Man Cuffed: A Man Hands Novel

by Sarina Bowen

  I check Maguire’s. He’s got really big hands too. Nice.

  “But the worst conclusion you drew is about Nicole,” he says. “She’s not my girlfriend.”

  Oh.

  What?

  “What?” I ask.

  “She’s a friend.”

  “A friend you frequently fuck?” I’m incredulous.

  “That is a thing, yes. Although I wonder why even a live-in fuck buddy doesn’t bother staying faithful. I’m fucking cursed,” he says this last bit more to himself than to me. Then he seems to focus on me again. “I could put you in jail, you know.”

  “For thinking she was your girlfriend? That’s kind of ridiculous. I mean she sleeps here and you have a lot of sex and…”

  “How do you know I have a lot of sex?”

  I decide to just show the man. I didn’t get a BA in theater from Northwestern for nothing. “Oh!” I cry, in a perfect imitation of Nicole. “Baby! Baby baby!! YES YES YES!” Then I put my hands on my hips and grin.

  “Wow!” he looks alarmed. “That’s eerie.”

  “Thin walls in this place, Maguire.”

  “Jesus.” That throws him, but not for long. “Still, I could arrest you for breaking into my apartment.”

  He’s got me there. “Would it help if I didn’t actually break in but more like fell in?” I think he’s a guy who can appreciate details. I’m trying.

  He seems to consider this. He scratches his iron jaw. There’s a raspy sound. Suddenly I want to drag my tongue over his jaw and down his neck, rip open his shirt, and…

  Why does being around Maguire turn me into a hot mess of hormones? I feel just slightly out of control whenever he’s nearby.

  I decide to go back to the Film Noir idea. “Listen, Copper,” I try, pretty convincingly I think. “Don’t lock me in the slammer. Give a dame a chance. Maybe I can do something for you in return. A favor.”

  The hokey voice I’m using is going to be really embarrassing if he doesn’t play along, but suddenly he’s all Bogart to my Bacall. “What kind of favor?” he asks smokily.

  A sexual favor. I don’t say it aloud, because Maguire is the kind of standup guy who wouldn’t really ask that. But the idea hovers right there in the room, and neither of us is appalled. Suddenly we’re having a sexy staredown. His pretty gray eyes are dilated. Nobody breathes. There’s so much electricity here that you could power a small city with it.

  Wow. I know I should say something to break the tension. But I’m not sure I want to. “I could…” I swallow hard. “Feed your cat. Do you have a cat?”

  “No,” he whispers, amusement in those cool eyes.

  “Wash your car?” Unzip your pants?

  “Just did that myself yesterday.”

  “Damn.” Nobody blinks. “I could make you a sandwich? Lettuce and mayo only, though. It’s the only thing I have in my fridge.”

  He throws back his head and laughs. That finally does it. Now we’re both laughing. “Oh, you are trouble, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe.” I wipe my eyes. “But I mean well.”

  “Actually, I do need a favor.”

  “Really?” I perk up. “Lay it on me.”

  His eyes flare at my choice of words. But then they cool again. “You’re going to think it’s weird.”

  “I like weird.”

  “I sensed that.”

  “So try me.” I wait, my curiosity piqued.

  He sighs. “I need a date for something. It’s a big ask. But you do owe me for all the chaos you’ve brought into my day. And also for making my colleagues laugh at me that time when you tried to take off my clothes.”

  “What? You should be laughing at them,” I argue. “After all, I didn’t have the slightest impulse to take off their clothes. Just yours.”

  There’s that flicker again. A spark of lust before it’s quickly concealed.

  I lick my lips. “So what is this date?” It comes out a little breathy. No need to be acting now. It’s all natural.

  “It’s a wedding I’ve got to attend. And I need a date. Do you think you could convince people we’re a couple?”

  I inhale quickly. A date with Hot Cop? And all I have to do is act? “Honey,” I breathe, “if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s convincing people to believe in things that aren’t real.”

  And guess what? It’s always easier to make the audience believe a fairy tale if it’s based on the truth. In this case, it won’t be a stretch to pretend to find him attractive.

  Another glance at Maguire confirms that he’d be onboard with that, too.

  But I do have a question. “Why do you need me to go to a wedding with you? Why not your girlfriend? Er….fuck friend?”

  “Nicole?” he asks. “Nah. She’s a nice girl, and totally down with the casual thing we’ve been having. But our thing has run its course. The wedding isn’t for a few weeks, anyway. Besides, I’m not sure my family would buy me settling down with her.”

  “Your...family?” I’d assumed he was trying to impress his cop friends. What’s he trying to prove here? I have so many questions. “Why do you need to convince your family that you’re in a relationship?”

  “I don’t want to convince them I’m in a relationship. That’s not good enough. I want them to think I’m in love. Or better yet, I’m with a hot chick who fucking adores me. Worships me.” He pauses. “Can’t wait to rip my clothes off.”

  “I feel like I’ve auditioned for this already.”

  “Auditioned?”

  “It’s your lucky day, Maguire. Not only do I work as a server, I’m an actor. An actor who pays the rent waiting tables. Big shocker, I know. My life is a cliché.”

  “Just like mine,” he says. He seems like he’s about to say something else, but he stops himself.

  So I press on. “Why do you need to convince your family that a hot chick worships you?” This guy could have any girl he wants. “It helps me to understand motivation,” I offer.

  He crosses those tough guy arms. “I just do, Trouble.”

  “Trouble?”

  “That’s you. Trouble. And don’t ask nosy questions.”

  Oooh. That means it’s serious. Maybe the Maguire clan has a dark secret.

  Or maybe I’m just a drama queen. But I’m okay either way. I like Maguire. I wanted adventure. Going with him to a family wedding is like being cast in a live improv show. I fucking love it. Plus, it would be nice to be in love for a night. Even if it’s only pretending. And hopefully he’ll pretend he worships me too. Goes all moony over me. Every girl deserves a little moon.

  “Maguire,” I say, lowering my voice just a smidge.

  “Yeah?” he asks.

  I take a step closer. Reach out my hand and then tug him by the collar so I can whisper in his ear. “I would love to go to your family’s wedding with you. Just don’t lock me up.”

  I see his jaw clench so I decide to finish the scene. “But you can cuff me later if you want.”

  I smile.

  He growls a little.

  I feel tingles. But I let him go. Step back. Wait.

  We just stand there, simmering in our own tension.

  “I have to go to work,” he says eventually.

  “Right now?” I yelp.

  “Of course. Hence the nap. I don’t get off until—”

  “Four,” I say, remembering what I overheard earlier. “A.M.”

  “That’s right.” He frowns. “The walls are really that thin?”

  “They really are. Didn’t you ever notice?”

  “Your apartment was vacant for a while before you moved in.”

  “Oh.” That explains so much. “So...do you think I could leave out the front door instead of the way I came in?” I ask.

  “I think,” he says, barely hiding a smile tugging at his luscious lips, “that’s probably a good plan.”

  7 Is That a Euphemism?

  Maguire

  I don’t see Meg again for a couple of days. Or, rather, night shifts. Pro
bably a good thing, too. There’s just something about her that makes me crazy. I don’t know if it’s her knowing smile, or her walk. She has swagger, with a side of attitude. I can’t get enough.

  Every now and then, I imagine walking into my sister’s wedding with Trouble on my arm. In my mind, she’s wearing something silky and clingy and her nipples are alert beneath the fabric.

  I shake that thought off.

  And adjust myself.

  Ahem.

  Now it’s Sunday, and my day off. I’m drinking coffee out of a mug that reads: My bark is worse than my bite. My sister, Rosie, gave it to me for Christmas. She’s on some kind of mission to convince me not to be so grumpy.

  By the time you hit thirty-five, though, I’m not sure these things can be changed.

  These are my thoughts as I take my famous lemon coffee cake out of the oven and set it on the counter to cool.

  The coffee cake is for my sister, at least indirectly. She’s having a bridal shower today. The words bridal shower pretty much make my balls wither and retreat into my body. But I love my sister so I promised to stop by.

  The coffee cake needs to cool for ten minutes or so before I can unmold it from the bundt pan. That gives me just the right amount of time to make the glaze, except for one problem. When I pick up the canister, there’s only a trace of sugar left inside.

  Fuck.

  I suppose a coffee cake doesn’t really need a glaze. But it’s just so damn good with the lemony, sugary topping. My mouth waters a little just imagining it. But I really don’t feel like running all the way to the store right now.

  There’s one other possible solution, though. A solution with long, tawny legs that have been walking through my dreams all week. And big brown eyes that are always wearing a sassy expression.

  Before I can think better of this idea, I open the screen door to my deck, where the radio has been playing all morning. I’ve been vaguely aware of it as I make my coffee cake.

  If by “vaguely” you mean that I’ve spent the last hour picturing my neighbor sunning herself in a tiny little bikini.

  The truth is that my side of the fence has been awfully quiet this week. Nicole left three days ago, moving back into her freshly painted apartment. I never bothered to call her out on her extracurricular activities in my guest room. There was really no point. We shook hands when she left, agreeing that our thing had run its course.

  I did vacuum really well, though. And there were dog hairs, dammit.

  Lately, when I’m trying to sleep at night, it’s not Nicole who’s keeping me awake. It’s a certain perky actor with boundary issues and a big attitude.

  That attitude really gets me going.

  So here I am standing on the deck like an idiot, wondering how to get her attention. “Hey, Trouble!” I call. “Meg!”

  I hear the scrape of a chair as someone rises. With my luck, it will be someone else over there today. She probably has a big brother who is going to wonder why a guy is yelling over the fence like a loon.

  But no. Her beautiful face pops over the top of the fence a moment later, earrings swinging, smile wide. “Officer? Is there a problem? I’ve been a very good girl.”

  I choke back a groan. If only she could repeat that statement in my bed. Under me.

  “Um…” She must be standing on something right now, and it bugs me that she’s now taller than I am. So I overturn a metal flower pot that my sister gave me and step up onto it. Now her bottomless brown eyes are level with mine. “Can I borrow a cup of sugar?”

  Her smile grows mischievous. “Is that a euphemism? Please say yes.”

  I laugh suddenly, and the sound is like a rusty engine coming to life. “No, it’s not a euphemism. I’m legit baking a cake and I ran out of sugar for the glaze.”

  She sniffs the air. “Ooh lemons.”

  “Exactly. You gotta use fresh, or it’s no good.”

  Meg considers me. “You are a study in contrasts, Copper. I might have some sugar, come around to the front door while I check.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  Her eyes flare, but then disappear as she steps down and away from the fence.

  A minute later I’m standing in her apartment, trying not to check out her ass while she rummages through a cabinet. “Aha! Found some! It wasn’t a given. In my apartment sugar is only used for Jell-O shots.”

  “You don’t bake?”

  She shakes her head. “Not that I should admit this to a cop, but I’m pretty sure the last thing I baked was a pan of pot brownies. But that was when I lived in Atlanta. Not your jurisdiction.” She puts her hands on her hips and dares me to judge her.

  “Thank you for that helpful clarification.” This woman’s sass is going to kill me. I want to punish her for her crimes. With my tongue.

  “Go on, then.” She pushes the sugar toward me on the counter. “Do I get a piece of cake when it’s done?”

  “Unfortunately, I only made one. And it’s for my sister’s—” I actually shudder— “bridal shower.’

  “Oh well.” She shrugs. “Next time. I should go grocery shopping anyway.”

  “Yeah, you probably should. You don’t cook at all?”

  “I cook eggs.” She shrugs.

  “How do you avoid starvation?”

  “Takeout food, sandwiches, and eggs.” She steps into a pair of ridiculous platform shoes that make her legs look even longer. “See you later, Copper.”

  “See you later—” I stop myself before calling her Hot Neighbor—“Meg.”

  And I do see her later. About a half hour later.

  As I’m carrying my nicely glazed lemon coffee cake out to my car, I find Meg leaning against her own car in the parking lot. “Everything okay?” I ask her.

  “Sure.” She hastily wipes something away from the corner of her eye. “No problem.”

  Oh shit, it’s a tear. Mayday! I’m inclined to call dispatch and ask for an emergency vehicle. I can’t handle it when women cry. It kills me, and I never know what to say. Not that I’m all that great at talking to them when they aren’t crying. But I digress. “What’s the matter, honey?”

  She shakes her head. “Flat tire. It happens. No big deal.” She flicks a tear away from the other eye. “I’ll just…” she turns away from me. “Have fun today. Bye.”

  “Wait,” I hear myself say. “Do you know how to change the tire?” It’s not like I care if I’m on time for a bridal shower. And changing a tire is nothing.

  “Yep. I know how.” Her shoulders sag. “It’s just that I don’t have one.”

  “Not even a donut?” I ask. “They’re not the best, but they’ll get you to the tire shop.”

  Her expression is bleak when she turns around. “After my last flat, I drove on the donut until it gave out. And then I got the tire replaced. But I…”

  “...Never replaced the donut.” I sigh. This is exactly the sort of thing I lecture my little sister about. “Don’t you realize you could have gotten a flat somewhere in the dead of night, in a shady neighborhood?”

  “But I didn’t!” She cocks a hip. “Somehow I got one right here at home, thanks. Now you run along to your party and I’ll deal.”

  Aw, man. I can’t leave a teary woman here alone with no groceries and a flat tire. “Where do you buy your tires?”

  “At Discount Tires on 28th Street. They’re open on Sundays.”

  “Tell you what. You come along with me while I stop in at my sister’s thing. I have to buy a gift on the way, but I don’t have to stay at this party. Then we’ll swing by Discount Tires on the way home and pick up a new tire for you. And a new donut.”

  “Really?” Her face brightens up immediately. “You’d do that?”

  “Sure,” I say, and my voice goes gruff. “It’s no big deal. Let’s go.” I gesture toward my car.

  “Two minutes,” she says, walking quickly in the wrong direction. “I can’t meet your sister in short shorts and a tank top.”

  I freeze in place. It hadn’t occur
red to me that Meg would meet Rosie. Even before I knew Meg was coming along, I saw myself tossing the cake in the general direction of a dozen women, pecking Rosie on the cheek, and getting the hell out of there.

  That was probably just wishful thinking.

  So I wait.

  And wait.

  Ten minutes later I’m still sitting in my car, waiting for Meg, and questioning all my life choices. Just when I’m wondering if someone has kidnapped her, Meg finally appears. “Sorry,” she says, breathless. The car door slams. “I’m ready now.”

  I turn to glance at her, and it’s a mistake. In place of the short shorts, Meg is wearing big shades, red lipstick, and a yellow dress that shows just as much of her smooth legs, if not more. She’s like a leggy goddamn flower that I really want to pluck.

  And pluck.

  And pluck harder.

  “Do you have a siren?” she asks. “I want to play with it.”

  I close my eyes and groan.

  “Or not,” she says quickly. “What are you giving your sister for her shower?”

  “Not sure,” I say, starting the engine. “There’s a registry, so I don’t have to think too hard about it.”

  “Uh-oh,” Meg says as I pull out of the parking space.

  “What now?”

  “You can’t buy off the registry on the day of the shower.”

  “Why the fuck not? That’s what registries are for.”

  She gives me a patient look. “All the good stuff will be taken already. You’ll be left buying the caviar spoons.”

  “The what? Nobody buys caviar spoons.” I accelerate toward the store just in case, though.

  “Weddings make people a little crazy,” Meg says. “Trust me.”

  The store is called Coq de la Cuisine. When we get there, I find a salesperson and give him my sister’s name. “Oh dear,” he says with a disapproving frown. “The shower is today? I believe she still needs the caviar spoons. And perhaps the brosse de toilette.”

  “The...what?”

  “The toilet brush,” the man says with a patronizing smile.

  And now I feel like one of those Instapots with the top loose. I might explode. “I’m not buying a goddamn toilet brush as a gift! This is for family that I like.”