The 12th Precinct in San Francisco smelled like stale coffee, desperation, and a faint whiff of gun oil. Adan Beckett adjusted his ill-fitting glasses and tugged at the collar of his thrift-store button-down as he stepped through the precinct doors, the weight of the morning still clinging to him like a cheap cologne. Hours earlier, in the heart of the Mission District, he’d used his alien-born strength to pin a snarling A-12 gangbanger against a graffiti-stained wall after the punk tried to shank a bodega owner over a late protection payment. The guy’s switchblade hadn’t even grazed Adan’s skin before he’d twisted the thug’s arm behind his back with a speed no human could match, leaving him whimpering in the dirt for the cops to scoop up. Just another day in the hood for a hero hiding behind a nerdy reporter facade.
Now, though, Adan was all business—or at least, he tried to look the part. His heart thumped a little too hard as he approached the front desk, where Desk Sergeant Torres sat like a grizzled bulldog guarding a bone. Torres was a mountain of a man, his salt-and-pepper mustache twitching as he eyed Adan over a stack of paperwork.
“Well, if it ain’t Clark Kent himself,” Torres grunted, not bothering to look up from his forms. “What’s the scoop today, Beckett? Another exposé on jaywalking?”
Adan flashed a lopsided grin, leaning casually against the desk. “Nah, Sarge. I’m after bigger fish. Word is the A-12s are spreading their tentacles deeper into the city, and I hear they’re bumping heads with the X-Bones. Racist bikers versus Latino gangbangers. Sounds like a blockbuster waiting to happen.”
Torres snorted, finally meeting Adan’s gaze with a mix of amusement and suspicion. “You got a death wish, kid? Stickin’ your nose into that kinda mess ain’t gonna win you a Pulitzer. It’ll win you a body bag.”
“Maybe I like living dangerously,” Adan shot back, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose for effect. “I need files on two names tied to the A-12s. Luis Hernandez—your boys nabbed him last week—and Esperanza Gonzalez, the stripper who’s supposedly their favorite arm candy.”
Torres raised a bushy eyebrow, his pen pausing mid-scrawl. “Esperanza, huh? You sure you’re after intel and not a private dance? She’s trouble with a capital T, Beckett. Curves that’ll make a saint sin and a mouth that’ll cut you down before you can say ‘lap dance.’”
Adan chuckled, though a faint heat crept up his neck. Virgin or not, he wasn’t immune to the mental image Torres painted. “I’ll take my chances. Can you get me the files or do I gotta sweet-talk someone else around here?”
Torres sighed, heaving himself up with a groan and muttering something about nosy reporters as he disappeared into the records room. Adan tapped his foot, his alien senses picking up the distant clatter of holding cell bars and the low hum of precinct chatter. He was out of his depth here, playing human when every fiber of his being screamed to leap over the desk and grab what he needed. But patience was a virtue, even for a hero with a hard-on for justice.
Torres returned with two manila folders, slapping them down with a smirk. “Don’t say I didn’t warn ya. Hernandez is in holding. Esperanza too. You want a chat, I’ll walk you back. But don’t expect them to roll over easy.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Adan replied, tucking the folders under his arm and following Torres through the labyrinth of desks and tired cops. The holding cells were a grim slice of reality—cold concrete, flickering fluorescents, and the stench of sweat and regret. Luis Hernandez sat slumped on a bench in one cell, his A-12 ink peeking out from under a rolled-up sleeve, while Esperanza Gonzalez leaned against the bars of the adjacent cell, her dark eyes glinting with a predator’s amusement. Even in a faded tank top and jeans, she exuded raw, untamed energy, her full lips curling into a smirk as she spotted Adan.
“Well, damn,” she purred, her voice low and smoky. “Did they send me a librarian to check out, or are you just lost, cariño?”
Adan ignored the way his pulse quickened and turned to Luis first, flipping open the folder with a theatrical flair. “Luis Hernandez. Twenty-three. Multiple counts of assault, possession, and—oh, this is rich—a public indecency charge from last year. Got caught with your pants down behind a Taco Bell, huh? Real classy.”
Luis shot up, his face twisting into a snarl as he gripped the bars. “You think you’re funny, pendejo? I’ll carve that smirk off your face when I get outta here.”
“Big talk for a guy who couldn’t even keep his dick in his pants near a fast-food joint,” Adan fired back, his tone sharp as a blade. “Tell me about the A-12s’ latest moves. I hear Meato Lopez is pushing into X-Bones territory. What’s the play?”
Luis spat on the floor, his eyes narrowing. “You don’t know shit. And you—” He jerked his chin toward Esperanza, his voice dripping with venom. “Keep your mouth shut, puta, or I’ll make sure your brats pay for it.”
Adan’s blood turned to ice, his alien instincts roaring to life. He stepped closer to the bars, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl that didn’t match his scrawny reporter frame. “Threaten her again, Luis, and I’ll make sure you’re eating through a straw long before you get out. Got it?”
Luis blinked, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face before he slumped back onto the bench, muttering curses under his breath. Adan turned to Esperanza, who watched the exchange with a raised brow, her smirk widening.
“Damn, librarian,” she drawled, crossing her arms to emphasize the curves Torres had warned him about. “Didn’t think you had that kinda growl in you. What else you hiding under that dorky shirt?”
Adan cleared his throat, forcing his focus back to the task at hand as Torres stepped away to give them privacy. “Esperanza, I’m not here to play games. I know you’ve got ties to the A-12s, but I also know you’ve got kids you’d do anything to get back to. Help me, and I’ll testify on your behalf. Get you outta here faster.”
She tilted her head, studying him like a cat eyeing a particularly interesting mouse. “You think you can save me, huh? That’s cute. Real cute. But what makes you think I trust a guy who looks like he’s never been within ten feet of a woman like me?”
Adan felt the heat rise again but held her gaze, his jaw tightening. “Maybe I haven’t. But I’m damn good at keeping my word. Tell me about Meato Lopez. Where’s he operating out of? I’ve heard whispers about The Hidden Tiger strip club. That true?”
Esperanza laughed, a rich, throaty sound that sent a shiver down his spine. “Oh, you’re green, aren’t you? I bet you’d blush if I even whispered what goes down at The Tiger. But yeah, Meato’s there most nights, playing kingpin while the girls dance for his dirty money. You want more, you gotta earn it, cariño. What else you got for me besides promises?”
Adan leaned in, lowering his voice to match hers, the tension between them crackling like static. “I’ve got pull, Esperanza. And I’ve got skills you wouldn’t believe. Stick with me, and I’ll make sure you’re walking out of here to hug your kids sooner than you think. Deal?”
Her eyes flickered with something—respect, maybe, or intrigue—before she nodded slowly. “Deal. But don’t think I’m some damsel, librarian. I call the shots in my world. You’re just along for the ride.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” Adan replied, a smirk tugging at his lips as he signaled for Torres to take her back. He watched her saunter away, her hips swaying with deliberate intent, and felt the weight of her challenge settle into his bones. This wasn’t just about the A-12s anymore. It was personal.
Later, as the sun dipped below the San Francisco skyline, Adan stood on the precinct roof, shedding his reporter guise for the sleek, otherworldly form beneath. His alien strength surged as he launched into the air, the city sprawling beneath him like a glittering puzzle. His mind buzzed with the day’s revelations—Luis’s threats, Meato’s lair at The Hidden Tiger, and Esperanza’s sultry dare lingering in his ears. For a virgin hero with a hard-on for justice, the night was just beginning.
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