This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Soft Launch

  Copyright © 2025 Gregory Ashe

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law. For permission requests and all other inquiries, contact: contact@hodgkinandblount.com

  Published by Hodgkin & Blount

  https://www.hodgkinandblount.com/

  contact@hodgkinandblount.com

  Published 2025

  Printed in the United States of America

  Version 1.04

  Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-63621-129-9

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-63621-128-2

  1

  Sam

  You just have to get him to see you, I tell myself as I open my locker. That’s all. That’s easy. You can do that.

  And then, about five seconds later, I decide I’m not even going to try.

  It’s been like that all day. Some days in a patrol car, you get a lot of time to think. You sit there, and nothing’s happening, and there isn’t anything you can do but think. So, I think yeah, I’m going to do it. I’m going to walk right up to him and ask. And then I think, no, it’s not worth the risk.

  So here I am, in the locker room, end of shift, and I’m still thinking about it.

  Well, trying to think about it. It’s not like you can think real clearly with everybody else jackassing around.

  The locker room isn’t like what you see on TV. Nobody’s singing in the shower. And it’s not like the guys are always in a good mood. Some days, everybody’s on edge. Some days, you know from how hard Foley closes his locker that you’d better zip your lips.

  But some days—like today—they can’t stop horsin’ around.

  McGown snaps his towel and misses me by an inch.

  “Hit me with that,” I say as I pull out my civvies, “and see what happens.”

  “I hit a kid once so hard in college—” McGown says. He’s standing there naked as a jaybird, twirling the towel. “—I made him bleed.”

  He snaps the towel again. If anything, this time it’s even closer.

  “Watch it,” Foley says as he pushes past McGown. Over his shoulder, he says, “You gonna stand there all day with your dick in the wind?”

  “Course he is,” Norman says. Norman’s one of the guys who showers end of shift, no matter what. He comes out of the shower like a barrel. A wet barrel. Wrapped in a towel that’s not big enough. “He can’t jerk off until Mommy and Daddy go to bed.”

  “Fuck you,” McGown says, but he laughs as he moves over to his locker. “I get more pussy than I know what to do with.”

  “I bet,” Foley says.

  “You got that right,” Norman says.

  By this point, I’m pulling on a pair of khakis. And now I’m back to calling it quits on the whole thing. Dad says you stick your neck out, and you’re asking to get your head cut off. So, that’s that. I’m not going to stick my neck out. I’ll go home and forget the whole thing.

  McGown won’t give up. “What the fuck do a pair of old fucks like you two know? You shoulda seen the ass I got last weekend. Biggest titties you ever seen.”

  Norman snorts. He’s buck-ass now, not that it bothers him. Some guys, it doesn’t. He’s standing there, hand on his locker door, one foot up on the bench. It’s a lot to take in. He looks kind of like a statue if they took its pants off. “I saw her. Her tits weren’t that big.”

  Foley’s sitting on the bench, but he stands up now and circles behind Norman. He wraps the older man in a bear hug. Norman grunts. “That’s because you got these big old beauties,” Foley says, grabbing at Norman’s chest. Norman’s laughing and swearing and trying to elbow him off. Foley hangs on tighter. Mr. Hazard calls him an Irish fuck, but most of the time, Foley’s like a kid whose body got too big. He’s pretending to kiss Norman’s neck, and Norman’s really swearing now. “What about it, mama?” Foley asks, grabbing Norman’s chest again. “You and me.”

  The whole locker room is cracking up now, but I’m lacing my shoes because this is sexual harassment and if I weren’t trying to make an even bigger decision, I’d probably have to say something.

  I’m back to yes now. I mean, why not? Gran says the worst anyone can do is say no, and I’ve heard no before. Why not ask? What’s it going to hurt?

  You just have to make him see you.

  “You got my sciatica going,” Norman is shouting, but you can tell he’s not really mad. He and Gross don’t always talk to the young guys, but sometimes they do, and I think they miss it, the old days, back when they were friends with everyone.

  “What the fuck is going on out here?” Gross asks. He looks about the same as Norman, although he’s still got his towel on, and he always walks carefully in the locker room like he doesn’t want to put his feet down the whole way. Not that I blame him; the linoleum is probably as old as I am, and even though I know they clean in here every night, it never feels clean, if you know what I mean.

  “Bunch of jackasses,” Norman says as he bends over to get something out of his locker.

  “Look at that beauty,” Foley says, and now he’s holding his hands like a camera frame centered on Norman’s ass. “Like a fucking black hole, drawing me in.”

  McGown’s laughing so hard he’s leaning against the lockers. He’s still naked. He’s young. He’s in pretty good shape. You can tell he likes beer more than he likes running, but he’s still got some definition to his chest, dark hair between his pecs that runs down to his belly button. He keeps himself trimmed. Down there, I mean. He says it makes his dick look bigger, and I guess it does. Not that I look or anything.

  “Fuck you,” Norman snaps over his shoulder at Foley.

  “Hard to choose,” Foley says, “hard to choose. What about you, Yarmark? You see something you like?”

  “You gotta watch what you say.” I’m pulling a polo over my head now. And I’m back to no. What’s the point? He’s going to say no, and all I’m going to do is make an idiot out of myself. “Somebody’s gonna report all of you for sexual harassment.”

  Foley grins, which is proof that he really is nothing but a big kid, but McGown boos.

  “Fuck that noise,” he says. “Fucking goody fucking two-shoes over here.”

  “You waiting for somebody to pull on your pecker?” Foley says as he moves back to his locker. “Put that thing away before I cut it off.”

  McGown finally does start pulling his civvies out of his locker, but he gives me another look. “Where the fuck are you going?”

  I ignore him as I throw my uniform in my bag.

  “Why are you dressed like that?” McGown says. And then “Holy shit. You got a date or something?”

  I check my hair in the little mirror inside the locker. It’s always a little messy now, but that’s okay; that’s how it’s supposed to be.

  “Fuck,” McGown says, raising his voice. “Yarmark’s got a date.”

  “Fuck yeah he does,” Foley calls. “Tap that ass, Sammy.”

  “I don’t have a date,” I say as I swing the locker shut.

  “How are her tits?” Norman asks. He’s tucking his undershirt into his tighty-whities.

  “I always thought Yarmark was an ass man,” Gross says. He’s hanging dick like there’s no tomorrow, reading something on his phone. Let me tell you: you work around enough guys that age, and it starts making you think about gravity.

  “Come on,” Norman says as I move toward the door. “She got big tits?”

  And I know I shouldn’t. I’m supposed to be better than this. I’ve done a lot of work not to be that guy.

  But I can’t help it sometimes.

  As Gran says, you are who you are.

  “Not as big as yours,” I say as I duck out of the locker room.

  Foley and Norman are laughing harder than anybody else as I make my way through the station, and for about three-point-zero seconds, I forget I’m still trying to talk myself into this.

  That’s how I end up outside Chief Peterson’s door.

  It’s not like the station is quiet. It’s not like it’s empty. Nickels is picking over the pastries that Ruthie brought in that morning, and the fax machine is going. Phones are ringing, and people are talking, and out in the lobby, somebody’s asking about a permit for a howitzer. Detective Palomo is at her desk, typing so hard on her keyboard that the keys are about to pop off.

  But for a moment, it’s like this hole opens in my head, and all that sound tips over and slides down into the dark spot.

  Don’t trip over your own dick, I tell myself as I raise a hand to knock. Please, God, let me not trip over my own dick.

  A moment later, Chief Peterson calls out, “Come in.”

  The office looks different than it did when Chief—when Mr. Somerset had it. The same desk. The same computer. The same padded chairs with their pilled upholstery. But now there are photos of Chief Peterson’s family: his wife, his two daughters. No plants anymore. Only the photos. His desk has several stacks of paper on it, everything neat and organized. He’s got a little air freshener plugged in somewhere
. Let me tell you: it smells a lot better than the locker room.

  “Officer Yarmark,” he says. “What can I do for you?”

  “Well, Chief, I was wondering if you had a moment to talk.”

  Chief Peterson nods. He motions to a chair, and I close the door behind me.

  “What’s up?”

  “Well, sir, I was wondering—I mean, I know I’m not—I mean, I understand if it’s not even an option—” Chief Peterson’s just looking at me, and that’s even worse. All the stuff I memorized goes sliding down into that same dark place in my head, and I hear myself blurt, “I want the detective job.”

  Chief Peterson doesn’t say anything.

  So, somehow, I say, “Detective Carmichael’s job.” My face is warming, but I still can’t keep my trap shut, and I add, “The open one.”

  Chief Peterson nods. “All right. The position is posted, and we’re accepting applications. The deadline isn’t for a few weeks.”

  “Yes, sir. I know, sir.” I take a deep breath, and it’s like my head opens up again. “I know that I may not have a lot of experience compared to other applicants, but I want you to know that I am committed to being the best officer that I can be, and if you give me a chance, I’ll do a great job as a detective. I’m a quick learner, Chief, and I work hard. I don’t mind long hours because I don’t have a family or nothing—” Anything, you damn hoosier, a voice in my head says. You don’t say nothing. “—and I’ve been putting in a lot of outside time to learn as much as I can. I’ve done some trainings and courses on my own initiative, and I think that shows I have the drive and ability to do an excellent job. Over the last few years, I’ve learned how to conduct interviews and build trust with suspects and informants. I also think I’ve shown my loyalty to the department. I’ve been in tactical situations that required keeping a cool head under pressure, and I did all right then, too, sir. I’m not trying to toot my own horn, but I want you to know I’ve thought about this, and I have the skills and—” I blank, but then it comes back to me. “—the disposition to be an excellent detective.”

  Chief Peterson waits, I guess in case I have more to say.

  I don’t. I sit back. My polo bunches under my arms, damp with sweat. More sweat runs between my shoulder blades.

  “All right,” Chief Peterson says. “I’m glad you told me you’re interested in the position.”

  And that’s it.

  The sweat running down my back reaches the waistband of my underwear.

  “Uh, Chief,” I say. “I guess I was wondering, you know, if you could give me some feedback or some guidance or…or something.”

  The chief nods. But he says, “Officer Yarmark, I agree with what you said. You’re a strong candidate for a number of reasons. I remember how you were when you came into this department—”

  My face heats again, because he’s too nice to say when you were a piece of shit.

  “—and I’ve watched you grow into an excellent officer. I don’t say that lightly. I’m aware of the extra work you put in, attending development opportunities that aren’t required by the department. I’ve got something of an idea about the effort you’ve made to improve yourself, and it’s laudable. You’re a smart, driven young man, and I couldn’t ask for a better officer.”

  The smile slips out before I can stop it. I put it away again. And then I hear what the chief didn’t say.

  “But?” I ask.

  “Sam—” Not Officer Yarmark. Sam. “—I agree with what you said. You’re an excellent candidate. Right now, though, this department is still grappling with a very poor public image. Frankly, we’ve got a lot of work to do. I know some of the fault lies elsewhere, but that doesn’t change the fact that our focus right now is on repairing relationships with the community and regaining their trust.”

  He’s talking about Chief Somerset, about what they did to him. It wasn’t his fault; somebody planted some bad stuff on his computer, and they made it look like Chief Somerset was a bad guy. And I guess it’s more than that because it goes back past Chief Somerset, back when the chief before him, Riggle, hired—well, hired guys like me. And I know Chief Peterson isn’t wrong. I mean, he’s the chief.

  “I don’t understand,” I say. “I’ve gotten two citizen commendations. I’m always polite, sir, even when people start running their mouths. I don’t get heavy.” At least, not since Chief Somerset told me why I shouldn’t. “I know I’m part of a community, and I try to act that way.”

  “Yes, Sam. You do. On the job.”

  It takes me about two seconds to say, “What?”

  “Sam, what do you do when you leave work?”

  “I told you: I study, I go to trainings, I exercise. I’m doing everything I can, Chief.”

  Chief Peterson nods. He turns one of the framed photos toward me; it’s got him and his wife and their girls. He’s wearing shorts, and he’s got skinny legs. It’s from a while ago because the girls are small in the picture, but they’re in college now. “Sam, one of the selling points you told me about yourself was that you don’t have a family, so you can work long hours. That says a lot about you, don’t you think?”

  I don’t say anything.

  The chief lets out a breath. “I think you’d be a great detective, Officer Yarmark. But frankly, I also worry about you burning yourself out. You need to have a life. You need to have something outside the department that you can go home to. You’re young, and you’re passionate, and you care about doing a good job as a police officer, and all of this is commendable. But you’ve got a lot of years ahead of you, and this job isn’t easy. You see stuff. It weighs on you.”

  “I know. I’ve already seen—”

  “But the bigger issue is that I need a detective who’s going to be able to go out into the community and establish relationships. Be part of Wahredua, understand? I told you we’re rebuilding, and I can’t have a detective who doesn’t do anything but work and eat and sleep. You’re a person, Sam, not a machine.”

  I don’t even remember wrapping my hands around the arms of the chair. “I know, Chief, but—but I can do that. I can do all of that. I can talk to people. I can learn how to talk to people.” For a moment, a memory swamps me, back when Gran was taking charm lessons online, and she’d stand in front of the mirror and practice smiling and asking questions, and then she’d bust a gut and start saying lines like she was Marlon Brando. “I’m a part of this community.”

  “I know, Sam.”

  But what he’s really saying is No.

  “I’m not saying this to discourage you,” Chief Peterson says. “I want you to apply. But I also want you to know what I’m looking for in a candidate.”

  I nod. I even mumble something about thanks. Somehow, I find my way out of the office. I even close the door behind me, real careful, because Gran says being polite never killed nobody.

  2

  Gray

  I’ve got a million things to do, and this thirsty twink isn’t one of them.

  It’s one of those things, not too long ago, I would have said out loud. But, you know, self-improvement and growth and all that shit.

  It also probably would have cranked little Robin’s motor, and that’s exactly what I don’t need.

  “I don’t know how you carry all those boxes,” Robin says. He’s walking backward in front of me, about six inches off center so that he can see me—and, I suspect, more importantly so that I can see him—around the boxes. “God, you’re so strong.”

  “Stairs,” I say so he doesn’t fall and break his thirsty neck.

  Robin doesn’t even glance back as he prances up the steps. “Do you work out? You have to work out. I can see your biceps.”

  “Door.”

  He makes it through the door without even looking. I’m starting to think he’s practiced this.

  “I bet you could lift me right up into the air,” Robin says. He’s got pink lips, blue eyes, perfectly coiffed hair. He’s wearing a little makeup, and honestly, it looks good on him. “I bet you could hold me there as long as you needed.”

  “While I fuck you,” I say.

  Robin trips over a chair.

  “Or is that not what you meant?” I ask as I move around the desk.