Disorderly Conduct Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  An Excerpt from Indecent Exposure Chapter 1

  About the Author

  By Tessa Bailey

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  Charlie

  People magazine isn’t going to name me the Sexiest Man Alive any time soon, so I don’t play the long game with girls. If I see one who interests me, I go in for the kill. Fast. Before some jerk who uses pomade or beard moisturizer gets there first.

  Here is what I have going for me. One: My nose has been broken twice, I only have time to shave every other day and I’m strong as a bull. So if I’m walking down the street with a girl, no one is going to mess with her. Two: I’m capable as hell. I see a problem and it gets solved, because I don’t mind hard work and sweat. It’s a good thing, too, because I’m training to be a New York City police officer, and shit needing to be solved is part of the job description. Three: I don’t go out with tons of girls. But I damn well know what to do when I get one beneath me.

  That’s not a boast. It’s just me being grateful that I know how to pay attention.

  And damn.

  Speaking of grateful, the man upstairs must have been feeling sorry for us fellas down on Earth when he created the blonde who just walked into the Hairy Monk, the Lower East Side pub where I’m spending this rainy afternoon with my friends Jack and Danika. The nonalcoholic beer I’m holding remains suspended in my hand as the blonde peels back her hoody and shakes out her umbrella. I’m not ashamed to say her body caught my attention first. I’m a man in my sexual prime and by prime, I mean I’m horny most of the goddamn day. So the whole overalls that end in a skirt look? It’s really working for me, because her legs are two sticks of dynamite and I’m more than willing to die in the explosion.

  But it’s her face that rocks me back on my booted heels.

  Whoa. My stomach knots up. Which is unusual. I train at the police academy six days a week, and I eat like a pregnant horse. My stomach is made of iron. This girl’s face, though . . . it’s like I know her from somewhere, but there’s no way we’ve ever met. Yeah, I would have remembered. Would have asked her out and possibly resorted to begging.

  That’s another thing about me. I’m not short on confidence.

  Yeah, every guy in the place—including my pal, Jack—is checking her out, but I’m willing to bet no one has the balls to go talk to her. What is it with men making women do all the heavy lifting nowadays? Are they afraid of rejection? Worst case scenario, she tells me to fuck off, flashes a wedding ring or feigns deafness. In which case, I chalk it up to a lesson learned and walk away with my pride intact, knowing I had enough brass between my legs to take a shot.

  “Don’t even think about it,” I say to Jack, finally sipping from my neglected beer. “She’s mine. As far as you’re concerned, she’s invisible.”

  Jack smiles like a drunk pirate into his whiskey. To be fair, that’s his default expression. Drunk, disorderly pirate. And yet women flock to him like he’s giving away free Adele tickets. “One problem with that. I’m not invisible to her, Charlie boy.”

  “Good thing your ego is,” Danika mutters, from eight inches down where she’s sandwiched between us. Danika: small in stature. Large in attitude. “It’s not a matter of who calls dibs. She could very well tell you both to fuck off.”

  I shake my head, still a little confused over the whole stomach knot situation. The blonde is sitting beneath a bar light now and God. God. She’s just been out there, roaming around the Earth this whole time? Her eyes are huge and full of humor. The good kind, like she’d blush over a dirty joke, then tack on an even filthier punch line. When the bartender asks what she’ll have, she doesn’t even look at the chalkboard . . . and then her incredible mouth moves and my fly almost unzips itself. “If she tells anyone to fuck off, it’s going to be me.”

  Jack chuckles under his breath, which also makes him sound like he should be manning a ship with a skull-and-crossbones flag. “Now there’s the can-do attitude they teach us at the academy.”

  My friend’s sarcasm isn’t lost on me. Everyone who comes into contact with Jack knows he can take or leave the academy. Whenever he makes his disdain known, I bite my tongue so I won’t break into a motivational locker room–type speech. Becoming a cop is my sole purpose in life. I go to bed at night dreaming about the badge. About making my bureau chief father and lieutenant brother proud. It baffles me when my friend doesn’t share my enthusiasm, but I’m learning to accept my freak-show overachiever status among our threesome of friends.

  We’re roommates, sharing a three-bedroom apartment a couple blocks away with Jack’s childhood friend, and fellow academy attendee, Danika. Danika is the reason Jack put his unmotivated ass through just enough college to enroll in the academy. And I’m pretty sure she’d scouted me out at orientation, pegging me as someone who would help motivate her pal, and the three of us have been inseparable ever since. Despite the fact that we’re all opposites and drive one another crazy.

  “You leave blondie on ice too long, someone else is going to get the honor of her fuck off,” Jack says, signaling for another whiskey. “What’s taking you so long?”

  “Good question,” I mutter, tapping my beer against my thigh. “Did I shave today?”

  Danika lifts a dark brow. “You’re asking us?”

  “Thinking out loud. What am I wearing?”

  “Look down and find out.”

  “I can’t. She’s looking right at me.” And she is. The friend she arrived with is tapping away on her cell phone and gesturing, but blondie is watching me curiously through the crowd of Knicks fans, tapping a cocktail straw on the edge of her glass. The knots in my stomach now have knots. “If I do a clothing check, she’ll know I’m wondering if I look decent enough to approach her. I’ll lose all sense of mystery.”

  “You are eye fucking her across the bar. Mystery solved,” Jack drawls, sipping his fresh drink. “Shit, Charlie boy. This might be the first time I’ve ever seen you . . .”

  “Hesitant,” Danika, the smartest among us, supplies. “He’s right. Your caveman mentality is bent. Did you sleep on it funny last night?”

  My scholarly roommate is right. And if I don’t move soon, I’m never going to live this down. Glancing over at Jack, I can already see the wise-cracks forming, preparing for delivery. What is it about this girl that makes me think twice about introducing myself?

  Sure, I have no time for a relationship, now or ever. That fact is written in stone. If anything came out of approaching blondie, it would be a one-time thing, and I would make sure she knew that up front, out of respect. She might not be interested in casual, but I’m jumping the gun even having those concerns. We haven’t even spoken yet. What is wrong with my man brain? And hell if she’s not still watching me. I’m not sure either one of us has blinked in the last five minutes.

  Everyone in the bar cheers, pre
sumably because the Knicks scored, and I use the crowd’s momentum to push forward through a sea of jerseys and half-drank pints. Something crazy happens, though, and it makes my lips curve into a smile.

  Blondie jumps off her stool and comes to meet me halfway.

  Ever

  Oh, he’ll do nicely.

  I have a sixth sense when it comes to unavailable men. It has been passed down through many generations of mistresses, going all the way back to my great-great-grandmother, Babs Carmichael. She created what I secretly refer to as the Mistress Manifesto, although the rules have never been written down on actual paper. That would be tacky. No, our means of survival are stored in the locked vault of my heart, same as they are for my mother.

  Those rules are as follows:

  Remain independent. This little gem is what has kept our lifestyle thriving for so long. We depend only on ourselves for that pretty green paper. No gifts. No personal information exchanged that could lead to messy entanglements. No holidays spent together, especially Christmas and/or birthdays.

  Never let the arrangement last past one month. We’re not made of stone. Sure, we’re using men to fulfill our needs, but even the staunchest of emotionally distant mistresses can fall prey to the right set of dimples and sweet talk. One month is enough time to get a man out of your system without either party getting too comfortable. Or in too deep. One month means leaving the man before he leaves you.

  Choose only unavailable men. This is the only rule I have modified slightly to fit . . . well, me. While my mother and her predecessors had no qualms making time with married men, I believe it’s wrong. So my version of unavailable is men married to their jobs. In New York City, that is not hard to find. Walk down any sidewalk in any neighborhood, and you’ll trip over a driven market analyst with too many dollar signs in his eyes to look for your secrets. I once had a fling with a food blogger who muttered about bottomless brunches and cocktail pairings while in the throes of passion.

  Yeah, blog boy didn’t make it anywhere near one month. Most of them don’t.

  And it has been a while since someone captured my interest at all. My roommate, Nina, and I have been getting our catering company—Hot Damn Caterers—off the ground, so I could blame my newfound career, but mostly, no one has tickled my mistress sense lately.

  This guy walking toward me from the other side of the bar? He’s making it hum. Loud.

  What is it about him? He’s not pretty or polished, like the men I normally gravitate toward. Men who obviously care a lot about their appearance are too self-absorbed to be absorbed by me. This one looks like he yanked on some jeans, threw a backward hat over his bedhead and chugged milk straight from the carton. Which is totally out of keeping with his ruthlessly fit physique. Dude’s arms are like two torpedoes strapped to his torso, but he’s not showcasing them at all, like most gym rats would do. No wedding ring. His eyes are blue. A beautiful, soul-sucking blue. And they’re intent. Focused. Way too focused.

  I stumble a little on my way to meet him halfway through the bar. Has my sixth sense grown faulty through disuse? A moment ago, his restless demeanor screamed unavailable. He’d been checking his watch, drinking an O’Doul’s—nonalcoholic beer, if I’m not mistaken—like a classic worker bee whose responsibilities await. Now? Now he looks ready to throw me over one of those muscle slab shoulders and carry me out of the bar.

  Just as I begin to reverse directions and head back to Nina, Blue Eyes shakes his head at me. “No, no.” He crooks a finger at me. “Finish what you started.”

  Whoa baby. That little quiver in my belly is bad news. Being ordered around is not my jam, but I find myself edging closer, wanting to hear more of that scratchy baritone.

  It can’t hurt to see if he passes the mistress test.

  Can it?

  “I’m Ever,” I say, extending my hand. “I never start things I don’t intend to finish.”

  “I want to believe that’s a promise, but it sounds more like a warning.” He takes my hand, and lightning shoots up to the curve of my neck. “Charlie.”

  Slippery heat crawls up my inner thighs. He still has my hand and it’s so warm, his gaze so captivating and intelligent, I can’t look away. Or walk away. Like I really should be doing. “Want to play a game, Charlie?”

  “I don’t know.” He gives my hand a tight squeeze, then lets it go with something that looks like reluctance. “Are we competing or on the same team?”

  “I . . .” How is this guy tripping me up? I always have the upper hand in conversations with men, but this feels almost like . . . an even playing field. “I’ve never thought about it in those terms.”

  “So you play this game a lot, huh?” He tucks his hands into the pockets of his worn jeans. “Since we’re issuing warnings, you should know I don’t like to lose. And if winning means you’re not going to try to run away again, that goes triple.” Seeming to catch himself, his gaze cuts away and he clears his throat. “At least not today.”

  Okay, that was definitely code for I don’t do long term, right? If his signals got any more conflicting, I’d get whiplash. The test would decipher his code, though. It was sure fire. “Are you ready?” He nods. “Where do you buy your socks?”

  His mouth twitches, but he doesn’t hesitate even a millisecond to answer. “Amazon.”

  Passed. That question is designed to weed out men in relationships and dudes who live with their moms. No man with a significant other or living in mom’s basement buys his own socks. They just don’t. “Prime member?”

  “What am I, caveman? Of course.”

  God, he’s tall. And warm. He’s like a furnace. It’s a physical strain to keep myself from rubbing my face on his butter-soft-looking T-shirt to heat the cold tip of my nose. Some crazy intuition says he would let me, chuckling deep in his belly the whole time.

  Get a hold of yourself, woman. It’s time for question two. He’s got his arms crossed now, face all serious like he’s taking the SATs, giving me the strong urge to giggle. “What is your favorite holiday?”

  Question two sounds simple, right? It’s anything but. If his answer is Christmas, he’s the commitment type. Even if he doesn’t realize it yet, he’s going to find himself and a petite brunette in matching Frosty sweaters someday, drinking nog by the fire while his triplets rip open presents. If his answer is Valentine’s Day, he’s a goddamn filthy liar and doesn’t deserve the pleasure of your time. If he says—

  “New Year’s,” Charlie answers, smiling down at me. “Not New Year’s Eve. I like the day after. It’s like the whole city is sleeping. It’s never quieter as those few hours after everyone finally passes out.”

  “You can walk down the middle of Broadway and—”

  “Not see one yellow cab,” he finishes for me, coming closer, including me in his warmth. “I know, right? It’s the greatest.”

  “Yeah,” I murmur, feeling more than a little dumbstruck. Around us, the bar goes wild for something on the television, but we just stand there, staring at one another. I know I’m supposed to run for my life right now, but I’m paralyzed. There is a reason for the Mistress Manifesto. It prevents us women from settling. From signing on for a lifetime of cumbersome routines and potential pain. My great-grandmother gave up her independence and moved to the suburbs only to be thrown over for a younger version of herself. My whole life, my mother has impressed on me that there are no exceptions when it comes to men. Relationships don’t last, because men’s affections are fleeting.

  When we’re in control of the game, we can’t get played.

  If Charlie passes the test, he won’t be easy to shake when the one-month limit strikes. I know it for a fact. The longer we stand here, the closer he draws, the hungrier his expression. I need to scoot, but . . . “What do you do for a living?”

  “Is this part of the game?” he rasps.

  I shake my head.

  “I just started at the police academy.” His tone suggests we’re discussing sexual positions, and my nerves
stand up and cheer. “I’m going to be a cop.”

  The pride in his voice tells me a lot. “The best cop, huh?”

  His blue eyes flash with determination. “Damn right, cutie.”

  There’s my elusive answer. He’s married to law enforcement. Thanking God my sixth sense hasn’t completely gone to pasture, I now feel comfortable posing question three. “Which part of the movie Titanic did you cry over?”

  He’s not thrown off whatsoever by the randomness of the question. And I love that. “How do you know I cried at all?”

  “Everyone cried.”

  Most men give me one of two answers. They either try to be funny, insisting they cried when Old Rose threw the Heart of the Ocean into the water, because it was such a waste of money. Lame. Or they lie and say they cried when Jack dies. No, they didn’t.

  Charlie doesn’t take any time at all thinking of his answer. I can see he has it stored up, ready to go, but he’s hesitating to spill. “What is it?”

  He shifts the ball cap on his head, brim to the front, before turning it backward again. The subtlest of redness is visible at the top of his cheekbones. “When the old people are holding each other in the bed . . . all the water rushing around them. I might have gotten a little misty.”

  Fail.

  FAIL.

  My heart is going double time in my chest. I’ve never gotten that answer before, but it has to be wrong. Is he a relationship guy disguised as a casual fling? I can’t figure him out. But I know a man who has a soft spot for an old, married couple isn’t opposed to being the better half of one someday. Even if he doesn’t know it yet. I know, though. So I have to walk away.

  “Uh-oh,” Charlie says quietly. “That wasn’t the right answer, was it?”

  “No.” I start to back away. “You were supposed to say you cried when the captain went down with the ship. Alone.”

  “Cutie.” The single word is low and urgent. “Come back here.”

  I’m in the middle of turning when he grasps my arm. He spins me back around, pulling me into his heat, molding the fronts of our bodies together. Zing. He’s so hard and inviting, my knees go loose and I sag. My stuttered breaths boom in my head. I only glimpse the briefest hint of dread, mixed with desperation, on his face before his mouth lowers to mine. And then we’re kissing. Oh, this is kissing. Like a Marine leaving behind his sweetheart on the tarmac. His fingers tunnel through my hair, his tongue awaits no invitation and we go for broke, right there in the middle of a bar full of buzzed twenty-somethings.