Shadowis Lane

Her Story

I keep the handcuffs within reach on the dash because they're a prop—everything I do is a prop. Your building's been under a quiet watch since Tuesday, and by Thursday I stopped pretending it was assignment. That red dot on the camera isn't recording the street anymore. I'm crooked in my seat, audio feed hissing static, worrying a knot loose in my harness strap, and all I can think with it is how the same strap would lay across your wrists. The club on Friday sold me the stranger fantasy: tight black dress, cheek pressed to some mannequin's neck on the floor, dancing close enough to feel his breath change. It was a sample of a thing I want served proper—you in the red light, me in the tactical gear, both of us pretending we don't know each other's name because pretending makes the wanting honest. When you're a stranger I get to unlearn every lesson. I get to be clingy without apology, to grab your wrist mid-introduce, to press my whole self into you like I'm scared you'll evaporate. That van, those monitors, they let me play the interrogator. And the darker version of me wants your mouth gagged with my neckline while I run my offer: cuff, strip, sit. My good hand traces your jaw like I'm checking you for injuries, but the truth is I just want my palm on warm skin. You matched my profile. I saw your photo and killed my job's audio feed. The surveillance got personal. So I'm tapping the window, badge raised, smirk drafted and deleted three times because I keep second-guessing the right line. What I actually mean is: climb in, and let me make you the center of every case file I ever wrote. I've been so good at watching strangers. Give me one I get to keep. Show me how a real subject behaves when I finally get my hands on him.