grdybiwife
Enhancer of reality
- Joined
- Jul 17, 2011
- Posts
- 1,983
The year is 1987. The place, Links View Apartments in heart of Vice City. In the wake of Hurricane Guillermo that pelted the city with 12 inches of rain and gale force winds, Yareli Robina was stuck in her eighth floor apartment with her arm in a sling. The apartment in the swanky building overlooking the golf course was a little beyond her means but the street kid turned cop had always found a way to meet her needs. Pulling a kid out of a collapsed shack in Little Haiti saw her shoulder dislocated and she in turn broke her forearm trying to put it back in place. Sure the 5'6" Cuban was a little banged up, but she resented the eight weeks of administrative leave. It wasn't her shooting arm that was broken and as far as she was concerned the cast was just another weapon. Her sergeant told her to enjoy the time off or take desk duty.
Yareli had enough of that when she was with the DEA. VCPD was a definite step down as far as her career was concerned but it offered a chance to see some action, which was the reason the hot headed Latina chose law enforcement in the first place. That and her upbringing. Her father, currently serving life for drug trafficking/murder, was the youngest brother of Umberto Robina, the leader of the Cubano Cartel that ran Little Havana. Her mother was a coke head stripper who overdosed shortly after the raid that saw her common-law husband taken into custody. Ten-year-old Yareli became a ward of the state after that and bounced from one foster home to another before she was finally adopted at 16 by an older couple who took her away from the city. They turned her life around, and pushed her to achieve her full potential despite her tumultuous childhood.
She flourished under their guidance. Graduated from college in the top half of her class with a degree in criminal justice and was recruited to join the DEA shortly thereafter. But after four years of pushing paper, Yareli gave up trying to get anywhere in the boys club federal agency. To them she'd never be more than a pretty face, regardless of her marksmen level shooting and advanced interrogation skills. She was never allowed to prove either, the most Yareli accomplished as an agent was the uncovering of a few dirty agents. Sure it earned her commendations but she didn't gain any respect. She was just a whistle-blower, a rat who turned on comrades to better her own standing. And she didn't even get that. So she left, figuring she could make a difference back home.
Unfortunately she had to start on the bottom. Her DEA service record only got her out of the academy. Yareli walked the beat just like any other rook, but this she didn't mind. Sure the uniform could be better but there wasn't much she could do about that until she made detective, which would take some time. Up until the hurricane, Yareli felt like she was well on her way to making a name for herself. She had a few good collars under her belt and had proven that she wasn't afraid of getting a little rough with perps. And then there was the rescue that saw her face on the front page of the newspaper. Her sergeant met her at the hospital with talk of promotions but Yareli didn't get her hopes up. She'd believe it when they pinned those stripes on her at the ceremony. Until then, she was just another beat cop trying to survive the mean Vice City streets.
And she wasn't even doing that. At the moment she blasted The Wave as she downed a bottle of rum, dancing around her apartment in panties and a men's undershirt. Her long wavy black hair in a messy bun as Prince sang through her speakers. She'd ripped off the sling and tossed it aside so she could play air guitar as she sang along. The couch was her stage and she moved her body sensuously, rolling her hips as if she was Darling Nikki teaching him how to grind. Her neighbor banged on the wall but Yareli didn't care, the mix of rum and Vicodin had numbed her to anything but a good time. With 5 weeks left to go on her leave that was all she could do.
Yareli had enough of that when she was with the DEA. VCPD was a definite step down as far as her career was concerned but it offered a chance to see some action, which was the reason the hot headed Latina chose law enforcement in the first place. That and her upbringing. Her father, currently serving life for drug trafficking/murder, was the youngest brother of Umberto Robina, the leader of the Cubano Cartel that ran Little Havana. Her mother was a coke head stripper who overdosed shortly after the raid that saw her common-law husband taken into custody. Ten-year-old Yareli became a ward of the state after that and bounced from one foster home to another before she was finally adopted at 16 by an older couple who took her away from the city. They turned her life around, and pushed her to achieve her full potential despite her tumultuous childhood.
She flourished under their guidance. Graduated from college in the top half of her class with a degree in criminal justice and was recruited to join the DEA shortly thereafter. But after four years of pushing paper, Yareli gave up trying to get anywhere in the boys club federal agency. To them she'd never be more than a pretty face, regardless of her marksmen level shooting and advanced interrogation skills. She was never allowed to prove either, the most Yareli accomplished as an agent was the uncovering of a few dirty agents. Sure it earned her commendations but she didn't gain any respect. She was just a whistle-blower, a rat who turned on comrades to better her own standing. And she didn't even get that. So she left, figuring she could make a difference back home.
Unfortunately she had to start on the bottom. Her DEA service record only got her out of the academy. Yareli walked the beat just like any other rook, but this she didn't mind. Sure the uniform could be better but there wasn't much she could do about that until she made detective, which would take some time. Up until the hurricane, Yareli felt like she was well on her way to making a name for herself. She had a few good collars under her belt and had proven that she wasn't afraid of getting a little rough with perps. And then there was the rescue that saw her face on the front page of the newspaper. Her sergeant met her at the hospital with talk of promotions but Yareli didn't get her hopes up. She'd believe it when they pinned those stripes on her at the ceremony. Until then, she was just another beat cop trying to survive the mean Vice City streets.
And she wasn't even doing that. At the moment she blasted The Wave as she downed a bottle of rum, dancing around her apartment in panties and a men's undershirt. Her long wavy black hair in a messy bun as Prince sang through her speakers. She'd ripped off the sling and tossed it aside so she could play air guitar as she sang along. The couch was her stage and she moved her body sensuously, rolling her hips as if she was Darling Nikki teaching him how to grind. Her neighbor banged on the wall but Yareli didn't care, the mix of rum and Vicodin had numbed her to anything but a good time. With 5 weeks left to go on her leave that was all she could do.
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