Cop a Feel (Handcuffs and Happily Ever Afters)

by Robyn Peterman

  Kristy, God love her, realizing my discomfort, but hopefully not the reason, steered the conversation away from my skin color. “So let me get this straight, they screw but they have no clue who they screwed.”

  “They know who they humped, they just don’t know each other’s names,” Shoshanna corrected her.

  “How in the hell do they find each other again?” Jack asked, dropping his head into his hands when he realized he had spoken aloud.

  “Good question,” the pea eater said with a large mouthful. “I can’t figure that one out. I could make it random, but that’s a little cheesy.”

  “Wait,” Kevin interrupted. “How is it that they ended up at the shoot-out together in the first place?”

  “Different branches of the government after the same bad guys.”

  “That actually makes sense,” Steve chimed in. “The assholes at the FBI and CIA are always stepping on each other’s toes because they’re too assholish to communicate.”

  “Excellent,” Shoshanna grunted. “All my research led me to believe those agencies don’t even know who wipes their own butts.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Steve said, laughing.

  “I would,” Mitch said. “I’m so happy to be out of that crap.”

  “I’m happy you are too,” Kristy cooed, and blew my brother a sappy kiss.

  I rolled my eyes and checked my watch again. Another half an hour. I would stay another half an hour.

  “Back to my story. I need to do some more research and I need a research-ee,” Shoshanna said, eyeballing me. “You got a boyfriend?”

  “Me?” I asked, knowing I was the only other single gal in the room.

  “Yep, you.”

  “No, and I don’t want one.”

  “You gettin’ laid?” she asked.

  “Um . . .”

  “I really don’t want to know if my sister is getting laid,” Mitch moaned, saving me from admitting I was clearly a slut.

  “Fine,” Shoshanna grumbled. “Do you wanna beta-read for me?”

  “What’s that?” I asked even though I knew I should have immediately said no.

  “I give you chapters and you tell me if I got all the technical undercover agent stuff right. You get to read the book before it comes out and I’ll pay you.”

  “God,” Rena said with a laugh. “People would kill to get to read you before you came out.”

  “I don’t think I’d be good at that.” I had no desire to read my life in fiction. I was living it.

  “You’d be great,” Steve volunteered before I could say no. “Candy is one of my best, and her training is top notch.”

  “Done,” Shoshanna shouted, jumping up from the table and retrieving a folder. “I’d e-mail it to you, but my goddamned computer doesn’t like me.”

  She handed me a thick folder of pages. Why did I feel like that song? Strumming my pain with his fingers, singing my life with his words . . . What in the hell was the name of that song anyway?

  “Your computer is fine.” Kevin chuckled. “You’re a menace to cyberspace.”

  “I’ve considered putting the fucker in the toilet, but getting electrocuted would hurt like a bitch.”

  “What’s for dessert?” Jack asked, hoping to get Shoshanna’s mind back on food. No such luck.

  “My Pappi Joe, God rest his heathen soul, used to say if you didn’t like something or someone, you should just pee on it.”

  “Now there’s some solid advice,” Rena muttered, and started clearing dishes.

  Jumping up to help her, I idly wondered if there was a door to the outside in the kitchen. I wanted to ask for a doggie bag as I’d barely touched my meal, but that felt a bit awkward and rude. Kristy grabbed a few plates and hightailed it after us.

  “Holy Christ Almighty.” Kristy said, laughing. “That was some info I can’t ever unlearn.”

  “You know, Candy,” Rena said as she rinsed the flatware, “she is a little nutty, but she’s one of the best people I know.”

  “Huh,” I replied noncommittally and concentrated on putting leftovers in Tupperware. The kitchen matched the rest of the house. Deep purple linoleum covered the floor and the cabinets were a lovely complementary lavender with football helmet knobs.

  “Really,” Kristy chimed in. “She’s brilliant. One of the most amazing and insightful professors I ever had. There are waiting lists for her classes.”

  It was difficult to reconcile the pea eater with brilliance . . .

  “She’s also a tremendous author,” Rena added.

  “I’m not sure I want to read the spanky-spanky secret agent novel.” Shoving the food containers in the fridge, I started planning my escape.

  “Trust me, you will.” Rena grinned.

  “Doubtful. Any gal who doesn’t know the name of the guy she screws is a loser,” I said, punishing myself and waiting to see their reaction.

  “True,” Kristy agreed, “but Professor Sue’s heroines are strong and complicated. I’m sure there are good reasons for her being such a ho-bag in the beginning. Sue will weave it into her journey.”

  “Sometimes love starts out in hell.” Rena hopped up on the counter and grabbed a cookie off a platter shaped like a beer can. “I fell in love with Jack when he arrested me, and Kristy fell in love with your brother because she’d just gotten out of a relationship with a married Dallas Cowboys fan who was too polite to tell her she’d been calling him by the wrong name.”

  “Bullshit.” Kristy laughed. “I fell in love with your brother because of his ass.”

  I really needed to leave.

  “But, the married Tony Romo lover part is true,” Rena countered gleefully, and pilfered another cookie.

  “Really?” I asked Kristy.

  “Unfortunately, yes. On that note, I’m going back to the shit show in the dining room before any more of my dirty little secrets are revealed to my future sister-in-law.”

  She left and there was silence. Not uncomfortable silence, but a silence nonetheless. So, being me, I filled it.

  “So, um, in the end . . . it might not be so bad to screw someone and not know his name?”

  Rena put the majority of plates and silverware into the dishwasher while she considered my query. It took everything I had not to expound on my question and bury myself ass deep in humiliation. Not that I wasn’t already there . . .

  “Are we speaking hypothetically or literally?” she inquired as she handed me a very needed cookie.

  “Hypothetically, of course.”

  “Oookay, was the hypothetical sex any good?”

  “Very.”

  “Interesting. Was there more than one session of hypothetical sex?”

  “Um . . . yes,” I whispered.

  “I see,” she said. “More than ten?”

  I nodded and snagged another cookie.

  “Twenty?”

  “No. Fourteen,” I told her, dropped into a chair, and purposely banged my head on the table.

  “Do you want to know his name?”

  My head shot up from the table and I gave her a hard stare.

  “Hypothetically,” she quickly added, and unsuccessfully tried to hide her smirk. “If you had the opportunity to learn his name, would you want to know it? Hypothetically?”

  “Until tonight, I didn’t want to, but I feel like such a massive ho now, I think I’d better find out.”

  “Ease up on yourself, we’ve all been hos at one time or another. Although, fourteen times makes you kind of a top ho. Do you like the guy?”

  “No,” I blurted too quickly for even me to believe I meant it. “Fine. Clearly I like the sex part, but I don’t really know him . . . He’s cocky and . . .”

  “No pun intended,” Rena crowed. “Sorry it was too good to pass up.”

  Rena slid off the counter and scooped out two bowls of ice cream. Handing me one, she plopped down beside me and proceeded to dig in.

  “Eat,” she instructed. “Ice cream solves everything.”

 
She was right. It did.

  “Could we put an end to the hypothetical conversation for the moment?” I asked, praying she was a cool girl.

  “Yep, on one condition.”

  “And that would be?”

  “You take me with you when you interview that skank, Evangeline O’Hara.” She grinned with such evil glee, I felt my own smile pull at my lips.

  It wasn’t exactly professional protocol to bring a non-officer to an interview, but having to rehash my ho-ish qualities was seriously unappealing. She did know Evangeline and could possibly be helpful . . . Ho talk or unprofessional behavior? The answer was surprisingly easy.

  “You can come. I do all the talking unless I make it clear I want your input. If you step over any line, you’re out. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  “Hey guys.” Kristy popped her head back into the kitchen. “Shoshanna is giving a rundown of SCREW-Con. I think you’d better hear this, Candy. From what I understand, you’re going as her assistant, not her bodyguard.”

  “Fuck,” I groaned, and made a grab for the container of ice cream.

  “What did you think you would be?” Rena asked, handing me a tub of whipped cream.

  “I still haven’t gotten over the fact that I’m going to a convention called SCREW. Really haven’t thought much further than that.”

  “It’s good you have us then,” Kristy cackled and high fived Rena.

  “What in the hell are you talking about?” The whipped cream settled like a lead ball in my esophagus.

  “You’re gonna need some outfits,” Rena informed me getting her evil look back.

  “Um, no.”

  “Um, yes,” she shot back. “Hot sexy, porno-ee outfits.”

  “Absolutely not,” I yelled, lamenting the fact I hadn’t run when I’d had the chance.

  “I don’t see what the problem is,” Kristy said. “When you were undercover on the Bigfoot drug bust, your nipples were practically hanging out of your tops.”

  “That was for a job,” I snapped.

  “And protecting Shoshanna’s life is a game?” Rena’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “I’d lay down my life for that profane little manner-less woman. If this is a silly little game that’s beneath you, you need to speak up now and remove yourself from the case.”

  She had a point—a good one. What the hell was wrong with me? I was a pro and if I was being honest with myself, I kind of liked the outrageous Shoshanna. The thought of someone hurting her was wrong and wouldn’t happen on my clock.

  “You’re right and I’m an ass. I promise you with my life, I will take care of her.”

  The ice cream no longer appealed. I couldn’t swallow anything because my shame was lodged in my throat.

  “Good.” Rena hugged me tight. “We’ll take you shopping on Wednesday.”

  “Sounds like hell.” I grinned weakly.

  “Oh trust me.” Kristy joined the group hug. “It will be.”

  Chapter 4

  The drive home was uneventful, but the partial manuscript of my life lying on the passenger seat called my name. Loudly. I parked the car in my driveway, grabbed the pages and read . . .

  Holy hell, Rena and Kristy had been right. Shoshanna was one incredible writer. From her description, the story had sounded like a pornographic romp of idiots next to a pile of corpses, but the truth of the matter was far different. I felt better about being a slut because I was portrayed as a woman trying to find something real—something tangible that would last. I wasn’t a ho; I was trying to make sense of a chaotic world and met my match in someone who was as screwed up as I was. A huge sense of loss settled over me when I finished the pages. I wanted to know what was going to happen to me next.

  Wait the fuck a minute . . . Had I lost my mind? This wasn’t me. This was a fictional character created in the mind of a pea-eating, cheese-loving Vikings fan. Disgusted with myself, I shoved the pages back in the folder and realized I’d missed a chapter.

  To read or not to read . . .

  I read.

  Huge fucking mistake.

  Upon finishing the spanky-spanky sex scene, I was so horny I thought I might explode in my car. I desperately tried to picture Shoshanna writing the sex so my libido would be doused, but I couldn’t. WTF? All I knew for sure was that I needed to get laid. Now. By not David. My other half. The screwed-up version of myself who would make my life complete.

  A single droplet of sweat trickled down my face and rolled straight to my cleavage. This was ridiculous. I quickly started my car and rolled the windows down. Gulping fresh air and trying to clear my head, I did the only thing I could do in a clusterfuck situation like this. I picked up my Go-Phone and became one with my inner-ho.

  He picked up on the first ring.

  “Ice, how are you? Long time no speak,” not David’s panty-melting voice purred.

  “I’m good,” I mumbled. “And you?”

  “Better now.”

  The zing of excitement that shot through my body tempted me to bang my head on the steering wheel, but I didn’t want a black eye or a goose egg on my forehead if I was going to see the hotter than hell idiot. Sucking in a deep breath, I laid out my plan.

  “I want to see you. I want your real name and I want to tell you mine,” I sputtered on a single breath.

  He was silent. Shit. This was the stupidest thing I’d ever done and I’d done some stupid in my time. He was probably married or engaged or gay. No, he wasn’t gay unless he batted for both teams. I had fairly good gay-dar and really didn’t think he was gay. But what did I know? Nothing. I knew nothing and now he was trying to figure out how to let me down nicely . . . or maybe he wasn’t going to be nice. Maybe he thought I was a ho. Maybe I was a ho. If I hung up now, would he forget that I’d called?

  “Luke.”

  “Look this was dumb and I’m drunk and I have the flu and I . . . wait. What did you say?”

  “I said my name is Luke.”

  “For real?”

  “For real.” He chuckled and my nipples tightened. “Are you really drunk with the flu?” Amusement laced his voice. It made me want to slap him and ride him like a cowboy simultaneously.

  “Um, no,” I muttered, and wondered why my insanity wasn’t scaring him off.

  “I’d like to see you too.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Very. Why don’t we have a drink at Mario’s and see where it goes,” he said.

  “Like a date?” As sure as I was that I wanted to get in his pants, we were about to open a complicated can of worms and I was a sucky fisherman.

  “Like a drink,” he corrected me, sensing my panic.

  “Okay,” I whispered. “I can be there in fifteen.”

  “I can be there in ten,” he shot back.

  I giggled. He was as competitive as I was and it turned my crank like nobody’s business. “I’ll see you there.” I hung up quickly so the ass-hat wouldn’t have the last word. Of course I should have expected the text . . .

  WEAR A DRESS

  I rolled my eyes and to my great embarrassment, realized I was thrilled I’d dressed with care for the evening. I was sorely tempted to run in my house and put on some sweats, but he usually saw me in jeans and T-shirts. My plan was to blow his socks off and then his shirt and pants . . .

  Oh God, was this living? If it was, it was scary and . . . well, it was scary.

  It took me six minutes to drive to Mario’s, two to park, thirty seconds to check myself in the mirror and swipe on some lip gloss, and twelve minutes to talk myself into going through with my drink-not-a-date. I was going to be late, but my inner monologue was demanding attention. My life was protocol and decisive action that oftentimes determined life or death. Things were black or white—good or bad. I could deal with that. I was very good at dealing with that. Love and happily-ever-afters were only fairy tales. I lived in reality.

  Why in the hell did I think calling him and coming clean was a good idea? I’d been happy with my life and the occ
asional liaison with a guy named not David. Did I want to know if he left the toilet seat up or if he was a neat freak? No. No, I absolutely did not. Having a drink could only lead to ruining the very best sex I’d ever experienced. It was being around all the sickeningly happy couples at dinner that had made me weak. Damn it. And no thanks to Shoshanna, I was as horny as a teenage boy. Horny after reading fiction that could never happen in real life.

  Order. Order was good. It made sense. It wasn’t messy and people couldn’t misinterpret each other or expect things from each other. Or break each other’s hearts. Drinks with Luke would be a mistake, but I’d ruined it already. I’d set up new rules that I didn’t want to follow. They’d lead to icky stuff. Shit.

  I owed it to Luke and mostly my new big girl self to go in there and tell him I was insane. However, if he was interested in continuing the somewhat anonymous and uncommitted strangers-with-benefits thingie, I was good with that.

  Grabbing my purse and making sure my gun was secured to my inner thigh, I was ready.

  “Jesus Christ.” I rolled my eyes at myself in the rearview mirror. Who in their right mind wants to date a girl who feels naked without a weapon strapped somewhere on her body? Nobody, that’s who. I got out of my car, locked it, and took three calming breaths.

  “Hey baby, you’re exactly what I’ve been waiting for my whole fucking life,” a male voice slurred.

  Whipping around, I realized I was caught between my car and a big ugly drunk guy who thought he was going to get lucky. He thought wrong.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sure I must have heard you incorrectly,” I snapped, and realized he was a lot bigger than I’d originally thought.

  “No, sugar, you heard me right.” He licked his bulbous lips and advanced on me.

  WTF? I was supposed to be on a date, not getting in a fight in the parking lot with an asshole who didn’t know the meaning of no. Well, not actually a date . . . more of an offer to keep up the sham of a relationship that we’d had going for a year.

  Damn, the fatass reeked. Had he drunk the bar dry?

  “Why don’t you just lift that sexy little dress up and I’ll give it to ya good.” He laughed and lunged in.