by K. Bromberg
I move a chair toward Mrs. Gellar and sit. “Grant? What is it, honey?”
One of her hands is on her belly, and I stare at it, wondering if I’ll see the baby move beneath her black T-shirt if I look long enough.
“Grant?”
“It’s about Emmy.” My throat is dry. Like if I played really hard during recess and the line was too long at the drinking fountain before coming back into class so I didn’t get a drink.
“What about Emmy?” Her hand rubs back and forth and then stills again.
“She told me a secret, and I’m not supposed to tell, but—”
“What is it, Grant?
“She said when her mom goes to work at night, her dad has a gun and he molests her.” Her hand jerks on her tummy, but I can’t look up because I just broke my promise to Emmy and I’m scared she’s going to hate me. “But I don’t know what that means other than guns are bad and she’s going to hate me and—”
Mrs. Gellar puts her other hand on my shoulder. It makes me stop talking and meet her eyes, embarrassed when a tear slides down my cheek because boys don’t cry.
But it’s Emmy.
“Grant?” Her voice sounds funny—different—and her throat makes a funny sound when she swallows. “When did Emmy tell you this?”
“This morning.” I can barely get the word out. “Please don’t tell her I told you.”
“I won’t.”
I can’t look at her anymore.
My tummy hurts so bad.
“Look at me, honey.” I take in a deep breath, and I feel like such a wuss when I hiccup a sob, but I look at her. “This is what she told you? You aren’t making this up?”
“No.” I can barely get the word out.
“You did the right thing by telling me. Did you tell anyone else about this?”
I shake my head. “No. I promised her, and . . . I promised her.”
“Oh, sweet boy,” she says in a soft voice that makes me think she isn’t mad at me for telling on my friend as she stands and gives me a big hug. It takes everything I have not to hold on tighter and cry like Emmy does when she scrapes her knee—super hard so she can barely talk—but I don’t do it. Instead, I concentrate on trying to make my arms fit all the way around Mrs. Gellar even though her tummy is too big and my fingers won’t touch. She leans back and looks at me. There are tears in her eyes, too, and that makes me worry. “You did the right thing, Grant. I know you’re worried Emmy is going to be mad . . . and she might be for a while, but you did the right thing.”
“Wh-what are you going to do?” Now that I’ve told her, I’m not sure what is going to happen next. How is she going to help Emmy without letting Emmy know I told her secret?
“I’m going to make sure she’s never hurt again.”
“She’s hurt?” I know guns are bad, but I’m confused. How is she hurt? She looks fine to me other than having cried earlier.
“Grant, I need you to do something for me, okay? I need you to go out on the playground for a few minutes and get some fresh air. I don’t want you to tell anyone else about what you said to me because it’s important that Emmy has you as a friend. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“Are you sure?” How is she going to do that?
“I’m sure. Now, I need you to go out so I can do a few things in privacy, okay?”
I nod and then drag my feet all the way to the door. I swear I hear her sniffle, but her back is to me, so I can’t be sure. Why would she sniffle? Just as I push it open, I hear Mrs. Gellar on the phone. “Principal Newman? I have a situation that needs immediate attention.”
We forget the memories and just chase the moments.
Those damn words replay in my head over and over. All day. Before I close my eyes at night. When I’m staring out the window at the airfield, waiting for the next class of jumpers to get ready. Even while sitting here in a bar with Desi where I came to try to prove to myself that I don’t care in the least why he hasn’t called or texted me in over five days.
I glance at my phone again sitting on the table next to everyone’s empty glasses and then hate myself for giving in to the temptation to look.
This is why I have rules. They are designed so I don’t end up sitting here like some needy, whiny chick, which is exactly how I feel.
Maybe he’s studying for his test like he should be. You know, he’s doing important things. It explains the silence, since I made certain he knew not to count me as one of those important things.
Maybe I scared him off with my rules and shutting him out the other day.
Maybe I . . . shit, I don’t know. It’s me, so I’m sure I’m the one at fault.
“Earth to Emerson.”
“What?” I snap at Desi, misdirecting my frustration at how I’m acting over Grant at her.
“Thanks for coming, but uh, maybe you can act like you’re actually having fun instead of looking like I forced you to come,” she says.
“You did force me to come.” I groan as I stare at the dance floor, which is full of grinding bodies and alcohol sloshing over cups.
“Oh, quit being such an old lady. Live a little. Dance a lot. Drink something new. Pick a guy just for the night. Whatever floats your boat.”
I glare at her for what feels like the tenth time in the past hour, but it holds no weight because she’s Desi. I let her get away with everything. Case in point, I’m here when I want to be anywhere but.
“What, no guy for the night?” She gives me a double take. “Hottie at two o’clock has had your number since you showed up. He’s just waiting for eye contact to make his move.”
“Whatever. No he has not—”
Sirens screaming past the bar cut me off, and without thinking, I turn to watch the two squad cars as they navigate through the crowded intersection.
“Uh-huh.”
“What?” I ask, realizing I’ve been caught.
“You do have a thing for uniforms, don’t you? That, or you wish it was Grant.”
“Hottie at two o’clock is all yours,” I say as if she hadn’t spoken at all.
“I know your game, Reeves. Hottie at two o’clock has no interest in me, but you’re saying he does to throw me off so I don’t go over there and play matchmaker. If I did, then you might have to tell him no. And telling him no would inform me, your best friend whom you’re hiding things from, that you might like Grant a little more than you’re letting on.”
This time, the glare I level her with is real. “No one said I didn’t like Grant.” It’s her turn to return the look. “He has skills in the bedroom department, and I sure as hell am not complaining about that . . . but I told you that we have rules and we’re purely enjoying the physical aspect.”
“The physical aspect,” she mimics with a roll of her eyes.
“There are other terms I could use that would be more accurate, but I’m trying to be a lady.” I smile a big, cheesy grin to let her know I’m going out of my way to annoy her.
“A lady.” She snorts. “Well, if there is no commitment, then why aren’t you out on the dance floor living it up?”
“Because I don’t want to.”
“Because you’d rather be with Officer Sexy.”
“No.” Yes. What the hell is wrong with me? “I’ll dance in a bit.”
“Ha.” She scoffs. “You’re such a liar.”
She’s right.
Grant Malone seems to be the only one I’ll allow to upend my world.
First to save me.
And now to show me what it’s like to feel.
“What the hell, dude?”
Nate is barely containing the snicker, his face turning beet red as I stare at the blow-up doll positioned precariously at my desk. Someone—probably one of my brothers—put the thing in a skimpy female cop Halloween costume and used a Sharpie to highlight some of its better features.
“Grady and Grayson, I presume?”
“How could you tell?” He laughs as I finally see their self-portraits horribly t
attooed above each one of her boobs.
All I can do is shake my head and take a seat at Ambrose’s desk directly across from it . . . her? While I more than admire my brothers’ creativity and attempt to make me relax after the long-ass exam, I’m already thinking of ways to get them back.
“Don’t worry,” Nate says. “All the guys already tapped ‘dat for ya.” He picks her up, and when he turns her around, there are signatures from all of the guys in the squad on her ass.
“Cute. Very cute. Thanks, guys,” I say as everyone around us starts busting up laughing.
Fucking assholes.
“So . . . how do you feel?” Nate asks as if he isn’t currently placing a blow-up doll back in my chair so that her feet are propped on the desk. No matter how hard he tries, her legs keep spreading open. Finally, he gives up and just pushes her out of the chair.
“I see how you treat suspects.” I almost don’t get the words out around my laughter.
“That’s only if they’re behaving.” We both look down to where she’s face down, spread eagle on the floor. “So tell me how it went.”
“Good. It was pretty straightforward. None of the questions gave me trouble.”
“Like I figured. Is the asshole still in there?” Nate lifts his chin toward the conference room where Stetson and I sat on opposite ends of the table to take our tests.
“Yeah, he—”
“Ah, boys, that test was fucking cake,” Stetson says before emitting a whoop to his group of cronies—all of them newer beat cops not schooled in his knife-in-the-back-I’m-a-total-asshole ways yet—as he exits the conference room.
Nate makes the jacking-off motion and rolls his eyes at the sound of Stetson’s voice. “May be cake,” he mutters, “but Grant’s gonna be the one eating it while you tank at the interviews.”
“Thanks for the vote of support.”
“I have your back,” he says. It’s his mischievous smile that worries me more than anything.
“I know you do, and I appreciate whatever it is that sick, twisted mind of yours is conjuring as a payback, but don’t. I want this on my terms and because I earned it.”
“Of course you do, but he’s playing dirty. You know he’s going to throw everything but the goddamn sink in because—”
I put my hand up to stop him. Not here. Not in the precinct where anyone can hear. The last thing I need is for it to become daily gossip that runs rampant in the squad room. “My record is clean, unlike his. Even if we both pass the test and do decent in the interviews, I’ll beat him because I’ve kept my nose clean.” It’s the truth. Let’s just hope the powers that be think that, too.
“’Kay. But if you change your mind, I’d do it in a heartbeat.”
“I know you would,” I say, rising from my seat and patting him on the back before heading outside.
There are a few texts on my phone that I glance over as I move to find shade from the blinding sun. My dad asking how it went. Grady wishing me good luck. My mom’s simple text, asking how my day is so I won’t think she is fishing to see how I did instead of just outright asking. Grayson asking if I want to grab a beer after shift.
I shoot them all back quick responses to get them off my back, but I know I wouldn’t have it any other way. Family is everything. Even when it’s full of nosy fuckers like mine is.
And then I text the one person I want more than anyone. The woman who I’ve spent far too much time thinking of with my dick in my hand when I should have been studying. She definitely would have been a better diversion, but if I had gotten lost in her body, the only preparation I would have been thinking about would have been how to have her again.
So, instead, I shut her out for a few days. I temporarily gave into her asinine rules and treated us like she said she wanted—bang buddies, which we both know is bullshit. Plus, after the way we left it the other day, I knew she needed time to wrap her head around what I said as I left.
Me: I apologize for not calling this week but calling leads to thinking about you and thinking about you leads to your tits and your tits are one hell of a distraction when I couldn’t afford a distraction this week. But, guess what? I just finished my exam. Now, I can be distracted. Wanna meet up and distract me?
Sitting across the street in my cruiser, I stare at the house. The lights are on upstairs. I can see Keely’s shadow against the curtains as she stands on her bed and pretends to sing into a microphone, which is really a brush, and I breathe a little easier.
I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be stalking this family. I shouldn’t be wrapped around this little girl’s finger, but damn it to hell if something about her doesn’t remind me of Emerson and make me want to protect her.
It has to be the dream that had me driving this way without thought to where I’d end up. Even after a couple of days, I can’t seem to shake the heartbreak I’d felt in my chest reliving the moment when I told Mrs. Gellar about Em.
Of course the dream—the clarity of it all these years later—only made the file folder so much more tempting to pull into bed with me and go through.
I can’t do that to her.
Then again, wouldn’t it be easier to know what ghosts I have to combat?
Shit.
This woman is fucking with me. I don’t get fucked up by women. I date them. I have fun with them. I move on when shit gets too serious.
But Em is . . . Em is different. She always has been.
I scrub my hands over my face, and admit that Emerson is right when she teases me about having a hero complex. Is there something so wrong about that? Maybe if I can save Keely, then I can make up for not saving Emerson sooner?
Even I know that’s a whole lot of projecting.
Physical abuse is bad. Sexual abuse is horrid. A child shouldn’t have to endure either.
So, I will make sure she’s okay.
I pause and try to figure out which of the two females I’m referring to.
Needing a distraction to clear my head, I turn the engine on to leave, but I can’t help myself. I can’t come here and not look when I promised her I would.
So I’m out of the cruiser and across the street in seconds, trying to look inconspicuous as I jog up their pathway to check on the rock garden.
There’s nothing new. At all. It all looks the same, and not just the same, but there has been no new ones added. There’s always new ones added.
I’m not sure if that worries me or if it means things have gotten better.
Things never get better.
Abusers just don’t wake one morning and stop abusing.
I walk back to the car, slide behind the wheel, and watch the light in Keely’s window for a long time while I try to come to terms with all of the shit in my head.
The shit that tells me I need to see Emerson.
The part of me that needs to prove to her that her rules are going to be broken.
One.
By.
One.
Until she sees that sometimes sharing a past means you can build a future together.
It’s a bitch that the only girl I’ve ever really loved is the only one it seems I’ll ever really want.
I’m more determined than ever to prove it to her.
Her rules don’t matter.
Her past doesn’t matter.
It’s just her.
It’s just the now.
And it’s about damn time.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, a little stunned to see him filling the space of my doorway. After his text the other day and our screwy schedules, we hadn’t planned to see each other until tomorrow.
But I more than welcome the sight of him.
“I needed to take a break.”
“A break from what?” I ask as he waltzes right past me as if I invited him in. I look out the front door and around the parking lot, hoping it will help me understand what the hell he is talking about.
“My brothers. Work. Other shit.”
I turn and lean
my back against the door I’ve just shut as he strolls over to the couch, drops whatever is in his hands onto it, plops down, and puts his feet up on my coffee table like he owns the place. He picks up the People Magazine on the couch beside him and starts flipping through it without a second thought.
The protest dies momentarily on my lips as I recover from the shock of seeing him. And it’s a good shock. The kind of shock that almost made me jump into his arms, wrap my legs around his waist, and kiss him senseless. It feels like forever since I’ve seen him when, in reality, it’s only been a week.
It’s just because things were unsettled last time he left here, and I’ve had time to think it over and know I overreacted.
That, and the sight of him in that dark blue uniform has put butterflies in my belly and a bang of lust between my thighs.
“Don’t you have your own house to escape to?” I ask as I push off the wall and cross the distance. He watches me, his stare unrelenting as I sit across from him on the edge of the chair.
“Yeah, but the view here is much nicer.” He quirks an eyebrow, and the sweep of his eyes over my body tells me the view he’s talking about is me.
I did tell him flattery would get him everywhere.
“Well, what if I want a different view?”
“We can go somewhere else if you want. The view I came here to enjoy is mobile.” He flashes a heart-stopping grin.
“Good to hear you want to go somewhere else. Go ahead. I’ll stay here.” I match him smile for smile.
“Suit yourself,” he says, tossing the magazine on the coffee table and shifting to lie back on my couch, feet hanging off one armrest while his head is on the other.
I rise and walk to the couch so I can stare down at him with my arms crossed. And as much as I’m playing the hard ass, every other part of my body is sizing him up and wondering how quick I can peel that uniform off him . . . then again, maybe he should leave it on. It is sexy as hell.
“Without you,” I warn.
“C’mon. You know you like me.” He closes his eyes and settles into the cushions.
