by K. Bromberg
And with another flash of that cocky grin of his, Grant turns and strides out of the bar without ever looking back.
“Arrogant son of a bitch,” I mutter, angry at more things than I care to count. That he rejected me. That he maneuvered me. That he just put me in my place. That he called me out.
That he’s leaving and all I can think of is how I want more.
“Thank you,” I murmur as the waitress slides a fresh drink in front of me.
What exactly just happened? My head spins at the turn of events and my logic tells me I should be pissed off at him.
But I’m not.
Because as much as it pains me to admit, he was right. I am panicking. I am trying to figure out why everything seems so damn different when it comes to Grant. I don’t do different. I run the opposite way from different.
Yet here I sit. I haven’t run away. I didn’t even protest. I just let everything that happened happen, and I know damn well I’d do it again . . . because that kiss of his felt like none I’ve ever experienced before.
And I hate that I love it.
And I detest that I want more of them.
The bar buzzes on around me as I focus on being angry with him. It’s so much easier to be pissed off than to accept the fact that he scares me. And the good kind of scare.
So I look at the drink he left me in consolation. I fixate on that cocky smirk of his that makes me want to strangle him and kiss him at the same time. And I tell myself I need to stand my ground. I need to be the strong girl I’ve tried to be instead of allowing myself to fall prey to the way he makes me feel.
He’s crazy if he thinks I’m going to drink this. I won’t just out of pure spite.
No one handles me.
No one tells me what I can and can’t do.
And no one walks away from me unless it’s on my terms.
Lost in thought, I pick up the glass and take a sip. “Shit.” I just fell right into that one. I stare at the dark red liquid for a long moment before shaking my head and tilting the glass all the way up until it’s empty.
“You have a list of case files on your desk. There are a dozen highlighted and the remaining not. Do you need me to do anything with them?” Nate asks as I pull up in front of my house and sigh when I see Grayson’s car there.
I’m not in the mood to deal with my brothers. Not after my sleepless night complete with requisite cold shower after thinking about Emerson and her damn kiss.
“Earth to Grant?”
“Sorry. I just pulled up and the assholes are here.” Nate chuckles in my ear, knowing how much it annoys me when my little brothers show up unannounced and help themselves to my beer and food. “Um, the list of case files . . . do you have time to pull them up and request the rest for me? The non-highlighted ones. If not, I can do it tomorrow before shift.”
“Nah, I’m killing time. Today’s quiet as fuck. This will give me something to do. When’s the test?”
“Written is in a few weeks. The interview, I’m waiting on the chief to decide. Stetson is making noise, though, and bringing up that crap with my dad—”
“Old fucking news that should have never been news.”
“I hear ya.” I roll my shoulders as I prepare myself for the onslaught of my brothers. “Thanks for your help. See you tomorrow.”
I hang up the phone and push open my front door.
“Ah, look, asshole number one is here,” Grady says as he lifts up a beer in greeting.
“And he looks grumpy,” Grayson chimes in.
“What are you two pricks doing here?”
“It was a rough little league game,” Grayson says, shaking his head.
“Seriously? That’s what you two have to stress about? Get out.” I throw my thumb over my shoulder but then realize Luke is nowhere to be found. “Should I be concerned that Luke isn’t here?”
“Nah, he’s with Mom and Dad. We were given a warning to go cool our jets because we were showing him a perfect example of what poor sports look like.” Grady grins, and I can only imagine what happened to get that rebuke from our mom.
“So you decided to come here and crash my party?” I head to the refrigerator to grab a beer and grit my teeth over the stash they’ve already depleted.
“You were having a party?” Grayson sits up like a damn meerkat.
“No. No party. Go home.” Shaking my head, I unholster my weapon and walk the few strides to place it in the gun safe before turning back to my brothers and lifting my eyebrows. “I don’t see you moving.”
“Oh, that means Grant has a lady coming over,” Grayson harasses, drawing the phrase out and earning a laugh from Grady.
“No, it does not mean I have a lady coming over.”
“Good thing,” Grady says, “because she’d be sorely disappointed in your skills.” He makes a show of trying to thrust his hips.
“Says the man who could fuck a cheerio without breaking it,” I reply, just to shut him up, but I chuckle when Grady holds a fist over his mouth, points at me, and yells, “Burn!”
He never takes anything seriously.
“You really let him around Luke when he’s like this?” I ask Grayson. “No wonder mom took him for a while.”
“It’s nothing like that,” Grayson says, always one to defend whichever one of us is being picked on. “We treated the team to pizza after they won. We had beer and mom asked Luke if he wanted to spend the night. Of course he did—it’s Mom—so we figured we’d come over here and bug the shit outta you.”
“That is, unless you have a wo-man coming over,” Grady chimes in.
“No, I don’t have a wo-man coming over,” I say and throw a pillow at Grady. “Get your feet off the table.”
Grady laughs, tucking the damn pillow behind his head. “He so has a woman coming over if he’s telling us to get our feet off the table and shit.”
“You guys are fucking idiots.” I plop down on the love seat and glare at Grady until he plants his feet back on the floor.
“So, big brother . . .”
Nothing good ever comes from Grayson starting off the conversation with those three words.
“It’s been a long day, let’s not start whatever it is you’re trying to start,” I warn.
“Why do we come here? It’s nothing but abuse with him,” Grady says as he takes another sip of his beer.
“Exactly. If I’m so abusive to you little shits, don’t let the door hit you on the asses on the way out.” I know they’re not going anywhere, but I do our typical song and dance anyway.
“Not until we hear the scoop.” Gray sits forward and rests his elbows on his knees. “Rumor is you were at McGregor’s the other night with Emerson.”
“And?”
I can still taste her kiss.
“Well, obviously, you tracked her down, so what gives? You bumping uglies yet?”
I can still see that panicked look in her eyes.
“What is it with you guys? Can’t I go out with a woman for a few drinks and just be friends?” I ask.
I can still see the determination in her scowl when I walked away.
“No,” they both say in unison, and it prompts me to sip my own beer because I have a feeling it’s going to be a long-ass night.
The wood porch creaks as I sit on its steps and breathe in the fresh night air. It’s the first time I’ve had a chance to think all day, and considering Mutt and Jeff are inside catching up on the Giants game, I’m taking the liberty.
It’s fucking ridiculous that I have to go outside of my own house to relax, but it isn’t like they’ve listened to me the thirty other times I’ve kicked them out in the past three hours.
“Needing a break?” My father’s voice startles me.
“Dad?”
I look up to find him walking up my driveway. I was so lost in thought I didn’t even notice when he pulled up across the street.
“I figured you might need help kicking your brothers out. They were quite the pair earlier.” He steps
closer, and his silver hair looks pale yellow under the porch light.
“I heard mom wasn’t too thrilled with them.”
He shrugs, as if to say boys will be boys. “You know your mom. She’ll take any excuse to get Luke alone for a few hours so she can spoil him rotten.”
“Thank God for him because that means she lays off me.”
“True,” he muses before taking a seat beside me on the steps. “What’s troubling you, Grant?”
I glance over at him, and even though his face is etched with perpetual lines of worry every retired cop seems to have, he still has the impenetrable stare. A proud and defiant angle to his chin and jaw. “Who says something is wrong?”
He raises his eyebrows, as if to ask me if he’s misinterpreted my demeanor, which prompts me to blow out a sigh, lean my head against the railing behind me, and close my eyes. He gives me a few minutes to gather my thoughts without pressing me.
“I saw Emerson the other night.” It isn’t much, but it’s a start.
“So I heard.” He nods but doesn’t look my way. Damn nosy people already talking. “What seems to be the problem? Did you have a bad time?”
I chuckle. “Just the opposite, actually.” His silence tells me he isn’t following me. “It’s complicated.”
“Most things are. If they were easy, they wouldn’t be worth figuring out.”
Father logic is not what I need right now, and yet, I find myself needing to talk through everything.
“She kissed me.”
It’s his turn to chuckle. “And that’s a problem, why?”
I push up from the step and walk back and forth on the sidewalk before shoving a hand through my hair. “Because . . . because I don’t know how to handle it.”
“You’ve never had trouble handling a woman kissing you before if I recall correctly.”
“But this is different.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s her, and it’s . . . everything she’s been through and . . .”
“How do you know what she’s been through? Has she told you? Has she talked about it with you?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know?”
“Because I was the one who told Mrs. Gellar, Dad. I’m the one who turned her life upside down.”
“You mean that you’re the one who saved her.” His voice is even but serious, and it stops me in my tracks. I stare at him with hands at my side and every part of me confused about one goddamn kiss amidst a million other kisses I’ve had.
“She saved herself, Dad.”
“Good. I’m glad you know that. Because you’re right. She did. But let me ask you this, son, if she hasn’t said a word to you about what happened before, why does it bug you? How do you know it bugs her?”
“How can it not?” I raise my voice without meaning to. It’s just that this is like talking to a brick wall instead of talking to the one person who should be able to give me insight on how to handle this.
“If you met her on the street, you would have no idea about what she’s been through. So, if she doesn’t tell you, then that’s how you have to treat her.”
I look at the moon above and shake my head. “Easier said than done.”
“It is, but it’s her past, Grant. Sometimes you have to accept the other’s history and just leave it there—as the past. It isn’t fair if you use it against her when she’s never even brought it into the equation.”
“I would never hold it against her.”
“Aren’t you already, though?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You wouldn’t be out here stressing about Em if you didn’t know her history . . . so that in and of itself says you’re already using it against her.”
I reject the idea immediately, but the longer he just sits there quietly and stares at me the more his reasoning makes sense.
“You’re right.” I walk to the end of the pathway and then walk back before throwing my hands out. “Never mind. This is just my crazy talking. A few drinks and a kiss should not amount to me stressing this much about a woman.”
He gives a non-committal noise.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I snap.
“It doesn’t mean anything,” he says cool as can be.
He thinks I’m wrong. I take a sip of my beer but refuse to acknowledge he’s right.
Because I am wrong. This is Emerson we’re talking about. Of course, I’m going to think harder and be more careful with her.
Fuck.
“You don’t understand. You wouldn’t get it.”
“Try me.”
“There’s this look she gets in her eyes. It’s like she’s perfectly fine. She’s funny and outgoing and God is she feisty . . . but every so often, there’s this sadness, this uncertainty that flashes in her eyes, and it fucks me up. I don’t know how to make it go away.”
“You always did want to save people.”
“Not that again.” I roll my shoulders and walk over to the bucket of ice on the porch and grab a new beer. I need it. This conversation is way more in-depth than I ever intended it to be.
“No. I’m serious. It bugs you because you want to fix it. You want to swoop in and take the pain away, but I’m sorry, that’s something for her to deal with. You can’t save her from something that happened twenty years ago.”
“I know . . .” I hang my head and resign myself to this bullshit feeling I have. When I look back up, I meet his eyes with more certainty than I feel. “How bad was it?”
The widening of his eyes tells me my question takes him by surprise. “That’s not for me to tell you, Grant.” He glances back to the house where Grayson and Grady shout inside at the game, and he gets a ghost of a smile on his face hearing my brothers. “I’ll tell you this, though. If it had been one of you, I would’ve stepped on the other side of the law.”
Our eyes hold, and I know he means it. For Chief Malone to even utter the statement, it had to have been bad. Worse than I thought. Worse than I could even stomach considering. He slowly rises from the step, his still-fit body moving a little slower these days, and pats me on the back.
“You’ve always liked Emmy. I’m not surprised all these years later that you still do.” He takes a few steps toward the screen door before turning back to look at me. “Tell me this. Is there any time you’ve been with her when she hasn’t gotten that look?”
“Yeah.” I laugh. “When she’s mad at me.” I think of the fire in her eyes when I left the other night. Her temper was hot, but it put color in her cheeks and made her spine stiffen some.
He smiles. “Seems fitting. She always did have a stubborn streak.”
“She sure did.”
“So how’d you leave things with her?”
“With her pissed off at me. She wants to be in control so she can keep her distance.”
“Kinda like you,” he muses and draws a quick glare from me that doesn’t faze him. “And let me guess, you let her know you were the one who was going to set the pace?”
“Damn straight.”
“Your mom would disagree with your line of thinking.”
“So, don’t tell her.”
“I won’t.” His laugh rings out, and I know my brothers have heard him so our time is limited. “You already have your answer how to handle her, Grant.”
“What?” I tip the bottle up again.
“Make her mad at you. It might be frustrating. It might not be pretty, but then again, matters of the heart never are.”
No one said anything about hearts.
He’s still there. I can feel his eyes on me.
I huff as I lay the first of six canopies out on the ground and inspect it for any sign of tears or any seams that might need to be re-stitched before I can repack it in its rig.
“Who pissed off Malone?”
I look over to where Travis stands with his sleeveless shirt on, his baseball cap bent at the brim, and a red rag fisted in one hand, and I am thankful
that my sunglasses hide the glare I shoot him. The sweet, old man who manages the airstrip doesn’t deserve my vitriol, and yet, his comment has fanned the flames of the irritation Grant is causing.
“How do you know Grant?” I ask.
“Everyone knows the Malones in this town. They’re as much a part of Sunnyville as the grapes that grow on the hills around here.” He adjusts the brim of his cap.
“For the record, I didn’t piss off Malone.” I walk to the other side of the canopy, which is starting to billow from the breeze, and force myself not to rush through the inspection. These chutes stop our falls, so it definitely doesn’t pay to be hasty.
“If you didn’t piss him off, why’s he been sitting at the end of the runway for the past hour?”
“He is? I didn’t notice.” I don’t even venture to look the way of his police cruiser where it sits blaringly out of place because I refuse to give either man the satisfaction of knowing I have been paying attention.
“Yep. Right out there.” He lifts a chin and eyes me as he tries to figure out if I’m lying or not.
“Humph.” At this point, the less I say the better.
“D’ya want me to go find out? Maybe he’s interested in jumping. Having a Malone jump here might be good for business.”
“Nah. He’s not worth the wasted breath. Thanks for the offer, though.” I squat and begin the methodical process of packing the first canopy into its pack under the scrutiny of both men. Each minute that passes only serves to annoy me further, until I’m huffing every few seconds to show some kind of resistance.
“Well then . . .” Travis’s boots scuffle against the pavement until they are in my eyesight, prompting me to look up at him. “I put a to-do list on your desk. It isn’t too long, but . . . it has to get done.”
“I’ll take care of it in a bit. Thanks.” I focus again on the task at hand. After a minute, I hear him turn and head back inside, leaving me alone to ignore Grant.
Over the next hour, I work on the next five packs, well aware of Grant’s presence. Reminded of the kiss we shared. Of the demands he laid down. Of the frustration I feel every time I think of him—which is a lot—when I don’t want to think of him at all.
