The girl blinked twice, studying me nervously through her glasses. “No,” she said doubtfully. “A sophomore. Karen.”
I felt myself frown. “You don’t look old enough. You look younger than me.”
Karen actually blushed. “I graduated high school a year early,” she told me, as if that was something to be ashamed of.
“So we’re the same age!” I said delightedly. I towed her up the steps and toward Fenbrook’s doors. “But you already know the place. You can show me around!”
“Well, yes,” said Karen. “I mean, if you want me to. I mean, I don’t really know lots of people or anything, and I only really go in the music department, but—”
“And tonight, we can all go out to a bar and get drunk with all the other freshmen,” I told her.
“But I’m not a—and I don’t really get—”
“I saw a place just down the street,” I told her. “Flicker.” I giggled, something I never would have done as Emma. But then I’d never have worn the bright red lipstick, or the tight summer dress, or the ridiculous heels, either. I’d never have tossed my hair and enjoyed the sunshine lighting up its curls or delighted in the simple pleasure of meeting someone who had no idea about my past.
I was so happy, I had to stop myself giving Karen an impromptu hug. And then I went ahead and gave her one anyway. Life was great. I was Jasmine, and the person I’d used to be was gone. “We’re going to be best friends,” I told Karen. “I can just feel it.”
Now
Chapter 1
Ryan
“Oh look,” said Hux, glancing sideways at me. “We’re passing by Fenbrook Academy. Again.” But the protest was muffled and half-hearted. Muffled because he was midway through his third glazed donut. Half-hearted because I’d paid for them.
“It’s on our beat,” I said, slightly defensively. I gave the patrol car just a touch of gas and it surged smoothly forward toward the red brick building.
“Ryan: just ask her out.”
We’d had this conversation every Thursday for months, because Thursday was the day she went to get lunch at Harper’s, the deli down the street. Not with Natasha and Clarissa, the ballerinas, not with Karen, with little one with the cello and the Irish boyfriend, but by herself.
I mean, not that I was trying to get her by herself. That sounds bad. I just mean: she was by herself, so I thought I should check up on her. In case anyone tried to mug her, or anything.
I lifted my foot off the gas so that we could roll down the street at walking pace, maximizing my chances of seeing her.
“I can’t ask her out,” I told Hux. “I can’t even talk to her.”
“You’re...what, six-five? Two hundred pounds? You got all those muscles bulging out of you like I never had at your age.” Hux shook his head in disbelief. “You can flatten three coked-up Russian pimps,” he said. “You can wrestle a loan shark to the ground even when he’s carryin’ an axe. But you can’t talk to a redhead?” He was grinning. He found the whole thing hilarious. And he had a point. I never normally had a problem talking to women. Only this one.
“She’s not a redhead,” I told Hux. “She’s….” I could feel my face reddening. “...special. Better than you and me.” I mean, she was an actress for God’s sake. Maybe she hadn’t gotten her big break yet, but any time now those idiots in Hollywood were going to realize what they were missing and—
There she was.
Eyes on the heavens, as if she could will the sole cloud in the sky out of existence by sheer force of her personality. Her long, auburn hair hung halfway down her back, bouncing softly as she walked. My hands tensed on the steering wheel as I imagined running my fingers through it. Her lips, pursed in thought, could only have been carved by an artist. It was September, but the city was still doggedly clinging onto the warmth of summer and she was wearing a dress that hugged every glorious curve.
She was so beautiful I felt my breath stop in my chest. And I only had another five seconds to drink her in because then we’d be past her and I’d have to wait another week—
“Oh, for the love of God,” said Hux, and blipped the siren.
The wa-wap of the siren echoed around the quiet street, every passer-by looking round in surprise and then quickly looking away, hoping it wasn’t them about to get arrested. My head whipped around to stare at my partner in horror, then whipped back to Jasmine. She’d stopped dead and was turning to look at our car—
Our eyes met. I grinned a sheepish grin and slowed the car to a halt.
“Ryan?!” she asked, bemused.
It felt like a fire hose had been attached to my heart in place of one of the arteries. A solid thump of emotion that she remembered my name. “Yeah,” I said, in a voice that didn’t sound like my own.
“Did I do something wrong?” she asked. And even that throwaway, innocent comment was just laden with teasing, sexy innuendo. My mind filled with all the things she might have done wrong, and all the wrong things I’d like to do to her. Or was it all in my head? Was I just reading that into it because I was completely, hopelessly, smitten with this girl?
We locked eyes and, just for a fraction of a second, I swore I saw something. I was watching her as intently as I’d watch a suspect, desperate for any clue, so maybe that was why. Her eyes widened, her breathing seemed to change. Just for that instant, she looked—
She looked as if she felt the same way I did.
And then it was gone, so fast that I couldn’t be sure it had ever been there. The Jasmine I knew was back, flirty and yet untouchable, friendly and yet completely unattainable. She was so many levels above me it wasn’t even funny. She was going to Hollywood someday—I had no doubt about that. And I was going to be a beat cop until the day I died.
“Nope,” my mouth said, filling in for me while my brain was absent. “I was just—”
She smiled and I could feel every part of my body light up as if I’d grabbed a live wire. If I’d had any more words in my head, they evaporated.
“He just wanted to say ‘hi’,” Hux threw in, grinning.
Jasmine smiled and leaned down, bracing her bare arms on the sun-warmed roof of the car so she could look in through the window. She was wearing one of her low-cut summer dresses and OHMYGOD—
An hour before, I’d faced down a scumbag of an enforcer for one of the midtown street gangs, a guy with a knife and fifty pounds on me. How could Jasmine reduce me to putty every single time?!
I had to drag my eyes away from her boobs, but I was pretty sure I managed it. “I heard that song on the radio,” I blurted. “Karen and Connor.” That spring, I’d broken up a fight between Connor, the Irish rock guitarist and some Harvard slime ball who’d been groping Jasmine’s cellist friend, Karen. Connor and Karen had gotten together and gone on to record a track for some big record company, and it was still high in the charts.
“I know!” Jasmine said, delighted. “They’re doing great!” I loved the fact that they were all so happy for each other. What must it be like, to be living in a world where your big break could come at any time...or never? When you might have a lousy audition, then get home to find your friend aced hers and was on her way to the big time? I couldn’t even imagine it, which only reinforced how different we were.
“So.” I waited for more words to follow, but they didn’t come.
Ever since I met her five months before, in the alley—don’t think about the alley—I hadn’t been able to get her out of my head. She was like an angel, and I don’t just mean her looks. She had this feeling about her, as if she existed in a whole different world to mine. It was the very first thing I noticed about her. She was glamorous and somehow ethereal—I swear she could dance on a cloud and not fall through it. And then there was me, down in the physical world, just a big lunk staring up at her.
I’d lost all interest in anyone else. Jasmine was like the wobbly tooth your tongue can’t stop playing with. I kept being drawn back to her, back to Fenbrook Academy, back to this same damn
street and yet, every time I got there, I couldn’t say what I needed to say. How do you ask out an actress?
Also, I’m not much of a talker.
In high school, the coach saw that I was taller and wider than the other kids and had me try out for the football team. I could never have been a quarterback. I had no clue about psyching up the team or calling plays. But when they put me in a linebacker jersey and told me who to take down—well, that I could do. And the police force? Well, sure, we do a lot of talking, but we’re following procedure, you know? Following a script. Someone steals your car, I know what questions to ask you. The further away from that I get, the less comfortable I am. So talking to a beautiful, talented actress, the sort of woman who seems to be walking on air...seriously? Are you kidding me?
We lapsed into silence, just looking into each other’s eyes. The silence became long. Longer. Awkward. I offered up a silent prayer for something, anything, to happen to get me out of this...and, at the same time, I wanted to never draw my eyes away from those gorgeous, soft green pools. So big. So expressive. Sometimes they looked so innocent. Other times completely, outrageously filthy. And just occasionally, for a split-second as I looked into their depths, I thought I caught a glimpse of someone else.
Chapter 2
Jasmine
I knew he was there. It was an itch between my shoulder blades—the sort that makes you squirm in nervous excitement, as if your lover’s running a finger down your back. The first Thursday he’d cruised past, I’d taken it for a coincidence. When it happened for the third week in a row, I figured out what was going on...and made sure I was in the same spot at the same time the next week. By the sixth week, I was checking my watch, timing it down to the second, hungry for my Ryan Moment.
My Ryan Moment. Even as I thought it, I crushed down the little fluttering something in my chest. Stop acting like an idiot! Everything was great. I had a fantastic life in the most exciting city in the world, friends I could rely on, a shot at living my dream and becoming an actress...and the only way I could mess it up was if I did something incredibly stupid.
Like, you know, getting involved with a guy. Or even worse, a cop. Or even worse, a good-hearted cop like Ryan.
Natasha and Clarissa and Karen—especially Karen—were always on at me to find a good guy. They kept coaching me on what to look for—or, rather, the warning signs to avoid. I always nodded and let my eyes go big and promised that next time, I wouldn’t have another one night stand. Next time, I’d get myself into a proper relationship with a guy who really cared. And they all rolled their eyes and hugged me and bought me another drink. Jasmine, the flirty, slightly slutty one who always wound up with the wrong guy. Poor Jasmine.
They didn’t realize that the warning signs were exactly what I looked for. They didn’t realize that I wanted a guy who’d be gone in the morning, who wasn’t interested in anything other than sex. My friends assumed I slept with them all, of course, which wasn’t even halfway true. Most of the guys I went home with passed out before we got near the bedroom. I’d arrive at Fenbrook the morning after and tell Karen tales of how Hank or Jack or Mack took me roughly from behind, bent over the end of his bed. You know how I spent most of those supposed nights of passion? Playing Peggle on my phone while the guy snored.
But the one night stands did their job. My friends’ attempts to set me up with someone became less and less frequent and eventually fizzled out altogether. We’d known each other for three years, now, and my reputation was firmly established. I was the life and soul of the party and the perpetual singleton. With Nat, Clarissa, and now Karen with their true loves, I became the provider of all the gossip, the one they lived through vicariously. And the one night stands had another purpose—even if the sex didn’t happen, it was good to feel someone’s arms around me in the darkness. I sometimes indulged myself and let myself pretend it was a real boyfriend snuggling up to me, and that held back the loneliness for a while.
It used to, at least. Recently, it didn’t seem to be working as well.
But, really, what choice did I have? A boyfriend would ask questions. He’d start digging and digging and, if he peeled back enough layers, maybe he’d get right down to Emma. And—
I swallowed, long and hard. Jasmine had been built not on rock or even sand but dark, endlessly-churning waters. In those first few months after arriving in New York, I’d constructed her from driftwood and string, a thrown-together raft just strong enough to support me. Three years of Fenbrook had layered brick and concrete over the top until Jasmine felt like something real, something you could push against and it wouldn’t fall apart. That was why Nat and Clarissa and Karen didn’t have any idea who I really was—although I’d nearly let it slip to Karen, one night in winter, when she’d saved me from becoming an escort. Jasmine was so convincing that I almost believed in her myself. Except….
Except, for all her stability, Jasmine didn’t have any foundations. She was just an island, floating on top of that black water. The water had long since calmed but, if I started thinking about Emma too much, I felt like the whole of Jasmine might just flip over and break apart, exposing the darkness beneath. Darkness that would swallow what was left of me whole.
Nice, normal, getting-to-know-you questions like So, what was it like growing up? or When do I meet your folks? were like jackhammers digging away at the fiction. I could fend them off for an evening, in a bar, where a kiss or a glimpse of cleavage was enough to distract the guy. But evenings in an apartment, cuddled up in front of the TV? Impossible. Some well-meaning guy like Ryan would push too much and I’d fall through the collapsing remains of Jasmine and into the cold, black waters.
And when I fell, he’d be waiting for me. Every memory. Every month, every week, every long night, all building up to the two worst nights of my life. The memories would destroy me on the inside and the truth, when it came out, would destroy the life I’d built. A boyfriend was impossible. A boyfriend who was a cop—one whose whole job it is to get at the facts—that would be suicide.
Every dream has a price and I’d demanded a lot, going from the nightmare that was Emma to the fairy wonderland that was Jasmine. If the price was that I had to stay single, so be it.
So why did I keep torturing myself like this? Why did I want my Ryan moments when I knew that’s all they could ever be? I knew he liked me. God, ever since that first time he’d met me, in an alley on a freezing night in winter, earlier that year.
Chapter 3
Jasmine
Earlier that Year
I’d just left Flicker after drinking cocktails with the girls. Karen, her friend Dan from her string quartet, and I were cutting through an alley, chatting away, on our way to get a cab. Dan was a little way behind us, rooting in his wallet, trying to figure out if he had enough money for the cab.
And then suddenly, Dan wasn’t with us anymore.
We hurried back to find him…and saw him up against a wall, with a man holding a knife to his throat.
My lungs stopped working. My heart stopped beating. Everything I’d left behind in Chicago had followed me after all, and had only been waiting for that moment to pounce. My hand went instinctively for my bag…and then I remembered I hadn’t carried a gun in years.
I yelled at the guy but, if he even registered it, he heard the voice of some privileged kid from a posh neighborhood, not anyone who might actually be a danger. He took Dan’s wallet, phone and watch…and then, out of sheer violent spite, he ran him toward the far wall of the alley. Dan slammed into it and I winced in sympathy. I’d seen my dad throw enough people around to know there’d be broken bones.
Karen called the cops—which felt jarring and wrong. In my world, if someone hurt you, you sorted it out yourself, or you sucked it up and waited to heal. But no one would dream of calling the cops. The cops didn’t care about people like us unless my dad was offering them a bribe.
By the time the cops arrived, Natasha and Clarissa had run around the corner from Flicker,
so it was an interesting scene: one tiny, very serious cellist, pushing her glasses up her nose as she stroked Dan’s hair; two gorgeous, long-legged ballerinas in designer dresses…and me. A busty redhead in a tiny, very tight black dress, heels, and an almost floor-length white fur coat.
I turned to meet the cops, steeling myself, and saw…him.
Ryan. Or Officer Kowalski, as he called himself.
I’d gradually started to relax, the fear seeping out of me now that the danger was over. Suddenly, I was bolt upright and alert. Transfixed.
The first word was big. No other word could apply. He was tall enough that I had to tilt my head back to look him in the eye, even in the outrageous heels I was wearing. But he was broad-shouldered, too, his whole body heavy and solid with muscle, narrowing to a tight waist and then thickening to muscled hips. Built big, not gym-big, as if he came from some far-off land where the men still swung broadswords and wore furry boots and carried their wenches off over their shoulders. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him, just thick slabs of hardness that made me instinctively want to wrap my body around him. And his hands! His hands were huge, with powerful, thick fingers. If he put his palm on my cheek, to warm it, his hand would cover most of my head. I’m not some tiny, slender thing like Nat or Clarissa. Not many men can make me feel small. But this guy did.
The uniform…I should have hated him. The sight of a cop uniform should have been enough for me to run the other way, or at least clam up. But there was something about him wearing it, and I don’t mean how well his pecs pushed out the front of the shirt and jacket, or how the pants clung to his tight ass. I mean it fitted, like he was born to wear it. He brought something with him, some aura of…hope. I’d heard that normal people, when they see a cop, feel relieved because they know that they’re protected from harm. I’d always thought that was funny, since I lived in fear of them. But with Ryan, I actually felt that. He walked into that alley and I immediately felt…safe. Like I’d been delivered from evil. It hit me that this is what cops should be like.
Acting Brave (Fenbrook Academy #3) Page 2
