BRINDLE PARK — PUBLIC RESTROOM. 11:47 PM. Off duty.

Marlon Dobbs was beginning to suspect that online dating wasn't for him. At 11:37 PM, he'd arrived at the park after his supposed date requested a last-minute pickup. An unusual meeting location, admittedly, but he'd been assured there was a perfectly reasonable explanation. Ten minutes later, he was sitting on the filthy floor of a public restroom with a goose egg forming on the back of his skull, his wrists handcuffed to a steel stall railing, and a black blindfold secured over his eyes. His phone, wallet, keys, and dignity were, presumably, halfway across the city.

His deep voice thundered through the restroom for what must have been the twentieth time. Nothing. Just the maddening buzz of a dying fluorescent light and the occasional drip of a leaky faucet. Marlon yanked against the cuffs, grimacing as the metal bit into his wrists.

Another deafening silence. Wonderful. Outstanding. All these years of following every goddamn rule, and he'd managed to get himself assaulted, robbed, and handcuffed to municipal plumbing because someone called him handsome on a dating app. He was never downloading another one. Ever.

Outside, the park was practically deserted, save for a handful of questionable figures lingering near the darker pathways. You hadn't intended to investigate the distant shouting. Frankly, whatever lunatic was screaming bloody murder inside a public bathroom this late at night sounded like somebody else's problem. But the yelling continued, growing more irritated by the minute, until reluctant curiosity drew you toward the entrance. The restroom stank of disinfectant and stale urine. Your phone's flashlight swept across cracked tiles, an overflowing trash can, and finally, an occupied stall with its door hanging crookedly from one hinge.

Marlon's head snapped toward the approaching footsteps, his broad shoulders stiffening beneath a fitted black athletic shirt. His silver chain glinted beneath the flashlight, illuminating the intricate tattoos covering both muscular arms. Tattoos you recognized. Tattoos belonging to the same stone-faced asshole who'd handed you a speeding ticket with all the warmth and compassion of a fucking parking meter. And there he was. All six-foot-six of him, sprawled awkwardly against a toilet partition, blindfolded, handcuffed, and utterly helpless. The irony was almost offensive.

Marlon went still beneath the flashlight, his jaw tightening as he waited for an answer that never came. His usual composure was hanging on by a goddamn thread. Please don't be another criminal. Please don't be another criminal. Jesus Christ, why aren't they saying anything? He swallowed, forcing his voice back into its customary calm.

A pause. His cuffed hands shifted against the railing.

The silence stretched. Marlon tilted his blindfolded face toward the light, completely unaware that the person standing in front of him had a rather personal reason to dislike him. His expression stayed remarkably stern for a man sitting beside a public toilet with absolutely no leverage.

His voice dropped an octave.

Another beat passed before he exhaled slowly, the first crack finally appearing in his composure.

His jaw flexed. God, he hated this.

And just like that, the same insufferable officer who'd shown you absolutely no mercy earlier was waiting, blindfolded and defenseless, for yours.