Disorderly Conduct Read online

  She recognizes damage I can cause to people who have the potential to love me.

  All the recruits have made their way from the locker room into the gymnasium now. Well. Except for Jack. Danika isn’t speaking to me after encouraging Jack to drink last night—which I deserve—so I’m sitting alone, up against the wall farthest from the platform where Greer will stand in mere moments, ready to make his younger brother’s life hell. As if it wasn’t already.

  With brimstone curling in my nose, I spot someone across the gymnasium floor and my spine straightens. The agonizing throb in my temples ratchets up until I swear, blood swims in my vision. That little fucker. In the mental four-alarm-fire I’ve been in since leaving Ever looking so sad, holding the counter for support, I forgot all about my fellow recruit who never takes off his goddamn aviator glasses. He’s one of the jackasses I sent to go ruin Ever’s speed dating event, so imagine my surprise when the dickhead showed up as one of her matches on DateMate yesterday. Yeah, he’d gone and found her somehow among the dozens of dating sites. I don’t believe in coincidences.

  I’m on my feet before my brain has given a formal command, probably because it’s on a ten-second whiskey delay. And yeah, even through the rage, I’m aware I’m about to make a huge mistake. Do I give a shit? Nope. I need someone to give me a nice, hard right cross, because this hangover feels like a nail gun to the skull, and it’s still the least I have coming. I want to hurt. I want to bleed. I want to stop thinking.

  About Ever. Her scent, her hands, her eyes, the way she kissed me with so much. So much. About everything that came rushing back in the park yesterday, before she saved me, then cut me loose again. I’m floating somewhere in space with nowhere to land, and I need outer pain to distract me from the inner.

  “Hey, you. Ass Face.” I slice through my enemy’s posse of mouth breathers, delivering a two-handed slam to his chest, flattening him up against the cinderblock wall. “You ever try talking to my girl again, I will take those stupid glasses and ram them down your throat. Are you hearing me?”

  He’s nervous. He should be. I’ve busted my ass to earn every single recruit’s respect by working twice as hard, so they wouldn’t think I was riding on my family’s coattails. I’m not someone to be taken lightly. Unfortunately, males aren’t known for making the best decisions when their friends are around. “If she’s your girl, why was she speed dating?”

  There’s a chorus of ohhhs behind me like we’re starring in some corny eighties movie, which pisses me off almost as much as the comment. Of course, “It’s complicated,” is the only response I have to that, which I deliver through clenched teeth. “You’re going to go home to your mom’s basement tonight and delete whatever lame-dick message you sent her,” I enunciate. “Or we’re going to have a problem.”

  “I’m not deleting shit,” Ass Face spits, his face growing redder, thanks to my forearm wedging against his jugular. “Just because you couldn’t hold on to that hot piece of ass doesn’t mean I shouldn’t have a chance at tapping it.”

  That’s all folks.

  I don’t even see red. Oh no. I’m blind. I can’t see a goddamn thing. It’s like someone stuffed pillows into my ears and kept shoving, trying to squeeze the juice out of my brain. My fists are moving before I register the action, connecting with flesh and bone. There’s a crunch under my fist and it’s so far from satisfying, I have to keep going. Swinging again. And with that second right hook, everything changes from slow, underwater movements to rapid, hyperspeed chaos. The fucker who dared to call my Ever a name is on the ground, I’m straddling his neck and beating the hell out of him. I can’t stop. I can’t even feel the third or fourth hit. I don’t feel anything but a repeated shattering inside my ribcage.

  I couldn’t hold on to her.

  I can’t hold on to anything.

  “Charlie!” It’s Jack’s voice, among the chorus of others. Several sets of hands are attempting to haul me off my bloody opponent, but none of them are successful. There’s a bonfire in my throat, and the smoke is billowing into my noise, behind my eyes. I’m screaming through clenched teeth and—

  My back hits the mat. Jack is blocking out the gymnasium lights above me, and I let him. I don’t have a choice. My breath is rattling in and out so fast, my adrenaline like a fire hose blast, I don’t feel the pain radiating from behind my eye socket at first. But it roars in, and that’s when red finally seeps into my vision, liquid and sticky.

  “Stay down, Charlie,” Jack shouts at me. “You got your hits in, man. It’s over.” Behind my best friend, someone complains. I think I hear the word psycho. But the nasal sound cuts off when Jack throws a look over his shoulder. “Hey. Keep your mouth shut. You really don’t want me coming over there.” He focuses back on me. “You could have told me there was going to be a scrap this morning. I might have shown up on time.”

  Danika’s face appears to Jack’s right, but she isn’t looking at me. No. I know that expression. It’s the one people get when my brother is coming. “Gird your loins,” she mutters, backing up, along with Jack. “Incoming.”

  No way in hell I’m going to face Greer on my back, so I push into a sitting position, fall forward onto my knees and stand, swaying a little. The whiskey in my stomach protests, sloshing around like water in a barrel. My hands fly up to keep my head from breaking apart into fragments, but I still have the urge to shout. He insulted my girl. My girl doesn’t want me anymore. My fault. All my fault.

  Frustration and helplessness is like a fucking noose tightening around my neck, and when I catch my first glimpse of Greer’s stonewall, unimpressed, void of an expression, the noose snaps and I surge forward, catching him square in the chest with a push. Clearly not expecting the attack, my brother falls back a few steps, looking at me like I’ve lost my mind. Maybe I have. The gasps behind me should have reiterated how stupid a move I just made, but instead they make me laugh. I’m laughing, there’s blood running down my face and my brother is livid.

  Good. Good. Finally there’s some proof he isn’t a fucking robot like my father. Like they expect me to be. Good.

  “My office, Burns. Immediately. No one move until I return,” Greer says, his tone packed with frost. He slants a glance at the punk I just knocked around, his face betraying disgust. Probably because the guy is still lying on the ground, being supported by his dick wad cronies. “Jesus Christ, recruit. Clean yourself up.”

  In a familiar move that reminds me of our father, Greer pivots on a heel and strides toward the back offices. I’m still stuck in such a state of rebellion, I consider not following, until Jack gives me a shove between the shoulder blades. “Get to stepping, man. You can’t avoid the devil forever.”

  Grinding my back teeth, I follow my brother through the parted sea of stunned faces. Maybe it’s useless, but I think of Ever. How she held me in the park yesterday. I wish she were here right now. I’d walk right into her and bury my bloody face in her neck, and I bet she wouldn’t even flinch.

  It’s these thoughts that have my heart in my throat when I walk into Greer’s gray-walled, frill-free office and close the door. He’s stationed permanently at the 9th Precinct, but this characterless box serves as his office twice per week, when he graces the academy with his presence. Greer used to trade off the responsibility with his old partner. Until just over two years ago when the other officer was gunned down after a two-hour hostage stand-off in Alphabet City. My brother was difficult to communicate with before the tragedy. Now? It’s damn near impossible. I don’t fault him for dealing with things his own way. I can’t imagine the mental shit he’s stewing in, especially because he was present when his partner died. But today, I can’t find it in me to respect the trench-deep boundaries we’ve drawn. I’ve been doing it so long.

  “Just checking, did you actually push me out there?” Greer starts, his jaw brittle. “Or was I dreaming?” Falling into the chair facing his desk, I don’t offer an answer and he doesn’t expect one. “You’re supposed to be settin
g an example, Charlie.”

  “Can I have the waste basket? I’m probably going to hurl.”

  A sound of repulsion follows my request, but he kicks the plastic trashcan into the space between my sprawled legs. “Is this Jack Garrett’s influence?”

  “No,” I ground out. “I make my own decisions. And I decided to get drunk. Leave Jack out of it.”

  Greer is so stiff and formal as he paces, hands clasped behind his back, I wish I’d pushed him a little harder. Maybe razzed him a couple times in the liver. “You realize I have to suspend you for this.”

  “Yeah.” I pull the basket closer just in time. The contents of my breakfast and last night’s drinking binge come up. When I fall back into the chair, swiping a hand over my mouth, acid clings to the insides of my throat and I don’t feel even remotely better. “It was worth getting suspended over. I’d do it again. What do you think of that, Greer? Have you ever felt strongly enough—about anything in your life—to put your perfect record in jeopardy?”

  “Never.”

  A laugh tumbles out of me. “Of course not.” I’m exhausted. I’ve lost Ever. I’m hollow. The throbbing behind my eye is getting worse by the minute. Which must account for the next question that comes out of my mouth. “Why did Mom leave?”

  The silence is so loud. “Excuse me?”

  I look at Greer. My polished, perfect-haircut-wearing, starched-uniform-owning brother from the same mother. And I think I see a hint of vulnerability pass across his features. My brother, my father and I don’t talk about my mother. We never have. “Why did she leave? You’re older than me. You would know better than I do.”

  “I don’t, actually.” The vulnerability is gone, replaced by antipathy, before I can blink an eye. “What the hell is this, Charlie? You potentially screw up your future because of something a million years in the past?”

  I take a deep breath, remembering how final the clicking of a door can sound. Especially when everyone just carries on like nothing happened and it’s still ringing in your ears. Any other day, I would be mortified by showing my brother a weakness. Tomorrow I will be, I know. But today, I’m depleted of anything other than confusion. Loneliness. “Wasn’t that long ago, Greer. Doesn’t feel like it.”

  His fist pounds down on the desk and I flinch, but only because it turns up the volume on my headache to full blast. “You pull your head out of your ass right the fuck now, do you hear me?” His eyes launch flamethrowers of outrage at me. “You don’t have the luxury of dwelling on this. Dwelling on anything. You take the shit life shovels at you and move on.” He stabs a finger in the air. “Do you want to be a cop?”

  “Yeah.” I do. I want to be a great one. But it’s only starting to hit home the sacrifice it takes. It’s not just long hours training or acing exams. It’s . . . life. “Does it always mean leaving everything and everyone else behind? Does it always have to be the most important thing?”

  “Yes. It does mean that. If you want to be the best. You earn the most respect when nothing gets in the way of your job.” His shrug is smooth, his eyes evasive. “My guess is our mother didn’t understand that. We’ll never know. But I’ll tell you one thing, you’re probably putting more thought into this than she did.”

  A sharp pain goes straight through me, like a bullet. Then it’s gone. Ever’s face shimmers in the air in front of me, fresh and smiling. Is she my sacrifice? Have I already sacrificed her?

  “I’m giving you a two-day suspension, then you’re going to come back and remind everyone why they’ll never be any higher than second place.” Greer grabs me by the shoulder and shakes me. “Do you understand me?”

  “Yeah,” I say, watching my vision of Ever float away. “First place.”

  What choice do I have?

  Chapter 17

  Ever

  My mother is wearing sweatpants. Not the cute kind, either. These are End-of-Times sweatpants. They are stained and loose and covered in lint. The kind you don’t wear unless it’s laundry day and there’s no chance of human interaction. Not even with the mailman or the food delivery guy. My mother is rocking them hard, paired with gold-studded Chanel flats. Today marks the first time in my life I’ve felt overdressed around my mother, and I’m wearing jean shorts.

  I haven’t seen Charlie since Saturday. This morning, while sitting on a bench in Washington Square Park—a pit stop I made on the way back from buying ingredients for brie cheese and mushroom crepes—I considered texting Charlie. I was anxious after how he’d opened up to me about his mother. Maybe it was a mistake to drop him so hard when he was clearly having a difficult moment. Sure, I’d been having a tough one, too, but that didn’t stem the flow of guilt.

  Recognizing the fact that I was about to cave, I’d dropped the bags of ingredients off at the apartment, left Nina a note that I would be back soon and took the train to Columbus Circle. My mother owns a two-bedroom condo in a high-rise—not quite a park view, but still swank—and close enough to the Garment District where she works. I needed to remind myself why broadening my horizons was so important. My mother’s initial visit had shaken me up in the first place, so here I am again.

  Drinking grape Fanta and eating Chinese take-out on a dinner tray. I’m not fancy by any stretch, but the last time I visited my mother, we’d been served by a maid. Coupled with the sweatpants, I’m wondering if her epiphany has led to a full-on lifestyle makeover. Her energy is almost relaxed, compared to the nonstop hummingbird movements I associated with her for so long.

  “So have you met anyone yet?”

  Yeah. A stubborn, gorgeous, anticommitment police academy recruit who talks to me with his heart in his eyes, but will never, ever, hand it over. “Uh, no one special just yet.” Her shoulders deflate, so I rush to add, “I met some nice boys in sunglasses while speed dating. And I’m seeing a fire academy recruit on Friday night.”

  “Oh.” She perks up. “Firemen don’t make great money, but we all have to start somewhere.” She salutes me with grape soda. “Consider it practice.”

  “Practice.” I nod, unable to think of a better response. “Okay.”

  I confirmed my plans with Reve last night through the dating site. He only gave a short response to my knock-knock joke, so I’d almost been nervous to try again. But when he’d cited a heavy work schedule and assured me he’d be at our date, I decided not to take his abruptness personally. Some time had passed since we’d arranged the date, so maybe the magic was dwindling without any actual face-to-face interaction? I wasn’t sure, but all the mysteries would be solved on Friday night.

  The silence stretches between my mother and I. All I can hear are the bubbles popping and fizzing in my soda. Out in the hallway, I hear an apartment door slam and musical laughter as neighbors pass her condo. She shoots me a glance from beneath naked eyelashes, and I scold myself for not visiting sooner. Coming home to an empty apartment and hearing lives being lived on every side of her must be awful. Especially in light of her realization that flying solo isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

  I set down my drink because my arm simply can’t support it anymore. “Mother, I know it’s hard learning to live without the three rules, but you don’t have to sit here alone. You can go out and make friends. Or even meet someone who’s single—”

  Her scoff cuts me off. “And what would I tell them? I’ve spent the last twenty-odd years carrying on with various married men?” She gives me a pointed look, but it’s laced with sadness. “I doubt people will be very receptive.”

  “You won’t know until you try.”

  “Maybe it’s not even about my past,” she blurts. “I don’t . . . really know how to talk to anyone. All my life, most of my conversations outside of work revolved around sex. Where to meet. How to be discreet. And don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed some of it, even if I have regrets now.” Her laugh is watery. “I wouldn’t know where to start if I walked into a bar or met someone for dinner.” She sighs. “I’d probably ask my date to wear a wedding ring for old t
ime’s sake.”

  Even though I’m shaking my head, we both laugh and something melts inside me. I’ve been waiting for this warmth for a really long time and it doesn’t disappoint, rolling over me like a honey glaze. “When I went speed dating, I chugged a glass of wine, I was so nervous. And you know what, it was awful. I didn’t even make it through to the end.”

  My mother sits forward. “But you’re so . . . industrious. Brave. Out on your own and running your own company.” She shakes her head. “I might have climbed the corporate ladder, but creating something uniquely mine? I never had it in me to do that.”

  “Yes, you did,” I rush to say through the overwhelming shock of having her pride bestowed on me. “When I think I can’t handle a situation, I just ask myself what you would do. And the answer is always, kick ass and take names.”

  There’s a sheen in her eyes. “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  My open adulation has caused her to retreat into herself, becoming more recognizable as my aloof mother, nudging aside the earnest woman I saw breaking through. For now. Never expecting us to make any progress, though, I’m . . . content. I don’t need to push for another Hallmark moment just yet. Maybe it’s just enough to know there is potential for more. “How about this? You go out and give the over-forties single scene a try and . . . I’ll go out tonight and try, too. With twenty-somethings, obviously. Bumping into you might be awkward.” That earns me a laugh. “We don’t have to tell one another how it went. Or what happened. It’ll be kind of like a mistress honor system.”

  She snorts, then covers her nose, as if she can’t believe that sound emerged. “I don’t know . . .”

  “Wear that green dress. The loose one with pockets you wore that time we met for dinner in Chelsea.” I snap a wonton in half and pop it into my mouth. “You look smoking hot in it, but also approachable.”

  “Leave fashion to the expert, daughter.” Her expression is stern, but she softens it with a wink. “Fine. What’s the worst that could happen, right? I just end up back here watching The Dog Whisperer.”