Disorderly Conduct

by Tessa Bailey

  “That’s the spirit, Mother.”

  She collects my glass, traipsing off to the kitchen, and I know that’s my signal to leave, but I can’t help but smile at her retreating back. I don’t feel so alone anymore, heading out into the sea of faces, pulses and personalities. Dating. I expected to come to visit my mother this afternoon and be jolted into a renewed determination by her loneliness. But it’s more than that. For the first time, I can see my future self in my mother, and I want to be the brave person she believes me to be. Maybe the trick is to start believing it myself.

  On the walk to the train, I hit speed dial on Nina’s number. “Hey, you.” She grumbles at me on the other end of the line. “If you’re still sleeping and it’s past noon, this girl’s night is even more vital than I thought.”

  “Girl’s night?”

  “Yeah.” I smile and pick up the pace, refusing—refusing—to think of Charlie. Or miss him. Not even a smidgen. “You have seven hours to get ready. Think you can manage it?”

  I can almost see her chewing on her lip. “It’s a Tuesday night. Is there even anything going on?”

  “Did you forget your zip code?” I see the steps up ahead and move into a trot, noticing passengers disembarking, meaning a train in the station. “I’ll be home within the hour. Shower up. We’ll go get pedicures and do pregame drinks at Lorelei.”

  “What’s gotten into you?” Nina asks with a smile in her voice.

  “I don’t know.” I swallow the lump that’s been living in my throat since Charlie walked out of the apartment, taking a picture of me along with him. “Hope.”

  “I can’t even handle you this corny.”

  My laugh echoes down the train station stairwell. “Shut up and get your ass in the shower.”

  There is a stride I hit around eleven o’clock on a night out. Not dissimilar to the one glass of wine high. Or the post-tequila shot euphoria. Once eleven o’clock comes and goes, I can taste the following day—it’s only an hour away—and there’s no turning back. Might as well stay out all damn night.

  My quest for the ultimate night is particularly rewarding this time around because Nina is on the same page. We’re right on one another’s level, finishing each other’s sentences, ordering rounds of vodka tonics without confirming if the other wants more. It’s a given. It’s one of those nights.

  Our outfits are freaking amazing, too. In fact, the more we drink, the better we look. Nina is wearing a fringed and beaded vest she found at a local consignment shop, paired with leather leggings. When she walked out of her bedroom earlier, we had to take a moment, she looked so dope. I’ve gone more of a traditionally trashy route in red pumps, red lipstick and a black shift dress that hits me midthigh. Okay, high-thigh. The more I drink, the higher the hem seems to look.

  This is a great night. The greatest.

  Where are we?

  Oh. Some DJ Nina swears is world-famous tweeted he was doing a surprise set at Webster Hall, so we’re half jogging, half stumbling arm in arm in that direction. We’re one block away, and it appears we’re not the only ones who fielded the tweet. Oh no. There’s police trying to corral everyone onto the sidewalk as Nina and I hop into line. It’s already moving and we high five, miss and connect on the second try.

  “Is my makeup smeared?”

  Nina squints at me through one eye. “Yeah, a little, but it looks on purpose.”

  “Nice.” A policeman approaches, ordering us to move closer to the building. He looks thrilled beyond words to be herding a throng of twenty-somethings on short notice on a Tuesday night. “Hello, Officer.” In my current state of loving the world in general, I smile and give him a thumbs-up. “You’re doing a great job.”

  “Thanks,” comes his dry response. “My night is complete.”

  “I used to date a cop.” These moments come part and parcel with post-eleven o’clock nights out, especially when you’ve been pregaming since seven. I’m rambling, I know I’m being that drunk girl, but the words won’t stay inside. I was the happiest I’ve ever been one minute ago, now one little reminder of Charlie and I’m swallowing rocks. “Only we weren’t really dating. And he isn’t a cop yet. So I guess none of the things I said are true.” Nina is a good friend, so she’s pulling on my arm, begging me to shut up. “His name is Charlie Burns. Good old Charlie freaking Burns.”

  The cop is very interested in us all of a sudden. “No shit?” He looks like a cat who caught the canary. “Yo, Burns!”

  I go very still, my pulse jackhammering in my skull. “Charlie is here?”

  “Next best thing,” Canary Catcher answers, shrugging, just as another cop approaches. And holy hell. It’s like looking right at Charlie. If he aged half a decade, grew a lot more hostile and hated everything in sight. My gaze dips to his badge. Burns. This is Charlie’s brother. I don’t even know his first name. I should. I should know the name of the brother of the man I miss like crazy. Right? “This girl here says she dated Charlie.” Canary Catcher again. “Only they didn’t really date. It’s a long story, I’m guessing. Aren’t you glad you came down to help us grunts out tonight?” He claps Charlie’s brother on the back and walks away. “Have fun.”

  Elder Burns tries to burn a hole through me with his laser-like focus. “You dated my brother?”

  The way he asks, you would think I was being questioned about stolen jewels. “Should I call a lawyer?”

  He doesn’t like my sarcasm. “When did you date my brother?”

  “We didn’t technically date.” I look to Nina for help, but she’s staring ahead at something in line, leaving me out to dry. “But the last time I saw him was a few days ago.” I swallow hard. “Is he . . . doing all right?”

  A long pause. “Why wouldn’t he be?”

  “I-I don’t know.” I sound so pathetically sad. My buzz is flatlining. I need to get away from Elder Burns and circle back to the drawing board of getting over Charlie. Running into his brother has set me back a good hundred years. Or that’s how it feels right now with vodka humming in my blood. “If you see him, just . . . tell him I’ve been using the notecard tree he gave me. It’s really handy.”

  If I ever form a band, I’m going to name it Drunk Masochist.

  “This is my brother, Charlie Burns, we’re talking about.” Was that a question? I have no idea. “You dated, but not really, up until a few days ago. He gave you a gift. And now you’re not seeing him anymore.”

  “You’re making it sound like I’m at fault here.”

  He gives this annoying neck tweak. “Are you?” When my mouth drops open, he holds up a hand. “Not involved. I’m not getting involved.” His cheek ticks. “It’s just the timing . . .”

  Nina grabs my hand and pulls me forward, along with the line, which is moving again and growing rowdier by the second. Elder Burns frowns at me as I walk away. I assume the conversation is over, but he curses and breaks into a stride to catch up.

  “Listen, this isn’t a good scene,” he barks at me over the surrounding laughter and screams. “Why don’t you head on home . . . ?”

  “Ever. And we’ll be fine . . . ?”

  He sighs, like I just asked him for a loan. “Greer.”

  I pat his arm. “Good night and good luck, Greer.”

  We turn the corner into the venue and it’s so loud, my molars clamp down. People are pushing their way through the narrow staircase into the downstairs performance space, harried personnel trying to guide the crowd. Once we get downstairs, though, everyone spreads out as much as possible, the music kicking off almost immediately. Nina takes off her shoes and shoves them into her purse, then leads me out to the dance floor. I’m still replaying the conversation with Charlie’s brother, reveling in how he’d sounded so amazed that Charlie had dated someone, let alone bought them a gift. Maybe I was a little special to him, even if he never said it out loud.

  I push aside the useless, leading thoughts with massive determination.

  There are boys everywhere. They’re a little t
oo hipster for my taste, but I promised myself I would try. I promised my mother. So when a pair of bearded bros move into our circle and start dancing with us, I don’t excuse myself to use the bathroom or head to the bar, like I would do normally to avoid any kind of meaningful interaction. I throw my hands up in the air, close my eyes and let myself have fun. Even if there’s a significant part of myself that never really allows it. A part that keeps dragging me back to the boy with blue eyes who told me he could do better as a friend, if I let him. The boy who kissed me in the park like our lives depended on it.

  Half an hour has passed when a prickle blows across my shoulders. I stop dancing to scan the crowd. Am I crazy . . . or do I feel Charlie here? No. I just spoke to his brother outside, which has to account for this odd premonition. Someone takes my hand—one of the guys we’ve been dancing with—and I jerk it away. I’ve been maintaining a careful distance from everyone of the opposite sex, dancing but not touching, and I command myself to stop holding back. Stop. But the feeling of being watched won’t go away.

  I’m distracted when Nina gets way too close to her dance partner. Hands on the booty close. Which is nothing like Nina. This is newly single Nina, yes, but it’s out of character for her, making me worry. Her motives become clear a moment later when I see her ex-boyfriend dancing with another girl about twenty heads away, his thunderous gaze steady on Nina.

  “Hey,” I lean in and shout so Nina can hear me. “I see what you’re doing there, friend-o. I have the full scope of the situ-sitch-situation.” Okay, maybe I didn’t sober completely. “Do you want to leave?”

  “Leave?” She gives me a full, over the shoulder eyebrow raise. “I’m having fun, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah.” I am enjoying the music and the guy I’m dancing with is funny enough, in a watered-down Paul Rudd kind of way. So, yes. Yes, this is what people equate to a good time. Plus tonight is Nina’s first night out since the breakup, and I owe it to her to hang out as long as possible. “Okay, let me know if you change your mind.”

  She doesn’t answer, and my dance partner catches my wrist, spinning me. Once again I encounter the tingle on the back of my neck, but command myself to ignore it.

  Chapter 18

  Charlie

  So this is what hell looks like.

  Drinking warm beer while my girl dances with an Urban Outfitters model. Yeah, I’m jealous. I’m jealous as fuck. Ever looks like everyone’s secret jackoff fantasy. She’s literally not even wearing pants. And then she went ahead and stuck some red high heels on, just in case anyone needed extra convincing her legs are two miles long. On top of that sexy little outfit, she’s moving her tight ass like someone might rob it, if she stops.

  Today was my first day back after being suspended, and the drills kicked my ass. I kicked theirs, too, meaning I was dead asleep when the text message from Greer hit my phone a while ago. Ever at Webster Hall. Bad scene. I almost broke my neck diving out of bed and pulling on the closest pair of jeans. Of course, my motherfucker of a brother didn’t answer his phone when I called for more details, but I can see with my own eyes now he’d been right. The place is filled well past capacity, meaning the fire marshal is likely due to arrive any minute. Bodies are crammed in tight at the bar, on the dance floor, along the walls. If there’s an emergency, hell will break loose.

  So my jealousy is secondary to Ever’s safety, even if it is an evil, spinning ball of shit banging around in my stomach. Truthfully, the green-eyed monster would be seven times uglier if I thought for a second that Ever could be into the guy attempting to dance with her. But every time Bearded Wonder tries to pull her close, she slips away like an elusive kitty cat, tucking hair behind her ear. A nervous gesture that forces me to pound the beer I’m drinking—temperature be damned—because she used to make that same hair-tuck gesture with me. Usually when I was on my way out the door after we’d had sex, and we were working through the goodbye portion. She’d been unsure and I hadn’t even seen it. I’d just bailed.

  Someone jostles my shoulder and beer sloshes out onto my shoe, but I barely notice. I’m watching Ever toss that mane of blonde hair around, hips moving in quick circles, the way she used to move them on top of me. Fuck. Bearded Wonder can’t keep up, so he’s literally just standing there like a garden rake, stroking that shit growing from his chin, and watching the show close up. Jesus Christ, I can’t witness it anymore. He needs to stop ogling my girl, and for the love of everything holy, someone needs to give her a decent dance.

  Dropping my half-empty plastic cup on the sliver of available bar, anticipation kicks in my gut. Just knowing she’s going to give me those eyes, even if she doesn’t let me touch her, is enough. I’m just relieved I’ll be within reaching distance of her if something goes down.

  I’m still a good twenty yards away when Ever stops dancing and turns, our gazes locking through the crowd. As though she sensed me. That awareness sends my blood running south, but I hold on to my inhibitions. I’m not here to take Ever home, much as I’m dying to. She drew the boundary line and I’m not crossing it. I’ve looked at her hurt expression too many times on my phone to put it there again.

  Hey, cutie, I mouth, throwing in a wink. Her expression is a little dazed and I can see she’s tied one on. There are black streaks extending out from the sides of her eyes, making her even more cat-like than before. So drunk and adorable and hot, I don’t know why everyone in the fucking room isn’t staring. Maybe they are, but I can’t look away from her long enough to find out. She sways a little, and my hand shoots out to catch her elbow. Shit. If I thought I was feeling protective watching her from afar, it doesn’t compare to the increased weight of it now. I’m going to make sure she gets home all right. I’m like an ancient knight that’s been given a quest, and I either succeed or accept certain death.

  She winks back at me, but that one eye stays closed way too long. “Hey, Charlie,” she calls over the noise. “I met your brother.”

  “Yeah, I heard. My condolences.” Bearded Wonder edges closer, as if he’s going to reclaim Ever, and the look I give him is designed to cause an exploding pancreas. “You’re done here, bro. That was pathetic.”

  Further proving his unworthiness of Ever, Bearded Wonder’s shoulders sag. He gives Ever’s legs one more longing look and gets swallowed up by the still-growing crowd. Taking a moment to judge the distance between us and the closest emergency exit, I take a step into Ever’s space and warm apple scent billows around me.

  “I dig the shiner.” The concern on her face belies her words as she examines my blackened eye. “But try to remember to duck next time.”

  “I’ll make a note of it, cutie,” I say dryly, loving the fact that she doesn’t press me for details. No pasts. No futures. Old habits die hard, I guess. I do my best to banish the bittersweet air floating between us by taking her hand. “Listen, I know I can dance better than that guy. You up for it?”

  Her smile is like an adrenaline shot to the chest. “Hell yeah.”

  If God himself was on the turntables, the next song couldn’t have been more perfect. It’s the same track we danced to at the catering event—“My Type” by Saint Motel—and we trade that look. The one people trade when divine musical providence takes place and you’re the only ones who understand. When I take Ever’s hand, spin her one direction, then back the other, she has no idea what hit her. I’d held back a little at the Art League function because she’d been exhausted, but I’m going balls to the wall tonight. Her sparkle has been subdued by Bearded Wonder’s lack of rhythm, but it blazes back to life now, her beautiful face glowing beneath the club lights. That shirt-dress she’s wearing twists at the tops of her thighs—goddamn—so I lean back and wolf whistle, letting her see my appreciation, sending her into a musical fit of laughter.

  I don’t give her much time to relax, though, before I turn her, pulling her back up against my chest. Trailing a hand down her hip, I grind once into her sweet ass, cursing my determination not to hit on her, then clasp her
wrist and turn her in a circle, bringing her back to face me. We’re close now, not touching, but a sheet of paper couldn’t fit between us, either. Her expression is pure pleasure and I’m not going to lie, it gives me a kind of satisfaction I can’t explain, seeing her have a good time. Knowing I made her happy instead of sad or confused for once.

  “Charlie Burns, where did you learn how to dance?”

  I settle a hand on her right hip, groaning deep in my throat at the rhythmic bump and sway. We’re moving in perfect tandem, we always do, and it’s a reminder of what I won’t allow myself to have anymore, even though it’s killing me. “I had a lot of babysitters growing up. My favorite was a police dispatcher named Malia.” Ever’s smile dips a little at the reminder I didn’t have a mother around, but frankly, after days of thinking I would never see this girl again, there isn’t much that can fuck up my mood. I saved her from a man who doesn’t own a razor, she’s letting me hold her, and I’m standing between her and any trouble that breaks out. It’s a million miles from the shit show I was stewing in before I crashed into bed tonight. “She had a thing for young John Travolta. I think I’ve seen Saturday Night Fever sixty-eight times. But she mostly played the old soul stuff. She taught me.”

  Taking Ever’s wrists, I bring them up over her head, sliding my palms down her arms, her sides, landing on her hips and twisting them right, left. Hard. Her breath catches on a bubbly laugh, her eyelids falling to half-mast. “God, Charlie, that’s good.”

  “She’d say, let the woman know she’s hot. Make her feel like the only person alive.” I can hear the dispatcher’s easy voice, echoing in my kitchen and tearing down the too-quiet, too-tense environment created by three driven males. “No need to remember those lessons when I’m dancing with you, Ever. It just is.” Way to keep it light and friendly, man. Blowing out a breath, I let my attention drop to her lower body. “And damn, you’re not so bad yourself, are you?”