by Finn, Emilia
There’s a deeper power at play, a reason I’m dreaming of him, a reason his eyes are already burned into my brain.
But I don’t do vulnerability. I don’t do weaknesses.
Pull yourself together. Sack up and get back to business.
“Libby?”
I jump out of my skin and squeal when he pops his head around the corner of the aisle and gives a rueful smile. “This doesn’t have to be so scary. Adults get dinner all the time. Sometimes they fuck afterwards. We could do one or both, I won’t judge you.”
“Fucking?” Insecurity makes way for anger. “Are you insane? You were talking about dinner, and now you’re suggesting bed?”
“Doesn’t have to be a bed,” he answers quietly. “I’m partial to standing and fucking. Couch fucking. Car fucking. I enjoy the thrill of fucking on my desk, because my office is all windows, and I know people can see in if they have binoculars.”
“You’re a pig.”
“I know you like casual sex too. I know you like sex in general. A woman doesn’t have the kind of body you have unless they use it; in the gym, at work… in bed. I know you have a healthy sexual appetite, I can see it in your eyes. And since you don’t date, that implies sex for convenience. Where do you go, Libby? What places do you visit to get your hit?”
The face of my friend pops into my mind. Drake is a cop from two towns over, and he likes casual sex too. We’re both career-minded, we loathe the idea of dependency, we love working out, we enjoy a fit body and know the work it takes to get one. He’s been the best thing that’s happened to me since… forever. He’s not my boyfriend, we don’t date or chitchat. But if I’m over his way, we meet up, and if he’s here, we meet up. When the timing is right, we make each other come, then we part again with a friendly ‘until next time.’
It’s been the perfect arrangement for years.
“You have a fuck buddy,” Theo whispers. He leans in close enough that the nosy cashier twenty feet away can’t hear. “I don’t wanna know his name, Lib. I don’t wanna know where he lives, who his people are, or the last time he got to touch what’s mine. But that’s done now.”
“What’s yours–” My eyes widen. “What?”
“You and him.” Theo’s blue eyes dart between me and the front door as though Drake is right here.
The irony is, if he was, there’s not much he’d do about the situation I’ve found myself in. If I sent out an SOS and said I was scared, he’d take care of business and remove me from the situation. But if it was a thing about jealousy… there’s none of that between us. We’ve both explored other things in the last few years, there are no hard feelings, no jealousy or greed. Every time we’ve tried to find someone else, we invariably end up in bed together because neither of us are looking for what those people who date are looking for. They want promises and forevers, and we mostly want to be left alone.
“That arrangement you have with whoever he is,” Theo continues. “It’s done now. If you want a casual fuck, you know where to find me.” His hand slides into my pocket, then out again to rest on my hip. “You want an audience while you get yourself off using a toy, you call me. Fuck knows I’d enjoy that just as much. If you wanna know what it feels like to come so hard you forget to be scared, you know where to find me. I’m not here to hurt you, Libby. But I’ll sure as fuck enjoy your body when you offer it.” He turns away with a flourish and leaves me panting against the shelves that hold the rainbow Cheerios. “Eat the turkey, Lib. It’s good for you.”
I glance into my cart and frown at the trays of turkey I never put there, then I reach into my pocket and pull out a business card. It doesn’t have the lion logo I expect. Or a last name. Nor does it have an email address. It simply says Theo, and below that, a phone number and an address in a city far from here.
These aren’t his typical business cards, but something else. Something a little more personal and, if I read him correctly, something a little more trusting.
I doubt Theo Griffin hands his address out to everyone as freely as he did just now. No doubt he’s made millions of dollars this weekend, and unlike my father, he did it legally. He’s not from my world, not even close. He’s neither criminal nor cop. He’s just… a person. A really rich person.
When that thought crosses my mind, and directly after that, fear that somehow his money will be linked to me and create suspicion amongst those who have a grudge against me, I tear the card into tiny pieces. I want to toss it to the floor and run away, but it has his address, and I can’t betray his trust like that.
I’ll be damned if anyone ever heard Theo Griffin and I were anything more than… well, strangers, or suggested I was a cop with less than stellar morals. I’ve worked too damn hard to risk anything casting doubt on me or my uniform. So I tear the card into as many pieces as my shaking hands can manage, then I take my phone out and call my arrangement.
“Hey, cutie.” Drake’s voice is like a ray of sunshine on a dreary day. “It’s been awhile. What’s shaking?”
“Ah…” My voice quivers, which enrages me. “Not much. I’m heading up your way tonight for work. You busy?”
He makes a growling noise in the back of his throat that usually gets my engines revving. “How long do you have?”
“An hour?” It comes out like a question. “I have to be back again for shift tomorrow morning, so I can’t stay. We could hang out around eight?”
“Hang out.” Chuckling, he closes a car door and makes me think he’s on duty. “I love your brand of hanging out, Lizbeth. I’m open for eight. Afterwards, I can tell you about the date from hell I had last night.”
“You did?”
“Yeah, clingy as shit, whiny about every damn thing. I got her top off, and she had a sports bra on. A sports bra!”
My nerves turn to humor. Shaky and uncertain, as my eyes come up to find Theo watching me from the front doors of the store. He can’t possibly hear what I’m saying, but he still wears a coat of anger. Of rage. We don’t know each other, but I still feel like I’m in big trouble.
Can he read lips? I turn away and give him my back. “That must have been terrible for you. Such a turn-off.”
Drake gives a throaty chuckle. “You know me, girl. You know I have a kink for lingerie. You gonna wear something nice for me? Make it black and barely there, and I’ll make it worth your while. I need something new to wash away the horror of what I saw last night.”
“Wait…” I frown. “Did you fuck her? Because you and I might be casual, but I don’t wanna be day two of your winning streak. That icks me out.”
He scoffs. “No, I sent her home. She was too whiny. She probably would’ve filled out a feedback form after we were done, and you know my fragile ego can’t take that kinda shit.”
“You’re such a little bitch,” I laugh. “I’ll be at your place around eight. I’m not coming to eat, no candlelight. Absolutely no romance. I just need to–”
“Let off steam?” he asks with a laugh. “I’ve got what you need, baby girl. I’ll bring the D, you bring the V, and we’ll jam that shit together till we make the gaga noises.”
“There is seriously something wrong with you. Like, right up in your brain, something got mixed up, and now you’re just weird.”
“And yet, you’re the one calling me,” he teases.
Touché.
“You sound kinda wound up; just come off your period?”
“No! Shut up about my damn period. I’ll see you later.”
I feel dirty as I hang up, and I’ve never in my life felt dirty after talking to Drake. Women are allowed to have casual sex. We’re allowed to be thirty and not married. I live my life for me, not to the standards society has set for me, which is precisely why I’ve been able to enjoy a casual relationship with a sexy man and zero commitment for so long.
But then I turn back to the front doors and find Theo Griffin’s eyes boring into mine. Suddenly it doesn’t feel okay anymore.
Scowling, I shove my phone back
into my pocket and push the cart toward checkout. My movements are rough, and my groceries are tossed onto the conveyer belt haphazardly, annoying the cashier when she has to sort them before she bags them.
I pause when I finish emptying my cart and feel like something is missing. I have the chicken thighs. I have rice. I have the fresh produce and, annoyingly, the ground turkey. I look up with a frown and try to think of what’s missing.
Then it hits me.
“Where are my beans?”
The cashier continues to ring up my things and bag them with precision, but she does it with a scowl. She doesn’t give a single shit about my missing beans, and when I get home twenty minutes later and begin unpacking, I search every single bag three times.
“Where the hell are my beans?”
8
Libby
Entitlement
Ground turkey is gross, and anyone who says differently can see me in the streets.
I bought chicken with my groceries, but compelled by our encounter in the store, I cooked the turkey, like having his blessing would make it better as though by magic. Perhaps my taste buds matured once I hit thirty, or maybe I’d learned a new recipe.
No, it still sucks, and my stomach now homes a gross concoction of ground turkey, salts and garlic, and a bunch of different sauces in an attempt to make it palatable. Basically, I blew through my calorie count in condiments alone.
Not a good first impression for the tech mogul who thinks I’m going to jump into his bed simply because he asked.
I mean, had he said it in a less demanding way, I might relent.
It’s not that I don’t think he’s handsome. It’s not that I don’t consider him sexy, dark, intriguing as hell, and almost as tempting as a sweet treat. And it’s not like I’m a prude; had we met and simply chatted for three seconds without the weird staring or demands, I’d have fallen into bed with him with the provision nobody gets attached.
But now this is where we are; I have the invitation into his bed, but I also have an invite for Drake’s. I know Drake can deliver, and he never gets weird about it afterwards.
I’m just saying, there are not enough calories in the world to fit Theo Griffin in my life.
Selecting lacy black underwear – my only non-tomboyish crutch – I slide into them and smile at the feel of lace against freshly shaved legs. I’ve showered, shaved, exfoliated, perfumed, painted and blown out my hair. Drake and I are only casual lovers, but I’m not sleeping with any man without taking care of myself at home beforehand.
Drake’s home is only two towns over, forty or so minutes doing the speed limit, so I slide into a pair of jeans from my top shelf, a pair of heels that annoyingly make me think of Theo and his comments on my height, and a loose top of soft, cottony fabric to combat the feel of being squished into jeans. The sleeve hangs off one shoulder, leaving bare skin behind to tempt a man to kiss.
To bite.
My jeans fit like a second skin and support me more than any therapist ever has before, and my hair is soft and perfect. I won’t even have to wash or style it again for work tomorrow. I make a half-assed search for my diamond earrings, but give up after a minute when I check my watch and realize if I don’t move now, I’m going to be late.
Drake won’t care that I’m running behind, but the longer I take, the longer it’ll be before I get home and into bed. I’m back on day shift with Oz tomorrow, and he’s going to push my buttons the way only he can, and after a week of nights, topped by two nights of weird dreams, I’m not exactly working on all cylinders.
I need to get my sleep under control, then I need to report to work tomorrow at oh-nine-hundred.
Awesome.
Grabbing my clutch and stuffing my gun and phone inside, because I never leave home without either, I rush from my bedroom and pass my couch on my way to the door, but then I skid to a stop when something isn’t right. My woman brain fights against the cop brain that tries to slide in and solve the mystery. My body turns toward the door; I want to leave, but my heart refuses to release me, until finally, it clicks.
The sweater?
I look over my shoulder, as though expecting it to be right there, then back to the couch where I’m certain I saw it last.
Once upon a time, long, long ago, I met a boy who told me about his favorite sweater, and how mad he was that he forgot it at home. He was cold, so we huddled together in the breeze and shared my coat, and when my bare legs were cold, he tucked them beneath his and returned the favor.
For an hour, I got to snuggle with that boy and talk about all of the plans we had for our futures. When you’re only nine, your future is usually some grand, far-fetched career – there was a short period there that I wanted to be a marine biologist. Why? I have no clue, but it sounded cool. That day, while we sat outside and our parents conducted what they called business, Gunner and I discussed our mutual goals to become police officers.
I wanted to make things safe, and I think he just wanted to call himself a Texas Ranger. I suspect he’d have been just as happy had Chuck Norris walked through the parking lot. Though in the end, of course, neither happened. My father killed that boy, and two days later, we went for a long drive and visited the apartment Gunner spoke of. It was on the poor side of town hidden by overflowing dumpsters and people sitting in the street all day long. I saw his living room, tidy, but bugs skittered once we entered. I saw his kitchen, his empty fridge. I happened across pencils and paper beneath the couch, and above that, the red sweater I was certain was the sweater.
In the last moments I ever spoke to Gunner, he told me that he liked to steal things sometimes. He said it made him happy to take something that wasn’t his, if that something helped make his and his mom’s life easier.
The sweater was certain to make my life easier, if only to help me grieve the only true friend I had, so I dragged in a breath for bravery, swiped the sweater, and stuffed it inside my coat, then I snuck out to the car and stuffed it in the spare wheel well in the trunk. It stayed there until late that night. Once we got home and my father was asleep, I snuck outside and stole it again. I took it back with me to school, and the one time a bully tried to steal it from me just for the sake of being a jerk, I earned my reputation around school – I would bust a bitch’s face if she wanted to mess with me.
I had something worth defending, something I would die protecting.
It’s become a part of me now, something I’ve kept around like a safety blanket. The white dinosaurs that once decorated the front have mostly worn away. The zipper is broken from the billions of times I’ve done it up and undid it. The string that goes inside the hood is gone, the bottom hem is tattered.
That red sweater was well loved by the boy, and well used by me for two decades longer, and though I tend to sit with it most days and run my fingers over the fabric, I don’t often think of its origins anymore. It’s a part of me, so its absence now is startling.
I do a full three-sixty in my living room, thinking I may have tossed it somewhere, but I’m certain I had it on the couch. That’s where I always have it.
Frowning and making a plan to search when I get home, I force myself away or risk losing my chance to let off steam with Drake. Moving past my couch and galley kitchen, I swing the door wide and jolt back with a scream. It’s like electricity runs through my veins, shocking me and making my body spasm.
My hand snaps my clutch open and takes hold of my SIG P229 service-issued gun while Theo-effing-Griffin stands in my hall with his hands on the doorframe and his eyes on the floor.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” My heart races so fast, it hurts my chest. “Are you insane? I could have shot you.”
Head down, bowed almost in a show of weakness, he leaves his hands exactly where they are, but brings his head up a fraction and looks at me through his lashes. “Don’t go wherever you’re going, Libby. Don’t go to your fuck buddy.”
“What are you– Why are you here?” My words are shouted, and becaus
e I’m the police, my neighbors duck their heads into the hall to get firsthand gossip. “How do you know where I live? This isn’t publicly available information, creep!”
He watches me with eyes that shift between sadness and flippancy. “This is a tiny town. Everyone knows where everyone lives.”
“I don’t know where you–” I cut my words off and press a hand to my aching chest. I don’t want him to think I want to know where he’s staying. “You cannot be here! This is a massive violation of my privacy. I should take you down to the station and leave you there overnight. Jesus, Theo! You can’t just turn up on my doorstep like we’re friends!”
“We can be friends,” he murmurs. His voice is so quiet, so deep, it’s like he’s speaking only for me, and not the twelve people who’ve found their way to my hall. “Don’t go out looking like that, Lib. Don’t visit a man and give yourself to him.”
I slam my shoulder against his chest and push into the hall. I will not become a hostage in my own home. I will not let a man dictate where I can go and with whom. “You’ve lost your damn mind, guy. We met for two seconds in a gym, then again for two seconds in a grocery store. You’ve straight up lost your marbles thinking you can come to my home and demand anything. This is your one and only warning.” I turn to him when I pull the door closed with a slam. “Stay away from my home. You do not have permission to be here.” I push away from him and ignore the glint of anger in his eyes.
I make it no more than two feet before his hand wraps around my wrist and he pulls me back. Our chests slam together so hard, every last scrap of oxygen escapes my body and leaves me weak.
“And this is your one and only warning; do not go there. Do not get mad at me and go to another man as revenge. Don’t do that, Elizabeth. Don’t punish me when all you have to do is agree to a date.”
“I will not date you!” I rip my arm from his grasp and stand taller. I have heels on now, so my forehead stops at his chin level. “I will spend my time with whoever I want. Wherever I want. With as many men, in as many holes as I want to offer.” Who am I? “I have no clue who you think you are, Theo Griffin. Maybe you buy women with your kazillions, but I won’t be one of them. I cannot be bought. Move along and stay the hell out of my way.” I turn away with a flourish and throw my hair over my shoulder for good measure.
