BUSTED!

A new serialised dubcon drama, featuring  corrupt Police Officer Harry Wiles who stumbles onto something illegal at a house party. 

To follow the story, click on the tag 'Busted' at the bottom of the post.

1: Night Moves

 
The disco ball’s epilepsy-inducing strobe nearly blinded me as I rolled up. Bass thumped so hard it rattled the Crown Vic’s dash cam loose—again. Fuck this shift. Fuck this neighborhood. Fuck whatever trust-fund twerp thought blaring dubstep past midnight was a personality. 
My stomach growled. The Big Mac sweating in my passenger seat mocked me. I’d barely unwrapped it when dispatch squawked. Domestic disturbance. Translation: some HOA hall monitor missed his Ambien and needed a cop to play bouncer.   Fuck you, Sally. Fuck your dispatch desk and your nicotine-scratch voice ordering me to play hall monitor for some HOA dickweed’s beauty sleep.
Amhurst’s streets were postcard-perfect—lawns greener than a senator’s offshore accounts, SUVs with stick-figure families on the back windows. All dark now. Decent people were asleep. Decent people didn’t host ragers on a Tuesday.  
Porch rats froze—fourteen, fifteen of them? Lost count after the third nose ring. Bongs clattered behind cupped hands. The air reeked of desperation and skunkweed. Amhurst’s manicured lawns stretched in every direction, McMansions huddled like mausoleums. 11:03 PM. Respectable folks were raw-dogging melatonin gummies right now.
A slipper-slapping sound. Neighbor Ned hustled over in his fucking robe, clutching a Ziploc like it held the Holy Grail.
“Officer! Finally.” He shoved the baggie at me—half a roach, crispy as his divorce prospects. “They’ve been at it for hours. And the smell-"
I squinted. Smudged ink on the plastic read PROPERTY OF NED PARKER. Christ. This guy alphabetized his recycling.
“We’ll handle it, sir.” I pocketed his “evidence.” Ten bucks said he’d been mainlining Fox News since sunset. “We’ll handle it, sir. Now, please go back inside."
I killed the engine. The porch rats froze mid-puff, red plastic cups glinting in my headlights. Two coeds dropped their spliff into Mrs. Khakis’ prize hydrangeas. Subtle. The air reeked of weed and poor life choices.  I stepped out, leather creaking. 
My flashlight beam swept the porch as I strode over and mounted the steps. Kids began to edge away like roaches. All except Beanie Boy—eyes redder than my ex’s Target credit card. Greasy chin pubes, eyes bloodshot as a Motel 6 mattress. Smirked like he invented delinquency.  
“You.” I got nose-to-nose.  “Who’s running this clown show?”
He blew smoke in my face. Cheap whiskey breath. “Chill, pig. We’re just—”  
I hooked his throat and spun him, arm crushing his windpipe. His kicks thumped my shins—pathetic. Over the wheezes, I clocked the others. Two girls fleeing into azaleas. A twink filming sideways.
“Last chance,” I hissed, knuckle digging into his carotid. “Who’s in charge, dickhead?” 
“F-fuck you!”  
I tossed him down the stairs. He faceplanted on the walkway, blood blooming from his nose. Nice. Let the little shits Instagram that. Movement to my left. Goth girl pressed against the siding—black lace, raccoon eyes, fishnets, tits heaving under a corset. Freshman? Junior? Didn’t matter. Her trembling made my cuffs jingle.
“You.” I loomed. “Party princess. Let’s chat. The rest of you? Fuck off."
She flinched. Cigarette butts crunched under my boots as I closed in. The rest scattered into the darkness. Somewhere, Ned’s slippers squeaked toward safety. I glanced back over my shoulder. Beanie Boy left with the rest of them.
Alone now.
I grinned. “Time to audit the guest list, sweetheart.”
She trembled. Always the quiet ones.