Cuffed

by K. Bromberg

  I don’t get handled. I don’t get played.

  Even being firm in those beliefs, the scene from the bar plays in my mind over and over again. By the time I’m done, I’m hot, I’m tired, and I’m irritated to all hell.

  “Whoa, where’s the fire?” Leo asks as I slam into the front office of Blue Skies, stomping my feet like a tantruming toddler.

  “Don’t ask,” I grumble as I walk right past him and into my office, shutting the door behind me. He stares at me through the glass door, completely confused, so I turn to stare out the window, which of course directly faces where Grant is parked.

  For the love of God.

  My phone is in my hand, and I’m pushing send without thinking this through.

  “Officer Malone.”

  “Don’t give me your ‘Officer Malone’ bullshit. How about Officer Stalker? Or Officer Asshole? It looks like you’re a real crime fighter, sitting out there at the end of an empty runway.”

  His chuckle fills the line and grates on every nerve that isn’t already shredded. “You never know where a crime may occur.” There’s a slow, relaxed drawl to his voice.

  “Huh.”

  “Like it sure is a damn crime how good you look in that flight suit when you bend over and fold those parachutes.”

  I click end on the phone and stew as I pace the short distance of my office like a caged animal. He’s going to sit out there for over two hours and that’s all he has? The jerk.

  I hit send again and grit my teeth harder with each and every ring. He finally picks up on the fourth one, right before it goes to voice mail.

  “Seriously? That’s the best you can do? You’ve gotta work on a better line than that.”

  “I knew you’d call back.”

  “You’re infuriating.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Definitely.” I sit in my chair and then stand again, too antsy to stay still. “Why have you been sitting out there all day? If it’s just to annoy the hell out of me, you’ve succeeded. Whatever else it is you’re trying to do, it isn’t going to work,” I lie.

  “Mmm.”

  “What’s that supposed to—Oh . . .” The light bulb comes on. “I see what you’re doing here, Malone.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’re trying to get the upper hand.”

  “I am?”

  “Quit answering everything I say with a question, damn it.” I throw my hands up in exasperation.

  “Why does that bug you?”

  “Grrr. You just did it again!”

  “Do you think I don’t know that?” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice, but I’m not going to play into his question carnival again.

  “I’m not letting anyone control me or any situation regardless of what one particularly annoying male may think.”

  His chuckle fills the line again, and I hate that with as mad as I am at him, it’s still sexy as hell. “You sure about that?”

  “Damn sure.”

  “You might want to double-check that hill you’re willing to die on.”

  “Why’s that?” I narrow my brow as I stare out at his cruiser.

  “Because I’ve already gotten what I came for.”

  “Yeah? What’s that?”

  “You to be thinking about me.”

  The line goes dead.

  And before I can make it out of the building, temper leaving smoke in my wake, his cruiser is already pulling out of the driveway onto the main highway.

  “You to be thinking of me,” I mutter in disgust.

  Because he’s right.

  I am.

  And hell if he didn’t just get the upper hand.

  “Hello?”

  Crap. Why did I think calling him would be easier than texting him? That deep rumble of his voice. The memory of his kiss on my tongue. The thought of that smile that makes butterflies take flight in my stomach.

  Get a grip, Em. It’s Phony Maloney.

  “Will you stop trying to win my friends over to your side?” Impatience owns my voice as I look through the sliding glass door into Desi’s kitchen, where she is flitting around oohing and ahhing over the delivery.

  “Come again?”

  “The Williams Sonoma basket. The gift certificate for a cooking class. I mean, really?” I huff and put a hand on my hip.

  “What? I’m not allowed to send a thank-you gift for having me over the other night? You know my momma, Em. She’s real big on manners.”

  “Manners, my ass.”

  “What was that about your ass?” He starts with the questions as responses bit again.

  “Nothing. Never mind.”

  “Were we hanging up now?” The humor in his voice sparks my temper, and I hate that he’s getting exactly what wants from me—a response.

  I can’t help it.

  “I forget. Were you always this annoying when we were younger?” I grit out as Desi pulls out a bottle of some kind of olive oil and holds it to her chest as if it’s the Hope Diamond. I roll my eyes as I wait for his answer.

  “Not that I know of, but I do remember you being a pain in the ass.”

  “I was not.”

  “Hmm, you sure about that?”

  I hate that his comment gives me pause. That it leaves me standing in Desi’s backyard, scouring my memories and wondering if he’s right. I can’t recall any one situation to disprove him.

  “You there?” he asks, his voice full of humor and feigned impatience.

  “Stop trying to distract me and stop trying to buy my friends.”

  “That’s a steep accusation.”

  “What else do you call it?”

  “Positioning?” He chuckles.

  “This conversation is over.”

  “Okay.” There’s silence except for his breathing on the other line. “If it’s over, why haven’t you hung up?”

  “Because you need to hang up first.” Oh my God. I’m reverting to being a teenager here. Why does he make me act this juvenile?

  “Ladies first.”

  If the phone was old school, I would have slammed it down, but it isn’t, so I can’t. There is absolutely no satisfaction in pushing end.

  “This is absolute heaven,” Desi calls from inside the house. “Come look.”

  “I’ll pass,” I say drolly as I move to the open door to watch her fawn all over what really is a gift tailor-made for my best friend. I can’t be blind to his consideration, but I know deep down he’s doing it to irk me and position himself in my life.

  “Isn’t this the sweetest thing? And all for having him over the other night. They don’t make men like him anymore.”

  It’s the second time I’ve heard that, but it strikes my ear differently from when she said it before. “The other night?”

  Desi looks up, doe eyes blinking rapidly before looking back down to sort through the bagged pasta and gourmet sauces included. “Yeah. The barbecue.”

  “But that wasn’t the other night.” I step forward and brace my hands on the counter across from her.

  She waves a hand my way. “Semantics, Em. The other night, a few weeks ago, it’s all the same thing.”

  No it isn’t.

  And as she prattles on about this and that and truffle oil and terms that sound cook-ish but I’m not certain, the phrase “the other night” continues to replay in my head.

  Have they gotten together another night to conspire about me? Desi told me she was busy last week when I asked her to go get some sushi, but she wouldn’t tell me with what. Did she and Grant meet up so she could help him plan ways to win me over?

  Correction—annoy the hell out of me.

  Winning me over would mean he has a chance, which he doesn’t. Okay, maybe he has a tiny one, but that’s beside the point.

  Another cry of pleasure from Desi comes at the same time a thought crosses my mind that makes my stomach drop. What if they weren’t conspiring ways to win me over? What if I pushed Grant away enough that he moved on to Desi, and now th
ey’re seeing each other? My mind stumbles over the thought.

  I’d like to say good riddance. That I don’t care.

  Not about how he delivered pizza to the crew at Blue Skies unannounced and for no reason. Or how a box of tampons with a blue ribbon tied around it somehow ended up on the hood of my car parked in the airport lot. Admittedly, that was so not cool, and while I’m sure every guy working that day thought it was strange, I still might have sat with it in my lap, fingers playing with the bow. I might have remained there, watching planes take off and land until sunset because I was so lost in thought and at peace that I hadn’t noticed the day slipping away. I hadn’t felt that way in the longest time.

  My gut churns because as annoying as everything he’s doing is, I hate the thought of him just . . . moving on. Would Desi do that to me? Would Grant?

  “Nothing’s worth it if it’s this much work.”

  His words from the barbecue ring in my ears and cause a slight flutter of panic. But then I see Desi smile a mile wide and know she’d never do that to me, but that doesn’t rule out a plotting session. And still, I hate that the thought of him charming someone else—because that is what he’s doing to everyone else while he does nothing but provoke me—doesn’t sit well with me.

  Then I realize that . . . his plan has worked. He’s maneuvered me. He’s making everyone around me like him so when I tell him to take a hike, they’ll all tell me I’m crazy.

  Goddamnit, I’ve been handled. Positioned. Whatever he wants to call it.

  Screw him. I’ll find a way to outwit him. To put the ball back in my court. To take back control of the situation. The question is, when it seems he’s always a few steps ahead of me, how do I do that?

  I guess I could have started by accepting Josh’s invitation last night to meet up for a little late-night rendezvous. But I didn’t. I told him I was busy when in reality it was me, my hot plate, and Big Brother on television.

  Did I seriously give up what I know from experience to be an incredible orgasm for Grant Malone? Or let’s get real, multiple orgasms? It is Josh, after all.

  I sure as hell did.

  This is not good. He’s already winning, and I haven’t even read the damn rules yet.

  “Em, look at this.” Desi holds up some kind of kitchen contraption in glee.

  Is that basket a bottomless pit of bribery?

  “If you don’t snatch that man up, I will.”

  Apparently, it is.

  I groan.

  How can I compete with this? How can I fight back when he is single-handedly persuading everyone around me to take his side?

  He may think he’s in the lead, but he hasn’t seen me in action yet.

  Now I just need to rewrite his damn rules and figure out a plan of attack of my own.

  “Are you trying to get officer of the year or something?” Nate asks with a laugh.

  “Huh?” I look up from where I’m lacing my boots to see him hauling two file boxes stacked on each other into my family room. “Are those the archived files?”

  “Yep. Your patio cover.”

  “Ain’t that the truth?” Those are some serious boxes.

  “There are two more in the car, but please, stay where you are and sip your coffee,” he says, holding his hands out in the stop motion. “I have nothing better to do than haul your shit around.”

  “I knew you were good for something,” I say with a laugh as I make a show of sitting back into the couch, propping my feet on the coffee table, and making a loud mmm sound as I sip my coffee.

  “Asshole.”

  “The one and only.”

  He laughs as the screen door shuts behind him while I get up to move the boxes out of the way. I have the lid off and am running my fingers over the tabs of the files to make sure they are the ones I asked for when he comes back in and drops the remaining two boxes with a thud.

  “You got some dust on your uniform,” I say as I point to nothing on his chest.

  Nate lifts his middle finger as he makes his way to my coffee maker and pours himself some as if he lives here.

  Cold Case File #865593: Jensen Darby Homicide - 6/12/2001

  Cold Case File #628336: Mimi LaRuby Missing Person – 1/04/1995

  “Make yourself at home. Oh wait, you already have.” I say, only half paying attention as he opens the fridge and pulls out the creamer.

  Cold Case File #458899: Matthew Larsho Homicide – 9/10/1992

  Closed File #713920: Emerson Reeves – Sexual Abuse – 10/23/1997

  Nate says something, but I don’t hear him because I can’t tear my eyes off the label on the file.

  “These files . . .”

  The green folder is several inches thick. Unfortunately, I know from experience on other case files I’ve looked through what it will contain. Evidence. Physical exams. Testimony. Psychological evaluations. Pictures.

  Fucking Christ.

  Pictures.

  “Yeah, what about them?” Nate asks as my stomach revolts at the thought of what is contained in between the covers. The coffee that tasted like heaven minutes ago, feels like acid eating a hole in my stomach. “Is something wrong? They were the ones on the list on your desk.”

  “The list?” I ask absently but can picture it perfectly. The list of names where I was so preoccupied with curiosity about Emerson’s past—what happened to her father and how bad it was for her—that I wrote her name down at the top of the paper. I can see it clearly. Her name in block letters with two lines beneath it. How Nate could have assumed it was for emphasis when it was nothing more than me doodling as I thought of her.

  “Is everything okay, man?”

  “Yeah. Sorry. I thought I forgot one, but I see it here,” I say to distract him from coming over and inspecting the files.

  “The boxes were ready to go when I picked them up, so if something is missing, blame the admin who pulled them. Not the messenger.”

  “No worries. I’m sure they’re all here.”

  I had never intended to look up her case. Obviously, it had crossed my mind, but I had decided it was a line I wasn’t going to cross. Now that the file, and the information inside it, is at my fingertips, I can’t stop staring at it.

  I can’t stop wondering.

  “Earth to Grant.” Nate stands in the middle of my family room with his cup of coffee in hand and makes a show of looking at his watch. Our shift is about to start.

  “What? Sorry.” I shove the lid on the box and walk away from it.

  For now.

  I don’t think any type of distraction is going to prevent me from thinking about the closed file nestled in the box.

  “Something wrong?”

  “Nah. I’m good.” I force a smile and walk over to grab my cell and wallet so he can’t look too closely.

  “You ready?”

  “Yeah. Sure. Let’s go.”

  But as I shut the door, I give the box one last look.

  Fuck.

  “Officer Malone?”

  “Yo.” I shove my chair out and wheel across the aisle so the receptionist can see me.

  “Delivery for you.”

  Nate eyes me from across the aisle of desks, and I shrug. “For me?”

  “Who’s subpoenaing you now?” he asks.

  “Beats the hell outta me,” I say as I grab the manila envelope and turn it over in my hands. There’s no return address on it.

  “Hey, Sue?” I call to the receptionist before she retreats back to her desk.

  “Yeah?”

  “Who delivered this?”

  “Some guy. Kinda cute if you like the tall, dark, and handsome vibe.” She flashes me a smile.

  “Yeah, sounds just like my type.” I roll my eyes and get a few laughs from the guys as I slide a finger beneath the flap and open the envelope.

  There are waivers filled out with my name and yellow “sign here” tabs everywhere a signature is required. At first, I’m confused as to what all this is. Then the gift certificate works
its way out from between the papers.

  “Blue Skies Skydiving School Gift Certificate: Good for one tandem flight with lead instructor, Emerson Reeves. Unless of course you don’t trust her . . .”

  Look who just stepped onto the playing field with a Hail Mary right off the bat.

  Took her long enough.

  I chuckle, which has Nate narrowing his eyes at me. “I gotta make a call,” I say as I stand and make my way out of the station away from the other officers who like to gossip like little old ladies.

  “Blue Skies, this is Emerson, how may I help you?” Her voice sounds like goddamn sex. And she’s doing it on purpose because her caller ID tells her exactly who’s calling.

  “You tell me. How can you help me?”

  She murmurs a sound that I swear to God sounds like how I imagine her fingernails scratching over my balls would feel, and that thought alone tells me I’m so far fucked when it comes to her it isn’t even funny. “I see you got my gift.”

  “I did.”

  “Just thought I’d pay a little token of appreciation to our officers who protect and serve.”

  “I think I’m the only one here who received a gift certificate, though.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re a special case.” She laughs. I can picture her standing on the tarmac with that damn flight suit on, her baseball cap pulled low as she peers down the stretch of runway from behind her aviators. “Are you calling to schedule your flight time?”

  “Not hardly. I told you, I don’t trust anyone, especially when it comes to jumping out of an airplane.”

  “Not even little ol’ me?”

  “Especially not little ol’ you.” I laugh, imagining she has a dartboard somewhere with my picture on the bull’s-eye.

  “What’s wrong, Malone? Should I call you Daisy?”

  “Touché.”

  “What then? Are you that afraid of a woman being in control?” Her voice is coy, playful, but I can hear the underlying tone of curiosity in it.

  “Not in the least, Em. I actually think it’s sexy as hell. What’s even sexier is a woman who demands control from everyone else except for the one she’s with behind closed doors because she trusts him implicitly. Now that? That’s a turn on.”