Read Don't Call Me Hero for Free Online

female police officer to take night shift, I wasn’t expecting you’d…” he trailed off.
    “Look like a girl?” I finished for him.
    He flashed me another boyishly charming smile. “That’s pretty horrible of me, right?”
    I returned his even smile. “Don’t worry; I won’t hold it against you.” I tended to baulk at stereotypes, but even I’d observed that femininity was a rare commodity in the armed forces and the police academy. 
    David stood up. “So are you stopping by to check the place out?”
    “Kind of.” I gave the department another cursory sweep. “Chief Hart said I could get the keys to my apartment?”
    “Oh, right.” He opened a desk drawer and rummaged around before producing two house keys on a metal ring. “Here you go.”
    “Thanks.” I palmed the gold-colored keys and shoved them into the pocket of my leather jacket. “Think you could point me in the right direction? I have no idea where anything is in this town.”
    David slapped his hand to his forehead. “Sorry. You must think I’m really thick. Go back the way you came,” he said, pointing at the exit, “and take a right out the door. The apartment is in the brick building across the street. You’ll see the signs. Can’t miss it.”
    I bobbed my head in thanks. I turned to leave and heard his parting words just before I reached the stairs.
    “Welcome to Embarrass, Cassidy Miller.”
     
    + + +
     
    My new studio apartment was located above the town’s Laundromat. The brick building was two stories with three apartments—A, B, and C—occupying the second floor. A short stairwell instead of an elevator led up to the apartments from a private alley entrance. There was another entrance through the Laundromat, but the landlady who owned the building and lived in apartment A kept that door locked to keep her customers from wandering upstairs.
    The door to apartment C was swollen, requiring a little finesse to unlock the deadbolt to gain entrance. Only a few feet from the door were my packing boxes, piled in tidy stacks like adult-sized building blocks. Since I’d enlisted upon graduating high school, and between multiple tours in Afghanistan and bouncing from one military base to the next, I hadn’t accumulated much more than what could fit into the saddlebags of my Harley. My civilian wardrobe was similarly basic, having spent the majority of my adult life in a uniform.
    The apartment came fully furnished, but the provided furniture was spartan. The layout was open with one of those folding screens to partition off the bedroom area from the rest of the apartment. The wood floors were scuffed and in need of a fresh sanding and layer of varnish. The windows were similarly old; white paint peeled up from the sills and the single panes of glass shuddered with every brisk gust of wind. It would probably feel like a greenhouse in the summer with the sun beating in through the southern exposure windows, and there was no air conditioner in sight. Three brick walls would make it nearly impossible to hang anything up—not that I had anything to hang.
    The only drywall was in the kitchen area, which consisted of a single sink, refrigerator, oven, minimal counter space, and a small kitchen island with two stools that doubled as the dining room table. In the front foyer there was one narrow closet that would have to serve as storage for both my wardrobe and my belongings. I found the bathroom to be small, but functional: toilet, sink, and stand-up shower. There would be no more baths for me.
    The living room was an easy chair and an old tube television propped on a milk crate. I dropped my duffle bag on the dark red chair. There was probably room for a grander living room or a proper dining room, but I had no talent for furniture arrangement or interior design.
    I pulled out my phone and frowned at the “E” in the top left-hand corner—no internet—my apartment was a dead zone. Unless I foot the bill for my own hook-up, I’d