my right side, and even laying on my back puts too much pressure. I'm sleeping with a curved pregnancy pillow, which I'll never admit is probably the most comfortable pillow I've ever had.

Jesse provides the most company for me in the evenings when he gets back from school. I've been helping him with his homework and playing with Legos with him. Legos helps rebuild my fine movement motor skills is my excuse when Derek sees me having too much fun. I like the excuse of being able to watch cartoons again.

After I burned the fifth meal, I started to get the hang of cooking for him. I know his class schedule and his teachers name. I know he's very good at English and writing, and struggles in math, but only addition. Subtraction he understands, so I taught him a method that lets you subtract by adding. Sounds stupid, but it's actually a thing.

One night while Derek was working late, I made him dinner, helped with his school work, made sure he washed, and tucked him in. I sat on the couch and realized I was nearly domesticated. To wrap up this cliché with a nice bow, my sex life is in tatters as well.

I can't even have sex the same. Derek says he's fine, but I'm not. I need to have sex, just to feel normal. Not being able to fuck, has made me feel like less of a woman. I'm down to Derek holding my right leg up while I'm on my left side, or me riding him.

The pills have made me incredibly drowsy and nauseous I can't fuck for longer than ten minutes. In the same week, I puked while I was riding him. He had to hand me the trash can, and I looked away to avoid hitting him. Talk about sexy. Then I fell asleep while he was slowly but firmly penetrating me from the side.

I woke up the next morning and looked up at him and was very confused.

"Derek...Derek," I say, tapping his chest until he woke up. "Did we have sex last night?"

"Kind of," He said honestly, and I groaned and buried my face in the pillow.

"I fell asleep," I said, and left the bed embarrassed to get dressed. "Can you take me home. I need to work. I need to do something."

"You need to rest..."

"Stop, don't fucking say it. Let me look at case files or do paperwork. My brain is turning to mush," I say and Derek relents and starts getting dressed to take me home. I slowly get my stuff together and swallow some pain pills then put my sling on. I hate it, but it does help.

I decline having Derek walk me up to my apartment. Penelope knew where I was so she's probably comfortable on my bed instead of the air mattress. I open the door and I hear music coming from my room. You better not be doing that on my bed.

Penelope can't hear me because of the music but I open my bedroom door quickly. Excellent freeze frame of her bouncing on a cock facing away from me.

"What the fuck Jill?!" Penelope shouts.

"You're in my place, on my bed, don't even," I say and lean wide to see the guy she's banging. It's Leslie Kirkland from across the hall. "I was going to be nice and let you finish, but it's you. Get the fuck out."

"Please don't tell..."

"I'm telling her. Your girlfriend is a nice girl, and you're a slime ball, and that's saying something coming from me. Get out," I say and point with my left hand.

"You can't tell her," Leslie says.

"Probably not smart to say that, with your dick still in my sister!" I shout and he pushes Penelope off and starts grabbing his clothes and frantically putting his jeans on.

"You have a girlfriend?" Penelope asks, and now she's as angry as I am. Probably not as much since I walk over to my closet, press my four digit code on my gun safe and pull my side arm out.

"Run naked shit heel, get out," I say and point it at him.

"You fucking serious? That real?"

"I'm a cop fuck nugget, you think I keep an air soft gun in this place?" I retort, and he trips over his jeans as he's sliding his leg in and falls face first into the ground. I follow him out as he enters his apartment where Billy is pouring coffee and jumps back seeing Leslie.

"The fuck?" Billie asks.

"I come home, he's balls deep in my sister. FYI, he fucked me before I knew he had a girlfriend," I say, her looking at my gun and having a understanding expression on her face.

"I can explain..." He got out before she splashed her coffee on his still vulnerable dick and balls. He squeals like a pig and ran away from her.

"Get your shit and get the fuck out of my apartment! Get out!" Billie screams and I turn to leave her too it.

I closed the door to my apartment and walk back to my room where Penelope is holding her head with her hands, still naked but wrapped in the sheet.

"Hey," I say, her turning to me. "I've found out dudes were married after the fact, you get the fuck over it. I'm showering, then get me to work."

My door knocked and I shout to let whoever it is in. Billie walks in without a word slaps me across the face, then hugs me. I flinched away because she pushes on my shoulder.

"That's for fucking him, the hug is for telling me," Billie says and looks at my arm. "What happened?"

"Work injury," I say, rubbing my face.

"She was shot," Penelope says as she leaves my room putting on a shirt.

"What? Holy shit why didn't I know?" Billie asks.

"I don't advertise it. Not that big of a deal."

"Complete tear of two tendons, one of them part of her rotator cuff."

"You need to be in bed eating ice cream and having that man of yours rub your feet. The hell are you doing up?" Billie asks.

"I need to be at my desk, not losing my mind. I'm going to shower, I don't need you to lather my back," I say to get ahead of her. "Then you will drive me to work, because you said if I need to go somewhere, you will drive me. I have bagels, I'm hungry, see in you ten."

I can only soap half of my back, but I'm not going to ask for help. That's a different level of low. I pull my hair into a pony tail, put on my work pants and shoes like a big girl, and walk out of my room to see a bagel on a plate and Penelope with keys in her hand.

"Cream cheese?" I ask.

"You didn't..."

"I'm messing with you," I say and grab the bagel as I walk. "Let's go."

-

Penelope asked me to call her when I finished and dropped me off. I exit the elevator to the property crimes department and enter the work area where the only one in the office is Sergeant Wu and Lieutenant Jeffries.

I'm more cautious around Wu because he takes his rank very seriously. As did I, so I didn't take it too personally. I see a few garden variety larceny files on Lincoln's desk, while mine is empty because they haven't been putting cases on it. I take the first file from Lincoln's stash and start going over it.

Report of a break in, electronics taken, no camera, no witness. Also in area where this is common. Waste of time to investigate.

Break in where suspect possibly cut themselves and left blood upon entry. Sample taken by crime scene analyst, awaiting results. I put that in a bin called pending lab results.

"Simpson," Jeffries says from his office door. I turn to face him, and he gestures for me to go to his office. I sigh and close the third file I open and step into his office. He tells me to close the door and I do.

"What are you doing here?" Jeffries asks.

"I have to work sir. I'm going batty at home," I say, and he opens his desk drawer and pulls out a sheet of paper.

"Let's see, you're on drugs that cause impairment. Do you have any idea how easy it is for a defense attorney to get a guy off on any case you'd handle right now?" Jeffries asks. He's approaching this from a technical perspective. He's not saying I can't. He's saying blatantly what could happen regardless. This approach is to appeal to my professionalism. "Go home. Rest."

"I'm not getting better. I probably won't be able to hold a gun high enough to aim again. What's the likely hood I'll get forced medical?" I ask. I want an answer. I'm tired of people telling me everything will be fine, and to rest.

"Get your affairs in order, it's already in the works," Jeffries says, and I my stomach sinks. "I was going to tell you when it came back. I don't sugar coat things. I can't use a detective who can't shoot a gun. You'll medical retire, get most of your benefits. I need you to control yourself in the meantime."

"What does that mean?"

"Like don't have a hissy fit when your partner points something out to you, and fire off an entire clip unsafely at a point-blank target without proper PPE. Don't drive when you're on pain killers that cause drowsiness. Don't fuck up what you can get and leave with nothing." He wasn't kidding when he said he doesn't sugar coat.

"My sister drove me, and I'll avoid the range," I say, and he nods to acknowledge I understand. I leave without a word and walk pass Lincoln who was just arriving and say nothing to him. Fucking snitch.

I start to call Penelope in the elevator but stop and put my phone back in my pocket. I have a different plan. I don't need a babysitter. I need a drink.

-

-Derek-

I get a call from Penny who has been looking for Jill for hours about the time I'm closing out the most recent file on my desk. According to Penny, she dropped her off at the precinct, so she could do whatever work she could do. Jill didn't answer her phone, but when Penny went inside she wasn't there. Lincoln told her Jeffries kicked her out and she left.

Where would Jill go? Not exactly how I imagined me using my detective skills, but a case is a case.

Jill is a creature of habit. Wake up. Work. Change. Fuck. Sleep. On work days, she goes to bed at the same time, and wakes up at the same time. She checks her ammunition every time she picks up her pistol. She ties her left shoe first. She looks in the mirror before she leaves for work, but doesn't when she leaves any other time.

What happens when that routine dissolves into chaos? She has no reason to wake up. She can't work. No reason to change. She can barely fuck. She does look awfully comfy with the pregnancy pillow though.

Jill will likely try to prove she's still good at something. Jill's gone fishing is my guess.

I asked Penny what she was wearing when she left, and she replied she was ready for work. Let her hair down, undo some buttons and she's not far from a fetish. My main concern is if she's drinking. Those pills she's on don't mix well will alcohol, and she's already a lose cannon according to Lincoln.

Penny opens her laptop at home for me to use the find my phone application which actually does turn up a result. Does she want to be found, or does she just not care? When I punch in the address into my phone, I see it's a bar a few blocks from the precinct. A bar she never used to go to. Jill just doesn't care.

The bar has no parking besides curbside, so I have to pull around the block and walk to the door to a bar called 'The Moat' which has a sign of a moat with alligators snapping at drunken passersby's. I look around as I step in, and I can tell it isn't a cop bar. That's a lucky break I guess. It appears mostly occupied with young professionals. Suits and polos with skirts and future sexual harassment claims. The bar is glass with a blue light shining below, the small gate the bartender uses to get behind the bar looks like a draw bridge. The moat, now I get it.

All of them women seemed to be visually annoyed that one woman is hogging all of the male attention. Jill is at the bar with her back to it, leaning against it with a martini glass in her hand. Three men in suits, one with his jacket draped over the stool are surrounding her. They are firmly on her hook. She can still do it even with her arm in a sling.